"I write to find strength.
I write to be near those I love.
I write myself out of nightmares.
I write to soothe a mind that races.
I write because one day someone will tell me
that my emotions were not a waste of time.
I write because God loves stories."
― Shannon L. Alder

AN IMPOLITE INTERVIEW...      WITH LENNY BRUCE

☆

January, 1959.

      They meet late at night, when the sky peaking from the skyscrapers is pitch black and every club in the Morningside Heights is ablaze with people, in a way that would have been scandalous if either of them were co-workers and they were rendezvousing at a hotel room instead of a company building. Initially, Valerie wanted to suggest grabbing a drink at one of the local bars closer to the Village or eating a late dinner in a booth at the City Spoon, but on a weekend night like tonight, where the city of New York is practically vibrating with people, an interview is better conducted in private, enveloped by the quietness. Plus, it's not like he's some paid representative for a politician or an author with a newly-published book that's about the snag a prime spot on a best sellers list. He's a sick comedian, newly blacklisted by television and basically a bare bone for cops that hunt for him like dog, desired by every club within arm's length, insatiably coveted by any crowd of people wanting to laugh their asses off and think at the same time. She can't just take him anywhere without expecting to get interrupted. He is, after all, Lenny Bruce.

      So, an empty office space will have to do.

      None of the employees linger after eight o'clock, minus the guards and the odd editor that stays behind to touch up on some articles. She makes sure to stand outside the building and wait for him, otherwise the guards will see a ruffled comedian aiming to enter the vicinity and immediately become suspicious. When the cab pulls up on the corner of Claremont Avenue, Lenny steps out after paying the driver and looks almost the exact same as he did the other times they've met; his black and naturally curly hair is tamely slicked, he's dawning his signature suit though it's tousled just a touch, and while his face is blank as he exits the car, his lips turn upward into a sly smirk the moment he sees her. The air of danger follows him — like always, in a way that only a comic with an immense potty mouth and a knack for illegally fighting the establishment would possess.

      It makes Valerie's stomach turn, though not in anxiousness, but excitement. She's never been afraid of trouble before, especially not when it comes to gaining an exclusive interview with New York's biggest comedian. Hell, more than once, men have lambasted her and said she's trouble.

      "I feel truly honored to have an escort." Lenny greeted while sliding a cigarette in between his parted lips, stepping further onto the sidewalk as the cab drove off. Once he's standing in front of her, and not with hunch shoulders when in his default position, the blonde has to look up. "Do all of the Morningside Herald's guests get their writers to stand vigil while waiting for them to show up?"

      Valerie chuckled, feeling anticipation crawl under her skin like firecrackers. It interweaves into the air circling them. She just knows this is going to be a good time. "Absolutely not, but given your rap sheet, I didn't want to leave anything to chance. Loitering is a misdemeanor, you know?"

      "That's a shame, because all I do when I'm not on stage is endlessly roam the streets like a common vagrant. " Lenny quips, gaze twinkling with mirth. Neither of them even mind the judgmental stare that's coming from the outdoor guard by the door. "How kind of you to look out for me though."

      "Well, let's go inside before they haul you off, Count Dracula."

      The open floorplan of the office was dark thanks to the lack of overhead lights, but a few of the desks, including hers, had lamps that provided some luminosity. It had been eerily quiet due to scarcity of workers, but right when she had arrived, she had turned on one of the radios to a low volume, listening to WNEW-FM play The Platter's rendition of My Prayer. Her desk was a little cluttered, as always, but there was an order to the chaos. A green typewriter was situated at an angle in the corner, next to a small lavender-scented candle and a giant mug filled with a mixture of pens and pencils. Next to the lamp was a black landline, an ashtray, and a wire basket filled with a stack of drafts. Across the display of the wooden surface was her open notebook, the corners crinkled. 

      "Inside your own personal cave." mentioned Lenny as he stalked closer, eyes darting around the spacious interior of the building, the vastness between the ceiling and ground, and then, her writing space. She felt a bit at risk here, almost like she was exposing one of her nerves. Showing off one's desk can be revealing of a person. A smirk graced his lips, "Like Batman."

      The blonde huffed a laugh, hiding her pinch of nervousness as she sat down in a chair, watching as he did the same across from her. "You make me out to be more mysterious than what I actually am. Then again, I'm pretty sure that every writer in this room thinks they're some sort of vigilant."

