And the Next Thing You Know . . .

by Chase Taylor Hackett

Theo

  I was in the middle of Rebecca’s living room, working at the keyboard, as always. I had headphones on, but I was mostly staring at a legal pad. The tune was in my head. See, I had these two lines –

  You don’t have to hold my hand—

  I don’t believe in broken hearts.

  And I really liked them. I thought that would be a pretty kick-ass way to end a song for this girl who doesn’t want sympathy. But if those lines were going at the end, they had to rhyme with the line that came before the couplet. Best effort so far:

  Please tell me when your train departs.

  You don’t have to…etc.

  Not particularly good.

  Or there was:

  How long before the dancing starts?

  Dicks don’t get much limper than that. Or pick one of these lovelies —

  This marzipan is off the charts.

  The actors hardly knew their parts.

  Please bring me lots of lemon tarts.

  Rebecca’s Spock grip really smarts.

  These are but a small sample of the excrescent lines that littered my legal pad, none of which was remotely usable or anything you could shoehorn into a song about broken hearts. That’s how my afternoon went until I found myself actually writing down the line –

  What makes you think I give two farts?

  At that point I decided that I was maybe done for the day.

  But even before this, it had been a weird day. I’d spent a good chunk of it with Madison of all people, and now, well, I just couldn’t concentrate.

  It was like this. I had carefully and rationally turned over the issue in my head—did I or did I not want something with Madison? All indicators pointed to one outcome—a great whopping Not.

  You will be asking yourself—what took him so long? Well, ya got me there. I can only say that sometimes I’m slow.

  The most notable among all those indicators was that even the boring, stuffed-shirt lawyer, whether he had any interest in anything or not, had still been much more fun (and was way better looking) than the creative, artistic type in the form of Madison. In fact it occurred to me that the most fun I’d ever had with Madison was lately, writing him bitchy texts. That had amused me no end.

  So. Since he was still occasionally bugging me to get together, I suggested Madison train down from ye olde Goodspeed and meet me for lunch. Which he did, since they (meaning his show) had Sunday off.

  “So, Mads, how’s the show going?” I asked because, after all, I’m the nice one.

  “Oh God.”

  “That good?”

  We were in a noisy little place on the Upper West.

  But, as I said, it was Sunday, and lunch on Sunday in Manhattan meant—brunch. I hate brunch. I hate brunch, and I hate noisy Manhattan restaurants that serve brunch, with their tables shoved impossibly close together so you’re practically eating your eggs Benedict with complete strangers.

  Not that I would ever order anything as chi-chi as eggs Benedict, even if Mads was paying. And Mads was definitely paying.

  Another observation: Madison was a devoted brunch eater. One more reason to dump him. Clearly the kindest thing to do would be to set him free to wander happily among his own kind.

  And, as mentioned, this brunch place was really noisy, so everyone had to talk really loud, making it even noisier. If that weren’t enough, somewhere under all those decibels they actually had some kind of background music playing, so every now and then, when there was an accidental moment less loud than the others, you could catch a bar or two of eighties pop.

  Wake me up before you go-go. Not exactly a Sondheim lyric.

  So why had I agreed to this little tête-à-tête over much-despised brunch in a much-despised brunch-place? Because I knew if I dumped old Mads in a text—which was my first thought—I’d feel rotten about it. Seemed sort of a gutless way of avoiding something unpleasant.

  I will tell you that I had actually toyed with a particularly brilliant solution to the whole problem wrapped up in one neat text message.

  Hey Mads, wassup.

  Say, I was wondering — if you were to going to get dumped, purely hypothetically of course, how would you (hypothetically) like it to happen?

  Face to face? 

  By phone? 

  Text? 

  E-mail? 

  Other (specify) _______? 

  (Pick one.)

