1 Breakfast at Madeline's by Matt Witten

down huge amounts of money when they've been typed into an honest-to-God binding legal con tract complete with " henceforth"s and "whereas"s, and all of those beautiful zeroes are staring up at you. Four of them, in fact. With that cute little "75" in front.
    "So what do you think?" Andrea asked me.
    "I think it's a hell of a lot of bucks."
    "It sure is." She grinned.
    "Yeah, but mutant beetles. I mean, Jesus, what a dumb-ass idea," I grumbled petulantly. We both knew full well I was going t o sign that deal with the Holly wood devil, but I didn't want to admit it right away.
    "You don't have to do it if you don't want," Andrea said, but that was just words. Of course I had to. Of course I wanted to. Didn't I? I knew I should be happy, but my head hurt. I rubbed it, and Andrea eyed me, worried. "Jacob, how are you feeling?"
    I couldn't tell her the truth—in fact I could barely tell myself the truth—which was that after six months of being unable to write, I was afraid I'd fail miserably and pathetically at this mutant beetles script. Maybe that Gas screenplay was a one-shot deal, a freak, and if I tried to write this mutant beetles thing, everyone would find out I was a total fraud.
    "I'm fine," I told Andrea. "I'm just sick of this stupid hospital." I flicked my fingers at the contract. "Can you believe this? For fifteen years, I practically have to pay people to read my stuff . Now all of a sudden peo ple I've never even met throw money at me like it's some kind of carnival game. To rewrite some script I haven't even read yet, for God's sake."
    "You deserve it. You're a good writer," Andrea said soothingly, as usual understanding my deepest fears. She's the perfect wife. Irritates me sometimes.
    I leaned back against the bed, tired, wishing I could forget my self-doubts, and wishing I could forget about all the noble as pirations I'd had during my fif teen years of writing serious movies. Come on, I told myself, just enjoy all those zeroes. I pulled Gretzky and Babe Ruth's daisies over to me, hoping to revive myself by sniffing them. But I couldn't smell a thing, maybe some weird side effect of delayed concussion syndrome. Of course, my nostrils had never been my best feature.
    Andrea got her worried look again. "Are you sure you're well enough to start working? Maybe we should talk to the doctor before you sign anything."
    "I'm well enough," I said, putting the daisy vase down, "and even if I'm not, so what? Let's say I do a lousy half-ass job, no one ever hires me again, and my career is ruined." I gave a cheerful shrug. "No prob lem. Because after taxes and shit, we'll have ourselves another two-fifty grand. It'll be our 'fuck you' money."
    "Our what?"
    "We'll have so much money we can say 'fuck you' to anyone we want."
    Andrea laughed. "Sounds good. And it'll totally pay for the kids' college."
    "Only problem is, what if I don't do a lousy job?" She looked at me blankly. "Then I'll be back in the game. And I'll never be able to get out. The zeroes will have me by the balls. I'll spend my next ten years writing about mutant beetles and their equivalents, forgetting all my youthful ideals, and end up a terminally cynical middle-aged man drinking Scotch around the clock and wondering where the hell my soul went." I rubbed my eyes. "Of course, on the other hand, I'll be incredibly fucking rich. Where do I sign?"
    "You don't have to." Andrea took my hand. "We have enough money already. It's okay with me if you say no. It really is."
    I looked into her eyes. The amazing thing is, she truly meant it.
    "I love you, sweetheart. Hand me a pen."
    As I signed the contract, all four copies, a siren began blaring outside. I looked out the window at the ambulance, and i t took my mind back to the ambu lance that carted away Donald Penn's body. It sure was odd how the man and his magnum opus seemed to make an awful lot of people awfully nervous. In fact, I reflected as I signed the final copy, someone had been nervous enough to