Chapter 19: They Only See the Success, Not the Struggle
What Ruby retrieved from the car was a folder containing a contract.
Bruce flipped through it. "So the deadline this time is ten days from when I sign?"
"Yes. After negotiating with the company, they agreed to extend it to ten days. See? As long as your work sells well and makes them money, they're generous about everything. Everything's negotiable!"
Joey asked, "So Ruby, Bruce's movie is selling really well?"
"Of course. Midnight screenings in New York have seen huge traffic because of this film. You guys should check it out before it's gone. Oh, and come to the theater I work at—I'll give you discount coupons!"
"What time's the earliest midnight showing?"
"One a.m. You coming?"
Joey hesitated. "I really want to see it, but that's way too late. I'd fall asleep in the theater."
"No worries. In a few days the film will finish its run and the VHS will hit stores."
"Then I'll wait for the tape. I told you before—I'm buying every movie Bruce writes. I loved Jurassic Park: Adults Only even before I met him!"
Ruby sighed. "Yeah, a lot of people feel that way. I've always believed Bruce has real talent for this, but now he wants to walk away from it. It's such a waste!"
Bruce cut in. "Ruby, don't put it like that."
Ruby kept going. "This film sold for forty thousand. The next one could easily be eighty. You're on the verge of making real money, and now you want out. As your agent, how could I be happy? Joey, since you like Bruce's movies and you're his friend, talk some sense into him!"
Just as Joey opened his mouth, Bruce jumped in. "No, Ruby. We already agreed, and it's not changing. Don't drag my friends into this!"
Joey could only shrug. Then he sat quietly for a moment before suddenly saying, "Hey, maybe I could write one too. Would the studio pay me for it?"
Ruby burst out laughing. "Joey, you can't just—"
"Come on, I can at least try. Bruce said writing these is just about creating scenarios for the characters, right?"
Bruce nodded. "Pretty much."
Ruby said, "Fine, go ahead and write. When you finish, pop some champagne, because out of everyone who says they want to be a writer, ninety-nine percent never finish their first script. If you actually complete it, that alone is worth celebrating."
"Alright, I'll let you know when I'm done."
Rachel chimed in. "Hey, if Joey can write, so can we!"
Monica asked, "Ruby, if we write a script, could you sell it for us? I don't need forty grand—four thousand would make me happy!"
Phoebe added, "I'd be thrilled if my first script sold for two hundred bucks. I just want a new mattress!"
Ruby exclaimed, "My God, guys. All you need is paper and a pen—or a typewriter—and you can write whatever you want. But let me tell you, the adult industry is a serious business. Countless people depend on it for their livelihoods. It's not as easy as you think. Save your conclusions until after you've actually finished a script."
Ruby stood. "It's getting late. Bruce, remember—starting tomorrow you've got ten days. You'll get the first twenty-thousand-dollar check soon. The rest comes after the script's done, minus taxes and my commission. Don't miss the deadline or you'll lose your tape sales cut."
With that, Ruby left.
Once she was gone, Rachel was first to speak. "This is absolutely insane!"
Phoebe said, "Yes, and she was downright rude—left without even saying goodbye!"
Rachel paused. "No, no, I wasn't talking about Ruby! I meant the money. I'm working here for eight dollars an hour. Sixty-four for an eight-hour day. Even if I worked every single day for a month, how much is that? Two grand?"
Bruce said, "Thirty times sixty-four is one thousand nine hundred and twenty."
Joey's eyes widened. "How did you do that in your head?"
"Easy—thirty times sixty is eighteen hundred, then thirty times four—"
Rachel cut him off with a look. "Please, Bruce. The point is I'd kill myself for a month and make under two grand, while you spend ten days typing and pocket forty thousand. That doesn't seem fair!"
Phoebe asked, "So what are you saying—should we rob Bruce?"
Bruce yelped, "Phoebe, please tell me you're joking!"
"I am joking! Let's hear what Rachel has to say."
"I don't want to rob anyone! But maybe we really could write something. Joey, you were serious about writing one, right?"
"Sure, I'll start tonight. Well, maybe tomorrow. It's kind of late."
"Anyone else in?"
Monica raised her hand. "Count me in!"
Bruce sighed. "Writing is solitary work, guys. You're rallying like it's a team sport. If you want to write, grab a pen and start."
Rachel said, "Sounds like someone's worried we'll show him up."
"God, believe me, nobody wants you to write an amazing script more than I do. Go ahead and blow my mind."
"Great. When we've all finished, you'll see."
"I truly can't wait. Still, there's a saying: people only see the reward, not the work that went into it. Know what that means?"
Seeing everyone stare, Bruce explained. "It's a metaphor. You only see someone's surface success—like how much their script sold for—without seeing what they sacrificed to get there."
Monica asked, "Are you talking about yourself?"
"Exactly. After high school we didn't meet again until September. Before that, what was your impression of me?"
"I remember you always at your desk, writing."
"Right. Since high school I've thrown away enough drafts to fuel a bonfire for three nights. That's the price."
Joey frowned. "Wait, you lost me. What drafts?"
Bruce smiled. "Just saying—I've worked hard to get here. Anyway, I look forward to seeing what you all come up with. I'm heading upstairs to sleep."
As everyone dispersed, Joey trailed behind Bruce, still trying to figure out how he'd multiplied thirty by sixty-four in his head...
