Read Online I'll Be Here All Week by Anderson Ward - Free Book Online Page B

Spence makes it to the door.
    â€œYour what?” Spence asks.
    â€œMy commission,” Rodney says. “I get fifteen percent, remember?”
    â€œYou didn’t get me the gig. I got it myself,” Spence says. He doesn’t know why he’s bothering to argue; Rodney will likely forget he was even there. He wonders if Rodney even remembers that he just gave him a check for the casino gig. He briefly considers asking again just to find out. “The club owner called me directly.”
    â€œDoesn’t work that way,” Rodney says. “I still get commission, even when you book the gig without me.”
    â€œSince when?”
    â€œRead the contract.”
    â€œWhat contract?”
    â€œI’m sure we had one at some point.”
    â€œScrew you,” Spence says.
    â€œKiss my ass,” Rodney says.
    The door closes behind him, and Spence waits for the elevator for a couple of minutes. As usual, he has left Rodney’s office and feels as if he got absolutely nothing done. The only consolation he has is knowing that Rodney will forget all about the Canadian gig in about ten minutes, and that includes the commission he thinks he’s owed. The sound of Spence’s blood pumping through his brain slowly starts to get quieter and the pain lessens just before the teenage intern comes running out into the hallway.
    Almost got away, he thinks. Should have taken the stairs.
    â€œHe says he needs you real quick,” the intern says. The poor kid looks exhausted. Maybe he sleeps there, too.
    â€œWhat for?” Spence asks. He tries to think if there’s commission he owes Rodney that he’s somehow forgotten that Rodney has somehow remembered.
    â€œI don’t know.” The intern shrugs and shuffles back into Rodney’s office.
    Spence follows the intern back into the cluttered room and knocks a stack of papers over as he opens the door. Rodney doesn’t seem to notice or care. It was probably just a stack of contracts for sitcoms that never made their way into his hands. Or obituaries for another dead comic still somehow making six figures per year. No big deal.
    â€œWhat?” he asks Rodney as he tries not to fall down.
    â€œDude,” Rodney says. “It’s a good thing you didn’t leave. I have something for you.”
    â€œIs it Key West?”
    â€œBetter. It’s a TV commercial.”
    â€œCommercial for what?”
    â€œA body spray ad. They need a funny guy who fits your description. That’s what I was on hold waiting to hear about,” Rodney says.
    â€œWhen is it?” Spence asks.
    â€œIn a couple of hours,” Rodney says. “Can you do it?”
    â€œI dunno. I guess so.”
    â€œI’m telling you this is perfect for you. You’re the first person I thought of when they told me about it. It’s you, man. It’s totally you.”
    â€œYou always say that.”
    â€œAnd I mean it when I say it,” Rodney says. “I wouldn’t send you out there if I didn’t think it was perfect for you.”
    â€œOh, bullshit,” Spence says.
    â€œWhat?” Rodney says.
    â€œThe Sprite commercial ring a bell?”
    Spence reminds Rodney that the last audition he sent him on was some TV commercial for Sprite. Rodney went on and on about how perfect he was for it. It was going to change his career for the better. It was a great gig; a national spot that could lead to a spokesperson role. He got excited by the way Rodney praised him and, when he showed up, the room was full of black guys. They wanted black men in their forties, and Rodney sent a thirtysomething white dude. When he retells the story to Rodney, he looks out the corner of his eye and sees the intern laugh.
    â€œIf you’d have gotten that commercial, you would’ve made ten grand,” Rodney says.
    â€œFor the love of—”
    â€œLook at this!” Rodney holds up a call sheet. “It says