  A thing of beauty, isn’t it? Seemed to me that that would pretty much just take care of the whole deal. I’d be spared the guilt of having broken up with somebody in a text because technically I hadn’t—and yet Mads would still get the important have-a-nice-life subtext. Madison wouldn’t have to go through the hassle of the change-trains-in-New-Haven exercise (twice). And I wouldn’t have to sit through frigging brunch.

  All that with one seemingly guileless text. It was almost elegant in its simplicity.

  But it still seemed a bit craven, so I had agreed and here I was. Brunch had been Madison’s idea. I had acquiesced, since I felt bad that I was making him take a two-hour train ride in anticipation, no doubt, of a grand reconciliation, complete with wild and raucous make-up sex—and the only thing the poor son of a bitch was going to get were some huevos rancheros and a big fat kiss-off.

  So in the name of being a stand-up guy and doing the right thing, I found myself at a deuce (that’s restaurant lingo for a table for two) squished between two other deuces, and since I’m left-handed, I was literally rubbing elbows.

  Specifically, I was literally rubbing elbows with Billy—thirty-something and sort of swish. He was trying to go gluten-free but was clearly not happy with his quinoa French toast.

  You thought I was exaggerating about how close the tables were, didn’t you.

  And seriously, who would be happy with quinoa French toast???

  Opposite him was—get this—William. How does that happen? Billy and William? If I met a guy named Theobald or even Theodor, I don’t care how hot he was, I’d spit in his eye and be so out of there.

  Anyway, William was maybe a bit older, and very straight-acting.

  I looked at Madison, gestured discreetly to the guys, pointed at my ring finger, and then looked back toward the pair. They sported matching goatees—and wedding rings.

  “It’s the little things you do together,” I said. That’s Sondheim.

  And of course Madison fed the next line of the song right back to me. See, that was the thing with Madison. We had musical theatre in common, and he knew so much more than I did because he grew up out here, and until two years ago I was still out in Iowa stepping over cow pies. I had so much catching up to do. And that was the bond we had. I had thought, anyway. But now…?

  On my right was a middle-aged woman in an expensive suit that was just the teensiest bit snug. Her daughter Joan was getting married to John in June, and yes, I was already working on a song in my head. That was much too good to waste.

  Judging from the fit of her suit, and the egg white omelet she’d ordered, I guessed she was shooting to lose a few ell-bees before the happy event.

  Opposite her, next to Mads, was Louisa, another middle-aged woman in another expensive suit. Thin, and ramrod straight.

  The ladies seemed to be headed to a matinee, I wasn’t sure what. Perhaps a piece of Mahler’s.

  Brunch. Unlike everyone else in my corner of the sky, I was not eating light. Brunch had been Madison’s bright idea, and, dumped or not, he was going to pay for his bright idea, so I was having everything—eggs, toast, sausage, two orders of bacon, another kind of sausage—everything.

  But I noticed there was a problem. No ketchup.

  I had a mountain of fried potatoes, and no ketchup. There, on the table on my left, smack between William and Billy—a bottle of the precious stuff, beckoning, and going to waste. Obviously nobody
wanted ketchup on quinoa French toast.

  “Excuse me, William?” I said, with a quick, apologetic smile to Billy for the intrusion. William was, of course, totally surprised.

  See, there’s a rule about these things. Because New York is so impossibly crowded, you have to go through your day pretending that none of the other people actually exist. Because otherwise you’d go crazy. If you acknowledged the people who were pressed up against you from all sides on a rush-hour subway ride—the woman whose boobs were squished against your shoulder, or the guy whose junk was riding on your left hip—it would be too much. All the faces around you, the snatches of conversations—they belong to human beings, sure, but if you took the time to recognize that, you’d blow your brains out before nightfall.

  People who are sitting at a table separated from yours by two inches? They fall into the category of the nonexistent. That was the rule, part of the New York social contract. And I had just reached across that unseen but sacred barrier and shattered it.

  So naturally William was surprised.

  “I’m—sorry?”

