“So,” Esperanza said, “what’s our next step?”
“We find them.”
“Why?”
Myron figured the question was rhetorical or maybe he didn’t have a good answer. Either way he let it be. After Esperanza left, Myron went through the photographs of Mickey again, slower this time. When he finished, he clicked the message button. Kitty’s profile picture appeared. He typed a message to her, deleted it, typed it again. The wording was wrong. Always. The message was also too long, too much explanation, too much rationalization and couching, and too many “on the other hands.” So finally he gave it one last try with three words:
Please forgive me.
He looked at it, shook his head, and then, before he could change his mind, he hit the send button.
Win never showed. He used to keep his office upstairs, corner of the trading floor of Lock-Horne Securities, but when Myron was indisposed for a significant period of time, he moved down to MB Reps (literally and figuratively) so as to shore up Esperanza and assure the clients that they were still in good hands.
It was not unusual for Win not to come in or be in contact. Win disappeared a fair amount—not much recently, but whenever he did, it was usually not good. Myron was tempted to call him, but as Esperanza had pointed out earlier, he was not either of their mothers.
The rest of the day was about the clients. One was upset because he had recently been traded. One was upset because he wanted to be traded. One was upset because she had been forced to attend a movie premiere in a town car when she was promised a stretch limousine. One was upset (notice the trend here) because he was staying in a hotel in Phoenix and couldn’t find his hotel key. “Why do they use these stupid cards as keys, Myron? Remember the days when you had the big ones with the tassels? I never lost those. Make sure they put me in hotels with those from now on, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Myron said.
An agent wore many hats—negotiator, handler, friend, financial consultant (Win did most of that), real estate agent, personal shopper, travel agent, damage controller, branding merchandiser, chauffeur, babysitter, parental figure—but what clients liked most was that an agent got more worked up over your interests than you did. Ten years ago, during a tense negotiation with a team owner, the client calmly told Myron, “I don’t take what he’s saying personally” and Myron replied, “Well, your agent does.” The client smiled. “That’s why I’ll never leave you.”
And that pretty much sums up the best agent-talent relationships.
At six o’clock, Myron made the very familiar turn onto his hometown street in the suburban paradise known as Livingston, New Jersey. Like much of the suburbs surrounding Manhattan, Livingston had been farmland, considered the boondocks, until the early 1960s when someone realized that it was less than an hour from the big city. Then the split-levels invaded and conquered. In the past few years, the McMansions—definition: how much interior square footage could we fit on how tiny a plot of land—had made serious inroads, but not yet on his street. When Myron pulled up to the familiar abode, second from the corner, the same one he’d lived in pretty much his whole life, the front door opened. His mother appeared.
Not that long ago—a few years ago even—his mother would sprint out down the concrete walk upon his arrival, as though it were a tarmac and he was a returning POW. Today she stayed by the door. He kissed her cheek and gave her a big hug. He could feel the gentle quake from her Parkinson’s. Dad was behind her, waiting and watching, as was his way, until it was his turn. Myron kissed his cheek too, always, because that was what they did.
They were so glad to see him, and yes, at his age, he should be over that, but he wasn’t and so what? Six years ago, when his father had finally retired from the warehouse in Newark and his parents decided to migrate south to Boca Raton, Myron had bought his childhood home. Yes, those in the psychiatric profession would scratch their chins and mutter something about arrested development or uncut umbilical cords, but Myron found the move to be a practical one. His parents came up a lot. They’d need a place to stay. It was a good investment—Myron owned no real estate. He could come here when he wanted to escape the city, and he could stay at the Dakota when he didn’t.
Myron Bolitar, Master of Self-Rationalization.
Whatever. He had recently done some renovations, updating the bathrooms, painting the walls something neutral, remodeling the kitchen—and mostly, so Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs, Myron had turned what had been the downstairs den into a bedroom suite for them. Mom’s first reaction: “Will this hurt resale value?” After he assured her that it would not—he really had no idea one way or the other—she had settled into it just fine.
The TV was on. “What are you watching?” Myron asked.
“Your father and I never watch anything live anymore. We used that DMV machine to record the shows.”
“DVR,” Dad corrected.
“Thank you, Mr. Television, Mr. Ed Sullivan, ladies and gentlemen. The DMV, the DVR, whatever. We record a show, Myron, then we watch it and skip the commercials. Saves time.” She tapped her temple, indicating that doing this displayed intelligence.
“So what were you watching?”
“I,” Dad said, stressing that one word, “wasn’t watching anything.”
“Yes, Mr. Sophistication over there would never ever watch any television. This from a man who wants to buy the box set of The Carol Burnett Show and still longs for those Dean Martin roasts.”
Dad just shrugged.
“Your mother,” his mother went on, loving that third person, “is much more hip, much more today and watches reality shows. Sue me, but that’s how I roll or rock or whatever. Anyway, I’m thinking of writing a letter to that Kourtney Kardashian. Do you know who she is?”
“Pretend I do.”
“Pretend nothing. You do. No shame in it. What is a shame is that she’s still with that drunken idiot with the pastel suit like he’s a giant Easter duck. She’s a pretty girl. She could do so much better, don’t you think?”
Myron rubbed his hands together. “So who’s hungry?”
They drove to Baumgart’s and ordered the kung pao chicken plus a bunch of appetizers. His parents used to eat with the gusto of rugby players at a barbecue, but now their appetites were small, their chewing slow, their whole manner suddenly dainty.
“When are we going to meet your fiancée?” Mom asked.
