Chapter 10 Owen
OWEN
I need to stop thinking about Frankie fucking Hogan so I can concentrate on this Zoom meeting.
“Uh, Brodie?”
I snap out of it and look back up at my monitor, at Shane Miller’s adorable smirking face.
“I can’t tell if you’re angry or aroused right now, buddy.”
“Neither. I’m formulating my thoughts on whatever thing whichever one of you said just now.”
The producer of my show, Barry Weiner, was once the producer of That’s So Wizard—the Disney Channel series that launched the illustrious careers of such talents as Shane Miller, Nico Todd, Alex Vega, and my asshole little brother.
Barry’s produced numerous other hit shows for that network as well as several critically acclaimed independent films, including the one that Alex directed and Shane starred in.
So what is he doing producing this piece of crap thing that I’m somehow getting paid a shit ton of money to star in? What are any of us doing here?
We’re discussing the first draft of the pilot script for Untitled Owen Brodie Family Comedy Project.
That’s how well-defined the show is now—we don’t even have an actual title.
I didn’t hate the script. It’s fine. The writer’s good, but he’s not in this meeting.
I mean, it’s a lighthearted family sitcom about a single dad stand-up comic and his three little kids who don’t think he’s funny.
There are some really good fart jokes, a few cute moments between the father and his kids, and it took me an hour and a half to read twenty-five pages because I kept watching Frankie’s YouTube videos and checking to see if her Twitter account was back up.
“I think that on a live action family sitcom scale of one to ten,” Barry says, “where anything that I didn’t produce is a one, and That’s So Wizard is a ten, this draft of this script is a five.
If we can get the next draft to a seven by next week, we’re golden.
How do we do that without hiring another writer?
Because I can’t bring in a writing staff until episode two. ”
“What if my character needs to hire a nanny for his kids?” I find myself blurting out.
“Go on…” Shane says, like he’s my shrink.
“And you know how his kids don’t think he’s funny?
What if this woman he hires is sort of a sassy, struggling stand-up comic herself?
And she doesn’t think I’m funny. Like, she heckles me during my opening stand-up bit in the pilot.
But she ends up becoming the nanny, and my kids think she’s hilarious.
And obviously she’s a love interest, but they sort of hate each other so there’s a lot of sexual tension.
And then there’s this other layer of conflict because my kids just think she’s cooler than me.
Is that something? Or is that too much like The Nanny? ”
“Well, it’s not too much like The Nanny because the show isn’t centered around the nanny and also you’re both comedians.
Your character isn’t British, and hers isn’t from Queens.
And they’ve already picked us up for an entire season, so who gives a shit.
But the addition of a nanny character is good.
I mean, we aren’t allowed to use terms like ‘sexual tension’ in the world of family sitcom development,” Barry informs me, “but I like that idea a lot. Especially if we can get a bangin’ hot chick for the nanny. ”
“Are we allowed to use the term ‘bangin’ hot chick’ in the world of family sitcom development?”
“I think what makes that work,” Shane offers before Barry can start listing all the hot young actresses he’d like to bang, “is that it gives us the opportunity to create a slightly bigger family type situation for you guys. All TV shows are about family dynamics, right? This way we have a potential mother-slash-wife figure.”
“Is she though? Does she have that kind of potential? To be a mother-slash-wife figure? While she’s employed as the nanny?”
“I mean, she has to, or what’s the point?” Barry says. “Especially if she’s hot.”
“Well, she is hot. I mean, she would be. But she’s also kind of a little turd to me. To him. My character.”
“Well, they always are,” Shane says, smirking.
“Right.” Barry claps his hands together once, definitively, startling me.
“This character addition gets us to seven out of ten by the next draft. Maybe even an eight. Then we can get the script to the executives, get their notes, and then hire a staff and bang out the rest of the season. Good talk, you guys. We all happy? We good?”
“Yeah, we’re good. Good talk.”
“You’ll have a cast list for the nanny by tomorrow, I’m guessing. Right, Barry?” Shane asks.
“Ohhh, you know it. Talk soon.” Barry leaves the meeting.
“You have time to talk for another minute?” Shane asks me.
“Yeah.” Things have gone quiet downstairs. I wonder if Sam fell asleep. “What’s up?”
He leans forward, closer to his laptop camera. “You tell me. Did you hire a new nanny or something?”
I turn the volume down on my laptop and lower my voice. My bedroom door’s closed, but I definitely don’t want Frankie fucking Hogan to hear this. “What? Yeah. Yes. I did. Just for the tour. Why?”
