Jake & Conor - 7. Chapter 7

At work, our show started a new season with two nice surprises: I got a promotion – one I almost didn’t take. And Conor was nominated for an Emmy. Either would have been great news, Conor’s especially. But he was up against “The Master Of My Domain” episode from Seinfeld.
“Talk about being jerked around,” he cracked.
I needed to be supportive – though given the choice, I would have easily voted for Seinfeld.
“Maybe there’ll be a backlash,” I consoled.
“Right! Most comedy writers are guys. Most guys are born with their dicks in their fists.”
“Gotta do something without pockets.”
He stared at me.
“I hope you win!” I assured him.
That relaxed him a bit. “Winning really isn’t important,” he soon conceded. “ I mean, it is – but can you imagine the upset if I did?”
Besides the Seinfeld odds, Conor was the only writer named from a show outside the top ten – often barely in the top twenty-five.
“Stranger things have happened,” I predicted.
“Maybe. But even if it is all politics, I knew just enough people to get nominated. This time, I should be happy with that.”
It was his first nomination, and the only one for our show, so everyone in the office celebrated. Alongside that, my promotion seemed small.
“They want to make me assistant line producer,” I told Conor.
“That’s terrific! Associate Producer credit!”
“But I’m a writer,” I insisted. “That’s my next move.”
He was suddenly quiet.
“I know I haven’t written much in the last two years,” I had to admit. “There hasn’t been time. But that’s what I am.”
More silence.
“No?”
“What kind of writing?” he asked.
“Well, this is a sit-com...”
He hesitated. “It’s hard to be funny.”
“I know that. But I can be. You’ve read my stories.”
He shook his head. “They’re different.”
“How?”
He seemed uncomfortable. “More reflective.”
“Couldn’t I learn?”
No answer.
“What if I wrote a spec. script?” I asked. “I’ve suggested ideas to you before – and you’ve often taken them. If I wrote a script, would you read it?”
He agreed. Slowly. Horribly slowly.
Meanwhile, our producers needed a fast answer about my promotion.
“What do you think?” I asked Cassie, hoping she’d be impartial.
“How can I be fair? If you move up, I get your job.”
“But you write, too. You just finished a screenplay. If you were offered something you really didn’t want...”
She laughed. “Sit-coms are nothing I even watch. But they pay terrifically.”
“Not at our level.”
“Relatively.”
She had to admit that.
“Take the job,” she advised.
“I wish I had more time.”
“Take it!” she repeated, grinning just a bit like Jiminy Crickett.
I did. I understood the compromise but also knew it was mainly my fault – for two years, I hadn’t been especially ambitious.
“You’ve been exploring,” Mom counseled.
“You’re doing fine,” Dad assured me.
“It’s so great to see your name on TV!” caroled my sister, brothers, and friends.
“I’ve got to write,” I promised Conor.
And myself.
Then things got busy.
Still, in mid-September, Conor took me to the Emmys. With his nomination came two free tickets, though anyone else had to pay three-hundred bucks – gotta finance all that gold-plate. Graciously, our producers bought a dozen seats.
“So you won’t lose alone,” they joked. Everyone kidded about Conor’s odds.
“Excited?” my mother asked during one of our weekly calls.
“He should be!” Dad put in. “All that famous people.”
I’d gotten fairly used to seeing celebrities. Our show often had guest stars I’d watched on TV as a kid. But seeing so many familiar faces, so close up, loomed as off-putting. Also, I’d never worn a tux.
“Where ya workin’ at tonight?” one of my neighbors asked as I headed conspicuously dressed to my car.
I gently explained that some people go to parties.
He grinned. “Natch.”
Conor looked wonderful, and he would have rented a limo he said, “If there were the slightest chance I’d win.” Instead, we took his newly-detailed BMW.
Not as treacherous as the Oscars, or as loud as the Grammys, the Emmys proved approachable. We clapped too often and waited through seemingly endless categories – “There are over 400,000 hours of broadcast television each year,” one of the presenters chirped, and I swear we watched them all. Still, it was fun.
Of course, Conor couldn’t win. We applauded Seinfeld and promised Conor, “Next time.” But we didn’t believe it. Later, after dinner and toasting with friends, back at his apartment, he confessed, “I really wanted to win. I didn’t care how impossible that was.”
I was surprised. “I didn’t know it meant that much.”
“Oh, yeah!”
“Why? You’ve got a good job. Plenty of money. A great place to live.”
He laughed. “You’re not aggressive enough for this business.”
I grinned. “They told me the opposite in teaching.”
He tugged free my bow tie. It was real, homage to my dad who can’t stand clip-ons. Then he quickly opened my shirt, permanently losing a rented stud in the process. But I managed to get his tux off first.
Much later, still slightly drunk, we surveyed the lights of Santa Monica from his balcony.
“Tried?” I asked.
“Not really.”
“Hungry?”
“Not for what you’re thinking.”
“What?” I persisted.
He wouldn’t go on. Then he laughed, refusing to tell me why.
“No fair,” I said.
“Too bad.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Soon?”
“Maybe,” he allowed. “Someday. If you last.”
“Just what I need – another challenge.”
He grinned. “You know I adore you, Jake.”
I waited. “But?”
“No ‘buts.’”
I laughed. We necked for a while, possibly entertaining any really curious neighbor with binoculars, then went back to bed. What’s an Emmy?