“We find them.”
“Why?”
Myron figured the question was rhetorical or maybe he didn’t have a good answer. Either way he let it be. After Esperanza left, Myron went through the photographs of Mickey again, slower this time. When he finished, he clicked the message button. Kitty’s profile picture appeared. He typed a message to her, deleted it, typed it again. The wording was wrong. Always. The message was also too long, too much explanation, too much rationalization and couching, and too many “on the other hands.” So finally he gave it one last try with three words:
Please forgive me.
He looked at it, shook his head, and then, before he could change his mind, he hit the send button.
Win never showed. He used to keep his office upstairs, corner of the trading floor of Lock-Horne Securities, but when Myron was indisposed for a significant period of time, he moved down to MB Reps (literally and figuratively) so as to shore up Esperanza and assure the clients that they were still in good hands.
It was not unusual for Win not to come in or be in contact. Win disappeared a fair amount—not much recently, but whenever he did, it was usually not good. Myron was tempted to call him, but as Esperanza had pointed out earlier, he was not either of their mothers.
The rest of the day was about the clients. One was upset because he had recently been traded. One was upset because he wanted to be traded. One was upset because she had been forced to attend a movie premiere in a town car when she was promised a stretch limousine. One was upset (notice the trend here) because he was staying in a hotel in Phoenix and couldn’t find his hotel key. “Why do they use these stupid cards as keys, Myron? Remember the days when you had the big ones with the tassels? I never lost those. Make sure they put me in hotels with those from now on, okay?”
“Sure thing,” Myron said.
An agent wore many hats—negotiator, handler, friend, financial consultant (Win did most of that), real estate agent, personal shopper, travel agent, damage controller, branding merchandiser, chauffeur, babysitter, parental figure—but what clients liked most was that an agent got more worked up over your interests than you did. Ten years ago, during a tense negotiation with a team owner, the client calmly told Myron, “I don’t take what he’s saying personally” and Myron replied, “Well, your agent does.” The client smiled. “That’s why I’ll never leave you.”
And that pretty much sums up the best agent-talent relationships.
At six o’clock, Myron made the very familiar turn onto his hometown street in the suburban paradise known as Livingston, New Jersey. Like much of the suburbs surrounding Manhattan, Livingston had been farmland, considered the boondocks, until the early 1960s when someone realized that it was less than an hour from the big city. Then the split-levels invaded and conquered. In the past few years, the McMansions—definition: how much interior square footage could we fit on how tiny a plot of land—had made serious inroads, but not yet on his street. When Myron pulled up to the familiar abode, second from the corner, the same one he’d lived in pretty much his whole life, the front door opened. His mother appeared.
Not that long ago—a few years ago even—his mother would sprint out down the concrete walk upon his arrival, as though it were a tarmac and he was a returning POW. Today she stayed by the door. He kissed her cheek and gave her a big hug. He could feel the gentle quake from her Parkinson’s. Dad was behind her, waiting and watching, as was his way, until it was his turn. Myron kissed his cheek too, always, because that was what they did.
They were so glad to see him, and yes, at his age, he should be over that, but he wasn’t and so what? Six years ago, when his father had finally retired from the warehouse in Newark and his parents decided to migrate south to Boca Raton, Myron had bought his childhood home. Yes, those in the psychiatric profession would scratch their chins and mutter something about arrested development or uncut umbilical cords, but Myron found the move to be a practical one. His parents came up a lot. They’d need a place to stay. It was a good investment—Myron owned no real estate. He could come here when he wanted to escape the city, and he could stay at the Dakota when he didn’t.
Myron Bolitar, Master of Self-Rationalization.
Whatever. He had recently done some renovations, updating the bathrooms, painting the walls something neutral, remodeling the kitchen—and mostly, so Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to navigate the stairs, Myron had turned what had been the downstairs den into a bedroom suite for them. Mom’s first reaction: “Will this hurt resale value?” After he assured her that it would not—he really had no idea one way or the other—she had settled into it just fine.
The TV was on. “What are you watching?” Myron asked.
“Your father and I never watch anything live anymore. We used that DMV machine to record the shows.”
“DVR,” Dad corrected.
“Thank you, Mr. Television, Mr. Ed Sullivan, ladies and gentlemen. The DMV, the DVR, whatever. We record a show, Myron, then we watch it and skip the commercials. Saves time.” She tapped her temple, indicating that doing this displayed intelligence.
“So what were you watching?”
“I,” Dad said, stressing that one word, “wasn’t watching anything.”
“Yes, Mr. Sophistication over there would never ever watch any television. This from a man who wants to buy the box set of The Carol Burnett Show and still longs for those Dean Martin roasts.”
Dad just shrugged.
“Your mother,” his mother went on, loving that third person, “is much more hip, much more today and watches reality shows. Sue me, but that’s how I roll or rock or whatever. Anyway, I’m thinking of writing a letter to that Kourtney Kardashian. Do you know who she is?”
“Pretend I do.”
“Pretend nothing. You do. No shame in it. What is a shame is that she’s still with that drunken idiot with the pastel suit like he’s a giant Easter duck. She’s a pretty girl. She could do so much better, don’t you think?”
Myron rubbed his hands together. “So who’s hungry?”
They drove to Baumgart’s and ordered the kung pao chicken plus a bunch of appetizers. His parents used to eat with the gusto of rugby players at a barbecue, but now their appetites were small, their chewing slow, their whole manner suddenly dainty.
“When are we going to meet your fiancée?” Mom asked.
