Anyway, I just realized it’s December 19, which is why I’m writing this. It has been exactly eight years since I last saw you. Or it will be later tonight. So much has happened for you since then. A lot has happened for me too, of course, just not in any ways that get reported on in the trades. Not that I read the trades. And I certainly don’t Google you. But one hears things. One cannot but help it.
I don’t know if anyone has ever truly meant this in an email before, but I really do hope you’re well. I can’t say that I hope this email finds you well, because I don’t know that this email will ever find you at all. But I hopesomeonefinds you well. I just hope that someone isn’t me. Because I really don’t want to find you. Not out there in the world anyway.
In my mind, you’ve been happily living your life. You’ve totally forgotten about me. Well, not totally. That would be impossible, given how memorable I am (please refer to genuine fucking delightfulness reminder above). But in my mind, you’ve forgotten about our last encounter and the silly rivalries of our past. So, so silly. Ahhhh youth! I bless those younger versions of ourselves. And I bless the current version of you that I envision.
Which is why I really don’t want to run into you IRL and discover that you’re still a soulless, judgmental, grumpy-ass mofo with mostly terrible taste in films and a sociopathic level of disrespect for live theatre and anyone who chooses a career in it.
Happy holidays, Dummy.
PS: I feel bad for calling you all of those things given that I know youdopossess a soul, but the wanton disrespect for live theatre bit still stands.
3
ELIJAH
Today is the worst. I hate this day of the year. I hate this time of year, and I hate that I hate this time of year. I hate everyone and everything that conspires to make me hate this time of year even more than I already do, because my seven year-old son somehow still believes in Santa. He is half Protestant and a quarter Jewish, so he also believes in the spirit of Hanukkah gift-receiving, and I want him to love the holidays. I want him to believe in love and marriage even though his parents were really bad at them. We weren’t even colossal failures at love and marriage—Alyssa and I were just mid at being failures in that department, which is so much worse. But we made a great kid, and I want my son to be happy every day, all year long. I would also be fine with himnotbeing happy if that’s how he feels—because fuck happy—as long as he is safe and healthy and content and doing his best and living a good life and knows that he’s loved and wanted.
But the holidays can suck my holly jolly balls, and today is the worst day in the worst month of the year.
But my son is the best.
And this traffic is the worst.
And those tourists are the worst.
Oh yeah. Go ahead and slow down in the middle of the crosswalk to take a picture of that palm tree because it has Christmas lights wrapped around the trunk! What a fucking miracle! A string of lights! On a tree trunk! In the middle of a city! What a fucking beautiful display of Beverly Hills holiday cheer! And now the light is changing, and fuck you hard, Mr. Asshat Tourist in front of me!
“Dad. If you want to complain about the traffic and those tourists out loud you can, but you have to stop honking the horn.” Paxton sounds very concerned, and I did not realize I was honking the horn to the tune of the Mariah Carey Christmas song that’s on the satellite radio. I hate the song, but that’s kind of funny. “Your face looks really weird, and it’s scaring the people in the car next to you.”
I slowly look over at the convertible next to me. The driver and passengers do, in fact, look terrified. Glancing at myself in the rearview mirror, I have to admit I did not realize I was bearing my teeth. I do have great teeth, though. They’re not scary. “I’m not gonna complain, buddy. Christmas lights are great. Palm trees are amazing. God bless ye merry tourists. You excited about this party?”
“I guess. Do I have a present for Joshua?”
“’Course you do. It’s in the back seat.” I reach for the wrapped gift in the back seat and hand it to him.
“What did Elaine order?”
I have no idea what my assistant ordered because it was already wrapped when it was delivered. “It’s a surprise. He’ll love it. Elaine hasn’t let us down yet—am I right?”
Paxton stares ahead thoughtfully. Sliding his glasses up the bridge of his little nose, he says, “Elaine is married, right?”
“She’s been married for thirty-three years. That’s as long as I’ve been alive—can you imagine?”
“Does she like who she’s married to?”
“Most of the time, from what I hear. Why?”
He shrugs.
I’m about to ask him if he wants to talk about tomorrow, but the light changes and I have to honk at the idiot in front of me who is determined to make my son late for his birthday Christmakkuh party, and he really hates being late.
I don’t get Paxton to his friend’s house late, but that’s only because I’m an excellent, strategic driver. LA holiday traffic is still a dick. I already hate the next seven hundred hours it’s going to take me to get to Burbank from here, and I can’t even roll calls because everybody will be eating cookies and online shopping instead of helping me get the shittiest movie script of all time greenlit. I pull up into the circular driveway and put my car in Park. “You ready to party?”
Paxton sighs. “Sure.”
“That’s the spirit! Valentina is picking you up, okay? You’re staying with your mom tonight.”
“Yeah. I know. You’re coming to the party tomorrow night, right?”
