The sour cherry surprise

“She can’t. She broadcasts five days a week from Los Angeles. Plus she just got engaged to a pitcher for the Dodgers. Look, do me a favor, will you? Don’t decide anything now. Call your agent. Because this is huge.”

“Absolutely,” he assured her. “Listen, I have the germ of an idea for my Sunday piece. Have you got time to spitball?”

She gave him an impatient shake of her head. “I’ve told you before, you don’t have to run your pieces by me.”

“I know, I just…” He just missed the stimulating rapport he’d enjoyed with Lacy. But Shauna wasn’t Lacy, and never would be. He had to learn to live with that. “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence.”

“Hey, are you pumped?” she called to him as he headed out the door.

“Totally.”

Which he was, except for the part about spending one, possibly two weeks a month in L.A. But his concerns disappeared as soon as he went in his office and phoned his agent, who’d already been told by Business Affairs just how many thousands Mitch would be getting paid for that one, possibly two weeks a month in L.A. Not counting profit participation.

After Mitch had hoisted his jaw up off of the floor there was nothing left for him to say except, “I hear the weather’s always spectacular in L.A. this time of year.”

Then he had to dash to a screening of Will Farrell’s big new summer comedy, which was a genuine laugh riot provided you were eleven years old and had never seen the Marx Brothers, Abbott and Costello, the Three Stooges or Wile E. Coyote. By the time the closing credits rolled it was after six o’clock and, apart from his gym break, Mitch had been working for twelve hours straight. And his day still wasn’t done. Although he did get to go home to Clemmie. Not that she was there to greet him when he came through the door and called out, “Honey, I’m home!” Not Clemmie’s style, being a cat.

Mitch’s new place was a brownstone floor-through. The bedroom was in front, off the entry hall, which led into the kitchen and living area in back. Someone had smacked his kitchen with an ugly stick in the ‘70s, but it was functional. And the living room had exposed brick walls, parquet flooring and French doors out to the garden. His framed poster made from a rare Sid Avery black-and-white group photograph of the cast members of the original Ocean’s Eleven seemed right at home over the fireplace. So did the leather settee and club chairs set before it.

Clemmie had been out cold in one of the chairs. She raised her head to acknowledge his arrival, yawning hugely. Mitch went over to her and fussed over her. She got lonesome when he was gone. And definitely missed Quirt.

He dumped the contents of his day pack on the Stickley library table that he used as his desk and opened the French doors to let in some fresh air. On went some music-Bob Dylan’s legendary plugged-in performance at Royal Albert Hall in 1966. He changed into a sleeveless T-shirt and gym shorts. Popped open the one Bass Ale per day that he allowed himself and sat down at his computer to write his Will Farrell review, most of which he’d already composed in his head on the 1 train riding home. As he tapped away, Clemmie climbed into his lap and padded at his no-longer soft tummy, purring. Mitch polished his review carefully, trimming any and all excess. Then he filed it.

Starved, he fired up the gas grill out on his bluestone patio. The old Mitch subsisted mainly on hot dogs, American chop suey and Entenmann’s doughnuts. But those days were as gone as his blubber. He put on brown rice to cook. Made himself a big green salad. Cut up an organic chicken and marinated it in olive oil, lemon juice, Dijon mustard and some fresh rosemary from his garden. He grilled the chicken on low heat so it wouldn’t dry out. By the time it was done the rice was ready.

He’d bought a teak dining table and set of chairs for the patio. He lit a couple of candles and ate his dinner out there, enjoying the warm night air and the sounds of life coming from the brownstones around him. The giddy laughter of a dinner party. The Scott Joplin rag someone was banging out on a piano. The televisions and ringing phones and raised voices. The way the city positively pulsed with life. He’d missed this out on his remote little island in the Sound.

He checked his e-mail before he did the dishes. Discovered one from his tenant, Bella, the prickly Jewish grandmother who’d been Des’s roommate until the return of Brandon:

To: Mitch Berger

From: Bella Tillis