Julian

II. February, Ch. 16

     San Kolbe winters were some of the best in the world. The warm California sun and proximity to the ocean concocted perfect picnic weather.

     Genevieve, Calvin, and Roger sat outside at a lunch table. Calvin stood guard for Marlo, ready to pretend to go to the bathroom if he saw him.

     Genevieve took small bites of Calvin's sandwich as she read the last page of Humor Me. She licked her lips, swallowed, and put the script down. "It's Shakespeare."

     Calvin felt the childlike instinct to cover his eyes, as if not looking at her made him invisible.

     He fantasized that Genevieve would twist her nose at Roger's accusations, that she'd say she loved Humor Me and was stunned that it never got produced. He paid his bet wager by sliding his thermos full of Tang across the lunch bench for Roger to take.

     Roger opened the thermos and took a greedy chug. "I told you she'd see it, too."

     Genevieve tilted her head at Calvin's slumped shoulders and pouty lips. "What do you have against The Bard anyway?"

     "I just don't get why we celebrate a man who broke basic language rules. He came up with a few new words, but other than that, he was sloppy with plot, borrowed way too much from other writers, and wasn't educated enough to write real masterpieces."

     She waited for Calvin to say 'just kidding', but after three Mississippi's, she gave herself permission to look shocked. "How did you earn a credential to teach high school English?"

     "Doing what Shakespeare couldn't, which was following the rules."

     "There's nothing wrong with putting on a play like Much Ado About Nothing. No offense, but I'd rather see that than this."

     Calvin's ego was sodomized. He was losing to a man who wasn't only dead, but might not have existed. He placed his elbows on the table and locked his hands together, resting his embarrassed face on his bouquet of hairy knuckles.

     "Stay out of the rodeo if you're scared of the bulls," Roger told him.

     Genevieve pointed a finger at Roger. "Didn't you pick up on the similarities as you wrote this with him?"

     Roger finished the last of the Tang. "Actually, Humor Me was all Cal."

     "I thought you two wrote together."

     Calvin lifted his head up and looked at Roger. "Usually."

     "Was this before you guys met?" she asked

     Calvin scratched one of his thick sideburns and looked down sheepishly, as if a child asked him what sex was.

     Roger wore the same look. They looked at one another, each of their minds going back to that day.

     Calvin remembered it better than Roger did.

     Roger and Cookie asked to speak with him about something serious. He thought it'd be about the miles he was putting on the communal Mustang, but when he saw them sitting on the same side of the booth at the lousy Chinese restaurant, he knew it was much worse.

     We're sorry, Calvin. We didn't mean for this to happen. Your friendship means so much to us. Please, try to understand. We're in love.

     He could tolerate Roger being the more fearless writer and the lovable life of the party, but falling in love with his ex-girlfriend was betrayal.

     Calvin left before the waiter brought out the Mu Shu pork.

     He dug into his abandoned inheritance and moved to a hotel in Woodland Hills, ignoring pleads, visits, and phone calls from the new couple.

     The mini bar in his room went untouched, and somewhere in his angered state, Humor Me was conceived. I don't need him. I can make it on my own.

     In his heart of hearts, Calvin knew Humor Me was a joke, but it was his joke. His beautiful, pathetic, unoriginal, unfunny joke.

     Two weeks later, the front desk called asking him to pick up a rush-delivered package.

     It was a letter of intent from the Horowitz Theater in Pasadena and a copy of the script to Harder to Breath, one of Roger's solo projects.

     The letter just needed Calvin's signature. The cover page read Written by Roger Stuart and Calvin Leblanc.

     The message was loud and clear, and despite having always frowned upon plagiarism, Calvin supposed it quenched Roger's guilt to do this. Who was he to deny him forgiveness?

     Harder to Breath was great, and in a way he did help write it considering how much crap he tolerated from Roger.

     Calvin packed his things, returned to their shared apartment, and gave Roger and Cookie his blessing.

     That same day, Roger turned in Harder to Breath with both his name and Calvin's, claiming the two had written it.

     The three never talked about it. Calvin was demoted to clerical work, Roger allowed his friend to take credit for work he didn't do, and Cookie kept the sounds of her and Roger's lovemaking low enough to let Calvin sleep at night.

     They spend holidays together, traveled together, and moved in together. Butch Cassidy, The Sundance Kid, and Etta Place lived in phony harmony.

     Being told that Humor Me wasn't good enough brought Calvin back to that grapefruit-bitter memory. He crossed his arms. "Humor Me's not Shakespeare."

     Genevieve dusted the crumbs off her hands. "I hate to break it to you, but it is."

     "I want a second opinion."

     Genevieve looked up to think, then gave Calvin a challenging smirk. "Second opinion, coming right up."

     She flipped to the first page, sat up straight, and read the first lines out loud with all the zeal of an overly enthusiastic newscaster, causing students at the surrounding tables to look at them.

     Calvin couldn't believe the childish antics she resorted to. He tried to pry the script from her hands.

     She didn't budge. The two played tug of war as Genevieve's voice got louder, leaving Roger ignored.

     "Alright, alright, that's enough," said Calvin.

     He gave the script a final tug and Genevieve surrendered, but not before showcasing her devil-may-care laugh.

     Calvin shook his head. "Geez, how old are you?"

     She stuck her tongue out through her pursed lips in infantile rebellion.

     Well, that answers that. It was insulting, immature, and it was the first time he laughed at his own masterpiece.