On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (2 page)

He then walked into his office, and Aunt Clara followed him, hopped into her favorite chair and belched. Michael looked at her and shook his head.

Michael picked up the phone and listened to his messages, and there was only one.

“Michael, this is Sid,” the message began. Sid had been Michael’s agent since he arrived in California, and he was no spring chicken then. At first, Michael was weary of hiring Sid as his agent, but the 60-year-old veteran of Hollywood knew just about everyone in town and was not so bogged down with clients that Michael would have been lost in the shuffle. Sid managed to get Michael the job on
Los Angeles Live
when he was 24 with only a few writing credits on his resume.

“I just showed
Birthright
to the guys at HBO, and they are very interested. I’m going to Palm Springs on vacation, and I’ll call you next week,” Sid said before hanging up.

Birthright
was one of two screenplays Michael had started, and it was the only one he had finished.

He hung up the phone and looked at Aunt Clara who was already asleep. He admired her ability to sleep so easily, spending the majority of her time with her eyes closed and snoring.

Michael sat down at his desk, and there it was, staring at him as it had for 19 years — 140 typewritten pages. He never even bothered to scan it in and save it on a disk. “Why bother?” he thought, as Michael was convinced he would never finish the story.

He looked at the cover page —
The Girls
by Michael Bern. He picked up the script and walked over to the chair where Aunt Clara was sleeping. He picked her up, sat down, put her on his lap, and she went right back to sleep. Michael rested the script on Aunt Clara’s back as he thumbed through the pages and began to read.

He did not realize how tired he was from flying to the east coast and back in 24 hours, and he fell asleep before he finished reading the third page.

When Michael woke up, it was dark out, but Aunt Clara was still asleep on his lap, and the script was still open to Page 3. He put the script on the table next to him, patted Aunt Clara to wake her up, and placed her on the floor. He went into the kitchen and opened the door to let Aunt Clara go out back. Michael walked out with her and watched as Clara explored the yard.

“It might be time,” he thought, “to deal with some issues.”

With
Los Angeles Live
on hiatus, Michael had the time to go to Shabbat services that Friday night at Temple Beth Sholom, where he was hoping to run into an old friend.

After the services, Michael scanned the crowd at the
Oneg Shabbat
, but he did not see her. He walked outside, knowing that if she was not inside kibitzing, she was probably outside smoking. He looked toward the parking lot, and then he heard her voice and saw her standing with a couple of other people, half her age and also enjoying a cigarette.

At 78, Dr. Sylvia Rose stood tall without the characteristic stoop of many women her age. Although her thick, black hair had gone gray, she still wore it teased and shellacked as she had for decades. Sylvia was wearing a black dress that fell just below the knee and her signature black stilettos with five-inch heels. Between her heels and her hair, she was about six-foot-two. Michael was convinced that when Sylvia took off her shoes at night she walked on her tip toes since her feet were permanently shaped like her pumps. She was also wearing three strands of large white beads and matching earrings, and large, white-frame glasses with pink-tinted lenses to complete the look.

Although most women in Los Angeles would have had three facelifts by the time they were her age, Sylvia never had any work done, depending on her liberally applied makeup to hide the years. Michael credited Sylvia with Estée Lauder’s success, and she was a walking stereotype of an older Jewish woman.

Sylvia was one of the first people Michael met when he moved to California. He liked her immediately, and it was not long before she asked him if he wanted to learn how to play Mah Jongg. Michael occasionally joined Sylvia’s regular game when one of her friends took ill, which as the years passed happened more often than not. He was never uncomfortable around her and her elderly friends and was able to converse with them on any subject.

Dr. Sylvia Rose was also a prominent psychiatrist, who treated some of the highest profile celebrities in Hollywood before she retired. Her specialty was treating actors who had stage fright or suffered from panic attacks, and she was still highly respected by her peers.

“Michael, darling,” Sylvia shouted in her deep, smoky voice, as she waved her lit Benson & Hedges in his direction. She excused herself from the crowd and walked over to Michael. She kissed him on the cheek, leaving a bright red imprint Michael knew he would have trouble scrubbing off later.

“I called you on Wednesday to see if you wanted to play Mah Jongg, but you were not home,” she said.

“I had to go out of town,” Michael said offering her no explanation. Sylvia did not expect one because over the years she had become used to Michael’s reticence.

“Zelda couldn’t play,” Sylvia said.

“Why? Was she sick?” Michael asked.

“No,” Sylvia answered. “She died.”

Michael was alarmed at Sylvia’s matter-of-factness.

“When is the funeral?” he asked.

“Sunday, but I am not going,” Sylvia said.

“Why?”

“Because Zelda was a crazy bitch, and we only invited her to play in our game because we needed a fourth,” Sylvia said.

She looked at Michael, and they both laughed. She offered him a cigarette as she always did, and to her surprise, he actually took one. She watched as he lit the cigarette with her gold lighter and took a tentative puff, and although he did not cough, she could swear he turned a little green.

“Michael, what’s wrong?” Sylvia asked as she watched him smoke.

Michael turned and looked out at the parking lot. He did not know where to begin. Sylvia knew from experience to give him some time and waited patiently, lighting another cigarette herself.

Michael finished his cigarette, looked for an ashtray, and when he could not find one, stepped over to the asphalt and threw it down, stomping it out with his foot. He walked back over to Sylvia and looked at her. He was so drawn to her, so comfortable around her, and although he knew why, he never shared his reasons with her.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

“I have some issues I need to work through, and I think I need to talk to a therapist,” he said.

Sylvia thought for a moment. Over the years, she knew Michael had some deep emotions he was suppressing, masking them with his humor, which made him a perfect comedy writer. She also knew that she could not take him on as a client — not because she was retired, but because she was too close to him.

