“Me? What did I do?”
“I’m just saying I thought you were all washed up, and at such a young age. But you got right back out there and now look. Everything is hunky-dory.”
“Mom. Stop. You’re wrong. My life’s a disaster.”
“What disaster? You’re busier than ever…but maybe if you’re weren’t running around like a lunatic day and night, you’d have time to call and know the things I’m thinking about.”
“Okay, you know why I don’t call? Because I don’t want you to hear that I’m living on four hours of sleep, my headaches are back, I have no time for friends, my boss is the biggest bitch…Plus, I’ve got Teri Hatcher Disease. I haven’t been laid in—”
“I thought you were seeing that nice doctor.”
“He was an asshole.”
“Well I’m sure there will be others.”
“Assholes? Definitely. Today the only difference between the circus and a bar is at the circus, the clowns don’t talk.”
“I don’t care. Let’s make a deal. You help me, I’ll help you…I’ll pay your bills.”
“Really? The ones on my desk or the stack on the dining room table? Correction. I sold the table.”
“No,” she gasped. “But that was an antique. A—”
“Way to pay my maintenance until the end of the year. I got a card table instead.”
“Fine. I can still play mah-jongg.”
“Mom. Stop, look, and listen.” I reenacted her hand gestures from her days as a volunteer crossing guard. “You cannot move in with me.”
“Not move in. Visit awhile until I can get my bearings.”
“No. Visits last four hours and include a meal. You’re talking suitcases and mah-jongg tiles…Look I’m sorry, but you know how fast we get on each other’s nerves. You don’t know a soul in Brooklyn, my hours are insane, plus you’d miss all your friends…your theater group.”
“I’ll start a new one. I was getting plenty sick of listening to Mimi Adler kvetch that we never take in musicals anymore.”
“But don’t you think you’d be much happier with Phillip and Patti? They have a huge house. And Long Island feels more like Jersey. Shopping centers on every corner.”
“Oh no thank you. I could never live under Patti’s roof with her ridiculous food rules, and Max’s five A.M. hockey practices and Em and Marissa slamming doors all day…”
Speak of the devil.
“Hey you two.” I hugged my nieces. “I swear you are both so grown up now, I can’t stand it.” I eyed Marissa’s pocketbook. “Oh my God. That’s the Juicy bag I wanted so bad. But it was like two hundred dollars.”
“Two fifty.” She yawned. “I have it in pink too, but I let the little dipshit borrow it, and she got gum on it.”
“Did not!” Emily smacked her arm.
“Girls!” my mother yelled. “Zip it!”
“You spent five hundred dollars of your own money on pocketbooks?” My jaw dropped.
“Hello? My mom buys things for me if I like get good grades. But at least I’m not spoiled compared to all my friends. Oh my God. They get everything they want and they don’t do crap…I can’t believe my dad is so cheap…Like don’t move us to Dix Hills then.”
“You think he’s cheap?” I said. “I was happy when my dad threw me an extra ten in my allowance…And I was out of college before I got a really good pocketbook…this black leather Coach shoulder bag. Remember, Mom? I wore that thing to death.”
“Sucks to be you, Aunt Robyn.” She eyed herself in the mirror. “God, what is up with my bangs? They are so retarded.”
“We thought you left,” my mother said to the girls.
“I wish.” Marissa rolled her eyes. “But my dad said if we leave early, we’ll never hear the end of it from Rhonda, so I said, Yeah, then how come you never care about that when you want to go play golf, and he like started bitching at me in front of all these people. He is such an asshole.”
“Marissa! The mouth!” my mother yelled. “That’s how you talk about the man who buys you all those nice things? And what’s with your puss?” she asked Emily.
“The girls at my table are being mean to me…They said I need an extreme makeover because my teeth stick out.”
“Get names!” I hugged her. “I’ll do a bit on how they fart in their sleep.”
“Okay.” She laughed. “Oh I forgot, Aunt Robyn. Some man wants to talk to you.”
“Me? About what?”
“I dunno.” She shrugged.
