Jim Gavin - Middle Men - Stories

“There you are,” she said. “Can you run this tape over to post?”

“I’m on hold with Max.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I think so. But I have a question for you.”

“Sure.”

“Who’s your favorite Belgian spy novelist? Be honest.”

“Oh, God. I’m sorry.” She handed him the tape. “Just drop it off whenever he’s done.”

At five o’clock, Adam decided that Max had forgotten about him. He hung up, collected his things, and then delivered the tape. On his way to the parking garage he was thrilled to see one of the actors from Office Space , the old guy who gets hit by a drunk driver and becomes a millionaire paraplegic.

• • •

Adam fought his way up Fairfax and parked on Sunset. A few dozen paranoid comics were already lined up outside the club, trying to improve their chances. Most people, including Adam, suspected that the lottery was rigged by Les Thorpe, a famously mediocre local comic who had taken on a management role with the club, booking shows, handling the amateur hour, and performing other meager tasks that allowed him to stay around the action, if not in it. Adam regarded Thorpe with a certain pity. Despite his pleasant demeanor, Thorpe was suffering in a hell of his own making; he had cashed in his delusions and bought a sad little fiefdom. As Adam got in line, he saw Thorpe emerge from the parking lot, and he wondered if the guy had any idea how little he was respected by the people who befriended him. Adam was determined not to be one of these people; despite all evidence to the contrary, some part of himself — the most vital and destructive part of himself — believed that eventually his talent would be recognized as something pure and triumphant and somehow he would be granted dispensation from the degrading realities that made everyone around him seem so shameless and corrupt. Of course, he had a sinking feeling that everyone around him believed the exact same thing. No rugged, right-thinking American individual would ever admit to kissing ass. That’s something the other guy did. It was “networking,” nothing more, nothing less. Farther down the line he saw Trapper Keeper from El Goof and they pretended not to see each other. This was typical. All the sidewalk amateurs tried to maintain an air of aloof self-confidence, but beneath this Adam felt mortal fear, as if they were all racing each other for the last plane out of Saigon. Adam watched Thorpe nice-guy his way down the line, smiling, asking how everyone was doing, laughing with a few regulars who were as mediocre as Thorpe and who therefore seemed to win the lottery with stunning frequency, and then he started collecting his graft and taking down people’s names. Someone slapped Adam on the shoulder.

“Hey, man, it’s me, Chris!” said Chris Hobbs. “It’s you, right?”

“Right.”

“This is way better than El Goof! I just found out about it.”

Hobbs was too loud, too obvious; everyone turned to look at him and Adam felt suddenly exposed. He had the feeling that all the drivers on Sunset Boulevard were slowing down to laugh at him and all the horrible decisions he had made in his life. He could be out with his old friends, drinking beer in righteous anonymity, but instead he was huddled on the sidewalk with a bunch of miserable strangers. He tried to remember the last time he got a beer with a friend, but he couldn’t. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he said.

“Is that the guy we talk to if we want on the list?” asked Hobbs, who was wearing Elvis sunglasses and a stylish denim shirt embroidered with some kind of Aztec symbol.

“It’s supposed to be a lottery,” said Adam. “But if you’re willing to suck that guy’s cock, it’ll improve your odds.”

There was stifled laughter from a few nearby comics. One of them, through clenched teeth, said, “Dude, be quiet.”

“Have you ever gotten picked?” Hobbs asked.

“No,” said Adam. “I have too much dignity.”

They watched Thorpe stop to chat with Trapper Keeper, who forced herself to laugh at the first thing he said. “We’re fucked,” said Adam.

Thorpe finally got to Adam and said, “Good to see you, man. How’s everything going? You okay?”

“Adam Cullen,” he said, with a cold, vacant stare, and for a moment he felt proud of his ability to sabotage himself. But he instantly regretted it and tried to think of something nice to say to Thorpe. He couldn’t think of anything in time. Thorpe nodded and wrote down his name. Hobbs leaned forward and in one breath he introduced himself, complimented Thorpe on his shoes, and explained that he had just moved out here.

“Let’s do this!” said Hobbs brightly, as Thorpe took his money, and everyone in line, everyone driving down Sunset, everyone in Los Angeles, winced. Thorpe finished taking names and went back inside the club. A few minutes later, he appeared at the front door, called out six names, the usual suspects plus Trapper Keeper, who gave Adam a guilty shrug as she walked inside. Thorpe wished everyone good luck for next time. Those who were kissing ass ten minutes ago were now cursing his name. Adam walked toward his car, but Hobbs caught up with him and asked if he wanted to get some dinner.

“I’d like to pick your brain,” he said.

“Why?”

“It seems like you’ve been around,” he said. “You know what you’re doing.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Please,” said Hobbs, and his voice faltered a little. “It’s hard meeting people out here.” It was almost dark now and he took off his sunglasses. “I’ll buy you dinner.”

They walked down to a Mexican restaurant. Adam ordered a margarita and a plate of carne asada. Hobbs said he wasn’t that hungry, but every time the waiter came around, he asked for more chips and salsa. Hobbs peppered Adam with questions about agents and managers. Instead of admitting his own ignorance and frustration in these matters, Adam gave a speech on the nobility of craft. “If you do things right and put in the work, everything else will take care of itself,” he said, with surprising conviction. He felt like he was channeling some future version of himself, the total pro who had attained mastery in all areas of life. Then it occurred to him, with creeping horror, that by summoning this wise man too soon, under false pretenses, he was precluding his existence. He was fucking with the space-time continuum. He imagined the two versions of himself — the young fraud and the old pro — standing on either side of a dark chasm. If there was some blessed third version of himself, the middle man who could bridge the gap, Adam saw no trace of him in the darkness. Rarely had he felt so defeated, and yet here was Hobbs, hanging on his every word. Adam thought he lived at the bottom. But he was wrong. There was no bottom. Adam ordered more margaritas and talked about the first time he heard one of his dad’s old George Carlin records. Hobbs admitted that he had never heard any of these, but Adam forgave him, saying that it was dangerous to become overly familiar with the canon. “That kind of knowledge can be a burden,” he said. “It can paralyze you.”

When the bill came, Hobbs peered despairingly into his wallet. “I only have twenty bucks. I didn’t think you’d drink so much.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m signed up at three different temp agencies,” he said. “I can’t get anything right now.”

Adam, in an expansive mood, paid for everything, explaining to Hobbs that he was actually making good money for the first time in his life. “Sixteen dollars an hour, plus benefits,” he said. “There’s a three-month probation period, but eventually I’ll have benefits.”

“I don’t have health insurance,” said Hobbs.

“What doesn’t kill us makes us hopelessly in debt for the rest of our lives.”