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Chapter 20: I'm Not Some Call Girl on 42nd Street
Joey poured the boiled water into a reasonably clean pitcher, set a mug beside it on the nightstand within Bruce's reach, and said, "Here's your 'magic hot water.'" His tone carried bewilderment at Bruce's insistence on drinking hot water while sick. "Anything else? Want me to tape the TV remote to your hand?"
Bruce chuckled hoarsely. "No, thanks, Joey. You're a real friend. When you leave, just pull the door shut. Monica has a spare key, so you won't need to knock next time. I really don't want to get up."
"No problem, buddy. Rest up!" Joey patted his shoulder, switched off the ceiling light, leaving only the bedside lamp, and tiptoed out.
The lock clicked softly. The room fell silent. The drowsiness from the medication surged, and Bruce sank into deep sleep—no dreams at all.
He didn't know how much time had passed before his bladder woke him. He stumbled to the bathroom, relieved himself, and returned parched. He poured lukewarm water from the pitcher, drank, and lay back down. On reflex, he tucked the thermometer under his arm again.
As he waited for the beep, he heard a key in the lock and the door opening.
Figuring it was Joey, Bruce rasped, "Joey?"
A crisp female voice answered from the living room. "It's me, Rachel! Joey and Audrey went to lunch!" She appeared in the doorway, holding a paper bag and takeout coffee.
"Hey, Bruce." She set everything on the nightstand. Concern filled her face as she studied him. "Joey said you were really sick. How're you feeling?"
"Took the meds and slept. Head's much better." Bruce croaked, clearing his throat. His voice still sounded rough. "Don't know if the fever's gone yet—checking now." He pulled the thermometer from under his arm and squinted: 100.58°F.
"It's down a bit. Is that normal?"
Rachel took the thermometer and shook her head. "Still feverish. Normal's below 98.6. Keep taking the medicine." She picked up the paper bag. "I brought food—staff meal from the café. A chicken sandwich and salad. You should eat before your next pill. And this latte—" She slid the cup closer. "When I'm sick, one of these always makes me feel better."
"Thanks, Rachel." Bruce looked genuinely touched. "I've never tried the café's staff meal."
Rachel made a face. "Oh, believe me, it's... not great. Everyone who eats it wants to complain to the cook." She paused. "But the sandwich and salad look bland enough for someone sick."
She watched eagerly as Bruce bit into the sandwich, waiting for the inevitable grimace.
Bruce chewed thoughtfully, then looked up blankly. "I... can't taste much. Probably the cold."
Rachel blinked, half-deflated. "Well... lucky you." She changed topics. "About that script you promised Ruby—will being sick delay it?"
"No worries. Ten days left. I've got plenty of buffer time." He sipped water. "What about you? You said you'd try writing a script—any progress?"
"Uh... yeah!" Rachel's gaze flickered. "I've got a story outline. Between serving tables this morning I jotted down ideas in my notebook."
"That's great, Rachel," Bruce said sincerely. "Starting is the hardest part. I can't wait to see what you finish."
Rachel's face lit up. "Thanks. Um... I should get back downstairs before Gunther starts nagging. Need anything else?"
Bruce pointed at the kettle. "If you don't mind, could you reheat this? Just warm, not boiling."
"Easy!" Rachel grabbed the kettle. Moments later she returned with gently steaming water, said goodbye, and left.
Bruce slowly finished the lunch he couldn't taste, then drained the latte. After about ten minutes, he took his second dose of medication.
Then he lay back down. Half an hour later, a bizarre sensation spread through his body: the drowsiness from the fever medicine and the caffeine from the latte seemed to wage war in his bloodstream. Crushing sleepiness tried to pull him under while hollow alertness yanked him awake. The two forces trapped him in a groggy limbo.
Great, he thought. Whatever Rachel does to survive a cold clearly doesn't work for me.
Right in that half-awake chaos, the phone suddenly rang.
Bruce jolted upright and grabbed the receiver.
"Hello?" His voice sounded harsh.
Estelle's voice burst through. "Bruce! It's your favorite agent! Tell me—why haven't you called? Don't tell me you're already thinking of leaving?"
Bruce was blindsided. "What are you talking about? We spoke Christmas morning. You sent Ruth to pick up my script."
Estelle paused, then laughed dryly. "Oh, right. My memory's been terrible lately. Anyway, business! Miramax just called. They want to meet the writer of Inglourious Basterds—meaning you—immediately. Get ready. I gave them your address. A car should be there soon!"
Anger flared. "Hold up—who at Miramax wants to see me? Estelle, I'm not some call girl available on demand. Tell them if they're that desperate, they can head to 42nd Street. I'm not playing this game."
Estelle clicked her tongue. "Wow, Bruce. Using that attitude on the people who bought your script takes guts. Fine, I'll tell them you're sick and can't leave."
"No!" Bruce insisted. "Tell them exactly what I said. And for the record, I really am sick. Can't you hear my voice?"
Estelle sounded skeptical. "I heard it, but I thought you were doing your Robert De Niro impression. Everyone has quirks."
Bruce groaned. "No, Estelle! I'm not imitating anyone—I have the flu!"
"Sure, sure. Keep it up. I'll tell them you're ill. If they call, keep that voice going. Gotta run—bye!"
"Wait, I'm not fak—" The line went dead.
Bruce set the phone down, defeated. His head throbbed harder. Dealing with Estelle was more exhausting than being sick.
He flopped back, tried to ignore the drug-versus-caffeine battle inside him, and prayed for sleep.
Before long, the sound of a key turning in the door cut through the silence again.