“She’s a hot little turd, huh?”
I do my best Barry Weiner imitation. “Ohhh, you know it.” I have no idea what my face is doing, but apparently Shane Miller knows exactly what it’s saying.
“Been there.”
“You have? Wait. What?” Now I’m confused. “You mean Scary Nanny?”
“No. My wife. Willa. She was the nanny for a little while. You didn’t know that?”
“No. I thought she was a perfumer.”
“Well, she is a perfumer. She was then too. But I needed a temp nanny when my ex-wife was out of town. Has Ashley met her yet?”
“Yeah, they met for coffee yesterday, and Ashley approved of her, which was…surprising. I mean, Sam loves her, which is annoying. My manager obviously likes her—he’s her uncle. Apparently everyone in my life likes her. Which is troubling.”
“She’s Martin’s niece? You need to talk to him first before you make any moves.”
“I’m not making any moves. There are no moves to be made. Not while she’s the nanny. Wait—can I make moves while she’s the nanny?”
“It’s not ideal… Hang on.” He looks offscreen to talk to someone. “Summer, I’m not finished with my Zoom meeting yet.”
I can hear his daughter Summer ask, “Who are you talking to? Is it Zac Efron?”
“No. It’s never Zac Efron. It’s Owen Brodie. He’s Dylan’s brother, remember?”
Suddenly, Shane’s little girl’s smiling face appears in the Zoom window. “Heyyy, Owen. Remember me?” She does a little hair toss. Such a little flirt.
“Of course I remember you. Hey, Summer. You’re the one who taught Sam about pocket snacks. I did the laundry yesterday and found melted cheese in the pocket of his pants, so that was awesome.”
“Oh, I don’t do pocket snacks anymore,” she states, waving her hand dismissively. “That’s for little kids.”
Shane looks down, reaches into the front pocket of her pants, and then holds up a few pretzel sticks.
Summer smacks her lips together, blushing. “Heyyy, how’d they get in there?”
“I’ll let you go,” Shane says. “But to sum up—talk to your manager before you do anything serious, and also Willa wanted me to ask you if you can comp her grammie for your Detroit show. Apparently Grammie Todd is a big fan of yours.”
I would really love to ask him what exactly counts as something serious where nannies are concerned.
Like, are we talking anything beyond finger banging?
Marriage proposals? Or butt-stuff negotiations?
But I also can’t think about fingers, butts, or sex at all now that Grammie Todd is in my head.
“Yeah, Nico already mentioned that actually. She’s on the list.”
“I wanna be on the list!” Summer yells out.
“Right on. Talk soon.” Shane exits the meeting just as Summer’s face gets closer to the camera.
I can’t talk to my manager about his niece.
I mean, there’s nothing to talk about. But what would I say if there were?
“Hi, can you make sure all the water they provide for me at the venues are filtered and room temperature, and also I’m planning on throwing a couple of winky-face emojis your niece’s way and then punishing her for heckling me by giving her the ol’ tongue plow until she weeps and declares me the king of her pussy.
Then I’ll fuck her in all the ways a man can fuck a woman because she’ll be begging for it.
All of that will take place within a period of about half an hour, probably while my son is taking a nap. Is that cool with you?”
When I get downstairs, I peer into the living room.
The movie is still on, but Sam is curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.
Frankie isn’t in here, but I hear movement in the kitchen.
She’s washing the dishes that were in the sink.
I actually put my hand over my heart because it feels warm and filled with longing all of a sudden.
I have this sudden flashback of being a little kid, in the family room with my brothers. The TV on, volume low because my dad’s reading a book in his chair, and my mom’s in the kitchen.
I never had that feeling of comfort, that sense of being home when it was Sam and Ashley and me.
I don’t know why I’m feeling it now. Maybe I’m hungry. Literally hungry. Maybe I need a snack. Or maybe it’s because Frankie is the first woman to be alone with Sam and me in this house—besides my ex-wife, Nanny Blanca, my housekeeper, or Mrs. Billings.
More specifically, she’s the first woman to be alone with Sam and me in this house who I’ve jerked it to. Angrily. Repeatedly. To great satisfaction.
Against my better judgment, I join her in the kitchen. She’s singing to herself, very quietly, bobbing her head, swaying her shoulders and hips the tiniest bit. All sexy-like. But cute. Lost in the song and the feeling. I know the song, and I know the feeling.
It’s creepy that I’m standing here, leaning against the doorframe, watching her.