      "And you don't?"

      "Of course not! I wouldn't be able to pull off a cape." Valerie remarked, pretending to be offended by his question. 

      Lenny barked a laugh and raised his hands in defense, the cigarette in his right one pouring vapor into the dark air, "My apologies, I should have realized that cape-wearing was totally last fall." He reached over to stub his cancer stick into her ashtray and reclined back into his chair, one leg tossed over the other. His gaze caught onto the half-filled trash can nestled next to the legs of her desk. "I would offer you a smoke, but it seems like you're in more need of bubblegum."

      The bin was completely layered with half-hazardously tossed, crumpled balls of wrappers, some flaunting the Topps label while others had the crowned Royal Cherry symbol. Coolly, despite her thrumming embarrassment, Valerie simply opened one of the drawers and revealed a packet that only had one or two sticks left in it. "Some call it a dependency issue, but I just say it's keeping my breath clean."

      "What a thoughtful vocation to take on." chuckled Lenny, his fingers twiddling with the label after she handed it over. "How much money have you given to the MLB purely in chewing gum purchases?"

      "Let's just say that if I was to take all the money I invested in gum per month, I would definitely be able to make car payments." answered Valerie, cocking her head. "Maybe not for a Mercedes, but at least a Ford."

      Lenny whistled, "That sounds like an addiction problem, Mrs. King."

      She grasped the packet back as he handed it over, "I am your run-of-the-mill junkie. Hollywood stars are just envious of my dedication."

      "Judy Garland is shaking in her red slippers." He wryly grinned, "On a more serious note ― as unbelievable as that is ― I was wondering how you've been doing since we last saw each other. With the whole Harry Drake situation?"

      Valerie's eyes widened comically, her mouth parted in surprise, "Is the most sick comedian of our generation...concerned for my wellbeing? Well, I am just honored!"

      "I am as serious as a heart attack." His face exaggerated a grimace. "Just don't tell anyone, because my manager said that if I get anymore soft for young comics making their way in the world for free then he's committing me to an asylum indefinitely."

      "A reasonable excuse for mental insanity." responded the blonde, before she mimicked his genuineness. "It's going as well as can be expected. We've booked a couple of gigs, some even in Pennsylvania, but nowhere close to Midtown. We're still getting blackballed in that regard, thanks to him. Oh, and then there was the whole kidnapping thing with Susie."

      His entire face scrunched with puzzlement. "Kidnapping?"

      A couple of days ago, while stuck in her apartment refurbishing an editorial about the United States recognizing Fidel Castro's new government in Cuba (she had thoughts) and fixing some of the technical difficulties of a routine she was writing about her family over Christmas (that required a lot of day drinking), she kept trying to reach Susie to find out the exact date of the Philadelphia gig. However, every time she rung, the call went unanswered; and when she called The Gaslight, Jackie unreassuringly told her that Susie had not stepped into the club since the previous night. Valerie tried not to worry ― Susie was a grown woman after all and she wasn't obligated to hang around in her fox den of an apartment in order to always pick up her landline ― and just focused on her work. It wasn't until much later in the evening, right when she was about to call it for the night, that Susie rung her and told her what happened. As it turns out, Harry Drake sent two goons after her.

      "Oh, she's completely fine. Not a scratch on her. Harry Drake sent this pair of amateur gangsters after her, but they only harassed her for a day and then let her go." Valerie casually explained, unbothered by the bewilderment painting Lenny's expression. She dryly added: "Somehow, her charming personality was enough to win them over. I didn't even realize she had any charm to begin with, but it's best not to question it."

      "And Midge? Any abducting attempts?"

      "No, but she's been in Paris for the last couple of days." answered the blonde. "Attempting to fix her parents' marriage after her mother ran off to France in a very polished version of a mid-life crisis. She's currently on a plane ride back and fingers crossed, she won't get snatched at LaGuardia."

      "Wow..." He trailed off, absent-mindedly dancing his fingers across his knee. "You've certainly chosen to join the entertainment business with interesting friends."

      "They're a hoot and a holler." A remembrance suddenly came to her, and she whipped around in her swirling chair to point at the array of kitchenware on a back table. "I've been a terrible interviewer so far, because I've completely forgot to ask if you want something to drink. Coffee?"