“Is he cute?”
“He’s hot.” The worldly Marissa snapped her gum.
“How hot?”
“Brad Pitt hot.”
“But his wife is fat,” Emily added.
“She’s pregnant, dumbass.”
“Well what did he say exactly?”
“Something about Showtime.” Marissa yawned.
“What about Showtime?” I jumped.
“He knows someone you can call about your act.”
“Oh my God! Girls, make Grammy feel better.” I tore out of there. “Sing to her.”
“We’re not five anymore,” she yelled.
“Fine. You’re right. Then explain to her about hooking up.”
Chapter 3
UP UNTIL THE MOMENT I raced into the ballroom looking for hunky Brad Pitt and his pregnant wife, I realized I had given about as much thought to the role of fate in our lives as I had the status of my parents’ relationship. Zero.
Frankly, when Rhonda called to ask if I would be willing to do one of my comedy routines at her son Brandon’s bar mitzvah, I said not a chance. It was one thing to humiliate myself in front of drunken frat boys who cared as much about me as they did their statistics professor. It was quite another to stand before family who remembered me in diapers, and who would rather not hear how I accepted twenty dollars from a guy at a bar to whisper three dirty words in his ear. A true story, actually. I grabbed the money and said, “Wash my car.”
Anyway, in spite of my reluctance to bare my comic soul, Rhonda was persistent. No, desperate. Anyone could hire a great DJ. She needed to do something inspired to impress Barry’s Wall Street buddies and Brandon’s friends, all of whom had been to forty other bar and bat mitzvahs by then, and would rather steal martinis off the adult tables than be subjected to yet another parent-approved game of Coke and Pepsi.
She confessed that she was way over budget and that Barry would kill her if she spent another dime, but if I said yes, she would make sure that it was worth my time. Though she had yet to explain how, out of compassion for the party pauper, I gave in.
Now as I scanned the crowd, it occurred to me Rhonda might have meant there was an important producer or an agent on her guest list. And wouldn’t that be a beautiful thing? For the past two months, I’d spent many a night trudging from one Manhattan comedy club to another in the hopes of finding the holy grail. An open-mic night with somebody influential sitting in the audience, who with one roll of the dice could play Chutes and Ladders with my career, allowing me to whiz past other less fortunate comics, and zoom all the way to a paying gig. Or even better, a chance to audition for a producer.
If someone of that stature was here tonight and had seen me perform, I would start to think a great deal about fate and its role in my often futile life. Unfortunately, no one fit Marissa’s description.
Turns out I’d rushed out of the ladies’ room so fast, she never got to tell me the man was waiting for me in the lobby. It gave me a minute to get details. Did he say who he knew at Showtime, and was she sure that was his wife, not his sister?
For a girl who was in all AP classes, Marissa had no street smarts when it came to ferreting out important information. All she knew was he was there because he grew up with Rhonda’s brother.
Marissa pointed him out just as her cell rang, and off she went before I could commend her for her exceptional taste in men. Working for a network news division, I saw tall, dark and handsome all day long. But this guy was a s
tandout. The Italian knit suit, the expertly cut hair draping his baby face…Ten bucks said he drove a BMW that cost more than my parents’ first house.
Correction. Having just divorced an in-denial gambler who couldn’t even bear to watch reality shows, the only thing I would bet on was that I would say yes if he offered me sex.
Meanwhile, it struck me that in the seconds leading up to an introduction that could possibly alter your destiny, you think of the most random things. The underwire in your bra that is poking your right breast. The hideous jobs women do applying their makeup. The prospect that your parents might call it quits and sell the house in which you grew up, decimating the contents of your youth one garage sale at a time.
It was in the middle of that scary thought that I found myself shaking hands with the man, and though it’s common courtesy to greet a new acquaintance with a smile, particularly if one of you is a comic, I must have looked as if I was about to cry.
“Seth Danziger,” he said. “Are you okay?”
“Hi. Robyn Fortune,” I smiled. “Sorry. I’m good. How are you? Nice to meet you.”