  “It is William, right?” I said. “Theo,” I introduced myself and smiled. “Are you guys through with the ketchup?” Of course I could have reached right over and snagged the bottle, but my mom raised me better.

  “Oh. Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  William and Billy exchanged looks as I reached and got the stuff.

  “So, tell me about your show, Mads,” I said, thumping the bottom of the ketchup bottle.

  “Well, we tried several things Tanner’s way, but it wasn’t always working out, and Jason—he’s playing Jack—he started to get seriously pissed because Allison’s part kept growing and his kept shrinking, you know, Tanner’s ideas, and—”

  “Excuse me, Louisa?” I interrupted the woes of my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend to address the other table.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m Theo.”

  “Young man, if you’re selling something or collecting for a charity or some religion, I’m not—”

  “Oh hell, no,” I smiled. “I was just wondering if either of you would like some ketchup?” I turned from one to the other.

  “No, thank you,” said Louisa, clearly the alpha-dog of her table. She made it pretty clear where she stood on ketchup, not to mention how she felt about reckless lunatics who went around violating the laws regulating personal space.

  “Might perk up those egg whites,” I said of Joan’s mom’s omelet, fomenting a small rebellion at the next table. “No fat in ketchup, I don’t think.”

  “You know, it couldn’t hurt,” said Joan’s mom, taking the bottle from me. She finally found the courage to look back to Louisa. “At least they would taste like some-thing! Thank you.” This last was addressed very quietly to me.

  “Don’t mention it. It actually belongs to William over there,” I gestured, and William of course stopped mid-sentence hearing his name. “William and Billy,” I started the introductions. Various small hi’s were exchanged here and there, embarrassed nods, tiny waves, not to mention wide-eyed looks. “Louisa,” I continued. “And—I’m sorry, but I…” I couldn’t really introduce her as Joan’s mom, could I?

  “Fern,” said Joan’s mom. Did she really say “Fern”? Fern. The woman’s name was Fern. Coolest name ever.

  “Theo and Madison,” I finished up. More nods, and a how-do-you-do from Fern.

  Madison had watched this little exchange first with mild horror, like any New Yorker would, and then with an impatient annoyance. One of those stupid Theo things.

  Of course from his point of view, here it was: The total breakdown of civilization was happening right before his bloodshot eyes. The only possible result was chaos. And it was all my fault.

  Wanna know a secret? I adore chaos.

  “Well. You were totally right about Tanner, by the way,” said Madison.

  “What? That you had the hots for him?”

  “I didn’t have the hots for him.”

  “Who are you kidding? That was all you talked about!”

  “He’s directing my show! His name’s going to come up!”

  “You had a raging hard-on for the guy.”

  Louisa glanced at me and cleared her throat in such a way to make it clear that she didn’t approve. Okay, I was the one who’d torn the rift in the fabric of time and space. In return, I was going to have to behave or get throats cleared at me. The price I’d have to pay. Fine.

  “My God, Theo, ” Madison sputtered. “You are such a—I didn’t— I don’t—”

  “I apologize for the language,” I appealed to Louisa directly, “but consider this. I went all the way up to Chester, Connecticut—”

  “That’s such a lovely town,” said Joan’s mom, hereinafter Fern. “Some wonderful antique shops in Chester.”

  “I bet you’re right, but I wouldn’t know because, after going all the way up there, to see my boyfriend—”

  “I have a new musical in development up there, and I was extremely busy,” Madison defended himself.

  “You do?” asked Louisa, intrigued.

  “That’s right. He has a musical up there, isn’t that great?”

  “How lovely for you,” said Fern.

  “You’re in the theatre?” It was time for Billy to charge in. “What do you do?”

  “I write, usually book and lyrics.”

  “Have you done anything we might have seen?”

  “I had Time Flies at Manhattan Theatre Club a couple years ago.”

  “Five years ago.” Just to be clear, I figured.

  “Funny how time flies,” said Madison, giving me the dirtiest dirty look.

