“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Barry suddenly got up from his seat. Ever since he was asked to bring his movies to the screening room at the Bush White House, Barry had had an interest in politics. He had no intention of running himself, but he was a man who liked to pull the strings behind the scenes. Plus, being a Republican and a moviemaker made him unique.

Barry walked into the reading an hour late. The actors had waited thirty minutes for him to show, and finally began to read the script because four of them had to get back to the city in time for a Broadway matinee.

The script was an updated version of the Comden and Green musical On the Town. The original had starred Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra and was about three sailors on leave in New York. Barry commissioned the script because the pluses included a great Leonard Bernstein score. Barry knew that musicals were hot and boys were being shipped to fight wars overseas again. Plus a little escapism wasn’t the worst idea either.

It usually took five minutes for Barry to make up his mind about anything. All those elementary school nuns who told him that he had a terrible attention span didn’t end up winning twelve Oscars. Those nuns lived and died in South Philly and so did most of their A students.

Barry watched as the actors gave their best to the roles. In an almost gawking way, Barry was fascinated by theater. There was no real money to be made and most of the actors and playwrights negotiated for very little. When Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick got $100,000 a week to appear in The Producers, it was a Broadway record-breaker. A Hollywood agent would hang up if a serious star got such a lousy offer for a television series.

There were maybe fifteen other people at the reading, mostly assistants, development girls, associate producers, and friends of the author. Barry could spot the writer right away: blue jeans, unpressed Oxford shirt over a T-shirt, sneakers. Barry thought it was one thing for him to wear a trademark sweatshirt and jeans because that’s what you wore when you weren’t in your goddamn Catholic school uniform in South Philly. But every fuckin’ kid who wanted to grow up to be Spielberg, Soderbergh, or Lucas now dressed that way. Barry was secretly in awe of talent, but he also knew it was really rare.

After the reading, there was polite applause. The actors hugged and kissed. Barry got up to shake Swoosie Kurtz’s hand. She was a classy stage actress and Barry never missed a chance to acknowledge class. He felt he didn’t need to waste his time thanking the others, since it would only mislead them.