“Michael, I cannot come out of retirement to take you on as a patient,” she said jokingly.

Michael looked at her with surprise. “I was not asking you. I know that would be uncomfortable, but I was hoping you could recommend someone.”

Relieved, Sylvia asked, “What kind of issues are you looking to address?” hoping to get Michael to be specific.

“I have a screenplay I cannot finish, and it has been sitting on my desk for almost 20 years,” Michael said.

Sylvia furrowed her penciled eyebrows at Michael.

“I thought that
alta-cocker
agent of yours was peddling your screenplay to the major studios,” she asked.

Michael chuckled at Sylvia calling one of her contemporaries an
alta-cocker
.

She laughed too.

“No, not that one,” he said. “This was the first one I ever wrote, and something tells me I need to finish it, now.”

Sylvia took a drag off her cigarette and thought for a moment. Then she looked at Michael, studying his face. He looked at her with curiosity, knowing from experience that the wheels were turning in her brain.

She walked over to the asphalt and put out her cigarette, pressing it with her stiletto.

“I know a therapist that would be perfect for you. He is your age, and he is good at working through issues that affect one’s livelihood,” she said upon returning to the spot where she was standing before.

“Oh, I’m able to work,” Michael said in protest. “It is just this one thing I cannot finish.”

“Michael, if you cannot finish this one screenplay, and it bothers you enough that you asked me to find you a therapist, it will eventually have an effect on your work,” Sylvia said. “I am the expert.”

Michael looked at her and nodded.

“Good,” she said. “I will call my friend on Monday, and I am sure he will be able to help you.”

“Thanks,” Michael said.

“Oh and there is one more thing,” Sylvia said. “He is gay.”

“So am I, Dr. Rose,” Michael said.

“I know, but I just thought you should know that ahead of time, so you don’t spend the first ten sessions wondering is he or isn’t he,” Sylvia said, looking right at Michael.

“Is he cute?” Michael asked, with a slight smile.

“It makes no difference,” Sylvia said. “He has been with his partner for over seven years.”

Michael smiled, thanked Sylvia, kissed her on the cheek and walked toward his car.

“Aren’t you going to come in and eat something?” Sylvia asked.

“You don’t want me to be fat when I go to my cute, partnered therapist, do you?” Michael said as he put the key in the car door.

Sylvia smiled and waved goodbye, and she knew she had the perfect psychiatrist for Michael in mind.

~

Dr. Andrew Mikowsky had just walked into his office on Sepulveda Boulevard in Culver City that Monday morning, when Dr. Sylvia Rose called about a patient she wanted to refer to him.

“Andrew darling, this is Dr. Sylvia Rose,” she said as if no one would recognize her voice. Andrew could even hear her taking puffs of her Benson & Hedges between sentences.

“I have a patient that I think would be perfect for your practice,” Sylvia continued.

“Yes, Dr. Rose, can you tell me more about him?” Andrew asked.

“Darling, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Sylvia? The patient’s name is Michael Bern, and he is a comedy writer for
Los Angeles Live
. Have you heard of him?” she asked, knowing from her experience with Andrew that he never kept up with the goings on in Hollywood.

“No, I have never heard of him,” Andrew told her.

“That is why I think you would be perfect. He is a member of my synagogue, and I think it is a bit awkward for me to take him on as a patient. Are you able to take on a new client at this time?” Sylvia asked.

“Why does he want to go into therapy?” Andrew asked.

“Well darling, it seems he has writer’s block, and he cannot seem to work through it alone,” Sylvia said.

Andrew wondered if he heard her correctly.

“Didn’t you say he was a comedy writer for
Los Angeles Live
?” he asked.

“Well, apparently it is a bit more complicated. It’s not his regular job that is giving him trouble, but a screenplay he has been working on for a while. But, I think there is a lot more to this than he will admit to me,” she answered.

Andrew thought for a moment and looked at the appointment book. He had an opening the next Monday.

“Yes, Sylvia, I think I can fit him in,” Andrew told her.

“Perfect darling, I will have him give you a call. Goodbye,” Sylvia said as she hung up.

Andrew and Michael spoke on the phone for a few minutes and scheduled the first appointment for 10:00 am the following Tuesday. For some reason, Michael could only meet on Tuesdays, which made Andrew think his new patient suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder.

That Tuesday, as he did every day, Andrew was wearing flat front khakis, a blue button down shirt, and lace-up, black leather shoes with white socks.

Andrew straightened the cushions on his brown and red upholstered couch and sharpened the four pencils on his desk. He pulled out a fresh legal pad and wrote his new patient’s name on the front. At 9:55 am, he decided to open his door and wait for Michael’s arrival.

To his surprise, there was someone already in the waiting room.

“Michael?” he asked.

“Dr. Andrew Mikowsky?” Michael asked.

Michael stood up, and Andrew looked at his six-foot-four-inch patient. He was dressed in black pants and a fitted blue shirt that showed off his near perfect physique. He wore his wavy, black hair medium-length and combed straight back. He had green eyes with thick lashes, and the look was completed with a goatee and a diamond stud in each ear. Andrew wondered if his new patient was a writer or a movie star.

Michael shook hands with the doctor, walked past him and sat down on the couch. Andrew sat down in his desk chair and picked up his legal pad and pencil.

Having lived and worked in Hollywood for 19 years at this point, Michael was used to people wanting to get closer to him because of his looks or because he worked on a highly rated, network show. As a writer, Michael generated plenty of shocked looks when he entered producers’ offices for the first time as they always expected to meet a nerdy guy with horn-rimmed glasses. There were many occasions when he was offered acting roles only to turn them down, for Michael had absolutely no desire to be in front of the camera. So many kids came to Hollywood every year looking to make it big, and here was a man who turned down jobs.