      "I thought we'd already established that I survive off blood and unrelenting frisks by the men in blue," Lenny witfully jested, drawing on a trace of a Bela Lugosi impression, making her giggle, before smoothly reverting back to his normal mischievous tone. "But I would love a cup, especially when it's eight o'clock at night."

      "Some people would say you need caffeine in order to get through an interview with me." Valerie glided over to the back table, smoothing a crimped filter into place and pouring a nearby vase of water into the basket of the machine. She then opened a container filled with brown coffee grounds. "And by people, I mean Jerry Lee Lewis."

      His eyebrow raised, his tone intrigued, "You met the Killer himself?"

      A mixture of a scoff and a mirthful chuckle slipped from her lips as she busied her hands with brewing the coffee. The machine carefully began to churn and not a minute later, fresh joe was pouring into the pot, the steam staining the glass. "For about five minutes. I was sent to interview him about a year or two ago right before he was set to play on Steve Allen's show."

      "What did you do to piss him off?" Lenny leaned even further into his chair, amusement overtaking his voice, gaze appraising as he took her in from feet away.

      "I may or may not have made a comment about preferring Jackie Wilson's cover of 'Danny Boy' to Bing Cosby's. That hit a nerve immediately." She carried over two mugs filled with coffee over to the desk, politely handing him his own. When she gestured to the silver container of cream and the tin of sugar, Lenny wordlessly pointed to the sugar. "He then starts going off about how people who listen to rock-n'roll are going to hell, and how it's un-Christian, and yada-yada-yada. All I did was let him have his little hallelujah moment, before saying that he doesn't have the right to say who is and who isn't going to Hell."

      "And your evidence for this claim?" Lenny teasingly questioned, seeming utterly charmed by her story. Or perhaps it was the way she was telling it.

      "That any man who decides to fuck a thirteen year old and marry her is worse off than a rock-n'roller." Valerie finished, trying not to look please with herself as the comedian across from her began to laugh, a rumbling sort, trying to hide it with the back of his hand. "He didn't take kindly to my reasoning and took off. Needless to say, that interview never got published."

      "Well, I promise not to storm off dramatically until you at least get a hundred characters for your article." He replied while taking a light sip of his coffee, eyeing her as she did the same. Once her mug was lowered to the surface of the desk, he embellished a startled expression, "You take your coffee black?"

      She grinned, "Just like my soul."

      "How on earth are you able to do that?" Lenny questioned, brows drawn together, a sense of horror in his words. "I knew guys from the merchant marines who would bitch and moan to the sergeant if their tugboat didn't have packets of Imperial Sugar on them."

      Merchant marines. She would have to ask him about that later. "I'm tough as nails, what can I tell ya?" Valerie shrugged, taking another swig, before settling down into sincerity. "When you grow up with a mother from Italy and she forces you to drink espresso every morning, you can drink practically anything ― from black coffee to Everclear to Irish teas that taste like a wet paper bag. Once you add in marrying a Cuban and drinking their coffee, you basically become a superhuman." 

      A pause.

      "Thoughts on people who drink Americanos?"

      "Pussies."

      "Duly noted." He nodded, still absorbing every word of her explanation, "Despite your insistence that you don't originate from the pages of a comic book, you certainly have the strength of Wonder Woman." 

      "That makes no sense." Valerie bantered, feeling wonderfully silly. "I'm a blonde."

      "I've noticed." Lenny smirked, and for a split second, his gaze flickered to note the front swoop of hair that was loosely tied to the crown of her skull, allowing for the elaborate waves of blonde to tumble down from the sides to below her collarbone. 

      A flush swarmed her chest, mercifully hidden by the turtleneck sweater she was wearing. It was hard not to be aware of her appearance when Lenny's regard possessed an intensity that felt akin to the Earth's yellow sun. Hmm, now here she was with the comic book references. She decided to avoid his piercing stare and gesture to his mug with the cock of her head, "How's the joe? The coffee beans were on clearance and a couple weeks old so I'm expecting that it taste like it came from the Ritz."

      "Not half bad, but I do have an affinity for cheap and mildly radioactive drinks." He smiled tightly, before grimacing. "Though, admittedly, with the week I've been having, something a little stronger mixed in would've been nice."

