Romantic Comedy(6)
Author: Curtis Sittenfeld

 

It was Nigel himself who was clearly a natural-born night owl, and though the schedule he’d set in the beginning seemed objectively crazy, it was after all this time justified by an if-it-ain’t-broke logic. Many sketches that had found their way into the country’s collective consciousness and spawned beloved characters and catchphrases had indeed been written at one or three or four-thirty in the morning. And really, if you were lucky, Tuesday was just the beginning. If one or more of your sketches made it past the table read, you might stay up late on any or all of the remaining nights until Saturday, rewriting, rehearsing, or directing a shoot for a pre-tape. Then you’d probably stay up all night Saturday, too, commiserating or celebrating at the after-parties, because your sketch had been cut at the last minute and you felt despondent or because your sketch had made it to air but bombed and you felt despondent or because your sketch had aired and killed and you felt exhilarated.

 

Prior to joining the show, I’d kept typical sleeping and waking hours, but TNO truly had rewired my biology, as if I were a third-shift factory worker except vastly better paid, or an ER doctor except not saving anyone’s life. It now seemed normal to me that most people arrived at the office around 5 p.m. on Tuesday, and we placed our orders for dinner around 9 p.m. I spent the hours before and after dinner working with cast members, most often Viv and Henrietta, on sketches they were developing. Around one or two, I lay on the couch in my office, set a T-shirt over my eyes and earplugs in my ears, and, except when I was awakened by chaos in the hall, I nodded off for about five hours, which was downright decadent by TNO standards. I’d set my phone alarm to go off at six or seven then brush my teeth in the women’s room. There was a shower in the private bathroom off Nigel’s office that some of my co-workers used after he went home, but I wouldn’t have had the nerve or the ambition and merely kept a toiletries bag in a desk drawer. After brushing my teeth, I’d have coffee and an energy bar and sit down again at my desk for revisions. At this point, plenty of people were still awake, never having slept at all, and usually emanating a half-dead exhaustion, though sometimes giving off a loopy camaraderie reminiscent of the kids who’d stayed up all night at an elementary school slumber party. I’d revise for a few hours, turn my sketches in at the last minute like everyone else, and go home for a few hours to poop in peace and shower before returning to work for the read-through at three.

 

On this particular afternoon, I still had a draft of the Cheesemonger to hammer out but decided to get coffee—real coffee that I’d buy from a place in the lobby of 66, not from the office kitchen—and while I was waiting in line, I texted Viv, How was doctor apptmt?

 

So, she replied immediately.

 

Interesting story

 

I didn’t see my usual doc

 

I saw someone else

 

And he was

 

She added three fire emojis.

 

Then came a screenshot, clearly taken off the eye clinic’s website, of a man who looked to be in his early forties, was smiling earnestly, was either light-skinned or biracial, and was wearing a white dress shirt, yellow tie, and white lab coat. Next to the photo were the words

 

 

Theodore P. Elman

 

Certification: American Board of Ophthalmology

 

Education: M.D., Perelman School of Medicine, University

 

of Pennsylvania

 

Specialty: Comprehensive Ophthalmology

 

 

 

Another text from Viv: OK he looks kinda middle aged dorky here but trust me

 

We had crazy chemistry

 

And he wrote his email on business card if I have Qs

 

But he can’t ask me out right?

 

Because it would be illegal

 

I typed: Wait how’s your eye?

 

Then: I don’t think illegal but maybe unprofessional?

 

Want me to ask my college roommate who’s a pediatrician?

 

From Viv: I have a subconjunctival hemorrhage

 

Which grossness aside isn’t that serious

 

Should heal on its own 1-2 wks

 

From me: Oh good

 

Obviously you don’t look gross if there was crazy chemistry

 

Was he wearing a wedding ring

 

From Viv: No

 

From me: Did he know who you were

 

From Viv: Unclear

 

If I think there was chemistry, was there chemistry?

 

From me: Yes

 

From Viv: What if there was chemistry but only for me

 

From me: Pretty sure that’s not how chemistry works

 

When are you getting to office

 

From Viv: 4:30?

 

Can you write some sketches that make me look hot and hilarious in case the love doctor watches this week

 

From me: Hmm should I assign not hot woman in Danny Rule sketch to you or Henri

 

From Viv: Me me me me me

 

From Viv: All airtime is good airtime

 

 

Tuesday, 10:08 p.m.

 

Viv, Henrietta, and I had brought our food from the dinner order—on this night, Greek—into the office they now shared. I sat at Henrietta’s computer, Viv sat on her own desk, and Henrietta sat on the floor. We were working on the idea about dogs’ Internet searches, and first we debated whether the sketch should feature real dogs or Henrietta and Viv in dog costumes (because cast members were always, unfailingly, trying to get more air time, we quickly went with the latter). Then we discussed where it should take place (the computer cluster in a public library, but, even though all this mattered for was the establishing shot, we got stalled on whether that library should be New York’s famous Main Branch building on Fifth Avenue, with the lion statues in front, a generic suburban library in Kansas City, or a generic suburban library in Jacksonville, Florida, which was where Viv was from). Then we really got stalled on the breeds of dogs. Out of loyalty to my stepfather and Sugar, I wanted at least one to be a beagle. Viv said that it would work best if one was really big and one was really little, and Henrietta said she was fine with any big dog except a German Shepherd because she’d been bitten by her neighbor’s German Shepherd in third grade. After forty minutes we’d decided on a St. Bernard and a Chihuahua—I eventually conceded that Chihuahuas were funnier than beagles. We decided to go with the Florida location for the establishing shot because the lions in front of the New York Main Branch could preempt or diminish the appearance of the St. Bernard. Then we’d arrived at the fun part, which was the search terms.

 

With her mouth full of beef kebab, Viv said, “Am I adopted?”