A little after three in the morning, Bruce jolted awake, his pajamas soaked in sweat. His forehead burned and every muscle ached. He fumbled for the thermometer in his bedside drawer, tucked it under his arm, and watched the mercury climb: 102.3°F.
That was Bruce for you: rarely got sick, but when he did, it hit like a freight train. Each time he got this ill, he swore, "No more all-nighters, regular bedtimes, proper meals, daily workouts." Once he recovered, the promises evaporated.
He dragged himself out of bed, hunting for the first-aid kit that had vanished during last summer's move. He finally found it—only to discover a pathetic half-box of Tylenol inside.
Bruce swallowed two capsules with water, soaked a towel in cold tap water, staggered back to bed, draped it over his forehead, and drifted into fevered sleep.
After eight o'clock, the fever hadn't broken—now his throat had joined the party. Every swallow felt like broken glass.
The thermometer read 103°F. Panic flickered: if this kept climbing, he'd be in real trouble.
He shuffled to the living room and dialed Joey and Chandler's apartment. Chandler's voice crackled through. "Hello?"
In a raw, rasping croak, Bruce said, "Hey, Chandler, is Joey there?"
"Wrong number—Bruce lives upstairs! Who is this and how do you know my name?"
"It's me, Bruce. I need Joey." Each word felt like gravel.
Chandler sounded startled. "Bruce? I didn't recognize you—you sound terrible. What happened?"
"Bad flu. Talking hurts. Can Joey pick up?"
Then Joey's voice came through. "Hey, Bruce, I'm on speaker. Are you okay? What do you need?"
"I need someone to come to urgent care with me. Everyone else is at work—don't know if you've got something today."
"Of course I'll take you. I'm free. I'll come up right now."
"Don't—let me get dressed and I'll meet you downstairs. We'll grab a cab."
Bruce bundled himself in his thickest sweater and coat, shuffled out, and found Joey already waiting in the stairwell.
"Man, you look awful. You were fine last night—how'd it get this bad?" They talked while descending slowly.
"Too many late nights plus that joyride with the windows down in a snowstorm. My immune system gave up. Slow steps, Joey—my head's killing me."
No taxis passed, so Bruce handed Joey his wallet and asked him to grab coffee and something to eat from Central Perk. He had zero appetite but figured they should eat before the ER.
Joey emerged with coffees just as a cab rolled up. Once inside, he passed Bruce a cup. "Which hospital?"
"West Village Urgent Care."
Joey leaned forward. "West Village Urgent Care Center, please. This guy really needs help."
The cabbie shrugged. "Relax, it's five blocks. You could walk."
The taxi pulled away anyway.
"Why not Saint Vincent's? That's closer," Joey asked.
Bruce sipped the lukewarm coffee. "Because my insurance lists this place and it's closest."
Soon they arrived. There was no towering hospital, just a modest building with a bold "Urgent Care" sign.
Bruce pushed through the glass door. Warm air laced with disinfectant greeted him. A middle-aged nurse sat behind the front desk.
"Name? Do you have an appointment?"
"Bruce White. No appointment. High fever—this is urgent." He handed over his insurance card and driver's license.
The nurse nodded and passed him several forms. "Fill these out. Be thorough on the insurance information. Bring them back when you're done. Also, there's a copay—fifty-five dollars." She printed a bill and returned his cards.
Bruce had expected this. The Writers Guild insurance plan was solid, but every visit carried a copay.
He handed his wallet and the bill to Joey. Joey's eyes widened. "Fifty-five bucks and we haven't even seen a doctor yet? That could buy so much pizza!" Shaking his head, he went to pay.
After filling out the forms, a nurse called Bruce's name. He was led into a small exam room where they measured his vitals and recorded his symptoms. Then more waiting.
Bruce dozed in the plastic chair while Joey flipped through magazines.
About half an hour later, a middle-aged doctor walked in, chart in hand. "Bruce? I'm Dr. Oliver. Tell me what's going on."
Bruce gathered his energy and described his symptoms, emphasizing that over-the-counter medication hadn't worked and that his fevers usually got severe.
Dr. Oliver examined his throat with a tongue depressor. "Very red and inflamed."
"Looks like a nasty flu. We've been slammed with cases like yours all week," the doctor said, scribbling notes. "You need rest and fluids. I'll prescribe prescription-strength ibuprofen—stronger than over-the-counter—and you can alternate it with Tylenol to keep the fever down."
"Are you sure? No IV or injection? My fever's really high."
"Can you swallow pills?" the doctor asked.
"Yes."
"Are you severely dehydrated?"
"No."
"Then you don't need an injection or IV. Take this prescription." He handed Bruce the slip. "There's a CVS on the corner."
Bruce and Joey headed to the pharmacy. Bruce handed the prescription to the pharmacist. While waiting, Joey browsed the aisles. Bruce spotted throat lozenges and electrolyte packets and asked Joey to grab them.
" Mr. White, your prescription is ready. Insurance covers most of it, but there's a ten-dollar copay."
Bruce also paid for the lozenges and electrolyte mix out of pocket.
At the store's water fountain, he filled a paper cup, took his first dose, then mixed in an electrolyte packet and drank.
He unwrapped a lozenge, popped it in his mouth, and offered one to Joey.
They hailed a cab back to the apartment
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