And Sons by David Gilbert

who by dint of size exist on another, arguably greater plane. “And aren’t you friends with Henry Lippencott?” he asked.
    Richard was thrown by the stolen small talk. “He’s my cousin.”
    “Oh, okay. You get back much?”
    “To New York?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Never.”
    The oven opened again. “And said with conviction. I hear you. I have my issues with the city as well, mostly family related, ex-wife too, that and my built-in cynicism doesn’t quite jibe with the place anymore. I get there and just turn mean, you know, wonderfully mean but mean nonetheless. Out here my cynicism seems, I don’t know, seems somehow jubilant. I can relax enough to hate the world with a tremendousamount of affection.” Though raised in New York, Rainer spoke with a vague European accent that seemed rucksacked to his shoulders, the straps pulled tight, giving the impression of an overweight boy who had spent long, over-enunciated summers with his grandparents. “I still manage to go back at least once a month,” he said.
    “I’m buying a loft,” Eric offered, “in the Meatpacking District.”
    “Of course you are,” said Rainer, who, rather than roll his eyes, practically threw them toward Richard as if Richard would find this rush into nouveau trendiness risible. But Richard didn’t. Or not in the way Rainer imagined. Because in Richard’s memory the Meatpacking District still existed as the capital of sex clubs, with roving bands of transvestites sucking five-dollar cock. “You see poor Eric is from Minnesota,” Rainer added, as if this further explained his choice of neighborhood.
    “Go ’Sota,” the actor fake-cheered. He was not known for his comedies.
    “Son of ice farmers, I believe.”
    “Fuck you, you kraut.”
    And they both laughed. Richard tried to join in by adjusting his lips and eliciting a ha-ha sound, but he was nervous and sweaty and desperate to please as well as thrown by the image of this teen heartthrob cruising the Mineshaft on Little West 12th, his pockets stuffed with fivers, and this killed his sense of humor, which in many ways had been killed years ago. What remained was a hard-earned optimism that he could survive almost anything, even extreme opportunity.
    Rainer sat down. Everybody else followed suit. “Curtis, where are we?”
    “We love the script.”
    Rainer turned to Richard. “We love the script. It’s funny, it’s smart, it has depth. Whoever plays the lead could well win awards. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not perfect. It still needs work. It’s too long, the middle sags, the individual character arcs could be clearer, the females are weak, but those are small fixes in what is otherwise an outstanding piece of screen prose. We can give you proper notes when and if the time comes, but essentially what we’re saying, Richard, is that we wantto do it. We want to make this film. But we want to make it the right way, with the right people and with the right budget.” Rainer lounged back in his Rainer-sustaining chair. The color-field painting hanging behind him was mostly white with a red slash going down the middle. It made him appear newly born. “So what do you think?” he asked.
    Richard was the opposite of numb. When your biggest hopes are realized in an instant and childish fantasy transfigures into fact, into the life you only dared imagine, well, numbness is nowhere in the picture. If anything there’s an overabundance of feeling as you finally let go of all that history so tightly gripped within, to the point where Richard experienced an epic, almost literal whoosh throughout his body and for a moment nearly turned liquid. A sense of relief was the first emotion to settle in. After fifteen years of near-constant pressure, of willing himself sane, of focusing on the steps but never the climb, finally, after all these years, he could stop for a moment and turn around and see what he had achieved: possibly the best view in town.
    Eric Harke asked who his agent