  “The title sounds familiar,” said Louisa.

  “Sorry, I missed that one,” Billy apologized.

  “There’s just no end to the people who missed that one,” I pointed out. And then I added, because I knew it would totally irk Madison—“If you ever want a laugh, google New York Magazine’s review of that show. Unbelievably mean.” Not that I would ever gloat over somebody’s bad review or anything. Much.

  “Time Flies,” mused Fern. “Which one was that again, Louisa?” One by one, each member of the quartet had shifted in their chairs so they could talk to us a little more easily.

  “It was about this time traveler—” Madison explained.

  “The time travel show! We saw that, you remember, Fern?”

  “We did, didn’t we! Time Flies! Oh, I had such a hard time following that one.” Poor Fern.

  “Ignore her,” said Louisa. “I really liked that show!”

  “You should see what New York Magazine—”

  “And a little before that” Madison really hated hearing about New York Magazine—“I did just the book, not the lyrics, for Mutant Prom Queen Bingo.”

  “You wrote that? In that little dive over on Ninth Avenue?” This time it was Billy. “That show was a scream!”

  “Did I see that?” William wanted to know.

  “Sorry, doll. Before your time.”

  “Oh. So you saw that with—”

  “Don’t start. There is no need to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Oh!” said Fern. “Was your former partner…”

  “Tragically struck down by a double-decker bus full of boy scouts? Sadly, no. But he’s as good as dead to me, so it’s quite unnecessary for certain people to—”

  “I didn’t say a word,” said William, holding his hands in the air as proof of his innocence.

  “Mutant Prom Queen was a scream, that’s all I’m saying.” Billy wanted to make clear to Madison. “Just a scream.”

  “Thanks.”

  “When she came out with that thing on her head, thought I’d die, I swear to heaven, thought I’d die.”

  “Madison didn
’t actually write the hat,” I felt compelled to make clear. Let’s give credit.

  “You know what I mean. The show was a scream!”

  “Thanks! It’s nice to hear that.”

  Having been repeatedly reassured that this show from a bygone era had been nothing short of a scream—Madison was now digging the great fissure that I’d slashed in the whole personal-space dress code, which I was starting to regret having done.

  I mean, honestly, what are the odds you strike up a conversation with total strangers, even at brunch on the Upper West Side, and you find yourself in the middle of some bizarre coven of Madison fan-girls.

  Just you wait, Henry Higgins. I would put a stop to this.

  I was about to make very clear to them just what a total douche-nozzle their new sweetheart really was.

  “What’s the new one called?” Louisa was clearly an avid theatre-goer. “The one you’re working on?”

  “You Again.”

  “I hope you make this one easier to follow.” Fern, of course.

  “I’ll try.”

  “So,” I charged in while I had my chance. “Chester, Connecticut. I went all the way up there to see him and he had zero time for me.”

  “Well, Theo,” said Louisa, “if he’s working on a new musical, you can’t really expect him to drop everything…”

  “But,” wondered William, “if you knew you were going to be so busy, why would you ask Theo to go up there?”

  I was just about to reconsider my impression of William, when Mads interrupted him.

  “That’s just it! I didn’t ask him to come up!”

  “You did too!”

  “I did not! You invited yourself!”

  “Is that true?” Louisa looked at me like a barn cat hearing a rustle in the straw.

  “Well, sort of, maybe, but he said it was okay!”

  “Ohhhhhh,” said the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

  “That’s not quite the same thing, now is it, Theo.” Louisa could be a little judgmental, if you asked me.

  “But Louisa, think about it,” said William. “It’s just good manners, if you have a guest…”

  “That’s true, Louisa.” You tell her, Joan. “It’s just rude.”

  “But the question you guys should be asking is why didn’t he have time to see me, his ostensible boyfriend? I’ll tell you. Because he was too busy pining over this total no-talent pretty-boy director, named dubiously-enough Tanner.”