Page 53 of The Rom-Commers

“This is a really nice house,” I said. “You have great taste.”

“It’s not me. It’s my wife. Myex-wife.” Then a pause. “It wasn’t even her, actually. It was her decorator.”

“Well, then,” I said. “My compliments to your ex-wife’s decorator.”

“Could you…?” Charlie started.

But now I was opening a drawer under his TV console.Empty.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked.

“I’m exploring my new workplace.” I slid open a second one.Empty.

“Can we just get started over here?” Charlie asked.

But that’s when I opened a third drawer. And this one…

This one…

Was full of Oscars.

I froze. Stared.

So… when Charlie had declared he had a “whole drawer of Oscars”… that wasn’t a figure of speech.

This was a literal whole drawer of Oscars.

And not just Oscars, actually—all kinds of statuettes, jumbled willy-nilly like booty in a pirate’s chest. Like they hadn’t beenplacedin there, but maybedumped. Ordropped. Orchucked.

“What’s this?” I asked, in a tone like he was a naughty child and I’d found his box of stolen candy.

“Just… stuff,” Charlie answered—alsolike he was a naughty child and I’d found his box of stolen candy.

I stared down at the contents of the drawer. Yes, there were actual Oscars—those unmistakable gold figurines. But also: the very recognizable Golden Globe awards that were literally miniature golden globes. Then, after that, a whole mishmash of silver and brass and crystal figurines engraved with words likeHOLLYWOOD FOREIGN PRESS,NEW YORK FILM CRITICS CIRCLE,WRITERS GUILD OF AMERICA,HOLLYWOOD FILM FESTIVAL—that was just the top layer. Those were just the ones I could count.

I looked up. Charlie was watching me. “Are these your awards?” I asked.

Charlie nodded.

“Like, from the actual events? These are the awards you walked up onstage in a tuxedo and received from some world-famous actor?”

Charlie nodded again.

“What are they doing in here?”

Charlie shrugged.

“Charlie,” I said, becoming more aghast by the second. “Why are the awards that most screenwriters would sell their organs for just piled in here like it’s a junk drawer?”

“Just…” Charlie said, like he was trying to come up with an answer. “To keep them in one place?”

I shook my head. “In one place? This is the best you could come up with? How about a mantel? Or a bookshelf? Or an antique glass-fronted cabinet? Or a safe? How about anywhere other than shoved like trash into a forgotten credenza drawer?”

Charlie didn’t answer, so I looked back down. Then I pointed. “This Women’s Film Critics Association award has lost her little wing!”

Charlie had the good sense to look cowed. But then he said, “Look—none of this stuff means anything.”

All I could do was blink.

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