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The Interview

They sat down together, finally, as a result of the non-relenting persistence  of one Thomas S. Gordon, the Pulitzer Prize winning playwright. They had been friends for too many years to remember; and as Thomas had reached the pinnacle of his profession, his great friend George had languished in complete anonymity. The thing about it was, Thomas knew that George was the talent of the two.

But above all else, he loved George, in a way that only two writers could truly comprehend.

He was given the assignment, to be more precise, they begged him to produce this article, anything with the byline with Thomas S. Gordon attached to it, by a prestigious New York magazine.

Thomas, in the position to say fuck you to pretty much any one he so pleased, decided that the only one fit enough to interview was his old friend, George.

He had sold out a very long time ago, he thought. Let them get a fucking taste of truth and honesty. Knowing he was no longer capable of producing this type of work, he knew there was only one man he could  turn to.

So after numerous attempts at cajoling, better yet, make that begging, his old friend George relented, and agreed to do the interview. There was only one string attached.

Thomas had to quote him verbatim, no fancying shit up, no making it more palpable for the masses.

It was not very difficult for Thomas to agree to these terms. The fact of the matter was, he wished he had the balls  to pronounce the ideas that he was sure George was about to articulate.

They sat down at George’s favorite diner, at the corner of 79th Street and First Avenue.

“You know it’s on me, better yet, the magazine”, Thomas said, as George smiled in his mischievous way.

“Bacon, eggs over easy, strong Turkish coffee, honey”, George said to the waitress, unwilling to take Thomas up on his offer.

“Make that the same for me”, Thomas said, with not an inkling of knowledge of what was in store.

“What the fuck, Tommy, how much am I getting for this piece of bullshit?”, George inquired.

“It’s yours, man, all of it. On the condition you hold nothing back”, Thomas replied.

George, a little hung over from the night prior, had no problem with that.

“Shoot, my old brother, you fucking son of a bitch”, was George’s reply.

“I’m going to stick to the script, George, if you don’t mind”.

“Haven’t you always?”, George commented, in a not very well hidden, slightly derogatory manner.

What exactly about George did Thomas admire ? It wasn’t very difficult to discern. But, unbeknownst to him, he was in for more than he had bargained for.

Looking down on his cheat sheet, his recorder now running, Thomas proceeded to ask, “what compels you to write?”

“That really is a dumb ass question, my old friend. Right back at you!”, he replied.

The thing of it was, Thomas was sick of everything, most of all himself. He was going to be straight as shit with his old pal.

“Me?”, Thomas replied. “Money, recognition, prestige, you know the deal”, he answered. “But we’re not ‘talkin about me. I’m here to interview you!”

George smiled, a little too maniacally for  Thomas’s comfort. He detected a gleam of utter madness in his old friend’s eyes.

George stood up, and produced an old, large, Colt 45 revolver from his jacket pocket. He pointed it straight at his old friend’s head.

“You mind if I blow your brains out, right here, right now?”, he asked, in all seriousness.

Thomas, knowing all too well not to take his old friend’s words lightly, seriously pondered the question before him.

“Not really”, Thomas answered in all sincerity.

“Well, my good friend, I’d have quite a problem with ending my own life right here and right now. I, ole buddy,  still got too much more to say”.

With that, he put the gun away, sat back down, and took a sip of his Turkish coffee, which the waitress had, just moments ago, set down on the table before him.

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