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Thirteen
The steady hum of the road adds another raw quality to Nick’s classic rock radio. He keeps inching up the volume. It’s been about an hour since Nick and I picked up the spare tire after stuffing our faces with greasy fast food. With a full belly, I could really use a post-meal road nap. I’m talking cheek suctioned to the window, string of drool dangling from the corner of my mouth kinda nap. But I’m here to work. So I’ll be a good little comedian and draft up some new material, which feels a little impossible with Def Leppard’s “Photograph” blasting.
“No wonder you’re a road comic. You have the musical taste of a truck driver,” I holler over the guitar solo.
Even with his sunglasses, I can see him give me a sideways glance. “And I suppose you’re a fan of who? Britney Spears?”
“And proud of it.”
He smiles and lowers the volume. “You should listen up. They don’t make music like this anymore.”
“And there’s probably a good reason for that.” I don’t actually mind ’70s and ’80s rock. I grew up on the stuff. Though I can’t say I know anyone my age who swears by it. “Where are we anyway?” I ask, glancing at his GPS.
“Somewhere near Cherry Hill, I think.” Nick yawns and I press my lips together, willing myself not to catch the contagious act. “Whatchu been doin’ over there? Preparing a legal brief?”
I glance down at the half sentence scribbled on my yellow lined sheet with the curled corner edges. “Yeah, I’m planning to sue you for radio control inequality.”
“Then you should’ve done a better job negotiating,” he says. A valid point. So far I only got one play—Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance.”
Nick takes his eyes off the road for a moment and glances at my nearly empty sheet. “Seriously. What are you working on?”
“Work is a little strong. I’m trying to write a new joke every day. You know, like Jerry Seinfeld.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks.
“You’ve never heard that before? Every day Jerry would write a new joke and mark an X on his calendar, creating a never-ending chain. That’s how he got so good. He never broke the chain.” Seinfeld’s a king of comedy. And legend has it, this little anecdote is his method of success. And that’s something I could use right now.
“Oh, yeah, that’s a myth. It’s been debunked.”
“Really?” My heart breaks a little, like the time I found out there’s no Easter bunny. Not as devastating as learning there’s no Santa, but still.
“Afraid so. And Jerry’s not like us. He doesn’t need to write every day to be good. He’s just good. Same with Dave Chappelle. Good practice though.” He pats my shoulder like an encouraging Little League coach. “Speaking of Seinfeld. I was thinking you and I might have a little Jerry-and-Elaine thing going.”
“Because you’re a headlining comedian and I’m a strong, independent, and hilariously funny woman?” I offer.
“That and I like you.” Did he just say he likes me? Ohmigod. He was flirting with me at the burger place! “I think we can be buddies. For real.” Buddies?
Womp, womp.
Nothing cools a crush like getting friend-zoned. A boner killer for sure.
“So you’re not of the mind that men and women can’t be friends?” I ask, as if giving him one last opportunity to admit he’s attracted to me too.
His brow knits like he’s not following the Billy Crystal reference. “No. Who said that?”
“Nora Ephron and Rob Reiner. You never saw When Harry Met Sally?”
“Is that the one with the fake orgasm scene at Katz’s Deli?” he asks.
I wish I could have what she was having. “Yeah, that movie’s nearly thirty years old and men still don’t know when we’re faking it.”
Nick gasps. “Olivia, have you committed fraudulent orgasms?”
“Sure, when it’s getting late and I just want to get some sleep.” This poor guy doesn’t know the half of it. And if we’re just friends, then he never will. Oh, well...
“That’s a quote from Seinfeld, right?” He spits out a chuckle. “Olivia, you’re the Elaine of my dreams.”
Well, that’s something, I guess.
