I'll Be Here All Week by Anderson Ward Page B

of comedians, actors, musicians, jugglers, magicians, and even balloon artists desperately seeking someone to desperately find them work. The only thing more amazing about how many talent agents there are is how difficult it is to get one. Every working comedian knows that having one gets you more work, and you don’t ever fire your agent until a better one finds you first. Spence can’t remember the last time another agent returned his phone calls.
    Rodney looks like he slept in his clothes, which answers the question about where his home is. The ratty baseball cap covers a bald head that would probably still be bald even if Rodney didn’t shave it. The remnants of an ill-conceived goatee cover his round chin, and he looks as if he hasn’t gotten any sun in about four years. And he’s wearing shorts. He wears shorts year-round, even when visiting the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.
    Spence waves a friendly hand to greet the intern as Rodney goes back to talking to no one on the phone. Stepping over more clutter, he walks over to the filing cabinet in a corner of the room and opens it to his own file, marked under S . Right there, in a manila folder, are about two hundred of his headshots. He rolls his eyes and lets out a long, dramatic sigh. The filing cabinet is perfectly alphabetized, which is probably why Rodney can’t seem to figure it out. Spence takes the photos out of the cabinet and tosses them on Rodney’s desk.
    â€œThanks,” Rodney says when the photos land in front of him, “where’d you find ’em?”
    â€œThe first place I looked,” Spence says.
    â€œRight.”
    â€œYou have a check for me?”
    â€œFor what?”
    â€œThat casino in Syracuse, New York. Two months ago.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” Rodney says, still on hold, “that gig. I think I do have a check, yeah.” He reaches into his desk drawer and takes out a stack of envelopes bound together with a rubber band. Then he flips through them, finds the right one, and tosses it across the desk.
    â€œThanks,” Spence says as he picks it up and checks the balance. It’s exactly what it should be. No deductions for drinks or food or postage stamps. Just his money minus the usual cut Rodney takes for booking the gig. He puts the envelope into the breast pocket of his coat.
    â€œAny news about Cleveland?” he asks.
    â€œWhat about it?” Rodney asks.
    â€œYou were going to see about getting me a gig there to make up for Rockford.”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘make up for Rockford’?”
    â€œYou told me the club in Rockford closed.”
    â€œIt did?”
    â€œOh, for Chrissakes, Rodney.”
    â€œOh, Rockford, Illinois.” Rodney nods and puts the phone down. “I was thinking something different. Yeah, that club’s closed. Scratch it off your schedule.”
    â€œYeah, I did that,” Spence says. “How about getting me booked in Cleveland instead?”
    â€œGood idea,” Rodney says. “I’ll look into that. Maybe Baltimore.”
    Spence shakes his head and then looks down at the intern sitting on the floor. The intern gives him the same look back. The kid will change his major in three weeks and wind up going into computers.
    â€œWhat are you doing here, anyway?” Rodney asks.
    â€œI told you I was coming,” Spence says.
    â€œYou did?”
    â€œYeah, three days ago.”
    â€œRight, after you screwed up in Oklahoma.”
    â€œBite me.”
    â€œSo why are you here?”
    â€œI needed to get my mail,” Spence says, “and warmer clothes, remember?”
    â€œWhat for?” Rodney asks, absolutely clueless.
    â€œThe gig in Key West. You got me that gig at the resort.”
    â€œOh, yeah, yeah, yeah. The beach gig,” Rodney says. “Enjoy that. That should be a lot of fun.”
    Unbelievable, Spence thinks.
    â€œYou are such an ass,” he says