“Usually women have that confused look after I start talking. You must be psychic.”
Damn! He’s Charming and gorgeous. “Busted. But let’s be clear. I do the jokes.”
“Yes you do…Anyway, you were great. You remind me of Ellen DeGeneres.”
“Thanks. I get that a lot. Which is great. I love her too…I understand you have a connection at Showtime.”
“Wow. Do you like have one week to live? You went right for the close.”
“Sorry.” I laughed. “Aside from the thrill of being called up to light a candle, it hasn’t exactly been a great evening. Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Robyn. I’m a stand-up by night and Gretchen Sommers’s makeup artist by day. I’m thirty-three, back in the single world, and hoping my mother was just kidding about wanting the name of my divorce attorney.”
“Is there going to be a test? Because that was a lot to absorb.”
“No test.” I laughed. “You’re pretty funny yourself. Let me guess. You also do—”
“No. I’m a lawyer, but spare me the jokes. I know we inspire you guys…”
“Guilty, your honor…Any chance you’re a divorce attorney?”
“I’d be making a lot more money if I was. I mostly do bankruptcies.”
“Oh. My brother too…I should take your card in case I end up going that route.
“Wouldn’t you use your brother?”
“Why do you think I’m in so much trouble?”
“Never operate on family.” Seth laughed. “Wait. Isn’t your last name Fortune? Or was that just part of your act?”
“I wish it was a joke, but it’s my ex’s real last name. Ironically, he left me in deep financial shit. I mean it’s so bad, even PBS thinks I’m too high risk.”
“So basically the fortune cookie crumbled.” He laughed. “Sorry. I’ll let you do the jokes…Anyway, if you ever want a second opinion, here’s my card.”
“Thanks.”
“Speaking of brothers, I was wondering if I could talk to you about mine.”
“Let me guess. He wants to do stand-up.”
“No. Although he is very, very funny. Or was.”
“Was?”
“Look. This is weird for me…my brother is a great guy. I think you’d love him. He’s smart, he’s successful, he’s got a wicked sense of humor…”
“Wait. You want to fix us up?” By any chance are you twins?
“Not a date or anything. Just coffee. Or even a phone call. He could really use a laugh.”
“Oh. My niece said you had a connection at Showtime. I thought…”
“I do. Or, I did.”
“Hi.” A perky pregnant woman sidled up to Seth. “I’m Madeline, Seth’s wife. Nice to meet you. You are sooooo hysterical, I thought I’d pee in my pants.” She patted her belly.
“Nice to meet you, Madeline. Thanks. Oh, and congrats on the baby.”
“Baby?” She looked down.
“You’re not pregnant?”
“God no. I just overdid it a little at the smorg. Who can resist pigs in a blanket?” She howled. “No, just kidding a kidder. Of course I’m pregnant. It’s a boy. We’re so excited…I just love your makeup. I noticed it before. You city girls are so lucky. So many great places to get it done.”
“Thank you. It’s what I do…I’m a professional makeup artist.”
“She works for Gretchen Sommers, the one on Daybreak.”
“Oh I just love her.” Madeline clapped. “Is she sweet? Please tell me she is. I hate it when I hear about these big celebrities who are so mean to everyone.”
“We love her,” I gritted. We’re raising money to take out a contract on her life. Can I put you down for the Thin Mints?
“Well good. Restores my faith in humanity…Did you ask her yet?” She turned to Seth.
“I’m trying.” he laughed. “You girls are always in such a rush…I’m sorry, Robyn, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Let me do it,” Madeline said. “Kenny was adorable, smart, successful, a great skier—”
“I don’t mean to be rude, but are you trying to hook me up with the deceased? Because as much as I tell men to drop dead, I still prefer that they start out breathing.”
Seth and Madeline looked at each other. “She’s perfect!”
“Look, I’m sort of in the middle of a family emergency right now,” I said. “Could you maybe connect the dots for me here?”
“Sure. Sorry.” Seth nodded. “It’s just…you could say we’re in the middle of a family emergency ourselves.”
