The Wisdom of Perversity by Rafael Yglesias Page B

during their first drafts, firing them after the second, replacing them with more compliant screenwriters who composed the script he actually shot and then later, during awards season, Jeff would only mention the famous writers because their names lent more prestige to the project. So far, although nominated four times for Best Director, Jeff had yet to win the Oscar. Brian believed Jeff would win in a landslide if the category was Best Fucking Over.
    â€œNo,” Brian said. “I didn’t punch him. My parents divorced and we moved away.”
    Lamont gave up on Brian. He turned to Veronica. “What did Jeff say our writer did to offend him?”
    â€œNothing. Jeff said they lost touch. In fact, he spoke fondly of our writer. Said to say hello.”
    Lamont tried Brian again. “Spoke fondly? Lost touch?” He shook his head as if trying to wake up. “This is the fucking movie business. Movie people work all over the world, but they live in a small town. You’re an A-list screenwriter—”
    â€œLet’s not exaggerate,” Brian interrupted. “I’m no better than B-plus.”
    â€œFuck off. If I say you’re A-list, you’re A-list. And Jeff! My God he’s an A-plus hyphenate. And you were BFF as kiddies. How the fuck could you not know him today?”
    Brian ordered his muscles to form as pleasant a countenance as possible given that he wanted to kick the producer in the mouth. “Doesn’t seem so weird to me,” Brian commented. “We were kids who lived a million years ago two floors apart in Rego Park, Queens. My mother moved us to the Upper West Side in ’69, when I was eleven. Jeff’s right: we just lost touch.” He smiled at the skeptical producer and sympathetic actress, and beyond them the Four Seasons audience neglecting their lunches, wondering who was this ordinary, balding middle-age man that the great Veronica Stillman was listening to so intently. “We were just childhood friends,” Brian said to the famous and the bankrupt, “and let’s face it, Jeff and me, we’re not children anymore.”

Grown-up Secrets
    April 1966
    â€œI’M GOING, KIDS. I’m going now,” they heard Hy call out. “Be back later.”
    Jeff gripped Brian’s forearm. “Mom’ll go to the bathroom. She always needs to pee after guests leave. I can get the tape back!” He nodded at Julie and Noah. “Keep them here.”
    Noah made a run to follow Jeff. Brian caught him around the waist. The five-year-old strained against the hold, shoes coming up off the floor. “Lemme go!” he protested. Brian held fast and watched Julie for a reaction. Since confessing that they had hidden the tape recorder under Harriet’s bed, she had responded with doubtful looks, not explicitly agreeing to maintain their secret.
    Noah’s Buster Browns kicked Brian in both shins. He lifted Noah as high as he could and dumped him on the floorboards. The little boy looked astounded that he had been treated so roughly. “That hurt,” he declared with more surprise than outrage. Evidently Julie was not a violent older sister.
    â€œKeep quiet,” Brian said, “or I’ll really hurt you.”
    â€œOkay,” Noah agreed. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head.
    The door banged open, propelled by Jeff’s foot. His arms were full, carrying the recorder: one reel empty, the other fat with tape, its end flapping loose. Brian was impressed:
We recorded a whole hour.
    â€œI just made it,” Jeff reported, lowering the machine on his twin bed. “I heard the toilet flush and I got the hell out. Plug it in. I’ll fix the tape.”
    Noah badgered Jeff, “What are you doing? What are you doing?” while Jeff concentrated on the delicate operation of threading the heads and Brian found an outlet.
    â€œHe has to rewind the tape,” Brian explained. Julie was at the