      Roguishly, Valerie smirked a little and carefully pushed herself up from her chair as Lenny watched with puzzlement. With leisure, she walked down the row of desks, skipping past a few, before landing at one with a messy display of scattered papers, a typewriter with missing keys, an abandoned fedora, and an empty, but stained Chinese takeout container. She bent down to reach the very bottom drawer and after sliding it open, pulled out an infamous bottle of Tennessee whiskey. "Jack Daniel's at your service." She announced cheekily, walking back over, delighted at Lenny's astonished expression. "Frank Sinatra's favorite drink."

      "How the hell did you know that was in there?" He instantly questioned while obediently handing over his glass so that she could top it off. Since the bottle had already been broken out, the writer decided to give herself a couple of ounces too. "Are you some sort of cat thief who ransacks your co-worker's belongings?"

      "That would be a waste of time. Everybody who works here still lives in ground-floor apartments outside of the city, surviving off credit cards and installment buying. Trust me, stealing from them would be like taking cheese from a subway rat." Valerie answered while sealing the cap on the whiskey. "When you work in this office for as long as I have, and you work with these people for just as long, you get to know their desks. They practically make it a mini-home away from home."

      She then added: "Everyone snoops through each other's desks, which is why I don't keep anything more valuable than a quarter in mine overnight or on my days off."

      "I had not considered the fact that desks have personalities." Lenny's voice flooded with levity. "Pray tell then, what can you tell me about our lovely tribute who sacrificed his beloved Old Number Seven."

      "That desk, and that bottle, would belong to Mr. Walter Booker." continued Valerie. "He's one of the investigative journalists at the Herald. Unmarried and with no children, based on how many hours a week he's stuck here. He also spends very little time at home since he decides not only to bring his booze, but orders takeout; and even if he didn't come to work every morning smelling like a drunken cowboy, his drinking habits are still noticeable, because all of his drafts come with amber colored stains. He's also an unbearable slob, in case you couldn't tell."

      "A regular Gig Young," Lenny easily quipped, before a fresh wave of excitement washed over his face. He sprung from his chair, his half-caffeine-half-liquor fueled concoction balanced beautifully in his hand, and seamlessly weaved through the web of desks, eventually stopping at a random one. "What about this one?"

      His laid-back, animated energy couldn't help, but be mirrored by the blonde, as she followed him across the room. It was hard not to get caught up in the banter, in the magnetic way he fabricated easy conversation and made the air seem lighter, more fun. It made it incredibly effortless to forget that she was suppose to be conducting an interview. 

      Valerie quickly surveyed the presentation on the bureau ― a couple of lipstick tainted mugs, a stack of classical books collecting dust, a peak of the latest Vogue issue hidden underneath a pile of classified advertisements ― and chuckled to herself, "Let's see, we've got a writer who always forgets she clean her coffee mugs, which is disgusting, but relatable. She's also not from the city originally, because all of them contain the print, 'I heart New York'..."

      Lenny shuddered in dread, "Definitely not a New Yorker."

      "She keeps these books by her desk, because she's convinced every day that she will eventually get through them all in order to achieve supreme literary knowledge, but ultimately never does, because let's be honest, Austen and Bronte are acquired tastes." She further explained with a hand on her hip, voice vaguely confident. "So instead, during her lunch breaks, she reads fashion mags and shamefully hides them away when her thirty minutes is up."

      "Nothing wrong with a good issue of Harper's Bazaar once in a while." Lenny remarks sarcastically, "Personally, I've learnt quite a lot from those types of publications, like how bobs go with oval-shaped faces and how icy blue eyeshadow would be excellent with my alabaster skin tone."

      Valerie let out an abrupt laugh, "If you were so up-to-date with women's rags, then you would know soft pink goes best with alabaster. Blue would go terribly on a woman with the skin complexion of a ghost."

      "My apologies." He held his hands up in defeat, before skimming the empty office again and picking another desk not so far away. Gaze twinkling, he waited for her assessment with crossed arms, "Best two out of three?"

