The Family Fang - Kevin Wilson [62]
The story wasn’t great, a little too obvious, but she could see how it would appeal to Buster, her brother being obsessed with undeserved pain. If it came down to it, if she saw Buster slipping further away, she would have a talk with this Suzanne character, give her the Fang family history, send her on her way. As it was, Annie was already worried about this mysterious Joseph from Nebraska, for whom Buster had admitted a lingering affection. Joseph had shot Buster in the goddamn face, undeserved pain, and so Annie also wouldn’t mind a minute of Mr. Potato Gun’s time if the opportunity ever presented itself.
Annie took Suzanne’s story and placed it in the trash can, pushing it as far down as she could. She returned to her impressive glass of tomato juice, which she began to wish had vodka in it, and batted away the suspicion that she was jealous of these interlopers, who pulled Buster’s attention away from anything except this house, their own unhappy circumstances. No, she decided, she was taking care of him; someone in this family had to make sound decisions, even if they weren’t as fascinating in the end, the lack of any explosions, no screaming or crying or psychological scarring. Then she thought of Daniel, growing an impressive beard in Wyoming, writing the most ridiculous bullshit a human could think of, and began to reconsider her judgment regarding potential love interests. She removed the story from the trash, smoothed out the pages, and left it on the table. When Buster arrived fifteen minutes later, worrying the healing scar above his lip, he noticed the story and looked at Annie. “Did you read that?” he asked. Annie nodded. Buster frowned, embarrassed, and then said, “Well, what did you think?” Annie took a long sip of tomato juice and replied, “Very good.” Buster smiled. “Very good,” he repeated, and then nodded.
Once they ate breakfast, Annie decided that it was necessary, now that some forward momentum in their lives had been achieved, to discuss their situations and figure out how to build upon yesterday’s success. As she said all of this to Buster, she felt like someone in an infomercial. But then Buster agreed that it was a good idea and Annie felt like Oprah. They pushed away their plates and began to brainstorm. If there had been a dry-erase board in the kitchen, they would have used it.
For Buster: He had surely been evicted from his old apartment in Florida by now, and he owed the hospital twelve grand that he did not have. His face was still not completely healed; Annie stared at the light bruising and healing scabs that ran across the entire right half of his face, the scar above his lip, the busted blood vessels that still clouded his right eye.
Annie, feeling capable and assured, began formulating a plan of action. She imagined that she was talking not only to Buster, but also to a studio audience. “I can pay the hospital,” she said, and Buster did not try to argue. She had money, she realized. A ton of money, she realized. A ridiculous amount of money, she realized. It was nice to see that money, for all the bad press it got, could sometimes solve your problems. “After we get ourselves straightened out here, you’ll come back to Los Angeles with me. Do you think you could write a screenplay?” Buster shook his head. He did not. “Do you think you could write a teleplay? It’s shorter.” Buster thought about it for a second and then shook his head again. Annie waved him off. “It’s fine, really. You can just get a regular job, something that will give you time to focus on your own writing. I mean, honestly, I can loan you some money and you wouldn’t have to worry about work for a long while.” Buster shrugged, unable to find anything objectionable about the plan. Annie smiled. This was easy, Annie thought. She should have her own television show,