right, he could show up at her apartment right around when she and her roommate Anna did. Her roommate Caitlin wasn’t bad, but Anna really spiked his pulse rate. She had that whole Asian thing going for her, the stick-straight black hair, the eyes, the cheekbones, the tight little ass. If hetimed his arrival just right, he could wind up sharing with Susie and Anna a feast of pot roast and stuffed kugel or bagels with smoked-whitefish pâté spread on them or two-inch-thick corned beef sandwiches on seeded rye, with dill pickle spears so sour they made his tongue curl. And sometimes during one of those meals, Anna would look at him and smile, leaving him with the distinct impression that all was not hopeless.
“Chinese,” his father said, startling Rick. Had he spoken Anna’s name? Mentioned her ethnicity to his father? He relaxed when his father explained, “There’s a new Szechuan place around the block that Wendy wanted to try. How does that sound?”
Free food was free food. “Great,” Rick said.
They returned to the living room to give Wendy the word about dinner. She was so excited about trying this new Szechuan place that she actually clapped her hands and gave a little skip. “I’ll call in an order. You boys leave the choices to me. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”
Jay watched her prance down the hall, then shook his head and smiled. “She never disappoints me,” he murmured.
Rick decided that wasn’t a topic he wanted to pursue with his father. He cleared his throat, took a sip of beer, cleared his throat again and waited until Jay stopped ogling Wendy. Rick was real happy his dad had found bliss with his blond trophy wife, but they had more important things to talk about.
“Listen, Dad, I’ve got this idea,” Rick said.
The vestiges of Jay’s smile vanished. “I’d better sit down.”
Rick labored not to let his hurt and indignation show. He knew his father thought he was a fuckup. Just because he hadn’t managed to become the next Spike Jonze or Todd Solondz yet, just because after earning a degree in cinematography from NYU’s film school he’d managed to produce a grand total of one commercial—for a cheese grater, the manufacturer of which was trying to get Bloom’s to carry his product—and he was now Camera 3 on Passion and Power , and he still hadn’t found anyone to produce his masterpiece, a script that could change the face of cinema if only he could get a fifty-million-dollar budget and a few A-list actors to star in it…none of this meant he was a failure. But his father often acted as though he was.
He took another sip of beer, flopped onto the fluffy turquoise-and-white armchair across from the couch where his father sat, and squared his shoulders. “I’ve got this idea for a TV show,” he said.
“If you’ve come to me for financial backing—”
“Hear me out, Dad, okay?” Sure, he was usually looking for financial backing when he approached his father with an idea, but wasn’t that what fathers were for? “It’s a show about Bloom’s. I was thinking, like, a cooking show. An infomercial-type thing. Maybe a half hour long. We could have people demonstrating how some of the Bloom’s specialties are prepared, or do a video essay about the history of chopped liver or something. We could have someone doing recipes, like Emeril only Jewish. You know, preparing batter for latkes, then spooning them into sizzling oil and shouting ‘L’chaim!’ instead of ‘Bam!’ The show would be an extension of what you’re doing with the Web site and mail-order businesses. It would increase sales. And it would be fun.”
His father looked puzzled. He stared into his glass,took a sip, frowned, shook his head. “A Bloom’s TV show?”
“We could get it on local-access cable. They’re always desperate for filler. Or late-night TV. Insomniacs could watch it and race to their computers and order stuff. A lot of channels need filler. If they can run
“Chinese,” his father said, startling Rick. Had he spoken Anna’s name? Mentioned her ethnicity to his father? He relaxed when his father explained, “There’s a new Szechuan place around the block that Wendy wanted to try. How does that sound?”
Free food was free food. “Great,” Rick said.
They returned to the living room to give Wendy the word about dinner. She was so excited about trying this new Szechuan place that she actually clapped her hands and gave a little skip. “I’ll call in an order. You boys leave the choices to me. I promise, you won’t be disappointed.”
Jay watched her prance down the hall, then shook his head and smiled. “She never disappoints me,” he murmured.
Rick decided that wasn’t a topic he wanted to pursue with his father. He cleared his throat, took a sip of beer, cleared his throat again and waited until Jay stopped ogling Wendy. Rick was real happy his dad had found bliss with his blond trophy wife, but they had more important things to talk about.
“Listen, Dad, I’ve got this idea,” Rick said.
The vestiges of Jay’s smile vanished. “I’d better sit down.”
Rick labored not to let his hurt and indignation show. He knew his father thought he was a fuckup. Just because he hadn’t managed to become the next Spike Jonze or Todd Solondz yet, just because after earning a degree in cinematography from NYU’s film school he’d managed to produce a grand total of one commercial—for a cheese grater, the manufacturer of which was trying to get Bloom’s to carry his product—and he was now Camera 3 on Passion and Power , and he still hadn’t found anyone to produce his masterpiece, a script that could change the face of cinema if only he could get a fifty-million-dollar budget and a few A-list actors to star in it…none of this meant he was a failure. But his father often acted as though he was.
He took another sip of beer, flopped onto the fluffy turquoise-and-white armchair across from the couch where his father sat, and squared his shoulders. “I’ve got this idea for a TV show,” he said.
“If you’ve come to me for financial backing—”
“Hear me out, Dad, okay?” Sure, he was usually looking for financial backing when he approached his father with an idea, but wasn’t that what fathers were for? “It’s a show about Bloom’s. I was thinking, like, a cooking show. An infomercial-type thing. Maybe a half hour long. We could have people demonstrating how some of the Bloom’s specialties are prepared, or do a video essay about the history of chopped liver or something. We could have someone doing recipes, like Emeril only Jewish. You know, preparing batter for latkes, then spooning them into sizzling oil and shouting ‘L’chaim!’ instead of ‘Bam!’ The show would be an extension of what you’re doing with the Web site and mail-order businesses. It would increase sales. And it would be fun.”
His father looked puzzled. He stared into his glass,took a sip, frowned, shook his head. “A Bloom’s TV show?”
“We could get it on local-access cable. They’re always desperate for filler. Or late-night TV. Insomniacs could watch it and race to their computers and order stuff. A lot of channels need filler. If they can run
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