      Once again, the blonde maneuvered through the maze of tables and found herself standing by his side, gauging the desk in front of her like it was an unfinished chess game. The set-up was pristine and faultless; work neatly stacked in organized piles, pencils sharpened to a tee and stiffly filed in a row, the keys and sides of the typewriter diligently unvarnished with Simoniz Miracle Wax. Instantly, the exterior reminded Valerie of Midge's furniture in the Riverside apartment she shared with Joel in that she was always worried to drink or eat anything while sitting down in fear that a single droplet would ruin the purity of the aesthetic.

      "The most neurotic writer you'll ever meet in your life, excluding Tennessee Williams." Valerie smoothly asserted, as if making a broadcast announcement, her drink glistening in her hand. "But a person who's ambitious and excels at multi-tasking. The editors love them, because their grammar is always correct so it takes about three seconds to send their work to publishing. This is the perfect employee except for the fact they're a bundle of anxiety twenty-four-seven and in order to release that rage in a way that doesn't involve murdering people, they snap about a dozen pencils in half everyday and aggressively glare at any person who comes within six feet of their desk."

      Casually, the blonde gestured to the half-hidden trashcan near the corner, and Lenny cocked his head around to see an alarmingly large amount of broken pencils lying in the basket. He pulled his head back and met her regard again, seemingly impressed, his lips pursed. "That is a journalist who's gonna have a nervous breakdown before the age of forty."

      "Try thirty-five."

      "Five stars for performance." Lenny jokingly clapped. Valerie half-heartedly bowed, chuckling lightly, before taking another sip of her spiked coffee. "I would offer you a congratulations for being so obtuse, but I don't think there's a big enough reward when all of your coworkers are unstable."

      "Oh, I'm not bothered by it. By definition, I'm not stable either." surmised the woman. "I don't think you can be in order to be a writer. Or a comedian, for that matter."

      "Touché." Lenny playfully smirked, partially hiding it by swiping his hand over his lips. A second later, he snapped his fingers and pointed one at her idly. "You're observant. That's a good thing for a stand-up comic."

      That piqued her interest, and some sly, self-indulgent part of her who desired to hear him deconstruct her as a fellow comedian, or maybe even compliment her if she got lucky. Trying to appear nonchalant, Valerie rose her eyebrows in innocence, "Is it?" 

      "Absolutely. Most comedians, believe it or not, live fairly boring lives off stage so they have to be keen enough to pick up interesting things from the news, or the people around them, or the random abnormalities that happen in their own lives that can be dramatized enough to make good anecdotes." Lenny stopped, as if realizing he was bordering on too much seriousousness or unintentionally tenanting the role of 'mentor', something he was furtively against that night at The Vanguard. I, am the King of Schmucks, she could recall, even in her marijuana-induced haze, him saying outside of the club with a little too much gravity. 

      His expression lifted into purposeful gaiety, dark eyes gleaming as if he was amused by an inside joke, "Not that I need to patronize you about it, because you're already filled with curiosities about the boredom of a comedian's life."

      Valerie's face pulled together in confusion.

     Lenny released an airy laugh and suddenly stood straighter, his hand raised as if caressing a microphone, his voice soft and a little dazed, as if mimicking: "Does anyone ever wonder if Lenny Bruce is boring at home ―?"

      Instantly, as if struck by a terrible memory, Valerie cringed in embarrassment, eyes shutting tight and nose scrunching. Apparently, she wasn't the only one thinking about that night at The Vanguard, but his thoughts were clearly drawn onto her impromptu, drug-based opening for the band. The young comedienne remembered that night ending horribly, with one of her husband's love songs playing on the radio and sending her into an emotional spiral that lasted until she tearfully exhausted her to sleep, but her socializing with Lenny and the jazz group remained a sparkling highlight. Still, there was some humiliation associated with that set, purely for the fact that the first time she performed in front of the Lenny Bruce, she was high as a kite and pigishly eating pretzels in front of him.

      "Not my finest moment." The blonde admitted, hoping that her foundation was strong enough to cover the redness sprouting on her cheeks. 

      "Are you kidding? It was a great set, especially considering it wasn't planned." Lenny strongly yet offhandedly affirmed, as if trying not to make a show about how he found her funny. Most comedians, in her position, would have passed out after hearing a commendation directed towards them by one of the greats. "Obviously, a bit unpolished, but you had just taken a couple of hits off a pretty fantastic joint."

