Jake & Conor - 9. Chapter 9

At work, our offices were quickly reassembled – we were in business to make money. Nothing had really been lost, just jumbled.
“Good thing you were here to check,” one producer quipped.
“Why were you here?” his partner pursued.
“Looting!” I grinned.
“Funny man.”
Well. Yes. Actually. Despite my busy schedule, I hadn’t entirely forgotten my summer promise to myself – about writing. In August, waiting for Conor on hot nights, I’d slowly pieced together a half-hour plot. Flying east at Christmas, then late nights at my folks’ house, I’d welded a script. Surprisingly, the hardest thing wasn’t the jokes – I think there only are six in television. It was making the damn thing move. One reason I’d been happy to give Conor the Martin Luther King holiday to himself – the day of the earthquake – was I wanted to type my final draft.
Because of the quake, it took several weeks longer, but I gave Conor a script just after Groundhog’s Day – also slipping a copy to the show’s producer I was most friendly with.
“You wrote this?” the producer asked the next morning.
“Yes,” I answered carefully, unsure he’d liked it.
“By yourself?”
I nodded.
“Absolutely no help from Conor?”
“He didn’t even know it existed till last night. And we haven’t talked about it yet.”
He grinned. Hugely. “What in hell ya doin’ counting paper clips?”
That was my formal job title.
I thanked him. And the flattery certainly was fine. But I needed to know what Conor thought.
“You’re nervous today,” Cassie noticed.
“Yeah, well, I gave Conor something last night and haven’t seen him yet.”
“They’re in meetings all day.”
“They” being the writers and producers. The second series was in trouble, and they were brainstorming.
“I know,” I told her.
She restrained herself till noon, then finally asked, “What’d you give her?”
I think she expected: “A ring.” Which wasn’t what I said.
“And he hasn’t gotten back to you?” Cassie huffed. “I hate that! I would’ve read the damn thing in a minute, then called!”
“You’re a writer,” I defended.
“So’s he!”
That couldn’t be denied.
“Why didn’t you give me a copy?” Cassie hurdled on.
“I needed to know what Conor thought first – in case it was terrible. The only other person who’s seen it is Paul. I gave it to him on impulse.”
“Paul!”
The force of her surprise startled me.
“I do something wrong?”
“No!” She grinned. “You did it exactly right! I wouldn’t’ve had the balls.”
“I’m not trying to get produced,” I insisted. “I just wanted reactions. And you know how intense Conor is. I figured Paul would balance that.”
“Paul’s not intense?”
“It’s a different kind of tense,” I said. “It’s easier to handle.”
“For you.”
“Yeah, well...”
She considered.
“You’re pissed I didn’t give you a copy. Aren’t you?” I asked.
“A little.”
“I’ll print one out tonight. I wanted to embarrass myself in front of as few people as possible.”
“Then why write sit-com?”
It was a good question.
At six o’clock, the writers were still meeting with the producers. Word had come that both of our shows had been tentatively renewed, the second more precariously, so I think the conference has shifted to plotting out story lines for the coming year. There were days I didn’t see Conor at all in the office, and – despite what I wanted– this clearly might be one of them. I left him a message on his phone and headed home. By ten, when he still hadn’t called, I phoned his apartment, only to get his machine. Tedious things, meetings.
The next morning, Cassie sprinted through the script in ten minutes. Then she kissed me.
“I didn’t know you could write!”
“You’ve seen my stories.”
“This is different,” she echoed Conor.
I shrugged. “It took six months.”
“Don’t tell anyone that!”
“It’s not like there’s anything new...”
“But it’s funny! Really! That beats new any time.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
“Okay.”
Her opinion was important – but it still wasn’t Conor’s. And where the hell was Conor? I tried his apartment again, but only got the recording.
“How late were they here last night?” I asked Cassie.
“I think they ordered breakfast.”
It happened too often.
Paul came into my office after noon. “You caused just a little trouble last night,” he said.
“Me?” In an office of rowdy egotists, I was specially known for not doing that.
“Your script,” he said.
“Why?”
“Conor threatened to quit.”
“What!”
“You don’t know?”
“He hasn’t come in. And hasn’t answered my calls.”
“No surprise there.”
“What happened?” I pushed.
