NOT MUCH ADO

The door swung open and Lorraine breezed in. Going immediately to the fridge, she pulled out a bottle of water, then opened a cabinet and began rifling through the cereal boxes.

“You’re out of Frosted Flakes,” she complained.

Gary answered without looking up from his magazine. “They were out.”

“What do you mean, they were out? How can a store run out of Frosted Flakes?”

Gary put down his copy of People. “I don’t know, maybe some rock star wanted to fill his bathtub with cereal?”

“I’d go with a Cheerios bath instead,” Lorraine ruminated, nibbling on a handful of dry Fruit Loops. “Can you imagine trying to get that frosting sugar out of all your crevices?”

“Sugar in my crevices?” Gary grimaced. “Never eating Frosted Flakes again.”

Lorraine laughed as she plopped onto the sofa beside Gary, cereal box in hand. “Are you going to ask me about my day?”

“Was it interesting?”

“Not really.”

“Then why should I ask you?”

“Because it’s polite?”

“I’d rather be rude than bored,” said Gary, going back to his magazine.

A buzzer sounded. Lorraine hopped up and pressed the intercom button. “Yeah?”

“It’s Gordo,” came a panicky voice. “I gotta—” Lorraine switched off the sound and released the lock. Gordo barreled through the door a few seconds later, still talking.

“—held it all day and now it’s an emergency.” He made a beeline for the bathroom.

“He really needs to get over that public toilet phobia,” said Lorraine.

“No, that’s me with the phobia,” said Gary. “Gordo’s problem at work is he doesn’t want to walk all the way to the bathroom.”

“Yes, because dashing up the stairs and through your apartment is so much easier.”

“It’s not the walking,” Gordo protested, reappearing and dropping onto the armchair with evident relief. “I just don’t like everyone in the office knowing where I’m going and what I’m gonna do when I get there.”

“But you don’t mind if we know?” Lorraine teased.

“Why would I mind that?” Gordo answered, with a silent duh.

Lorraine threw up her hands and started reading over Gary’s shoulder.

“Look, that new Michelle, Michelle movie is getting great reviews. Wanna go see it tonight?”

Gary sighed. “I can’t. I promised to drive Beamer to pick up —”

CLICK.

The screen went dark.

“What the heck is this? What are you showing me?” The Head Honcho gestured with annoyance to the monitor.

“It’s the pilot for the new show. The one you greenlighted for development,” answered the Eager Writer, a touch of anxiety rising in his voice.

“No, no, no. We talked about a new comedy. You know, buddies having kooky adventures in the big city. This isn’t funny. This is—this is—it’s nothing. Nothing is happening.”

“There’s banter. Banter is happening.”

“Banter is not kooky adventures.”

“But it’s funny banter ...”

“Witty, maybe. Moderately amusing in places. Not funny.”

“So, what are you saying? You don’t like it?”

“There’s nothing to like. You can’t like nothing. I’m out.”

“But—but—you only watched the first minute! You should watch the whole thing and then see if you like it.”

The Head Honcho was already heading to the door. “Time is money. This minute of my life was way overpriced.”

The Eager Writer remained in the dim room, drumming his fingers on the conference table. This minute of my life was way overpriced. That was a good line. He tucked it into his memory, for future banter.