      "That's a pretty solid defense, in my opinion."

      "Should be used in front of a jury." Lenny halted for a split second, before audaciously proclaiming, with his hands held out in front of him in mock defense, as if standing in front of a paying crowd. "I am, by the way, exceptionally boring at home."

      "Oh, really?" Valerie teasingly questioned, "You're a traditional read-the-newspaper-in-the-morning, irons-his-ties, college-football-watcher-every-Sunday-night kind of man?"

      "A typical nine-to-five type of guy." He easily quipped. "A real red-blooded American. My wife can vouch for me!" He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, brows scrunched in contemplation, his nose crinkling as if tasting something disgusting, "Though in a realistic sense, me and any clothing appliance that produces heat is probably a fire hazard. And my unreliable schedule of touring and charming arrests make it impossible for me to maintain normal hours of daylight. And I hate football."

      Valerie hummed while grinning, "So just reading the paper then?" 

      "Pretty much." Lenny relented. "Of all sorts, even the ones who claim I should be shipped off to Alcatraz or sent to military school in order to stop me being a menace to society. Especially the ones that hate me."

      "Even the Morningside Herald?"

      "Every morning."

      "Flatter." smirked Valerie. "Speaking of my lovely paper, I would like to let you in on a years-long, secret tradition, before I start interrogating you for answers in the name of artistic creativity? You interested?"

      "Lead the way."

     For a second, Valerie struggled to tear her peer away from his, their features so profound with enjoyment and levity that the blonde found herself wanting to stay in their confidential orbit. Nevertheless, she didn't allow herself to think about it too much as she turned her back and began walking across the room, past the rows of eccentric desks, towards a narrow hallway that was shifted to the left. She could hear Lenny walking behind her, and before they had even reached the backroom, he interrupted with a sardonic: "Am I going to need to stretch for this?"

      The back of the building held multiple chambers, more specialized than the open layout of the front. The one that Valerie was leading her interviewee into was for the printing department, a gigantic room possessing less than a dozen Heidelberger Zylinders (a model of the printing press that was only a few years old), Diatypes (typesetting equipment), and plain paper copiers. Mountaineered on top of desks were black-and-white drafts of advertisements, headlines, and publicity photographs. Pinned across the walls were various posters of popular issues of the Herald — ranging from one of their very first issues, in 1955, 'NEGRO LEADERS ARRESTED IN ALABAMA BUS BOYCOTT' to 1957's 'U.S. VIEWS SATELLITE AS RUSSIAN VICTORY' to even her own 'DEAR MARGO CAUSES STIR, TALKS DICTORSHIP OF VIRTUSES BY CHRISTIANS' — in brazen glory. Even other magazine and newspaper covers made the cut, such as Playboy's debut with Marilyn Monroe and Cardinal Spellman's frontpage launch on Time's February issue in 1947.

      "So, this is where the egos of journalists and their sycophants' are displayed for all of the other lowlife employees to see?" Lenny humorously inquired, raising a brow.

      Valerie scoffed light-heartedly, occupied briefly with turning on the switches of the lamps. "I'm going to ignore that comment, because I don't feel like kicking you out and banning you from Herald premises."

      "Not the first place I've been banned."

      Pass all the machinery, Valerie led him to a large and rectangular mirror on the other side of the room, leaning against the wall instead of hung on top of it. Across the glass, in a wide variety of handwriting techniques, were names delicately scratched. A tiny diamond was resting on the hardwood frame.

      "It's a silly ritual, but I guarantee you that the New York Times doesn't do this." Valerie smartly remarked as the pair came to stand in front of it, "Whenever we interview anyone at the Herald ― famous, infamous, utterly boring, or completely anonymous ― we have them sign their name under a fake name. Then we, as the interviewer, sign our fake names with them."

      "Why the fake names?"

      "My boss is incredibly paranoid that one day communism will take over the country and the first thing they're gonna do is lynch all the journalists in sight." explained the blonde. "So we try to protect ourselves somewhat by not leaving too much of a trail. Same for our clients. If you were to look into our files and read our job applications, you'll notice that all of our addresses have been scratched out."

      "Your boss must have had a nervous breakdown when he first learnt what was happening in Cuba." Lenny said, shaking his head, scanning the surface. He pointed his finger at a random name, "Who's Sonny Boy?"