“I passed the script around.” He paused, like I was about to be fired. “We wanna do it!”
“What!!”
“Isn’t that why you gave it to me?”
“No – honestly! I just wanted your opinion!”
“Now ya got it!” He beamed, then quickly undercut: “Needs re-writes, of course. Everything always does.”
“Of course.” Every producer – ever – thinks a script needed rewrites. Our average shows were reworked a dozen times.
“What about Conor?” I went back. “What happened?”
Again, he hesitated: “He says he can’t work with you. That you’re too close.”
I was floored. But I had to say something: “That makes sense.”
“But we like the script!” he assured me. “It’s funny! You’ve taken a different view on what we’ve already done – it makes everything fresh!”
I still didn’t think it was all that different, but at the moment, I was more worried about Conor: How pissed off was he?
“What do I do now?” I asked.
“Nothing. Sit tight. Go back to your job. This won’t go into production any time soon.” He shook my hand. “Ya did good, boy.”
The highest guy compliment.
I went straight to Cassie.
“Holy shit!” she shouted.
I closed the door and told her the rest.
“How pissed is he?” Cassie knew priorities.
“I’m afraid to think.”
“Have you seen him?” she asked.
“He hasn’t come in.”
“You’ve called?”
“Of course.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. No one seems to.”
Cassie thought.
“Where does he hide out?” she asked.
I laughed. “The way he uses money? Anywhere! In a yacht off the Seychelles!”
“He didn’t quit?”
That was a rigged question.
“Paul said they wouldn’t let him.”
“Call his agent!”
“Why?”
“If he’s looking for work...”
“Oh, Christ!”
I called Conor’s agent. We knew each other from meeting at parties or when the three of us had lunch. That day, I couldn’t get past her secretary.
I went to back Cassie.
“You could kill yourself now,” she joked. “Skip the humiliation.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
She studied me. “How long does it take to calm Conor?”
“I don’t know,” I said, honestly having no answer. “I’ve never gotten him upset.”
Until now.
“This isn’t your fault,” Cassie said abruptly. That seemed out of place because I’d never thought it might be. Suddenly, I knew I was wrong. “You couldn’t know this would happen,” she went on.
“Which ‘this’?” I had to ask. “Them liking the script? Or Conor exploding?”
“That’s just it – he exploded. You’ve done nothing.”
Who were we kidding?
“I never should’ve given the script to Paul,” I confessed. “Not without Conor seeing it first. Then if he liked it, and showed it to Paul, this would be Conor’s idea.”
“But he didn’t even read the script,” Cassie said. “I’ll bet you anything! And if he did – he didn’t call you!”
That seemed possibly true.
“You know Conor!” Cassie said.
“Yes... I do...” Then I hedged: “But you know how he is. It took him six months to see my apartment.”
Cassie was firm. “This isn’t your fault, Jake.”
It helped that someone else told me that. Especially a woman. I let her go on:
“Conor’s talented,” she said. “And generous. And I know how much you two love each other. But no one ever said he was easy.”
I couldn’t argue that. I doubt anyone could. Still, there seemed nothing I could do – until I heard from him. Unfortunately, Cassie agreed.
But Conor didn’t call. And he didn’t come to work. We were on a “down” week between tapings, but he still should have been around.
I phoned his apartment, leaving a message saying everything I knew. I left the same message on his voice mail in the office, in case he called there first. Then I phoned his agent, repeating myself to the stony secretary.
I checked my home machine probably every half-hour to see if there was an answer, then made myself generally useless in the office till it was past time to go home.
On my way, I stopped at Conor’s apartment. It was after eight, but the doorman said he was out. I double-checked: his car was gone.
“When did he leave?” I asked.
The doorman hadn’t seen Conor all day.
“When did he get home this morning?”
The doorman hadn’t come in yet.
“Had anyone else seen his?”
No one knew.
I had a key to his apartment, but I wasn’t about to use it. I drove home, stopping for fast food I almost never eat. And I didn’t that night. All evening, I called Conor, always reaching his recording. Finally, it got too late.
I didn’t sleep well. I might not have slept till it was almost time for work, and then I knew not to drive. I called in, saying I’d be in late, if I came in at all, and finally fell asleep around ten. Then I was up all night.