the Dyke …” was all Alan said, teasing Burt with his usual joke about
East Infection
’s reviews.
Burt smiled tightly. “Got your mom’s sense of humor, telling you. If you’d taken after me, they’d’ve thrown you out of TV a long time ago. I’m too damn serious. Can’t do humor. Different mind-set. Lighter, I suppose.” He coughed. “Hey, I ever ask you if you know Norman Lear?”
A hundred times.
Alan spilled a little of his vodka and tonic onto Norman’s arm at the bar at a Writers Guild strike meeting once. Norman was decent about it.
“Yeah. Great guy.”
“Gotta hand it to him. Guy takes prejudice, turns it into an entertainment empire. It’s impressive.”
Alan waited for the fatherly advice that always followed the question about Norman Lear.
“You know, that’s what you oughta start thinking about with your writing.” It never failed. “I mean, long as you’re doing something other than selling deodorant from eight to eleven every night.” He tried to clarify but Alan was already upset. “I’m talking about the limits of television … not your talent. You understand what I mean.”
Alan said nothing. His father never realized what a fucking elitist he was and there would be no point in Alan telling him. He hated the way Burt always made him feel small and trivial for being in TV. Like he put toy whistles in Cracker Jack boxes for a living.
Mr. Broadway. Mr. Lime-fucking-light. Mr. I’m-fucking-better.
“Having fun?” Burt was smiling.
Alan said nothing, staring out at a goat.
There was snow.
A giant Georgia O’Keeffe desert way down there and up here, all this cold, white stuff. The tram car docked drunkenly at the top and doors slid open.
The restaurant perched, as if some avalanche lookout station in Grenoble, complete with blond behemoths walking around like Robert Shaw in
From Russia with Love;
Third Reich knights.
It was deserted. Chairs turned upside down on redwood plank tables, making the whole place a warehouse full of reverse gravity picnic sets.
Alan dipped chicken chunks in teriyaki sauce as he and Burt stared out over the desert, seated on the balcony. Tall pines swayed and wind dropped cones on the roof.
Clonk.
“So … how’s your novel coming along?” Burt tried so hard to make decent conversation, to Alan it always sounded like it was learned from a bad article on improving human relations in some retiree’s magazine.
“Okay. I mean, it’s a first novel.” He laughed a little. Spread lost hands. “I basically have no damn idea what I’m doing. Not like writing scripts at all. It’s all about internal, not external.” He took a sip of espresso; a giant’s hand holding a doll cup. “Anyway, it’s tough making the time.”
Burt pointed with his fork, gobbling fettucine.
“Gotta make the time. Always more you can do.” He slid back slightly from the table, expanding his pulpit. “When I was doing Broadway, I always thought … you know, I’m maxed-out, time wise, energy wise. But you find a way when you care.”
“Television is a little different. The pace …”
Burt waved his hand in wordless agreement; a Helen Keller comment. Wiped his mouth of Alfredo. “I understand. Not comparing the two. You know, I’m not questioning what you do as a way of life … even an art form.”
Bullshit, thought Alan. He meant every fucking word.
“Look, Alan … you know how highly I think of what you can do with your writing. “He burped, softly. “Sometimes I just feel TV can’t capture what you have to offer as an artist. It’s inveterate to the medium. That’s my point.”
Alan could never be sure exactly what his point was. But it always made him uncomfortable and ill at ease. Like his father was knocking it all under there somewhere; under the pretty words.
“Maybe we should change the subject.”
Burt agreed. Then, couldn’t.
“Alan, you’re too good. I know you hate it when I remind you, but you are. You’ve
East Infection
’s reviews.
Burt smiled tightly. “Got your mom’s sense of humor, telling you. If you’d taken after me, they’d’ve thrown you out of TV a long time ago. I’m too damn serious. Can’t do humor. Different mind-set. Lighter, I suppose.” He coughed. “Hey, I ever ask you if you know Norman Lear?”
A hundred times.
Alan spilled a little of his vodka and tonic onto Norman’s arm at the bar at a Writers Guild strike meeting once. Norman was decent about it.
“Yeah. Great guy.”
“Gotta hand it to him. Guy takes prejudice, turns it into an entertainment empire. It’s impressive.”
Alan waited for the fatherly advice that always followed the question about Norman Lear.
“You know, that’s what you oughta start thinking about with your writing.” It never failed. “I mean, long as you’re doing something other than selling deodorant from eight to eleven every night.” He tried to clarify but Alan was already upset. “I’m talking about the limits of television … not your talent. You understand what I mean.”
Alan said nothing. His father never realized what a fucking elitist he was and there would be no point in Alan telling him. He hated the way Burt always made him feel small and trivial for being in TV. Like he put toy whistles in Cracker Jack boxes for a living.
Mr. Broadway. Mr. Lime-fucking-light. Mr. I’m-fucking-better.
“Having fun?” Burt was smiling.
Alan said nothing, staring out at a goat.
There was snow.
A giant Georgia O’Keeffe desert way down there and up here, all this cold, white stuff. The tram car docked drunkenly at the top and doors slid open.
The restaurant perched, as if some avalanche lookout station in Grenoble, complete with blond behemoths walking around like Robert Shaw in
From Russia with Love;
Third Reich knights.
It was deserted. Chairs turned upside down on redwood plank tables, making the whole place a warehouse full of reverse gravity picnic sets.
Alan dipped chicken chunks in teriyaki sauce as he and Burt stared out over the desert, seated on the balcony. Tall pines swayed and wind dropped cones on the roof.
Clonk.
“So … how’s your novel coming along?” Burt tried so hard to make decent conversation, to Alan it always sounded like it was learned from a bad article on improving human relations in some retiree’s magazine.
“Okay. I mean, it’s a first novel.” He laughed a little. Spread lost hands. “I basically have no damn idea what I’m doing. Not like writing scripts at all. It’s all about internal, not external.” He took a sip of espresso; a giant’s hand holding a doll cup. “Anyway, it’s tough making the time.”
Burt pointed with his fork, gobbling fettucine.
“Gotta make the time. Always more you can do.” He slid back slightly from the table, expanding his pulpit. “When I was doing Broadway, I always thought … you know, I’m maxed-out, time wise, energy wise. But you find a way when you care.”
“Television is a little different. The pace …”
Burt waved his hand in wordless agreement; a Helen Keller comment. Wiped his mouth of Alfredo. “I understand. Not comparing the two. You know, I’m not questioning what you do as a way of life … even an art form.”
Bullshit, thought Alan. He meant every fucking word.
“Look, Alan … you know how highly I think of what you can do with your writing. “He burped, softly. “Sometimes I just feel TV can’t capture what you have to offer as an artist. It’s inveterate to the medium. That’s my point.”
Alan could never be sure exactly what his point was. But it always made him uncomfortable and ill at ease. Like his father was knocking it all under there somewhere; under the pretty words.
“Maybe we should change the subject.”
Burt agreed. Then, couldn’t.
“Alan, you’re too good. I know you hate it when I remind you, but you are. You’ve
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