game I loved when I was nine years old.”
“But why do you still wear the hat?”
Josh looked me right in the eye. Do not ask me why, but when he spoke, I had the very distinct feeling that he was talking about more than baseball. “I made a promise,” he said. “That has to count for something. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” I said. “When you say you’re going to do something, you should do it.”
“Besides,” Josh said, “I think somebody has to stick up for lost causes.” He looked at the Astros cap and shook his head. “No matter how lost they are.”
I had an idea. “Have you tried Saint Jude?”
“What?”
“Saint Jude. You could light a candle.” Josh looked at me blankly. “Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.” My grade school nuns would’ve been proud. Not that I necessarily believe in that stuff. But if the Astros had never won the World Series, it wouldn’t hurt for Josh to light a candle to Saint Jude, would it?
“I’m not Catholic,” Josh said.
“Oh.” I tried to remember whether that mattered or not. I wasn’t sure. “I don’t think that matters,” I said. I wanted to be encouraging. Plus it really shouldn’t matter. In my opinion.
Right about then the food came. And let me tell you, it was amazing. Josh was absolutely right: I had never eaten real Italian food before.
“Anyway,” Josh said, somewhere near the end of the buffalo mozzarella—which by the way means the cheese is made from buffalo milk, not that it comes from Buffalo, New York—“if I were going to ask Saint Jude to help me with a lost cause, I wouldn’t waste it on the Astros.”
“But then you could stop wearing that hat,” I said. Let’s face it: Keeping your promises is terribly important, but it was a real pity for him to cover up such nice hair.
“That’s true,” he said. “But I could ask for something that means even more to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like getting my movie made.”
17
I almost dropped my fork. Which would’ve been a shame, because those wild mushrooms were unimaginably delicious, even if they were funghi. But the point is, did you ever see in the movies where somebody has a flashback to ten different scenes in two seconds, and all of a sudden they put the pieces together and figure something out? I had one of those moments.
Flash. I meet a man in my hotel, which is full of Movie People for my movie.
Flash. We’re on the street, and he tells me his name. “I’m Josh,” he says.
Flash. I start to read the screenplay Elliot Schiffter sent to me. The bottom of the cover page says Copyright J. Thomas.
Flash. Josh and I walk into the restaurant. The hostess kisses his cheeks and says “ Buona sera, Signore Tomahs.” Tomahs must be how an Italian person says Thomas.
Flash. Josh says maybe he’ll ask Saint Jude for something that really means a lot to him. “Like getting my movie made,” he says.
Flash.
First name, J. Last name, Thomas. J. Thomas. Josh Thomas. Who wrote The Importance of Beating Ernest.
My movie was Josh’s movie.
Only wait a second. “You said you went to law school,” I said.
“That’s right,” Josh said.
“So . . . are you a lawyer?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” he said.
No no no! That was the wrong answer. He had to be a writer, not a lawyer. People who have those flash moments in the movies and put all the pieces together never get it wrong.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m kind of a recovering lawyer.” He took another drink of Chianti. “These days, I’m really more of a . . . screenwriter.”
Yes yes yes! He was the right Josh Thomas. The man who wrote the screenplay that had brought me to Paris. The wonderful, funny, romantic screenplay I loved. I had come all the way from Kirland, Indiana to Paris, France, and who wound up saving me from a hostile exchange rate and taking me to dinner at the most adorable, authentic Italian restaurant but screenwriter Josh Thomas. It was an incredible
“But why do you still wear the hat?”
Josh looked me right in the eye. Do not ask me why, but when he spoke, I had the very distinct feeling that he was talking about more than baseball. “I made a promise,” he said. “That has to count for something. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” I said. “When you say you’re going to do something, you should do it.”
“Besides,” Josh said, “I think somebody has to stick up for lost causes.” He looked at the Astros cap and shook his head. “No matter how lost they are.”
I had an idea. “Have you tried Saint Jude?”
“What?”
“Saint Jude. You could light a candle.” Josh looked at me blankly. “Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.” My grade school nuns would’ve been proud. Not that I necessarily believe in that stuff. But if the Astros had never won the World Series, it wouldn’t hurt for Josh to light a candle to Saint Jude, would it?
“I’m not Catholic,” Josh said.
“Oh.” I tried to remember whether that mattered or not. I wasn’t sure. “I don’t think that matters,” I said. I wanted to be encouraging. Plus it really shouldn’t matter. In my opinion.
Right about then the food came. And let me tell you, it was amazing. Josh was absolutely right: I had never eaten real Italian food before.
“Anyway,” Josh said, somewhere near the end of the buffalo mozzarella—which by the way means the cheese is made from buffalo milk, not that it comes from Buffalo, New York—“if I were going to ask Saint Jude to help me with a lost cause, I wouldn’t waste it on the Astros.”
“But then you could stop wearing that hat,” I said. Let’s face it: Keeping your promises is terribly important, but it was a real pity for him to cover up such nice hair.
“That’s true,” he said. “But I could ask for something that means even more to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like getting my movie made.”
17
I almost dropped my fork. Which would’ve been a shame, because those wild mushrooms were unimaginably delicious, even if they were funghi. But the point is, did you ever see in the movies where somebody has a flashback to ten different scenes in two seconds, and all of a sudden they put the pieces together and figure something out? I had one of those moments.
Flash. I meet a man in my hotel, which is full of Movie People for my movie.
Flash. We’re on the street, and he tells me his name. “I’m Josh,” he says.
Flash. I start to read the screenplay Elliot Schiffter sent to me. The bottom of the cover page says Copyright J. Thomas.
Flash. Josh and I walk into the restaurant. The hostess kisses his cheeks and says “ Buona sera, Signore Tomahs.” Tomahs must be how an Italian person says Thomas.
Flash. Josh says maybe he’ll ask Saint Jude for something that really means a lot to him. “Like getting my movie made,” he says.
Flash.
First name, J. Last name, Thomas. J. Thomas. Josh Thomas. Who wrote The Importance of Beating Ernest.
My movie was Josh’s movie.
Only wait a second. “You said you went to law school,” I said.
“That’s right,” Josh said.
“So . . . are you a lawyer?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” he said.
No no no! That was the wrong answer. He had to be a writer, not a lawyer. People who have those flash moments in the movies and put all the pieces together never get it wrong.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m kind of a recovering lawyer.” He took another drink of Chianti. “These days, I’m really more of a . . . screenwriter.”
Yes yes yes! He was the right Josh Thomas. The man who wrote the screenplay that had brought me to Paris. The wonderful, funny, romantic screenplay I loved. I had come all the way from Kirland, Indiana to Paris, France, and who wound up saving me from a hostile exchange rate and taking me to dinner at the most adorable, authentic Italian restaurant but screenwriter Josh Thomas. It was an incredible
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