I just don’t get people who always have to do you one better. You mention you’re vacationing in Europe, they tell you about their trip to Prague as a guest of the ambassador. You live in a co-op in the Village. Theirs overlooks the Hudson River and was used for a movie.
But when it comes to bad luck, everyone has a story they think can’t be topped. Me especially. These past few years have been hell, and not even AAA could have found an easy path out of the mess, for when your journey is doomed, the hard road is the only one on the map.
But as I listened to the litany of tragedies that had overwhelmed Seth’s kid brother, Ken, hands down he’d won in the lightning round called, “My life sucks worse.”
Here was a star who had it all. Tall, good-looking. (“A stunning, stunning man,” Madeline sighed.) High school salutatorian. Made law review at Columbia. Married a beautiful young woman doing a pediatric residency. (“We loved Nina to pieces.”) A world-class skier. (“The U.S. Olympic Committee so wanted him.”) And then as if somebody upstairs pointed a finger and said, “He’s our guy,” it all fell apart.
It wasn’t just that his oldest childhood friend died in the attack on the World Trade Center. Or that two years later, Ken’s bride decided that although he was great guy, he had more problems than she realized, and with all the late hours at the hospital, she’d met a fellow resident with whom she thought she’d have a brighter future.
Or that four months later, Ken would accept an invitation to ski Zermatt in the Swiss Alps with a friend, and in a heroic act to save her from hitting a tree, he crashed instead and had to be airlifted to a trauma center in nearby Visp, where he lay in a coma for weeks. He’d been home recuperating ever since.
“And then a few months ago we found out my dad has prostate cancer,” Seth said. “They think they got it in time, but it’s been rough on the whole family.”
“Oh my God,” I said. “So wait…Who’s your connection at Showtime?”
Two pairs of eyes bugged out.
“Just kidding…I’m sorry. Sometimes I say the worst things.”
“No, it’s our fault.” Seth laughed. “We dumped this whole, God-awful story on you.”
“We just thought you’d be willing to call him.” Madeline said. “Who knows? Right?”
“Yeah. You did this whole thing about dating jerks, and here we
know this great guy.”
“Who’s only slightly beaten up and broken,” I replied.
“He’s much better now,” Madeline followed. “Almost good as new.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I said. “My life is so complicated right now, I’m not—”
“He’s a top guy in the legal department at Showtime,” Seth blurted.
“Oh?” I smiled.
“Well, he was. He’s been out on disability since this happened.”
“Oh.”
“But they still love him over there,” Madeline rubbed my arm. “I’m sure he would be happy to make a call for you.”
“And he’s very well connected,” Seth said. “He’s good friends with Billy Crystal.”
“Yeah right.” My heart raced. “What’s Billy’s wife’s name?”
“Janice.”
“What’s the daughter’s name?”
“They have two. Jennifer and Lindsay. Jen is a filmmaker.”
“Okay. I’ll call. But no promises. I have signs of Holtz Disease. I can repel people on contact.”
I’m a comic, so I often encounter situations I find hilarious, only to discover I’m the only one laughing. But standing in the lobby at Brandon’s bar mitzvah, I was struck by a thought that any woman would appreciate.
You get an invitation in the mail, mark it on the calendar, and though it’s months away, you don’t think about what you’re going to wear until a day before, and by then it’s too late to buy something that will camouflage the damage done by those late-night visits to Wendy’s.
Nor does it dawn on you when you say yes that you’ve made a date with destiny. Which is just as well, for if you had an inkling that on that day, events would unfold that would alter your landscape, who’d be crazy enough to RSVP?
Would I have said yes if I knew my mother would drive herself to the bar mitzvah? Or that her trunk would be loaded with suitcases, pots and pans, two boxes of books, her prized mah-jongg set and a photo album from her days at Queens College?
Did I expect to be approached by a couple who hoped that what my life was missing was a man who, like me, had inadvertently enrolled in the school of bad luck and was hoping not to graduate with honors?
Fate and Ms. Fortune Page 3