“Take a seat,” Scott gestured. His face was boyish, betrayed only by some premature graying over the ears. Instead of adding gravitas, it made him look like he had powdered his temples to play a part. Patrick took an open chair at the table’s midpoint; Scott assumed a seat at the head. Patrick faced the room’s window, looking out on a bubbling fountain. He thought momentarily of Maisie and Grant on their pool floats before focusing instead on the room. Several execs produced pens, but none of them had anything to write on.
Everyone breathed in unison and exhaled.
“We loved you in The People Upstairs. Big fans,” cooed the one that may or may not have been Kelsi. She wore oversized glasses and had some kind of topical lapel pin; political but not controversial. In fact, it might have just said women.
“That’s nice to hear. It’s been a hot minute. You worry people forget.”
The table murmured some version of “Never.”
Patrick continued. “People don’t even watch TV anymore. Do you know there’s something called TikTok?”
The table laughed. They knew. But also, they were there to defend.
“How much tik could a TikTok tok if a TikTok could tok tik?”
The table laughed again, harder this time. Someone declared, “That’s too much!”
Scott signaled everyone to be quiet. “Well, we watch TV here. This table loves TV.”
“And people watch our network. You should see our live+3. And our streaming service? We’re changing the metrics of how you measure success.” Someone (Abner?) flung a spiral-bound report in his direction; it came to a stop three inches from the edge of the table with the network’s logo facing him perfectly.
“And you know who else watches TV?” asked the one in a bow tie. “Families.”
Again the table murmured in agreement. Bow Tie grinned, proud of his contribution. And then he winked, as if to broadcast his queerness, too, and define this as a safe space for Patrick.
“That’s right,” Scott confirmed. “Which is why we are always looking for a new take on the family comedy.”
The sun passed behind a cloud, momentarily darkening the courtyard. Patrick hoped this wasn’t an ominous sign, but no one else seemed particularly bothered.
“We all loved the videos you posted with your kids.”
“My niblings.”
“Excuse me?”
“My niblings,” Patrick whispered, as if leveraging them was a betrayal. But this was supposed to be for them, so he attempted confidence in his voice. “My niece and nephew.”
“What’s that?”
Patrick cleared his throat. “They’re my brother’s kids.”
“Right.”
“Their mother passed away last spring and they came to live with me for the summer.”
“Our condolences.”
Murmur.
“That’s good, we can use that.”
Patrick started to object, but Scott raised a hand to apologize, agreeing it was crass.
“You have a real chemistry. With children. The way you talk to them! Like little adults. It’s edgy, but . . . safe. That’s the tone we’re looking for. New. But familiar. Tone is everything. The rest we can figure out, the circumstances and whatnot. Plot. With your input, of course.”
Patrick nodded; as a response it was better, but shy of great. “Thank you. To lose one parent may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose both looks like carelessness.” The room erupted with glee. Patrick didn’t even bother to attribute the quote, he’d already moved on to other concerns. (If they were going to model the show on him, they would learn soon enough about his love of Wilde.) Did he have chemistry with the kids? Is that what it boiled down to? Not connection, but chemistry? Not love, but science? “I do have a certain rapport with those kids, I suppose. It developed over time. They don’t drink martinis, so we had to find something else to bond over.”
Stop! You’re right! That’s rich.
It had been a long while since Patrick had been “in a room.” But it was all coming back—including how much he despised it. It was a first date, a job interview, a talk show appearance all rolled in one. The room was an audience to entertain. And with minimal effort, he could have them eating out of his hand. But did he want to? Not really. But it wasn’t just that he owed this to Cassie. He owed it to Greg, Maisie, and Grant. He owed this to Sara. She could only rest if her family was taken care of. And he owed it to Joe, who would want him not just to survive—but to thrive.
“After the events of this summer I’ve got a tight ten on child-rearing. I could drop in to a Giggles in Dayton or Comedy Hut in Tulsa and kill.” Patrick looked around the room as the table leaned in, desperate for more. Wait, wasn’t one of them named Tulsa?
Patrick closed his eyes and pictured Maisie and Grant. And when he had a crisp, firm image of them, he began.
“For instance, why is it kids lose their baby teeth? Why not their baby nose, or baby ears? Why doesn’t a chubby little arm fall off when it’s time for their adult arm to come in?” Patrick mimed his arm falling out of its socket for effect, but it was wholly unnecessary. They were already devouring this. “My nephew calls pockets snack holes, and honestly it’s changed my whole outlook on fashion. And food.” He mimed reaching into his pocket. “Anyone want a pistachio Oreo Thin? Please ignore the lint.”
The room got very loud. Some scrambled to take notes, before discovering the dearth of paper. Others turned their own pockets inside out as if looking for snacks, and commenting how brilliant that was. Others still, made plans: You know who we should get to write this? You know who could play the brother? The love interest? The kids?
The excitement around the table melted something deep inside him. He was picking up steam, hitting a stride. He was the Tin Man with freshly oiled joints after a long time rusting in the rain. A lion finding the courage to
