Morning. Los Angeles. Tuesday. 10 a.m. Controlled chaos. A ring of the phone here, a tap of the keys there. Huddles, formations, getting shit done. Controlled chaos. BOOM, handle, door. In comes he, smooth as the wind, exuberant, fancy-free. They all look up. He’s got the floor. They know what’s coming. They’ve kind of been waiting for it. No one has spoken on it yet, out loud, to the group, as a group. No one has cracked wise. Until now. Here he is. Here he comes. In front of them, in front of us, in front of me: “I’m so happy to see Bush pack his things out of the White House.” Silence. A smirk. A laugh under the breath. Eyes up, then down, and back to the matters at hand. And then he, the partner, the other at work, opens his mouth and without skipping a beat replies: “So the recession is over?” Silence. A smirk. A laugh under the breath. He continues, keeps going, finishes his thought: “So we can all walk on water now, right?” Laughter. A smirk. These cats? They got jokes.
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