Page 85 of Lula Dean's Little Library of Banned Book
Instead, he found a giant man in tighty-whities rooting through his kitchen cabinets.
“What the fuck, Mitch.” Jeb put the gun down. “You run outta toilet paper or something?”
When Mitch was a teenager, their parents had built him a room with en suite facilities above the garage. Even back then, he’d spent most of his time at the main house. Mitch’s room had everything he needed but an audience.
“I’m making coffee. I couldn’t sleep. I’m too inspired.”
“And you didn’t think to put any clothes on before you came over? My wife’s upstairs.”
Mitch looked down at himself. “What? I got underwear on. Besides, Jenny and I ain’t got no secrets.” He winked at Jeb.
“You know shit like that is why you keep getting sued.” He grabbed a robe from the back of the bathroom door and handed it to his brother.“Here. Lemme.” Jeb nudged Mitch to one side and pulled a can of coffee down from the cupboard.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m working on?” Mitch asked.
“That’sexactlywhy I came down here with a gun at three o’clock in the morning—to hear about your latest project.”
While Jeb scooped coffee into a filter, Mitch sat down at the kitchen table, where a spiral notebook lay open. “I’m sensing some sarcasm, but I’m gonna choose to ignore it. You know how I’ve been waiting for someone to offer me a role where I play the hero for once?”
After a few seconds, Jeb realized Mitch was waiting for an answer. “Yeah?”
“I’m gonna write a screenplay for myself. Something with a happy ending. Everybody’s so fucking angry these days. I wanna see a bunch of people coming together to fix a bad situation instead of bitching and moaning all the fucking time.”
“So you want to write about what happened today,” Jeb said.
Mitch’s jaw dropped like Jeb had just read his mind. “How’d you know?” he asked.
“Wild guess,” Jeb told him as he filled the coffeemaker with water.
“I’m telling you. This is the role that’s gonna win me an Oscar,” Mitch told him. “It’s about a guy who gets his DNA done and he finds out he’s the descendant of this terrible motherfucker from history who everyone thinks is a hero.”
Jeb hit brew and turned around. “Hold up. Are you playing the DNA guy?”
“Of course,” Mitch said.
“In this movie, is the hero Black?”
“Well, he’s mixed, obviously—”
“Mitch, you cannot play a Black guy.”
“Why not?” Mitch asked. “I know it’ll be a stretch, but that’s how you win awards. Playing gay. Pulling a Christian Bale and getting real fat or real thin. That kind of stuff. The Academy loves it.”
Jeb lowered his head and massaged his temples. It was too fucking early for a conversation like this. “Black actors play Black roles. The end. No discussion.”
“See?” The chair screeched as Mitch pushed back from the table and folded his beefy arms across his chest. “This shit is so unfair. White men like me can’t catch a fucking break these days.”
“Mitch?” Mitch was sulking. “Mitch? Look up.” Jeb waited until their eyes met. “You are an international movie star, and this is your screenplay. If you want to be in it, write a fucking role for a white guy.”
“You think I could make Beverly Underwood a man?” Mitch sounded hopeful.
“Absolutely not,” said Jeb.
“Well, shit!” Mitch said. “Who am I supposed to be, then?”
“In this story? Seems to me like you’ve got three choices. You can play the international movie star who comes to town—”
“That’s not a stretch!”
