The Idea of Him by Holly Peterson

now? Maybe I courted them. That thought depressed me as I thought about making an effort to expunge the next generation of too many man-babies. I decided I’d let Blake handle his friend issues on his own and give him praise when he did.
    I turned to Murray. “You have to talk to me about the other business with Max Rowland; he’s a felon so I deserve to know you are being careful, or I refuse . . .”
    Selena peeked into the room and said, “Sorry, Mr. Hillsinger. Your mother. Line two. You know how she reacts when I say you’re in a meeting so the light will be blinking until you pick up.”
    â€œShit!” Murray slammed the table. “Never satisfied. She’s working on me now to go to the Venice Film Festival at the end of summer, thinks she’s a film expert because her son has a few fuckin’ famous clients in Hollywood.” He picked up the receiver and completely changed the tone of his voice. “Yes, Ma.” He sounded like a little boy and slumped his shoulders. “Yes, sure, Ma. I’ll work on it. I thought you’d like the idea of Boca with your girlfriends again, but Venice it is.” He slumped deep into his sofa at her latest request. “No, Ma. You know the hotels are all booked. No, Ma. Doesn’t matter what they say, the Cipriani isn’t the only good one, but, yes, Ma, I’ll try to get you a room, but please remember if I can’t deliver for you, it’s because it’s been booked for celebrities for a year now.”
    He had to pull the phone away from his ear as she reacted to that bit of news.
    â€œMa, I’ll try to get you in. I’ll call you later.” Pause. “Yes, I love you.” He put down the receiver.
    â€œHow come you look like a dejected eight-year-old every time you talk to her?”
    â€œBecause she terrifies me, that’s why,” he admitted in total defeat. “She purposefully asks for the hotel that’s booked out five years in advance. They want Clooney and DiCaprio in the Cipriani that week, not my mom in her fuckin’ fanny pack and Mephisto shoes! Jesus.”
    I looked at the explosion of crumbs in front of me and shook my head. “Do you want me to write something specific for Delsie’s speech at the festival?”
    â€œYou decide what to put in it. You wrote those great environmental speeches when I hired you. A kid out of college who writes speeches with that much impact, I want going full tilt on this.”
    â€œOkay, Murray. And there were a lot of people I wrote them with; it wasn’t all me.”
    He dusted his hands and heaved into a standing position, getting ready to dismiss me. “I don’t give a shit if all your environmental writing success back then was genetic talent from your dad’s love of the sea, or dumb luck on timing with the globe going green and the fuckin’ terrorists controlling all the oil. Point is, you’re gonna do what I ask and you’re the best writer I got . . . and I’m very indebted to you, even though I don’t say it enough.”
    â€œOf course, Murray,” I said, my feelings for him warming back up as they invariably did.
    â€œLook, kid,” he said. I turned at the tender sound in his voice. “Your dad would have been proud. Too bad the good die young and he never saw your work promoting a cause that championed the ocean he lived in.”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    He put his arm around me, ushering me out. “I remember when I first heard you give a speech. I knew that instant you could coach all my clients and write all their speeches. You sounded like a senator: junior fucking Barbara Boxer or something. Just don’t get all lesbo on me.”
    â€œExcuse me?” I said.
    â€œI mean, that short hair, all tough . . .”
    â€œI don’t think Barbara Boxer is known to be gay; I think she—”
    â€œI don’t give a fuck