      "Eddie Fisher."

      "And The Godmother?"

      "Sister Rosetta Tharpe."

      "No shit." He pointed to another one, "Blackbird?"

      "Beverly Cleary."

      Lenny chuckled, disbelieving, regard still surveying the mirror in intrigue. Cocking a brow, he glanced down at her, "What's your code name?"

      She opened her mouth to answer, but thought better at the last moment. A smile danced across her lips, "Why don't you guess?"

      Seemingly impressed by the challenge in her tone, Lenny straightened and began to grin as he looked over the mirror once more. "There better be a piece of gum in it for me if I win..." He went quiet and simply observed for a moment, before eventually offering his first guess, "Princess?"

      "I'm afraid I don't own a crown."

      He hummed in disappointment. "Celtic?"

      "Stereotypically apt, but nope."

      Hesitantly, he lifted his eyebrows up in mock innocence as he wordlessly pointed to another name. It was hilariously, but also quite flatteringly, the word 'foxy'. Valerie struggled not to let her lips twist into a wry grin, "Watch it, Bruce."

       "Okay, I give up," Lenny playfully derided, "Which one is it?"

      Self-satisfied, the blonde pointed to a neatly scratched word in the corner of the mirror, a womanly style following the vowels. Once his eyes read the moniker, he promptly bellowed a surprised yet loud laugh, radiating personal amazement, "Medusa? That's the name you chose?"

      "Believe me, it's not a self-proclaimed title. More like an inside joke around the office." clarified Valerie. "It took me around six months after I started working at the Herald to realize that everyone was calling me Medusa behind my back. No one's had the balls to expand upon the origin of the name, but I'm assuming it's due to how unsettling my eyes are. Plus, I have made a couple of the interns from NYU burst into tears ― unintentionally, of course. I've just decided to embrace my inner-gorgon."

      "Your eyes are not unsettling," He then jokingly peered around the sphere of her head, his height acting as just the right advantage. "Your hair, on the other hand, could foster some snakes. A python or two, at least."

      Valerie lightly smacked the top of his arm, "Alright, enough screwing around ―"

      "I don't know how to stop ―"

      "Time for you to pick your endearment of choice," She passed over the slim stalk of diamond, pure and undoubtedly loosing monetary value by how wastefully it was being used in this department. "To forever be immortalized by the Morningside Herald."

      "Better than a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame." quipped Lenny. He narrowed his eyes and carefully took in the mirror, "I have zero childhood nicknames, and a million failed stage names. What should I pick?"

      "Something that will throw them off their scent." Valerie added, "Cops and ex-girlfriends included."

      Lenny flashed her a smirk, before returning his attention to what was in front of him. After quietly contemplating for a moment, he leaned over and began gently engraving a free space of the mirror, somewhat nearby to where her own nickname lied. Once he was done, he stood up straighter and placed the diamond back into the palm of her hand. Unabashedly, Valerie sniggered at his self-chosen title, hiding her amusement with the back of her hand. 

      "Puritan?" She instantly questioned, still seized by her hilarity. "Seriously?"

      Lenny put on a front of offense, "What? I could pull off the prim and proper Protestant." 

      "Oh, you so could not!" Valerie argued, gaze quickly sweeping his entire appearance, from the black curls hidden by hair gel to the discernable Long Island accent that thickened every one of his words. "You're the classic New York Jew, minus the fact that you're not carrying a bagel in your hand right now. The priest would have to drown you in holy water to convince anyone that you're an ultra white Christian."

      "But you did say to throw them off their scent." He easily sallied. "Nobody associates puritanism with the sick and salaciously controversial comedian, Lenny Bruce. That would be like thinking Arthur Miller was gonna start dating women his own age. It doesn't mix well together."

      "Point taken." Valerie grinned, taking another glance at his handwriting, the loopy drags of the letters and slanted chicken-scratch esque technique. It's oddly sweet, almost humanizing, to see that one of the most successful comedians working right now has average longhand. "Still, I like it. Very original."

      "I try my best."

☆

      Truthfully, the writer in question could not pinpoint how much time had passed since she first escorted Lenny into the building. Eventually, after keeping with tradition of the mirror signing in the printing crew's headquarters, they eventually meandered back to Valerie's desk. They sat back down, refreshed with their refilled drinks and still lively from the active night. The actual interview portion of their scheduled meeting actually began, in a more direct and less free flowing manner. 

