Chapter 12 Be More Like Meryl Streep #4
“Yes. I was only ever in fluffy rom-coms, but I have a friend who was—is—a bigger star, and you should hear her stories. She once had a costar send a dead rat to her trailer. It was all wrapped up like a present, and it scared the heck out of her when she opened it. When she tried to call him on it, he said it was just part of his Method. But could she get away with something like that?”
“I’m guessing no.”
“No,” she said emphatically. “Not if she ever wanted to work again. No one casts ‘difficult’ women. There’s a reason Meryl Streep isn’t sending roadkill to her costars.”
“And yet Meryl Streep is widely considered the best actor of her generation.”
“So you don’t need roadkill and bad behavior to be successful is the takeaway, I guess.”
“Is this a parable?”
“Huh?”
“Are you trying to tell me to be more like Meryl Streep and less like the Method bros?”
She cracked up. “I wasn’t trying to tell you anything. But ‘Be more like Meryl Streep’ is probably good life advice for anyone.”
He could not disagree.
They sipped their drinks in silence for a few minutes until she said, “What was it like growing up with your dad?”
It was the question everyone asked him, the question that made him bristle.
Usually.
It wasn’t bothering him tonight. Perhaps because she’d asked about his mom days ago.
Or maybe because her question was actually about him.
Asking what it had been like growing up with his dad was different from asking what his dad was like.
Regardless, the question didn’t feel prurient like it usually did.
“I mean,” she added, “aside from when you weren’t allowed to knock on his door.”
“I don’t know. I don’t have any basis of comparison. He was never at my band concerts.”
“Band!” She spilled a little of her drink. “Shoot. What did you play?”
“Trombone, initially, but then I ended up being the kid they tapped to play all the weird brass instruments no one wanted. Tuba. Euphonium.”
She was blinking rapidly. Fair enough. The image of him with a tuba probably took some adjusting. “Wow, so this was a band teacher’s pet–type situation?”
“I was definitely a music nerd.”
“And here I would have thought it’d be the school newspaper or literary magazine.”
“Nope. I was all music, all the time. Regular band, jazz band, but choir was my main thing.”
“Choir was your main thing. Hold on. I need a moment to recalibrate my whole mental picture of you.” She put on a face of exaggerated horrification. “Were you… in musicals?”
“God, no. I didn’t do musicals. It was classical singing. We did the Messiah at Christmas, that sort of thing.
“But I guess, to answer your question…” He didn’t know why he was steering the conversation back to life with his dad.
They’d gotten sufficiently off the topic that it would have, he was pretty sure, been forgotten.
“It’s as if there are two versions of my dad: the novelist and the father. It’s hard to separate them sometimes.”
“I imagine especially because you’re also a novelist.”
“I suppose.”
“Though quite a different one than he is.”
“You’ve read his books, you said.”
“I have. For me, they’re a little too…”
“What?”
“Sorry, I don’t need to give you the Goodreads review of your dad.”
“Oh, please give me the Goodreads review of my dad.” He had never wanted anything more.
“Well, they’re very masculine. And before this descends into an argument about women’s fiction, let me explain what I mean by that.”
“I think I know what you mean. My dad’s characters could deliver roadkill to their costars.”
She smiled. “One of his characters actually did leave a bunch of dead fish on a neighbor’s property.”
He barked a laugh. She really did know his dad’s novels. “I’d forgotten that.”
“But to be fair, that made sense, narratively, if I’m remembering correctly. It’s more than the fact that he writes about men doing manly things. It’s an attitude, a sensibility, that infuses his books.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Hold on, what? Can you say that again?”
He rolled his eyes. He was done with his drink. The idea he’d had before was still lurking. It hadn’t escaped. He held it in his mind like a smooth pebble. “I’m going to call it a night. Thanks. It was good to get out.”
She beamed at him, and something pinged in his chest. “It was great to get out.”
When he got back inside, he realized he’d never asked Blair why she’d been home so early that day, hadn’t pressed her on what her “rough day” had entailed. It felt like an oversight.
He sent her a text before he settled in at his computer.
Jack: You want to start watching The Bear at my place tomorrow night?
Jack: Your place that is temporarily my place, I mean.
Jack: I can cook.
Jack: Well, I can’t cook. I can order dinner.
Blair: What happened to you? Was there some kind of body-switching event at the Watts Towers and you’ve been replaced by a pod person who is actually nice?
Jack: I’m just trying to reciprocate for all the hosting.
Blair: I like hosting.
Jack: You like to have company, but not too much company.
There was a long pause then. He watched for the dots. There were no dots. He shouldn’t have said that.
Jack: That wasn’t meant as an insult. Just an observation.
Blair: Your place that’s actually my place it is. What time?