Chapter 22: Chicken Soup
Quentin's reactions were being watched closely by Bruce and Joey. The two exchanged glances, Bruce nodded, and Joey patted Quentin on the shoulder. "Quentin, you okay?"
Quentin snapped back as if waking from a dream. "Yeah, I'm fine—why?"
"You sure?" Joey said. "You look shell-shocked."
Quentin suddenly stood. "I'm fine, really." He turned to Bruce. "Bruce, can I take these scripts? I want to show them to Harvey—he runs Miramax, and we already have Inglourious Basterds. I need to convince him to buy the rest."
"Of course," Bruce said hoarsely, "but Django Unchained is already sold—to Fine Line. Don't forget."
"Then I'll have Harvey negotiate and buy it back."
Joey asked, "So will you direct one—or all—of them?"
"I don't know yet. I'll have to look at my schedule. One thing's certain: these scripts can't be handed to just anyone. Even if I don't direct, I'll stay involved—maybe as producer." He looked at Bruce. "Ever think of directing yourself? Anyone who writes stories like these loves film, and everyone who loves film dreams of directing."
Bruce typed: "I've thought about it, but not now. I only shot shorts in college. I can't handle a big production, and no studio would invest millions in a rookie."
Quentin shrugged. "Fair enough, Bruce. But if you never try, you'll never make a real 'Bruce White film.' Convincing investors you can deliver—so they don't feel like they're throwing money away—that's part of the job."
He grinned. "And losing money is normal here, as long as the loss isn't so catastrophic nobody funds your next project."
He left his contact info. "I have to run. Sorry we couldn't talk film longer, but let's stay in touch—maybe we'll meet again soon."
"Definitely, Quentin."
As Quentin stood to leave, Bruce suddenly gestured for him to wait.
He pointed at Joey and typed: "My friend Joey's a great actor. You can see his presence, and if you need someone who's charming and funny under pressure, he's your guy. He just needs the right opportunity."
Quentin read the note. "Got it, Bruce. If a role fits, I'll bring him in—or I'll pass his name along."
Joey quickly handed over his headshot. "Thanks, Mr. Tarantino. Give me a shot and I'll prove everything Bruce said."
After Quentin left, Joey said gratefully, "Thanks for that, Bruce. Whether I get a role or not, I owe you."
Bruce typed: "You're talented—I meant what I said. Now I'm heading back to bed."
"Wait, it's almost evening. You should eat something first. Let me grab dinner—stay here."
Without waiting for an answer, Joey headed out.
He returned minutes later with Ross, Monica, and Chandler. Bruce, minus his jacket, lay on the sofa wrapped in a blanket.
Monica carried a covered pot. "Hey, Bruce." She set it on the coffee table and felt his forehead. "I brought medicine—well, homemade chicken soup. Rachel said it's perfect for a cold. Actually, I think Rachel just wanted some herself—she left work to buy ingredients. But soup really does help."
"Thanks, Monica."
Bruce began typing. Joey explained, "His throat's inflamed—doctor said to rest it."
Chandler quipped, "Seriously, Bruce, should we learn Morse code? Way cooler. I could find a World War II manual—Ross probably already knows it."
Ross glared. "Why would I know Morse code?"
Chandler grinned. "Please, you speak dinosaur."
Monica cut in. "Shut up, both of you—I want to see what Bruce wrote."
She leaned in to read: "You brought enough for everyone—want to join me? Did you leave some for Rachel downstairs?"
After reading what Bruce had written, Monica said, "We've all eaten already. This is just for you. Let me get you a bowl and spoon—I saved some for Rachel too."
As Monica stood and headed toward the kitchen, she swept her gaze across Bruce's apartment. One look and disaster struck—her internal neat-freak alarm started blaring.
On the desk sat several screenwriting books in a crooked stack. A mug perched on top with coffee stains crusted on its sides. Spilled coffee had dried on the desktop, the brown trail creeping to the edge and dripping onto the carpet. Nearby, a mountain of crumpled papers had long since buried the wastebasket.
Monica's scalp prickled. She couldn't believe that directly above her immaculate apartment existed a disaster zone like this.
Beyond the desk chaos, the rest of the space was eerily untouched—especially the kitchen, orderly and pristine, as though rarely used. Monica realized Bruce had probably cooked fewer times since moving in than she had fingers on one hand.
Monica opened a cupboard, took out a bowl and ladle, washed them, then served the soup and brought it to Bruce.
While Bruce ate, Joey, Ross, and Chandler fiddled with the TV, which showed only static. Bruce explained, "First time I've turned it on since Thanksgiving."
Monica began wandering through the apartment, whose layout mirrored her own downstairs. She stopped at a closed bedroom door and noticed dust on the handle. "You never use this room?"
Bruce, mouth full, answered without typing. "It's empty—barely been in there since I moved."
"Alright, Bruce," Monica declared. "I'm cleaning your apartment, especially that desk area."
Bruce waved his hands. "No, Monica, I can't let you clean. Making dinner was thoughtful enough!"
"Bruce, I'm doing this for me. If I go downstairs knowing a disaster like this is overhead, I won't sleep."
Ross, still working on the TV, turned. "Bruce, you'd better agree. If you don't, she'll just sneak in while you're out and clean anyway."
Bruce looked sheepish. "But even if you tidy it now, one morning at that desk and it'll be chaos again."
"Then I'll have to come clean regularly?" Monica groaned.
"Monica, I promise I'll keep it neat. If I mess it up, I'll fix it immediately."
Monica exhaled. "You'd better mean it."
"I swear."
"Good. I'll start with this paper mountain."
Monica found gloves, trash bags, and cleaner in Bruce's cupboard, then grabbed the mop from the bathroom—but no broom or dustpan anywhere.
"My God, Bruce! You don't own a broom?"
"Of course I do! I remember using it..."
"When? Never mind—I don't want to know. I'll grab mine from downstairs."
Monica turned and headed out.
"Actually, I can't remember when I last used it. How could it just disappear?"
Chandler piped up. "Maybe a witch borrowed it. Witches need transportation."
Joey frowned. "Then why take the dustpan too?"
"Hey, if I could predict everything a witch thinks, she wouldn't be much of a witch."
Just then the TV crackled to life. Ross cheered, "Yes! Got it!"
"What did you do?"
"I think I wiggled a cable—whatever, it works!"
The phone rang. Joey handed it to Bruce.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Bruce. It's Grace. Audrey told me you were sick, so I called. You sound awful!"
"Thanks for checking. I'm actually better now—grateful for getting sick because it showed me how many caring friends I have. I'm with them right now. Oh, and I made a new friend today. I think he'd agree we're friends!"
"You mean Quentin Tarantino."
"So you already knew."
"Audrey told me. First time she'd met a real director—she was excited."
"Really? She didn't seem that excited sitting there."
"Girls are good at hiding feelings."
"Are you good at that too?"
"You'll have to discover that yourself. We'll be seeing plenty more of each other, won't we?"
Bruce laughed. "Alright, see you New Year's Eve—Saturday. Don't forget our dinner plans."
"See you then. Audrey says your throat's inflamed, so rest up. Bye!"
While Bruce was on the call, Monica had returned with her broom, dustpan, and vacuum, bringing Phoebe and Rachel with her. Monica cleaned while everyone else watched TV.
Bruce felt guilty. "Monica, you don't have to be so thorough—come watch TV."
Everyone, Monica included, raised a finger to their lips: Shhh!
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