“How so?” Joshua asked.
“When you start talking about subsidiary rights and run of play script approval,” Nate said. “Stuff like that.” He threw Colin an anxious glance. “I don’t understand all of it.”
“Nate, you need an attorney,” Colin told him. “More than that, you need an attorney specializing in show business contracts. You can’t negotiate something like this by yourself. That’s just plain foolish.”
“Colin’s right,” David chimed in. “Putting on plays for the university is one thing. But this is something entirely different. You need an attorney experienced in setting up this kind of contract.”
“Oh god, David,” Nate moaned. “I hate all this stuff.”
“Yeah, I know,” Colin said. “You just want to be the happy little playwright and not deal with all the nasty details. But it’s no joke that the devilisin the details. Do you want to end up losing royalties? Or maybe, more importantly, losing credit for your work? Or control of your workafterthe play closes.”
“No!” Nate responded, his voice horror-stricken.
“Disreputable producers—and I’m not saying yoursare—phrase things in ways that fool you, and if you don’t have an expert checking your contract, you can end up giving away your rights to script approval… and more.” He leaned toward his friend. “Hire anattorney!”
“Do you know someone?” Nate asked.
“No, but I can get recommendations from Esther or one of the Commonwealth judges.” He laid a hand on Nate’s arm. “Let me ask around and get back to you. Signnothinguntil we settle this.”
“Jesus!” Nate spouted. “I keepforgettingwe have an attorney in the family.”
“Comes in handy,” Joshua said, smiling at his husband.
“How often will they want you on set?” David asked, his face creased with a worried frown.
“I don’t know, babe,” Nate told him, clearly growing tired of the topic. “That’s one of the things we’re working on.”
“Will you need to take a sabbatical from work?”
“Davy…” Nate said, his voice dropping several registers. “I don’tknow.”
“OK,” Joshua interrupted. “Everyone needs to relax. We don’t have good information at this point, and we probably won’t until after we get the playwright here set up with an attorney.”
“Oh my god,” Nate moaned, then grasped David’s hand. “I’m sorry, David. I just feel frazzled.”
David shrugged and lifted Nate’s hand to his lips. “I just want to know if I’m going to end up living part-time in New York City.”
“Just because I have to be there doesn’t meanyouhave to be there.”
“I assumed you’dwantme to be there,” David replied, jerking his hand away, his voice clipped.
“Oh, man, Ihatewhere this is going,” Nate moaned, his head falling forward, nearly landing in his food.
“Well, so far this evening,” Colin drawled out, leaning back in his chair, “the only person making any sense whatsoever is my husband.” He leaned forward again and grinned at Nate. “Oh, andme, of course!”
“You’re right, Colin,” David muttered. “Sorry, Nate. I was getting ahead of myself.”
“Davy, I havenodesire to live in Manhattan foranylength of time,” Nate told him. “I hate that big-city life, especially when it involves show business.”
“You mayhaveto,” David told him. “I don’t know much about this kind of thing, but I’ve done enough research already to know they’ll want you there during rehearsals for script consultation.”
“And that’s not a consideration you’d want to give up,” Colin added.
“God, no!” Nate blurted.
“So…” David said, drawing the word out. He arched his eyebrows and shrugged. “We may end up spending some time there.”
“God, I hate this whole thing,” Nate moaned. “I like my nice, simple, happy life. I’m beginning to regret ever agreeing to this.”
