Chapter 45: Not a Friend
Bob said, "I got it from Ruby—oh, Ruby told me not to tell you he gave me your address. By the way, do you know what fancy management title Ruby just got promoted to? Bruce, you moved and changed your number; why didn't you let an old friend know?"
Without waiting for an answer, Bob wedged himself onto the edge of the couch, nearly shoving Ross off the armrest, his eyes sweeping over the people beside Bruce with open appraisal. "Bruce, aren't you going to introduce your friends?" Bob asked.
"All right, this is Ross, Joey, Monica—" Bruce had barely finished when Rachel arrived with their coffees, so he added, "And this is Rachel!"
"Hi, Bob!" the others said in unison.
"Wow—hello, Rachel, I'm Bob!" Bob jumped up, offering Rachel his hand, his voice dripping with charm, completely ignoring the people who'd just greeted him.
Rachel, looking a bit confused, smiled politely and shook his hand. "Hello, Bob."
She turned to leave, but Bob stopped her. "Hold on—I need a coffee too."
"Of course. What would you like?" Rachel asked.
"Whatever you recommend; if you suggest it, I'll take it!" Bob grinned.
"Okay..." Rachel hesitated. "Then I recommend a cappuccino."
"Perfect, I could really go for a cappuccino!" Bob said enthusiastically, completely oblivious to Ross's annoyed expression.
Without missing a beat, Bob launched into his monologue: "I just flew in from Hollywood. Plenty of work out there, but I hate the place—those producers wouldn't know real art if it smacked them in the face. Anyway," he switched to a smug tone,
"New York suits me better. Been back one day and already a company hired me for their big new project—Supervising Screenwriter."
Bruce couldn't have cared less about Bob's résumé.
Joey, however, asked, "What's a Supervising Screenwriter?"
Bob explained, "After a studio buys a script, they need a professional to shepherd it through pre-production and shooting—that's me."
Joey said, "Cool."
The moment Bob glanced toward the counter, Joey leaned over and whispered to Bruce, "Is that really what a Supervising Screenwriter does?"
"No idea," Bruce murmured back. "First time I've heard of it."
Bruce turned back to Bob. "So, Bob, why exactly did you come looking for me?"
Bob swiveled around. "Do you even have to ask? I missed my old buddy. Am I not welcome here, Bruce?"
"Well, I hate to say it, Bob, but we're not friends. Have you forgotten what you did?"
Bob's grin froze, replaced by wounded disbelief. "My God, Bruce, that hurts. What did I do?"
"Are you serious? First, you stole my Midnight Courier concept, turned it into your own Hot Delivery script for Wildcat Productions, then accused me of plagiarism.
Explain to me why Mr. Hollywood-wannabe, who always look down on adult scripts, suddenly wanted my concept? Second, when I lined up a legitimate creative gig, you bad-mouthed me to Ruby as 'disloyal,' grabbed the job for yourself, and then blew it.
Third, you never stopped trashing me to Ruby and everyone else just to prop up your fragile ego. I'd have to be a masochist to call you a friend."
Bruce finished; silence fell over the group. Rachel set down the cappuccino, clearly sensing the tension. "What happened between you two?"
Before anyone could answer, Bob spoke up. "Bruce, I can't believe you're still hung up on ancient history." He snorted. "Midnight Courier? That concept was stale. If I hadn't 'improved' it into Hot Delivery, Wildcat would never have bought it. And I offered you a cut—you refused."
"You got five grand for my idea and tried to throw me a hundred bucks. That's insulting," Bruce kept his voice steady.
Bob brushed it off. "That studio job? A bunch of pretentious wannabes writing 'artsy' scripts that nobody watches. I spared you a dead-end gig; you should thank me for keeping you on Ruby's payroll. As for trash-talking—can't you take a little friendly banter?"
Bruce almost laughed; he couldn't believe they were still sitting on the same couch. "Goodbye, Bob. I'm leaving—let's never meet again." He stood up.
"Wait—if you're leaving, at least hear me out." Bob grabbed Bruce's arm.
Bruce turned, hand raised: make it quick.
Bob said, "Your words hurt, but I'm a bigger person than that—the moment a position opened up, I thought of you. My company needs creative assistant writers to generate ideas. Your scripts may be rough around the edges, but your concepts are solid gold..."
Bruce cut in. "My scripts are rough? Ruby didn't tell you Wildcat's last few profitable films were from my scripts?"
"Hey, relax—you wrote porn. I'm talking about real movies for mainstream America. You quit the adult industry, but that doesn't mean you can instantly write a box-office hit, right?"
Bruce opened his mouth, then shrugged. "Fine, Bob—go ahead, I'm listening."
"That's it. I got you a job interview; maybe say thank you? Oh, you'll still have to actually interview—my recommendation only goes so far."
"No thanks, Bob. I don't need your help."
Bob frowned. "Why not? You're off Ruby's roster, but you still need rent money, groceries, coffee with friends—right?"
"Because I'd never believe you're being altruistic. You just miss the cheap thrill of boosting your ego by putting me down."
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