     Through the course of their conversations, Valerie realized some things about Lenny pretty early on, as one of her skills as a professional journalist was to spot the ticks of her subject. He didn't particularly enjoy answering questions about himself (ironic considering he was the one who agreed to this). She started off with the basics, very generic questions that honestly weren't the most interesting to a reader who somewhat knew Lenny's background in comedy, but open-ended enough to germinate more intriguing discussions. Nevertheless, Lenny dodged and swerved with web-spun jokes as if he thought answering was going to cause cancer. 

      Now, Valerie wasn't stupid, and as the sick comic himself pointed out, she was observant. She could tell he didn't want to talk about himself, or his early years in comedy, or what inspired him to go into the entertainment business in the first place. Frankly, that was fine. Valerie wasn't pushy and she knew that despite whatever confidence or bravado a man could boldly spew, some people felt quite anxious during interviews. It was only human nature. 

      So Valerie stuck to more broad questions that had less to do with him, but more his performative act. She questioned him about the foundation of his jokes, which ranged from headlines in the newspaper to late-night television debates to political uproars. She sat back and listened intently when he deconstructed the antiquated prudishness of the Comstock Act and the hypocrisies of the country's obscenity laws. She tried her best to stifle her laughter while taking notes as he recited anecdotal material about chaotic affairs that interrupted his sets at underground comedy clubs and hysterical yet infuriating encounters with New York's finest. 

      Towards the end of it, Valerie had pages and pages filled with notes.

      "A little off-the-record, if you don't mind," Lenny evenly began, tipping forward in his chair to carefully tap off the burning tip of his cigarette into her ashtray.

      "The god-awful sentence that every writer loathes to hear." teased Valerie as she did the same with her cigarette, except this time she snubbed it out completely. She was itching for a stick of gum to chew and pop, a habit of hers she liked to divulge in when she was note-taking (and when wine was unavailable), but she knew from past experience that chomping on bubblegum right after smoking tasted like licking an ashtray. Utterly disgusting. "But by all means, proceed."

      "Is it me or is decent journalism dying in America?" He asked, half-serious, half-joking.

      She shrugged, "Hard to say. Some of it's definitely getting worse, but that's thanks to celebrities and tabloid rags. But on the other hand, hasn't journalism always been this way? Solely focused on selling the most papers, receiving the most attention, exploiting others, pushing agendas. I mean, yellow journalism's the whole reason the Spanish-American war happened."

      "It's not like the government's giving you guys a easy time either." Lenny added after blowing a ring of smoke. "People haven't realized yet that censorship laws affect you guys just as much as they ruin comedians. Shit, McCarthy's been dead for almost two years now and we've still got spooks eyeing any newspaper or magazine that doesn't say that capitalism is God's greatest invention and communism is the work of the Devil."

      "You don't have to tell me twice. We've constantly got our legal team on our asses anytime we use a word or a phrase that's too blue, or too provocative, or too anti-American." Valerie rolled her eyes, huffing. "Did you know that whenever we report on a local girl dying from a back alley abortion, we can't even call it an abortion. We have to say an 'illegal operation', as if she got a root canal from an architect and that's where she got the infection from."

      "It's ridiculous." He muttered, cocking his head to the side as one of his hands reached to scratch the faint lines on his forehead. Unlike his previous reflections, which always possessed a hint of facetiousness, he looked fairly solemn now, judging from the indignant twitch of his jaw muscles and the newfound frustration that lined his tense shoulders. After a short moment, in which the blonde simply sat back and watched him, internally surprised by his show of vexation, he retained some of his good-humor, tossing her a self-deprecating smile. "I shouldn't act like the integrity of the fourth estate is entirely dead. There's plenty of good writers still left, such as yourself."

      Valerie scoffed, shaking her head as she took a sip of her drink.

      "I've read some of your stuff, by the way."

      She couldn't help, but let out an embarrassed groan, half-heartedly trying to hide herself by avoiding his earnest regard. Now, she really regretted abandoning her cigarette so early on. Lenny wouldn't allow her to escape from the compliment, leaning forward with his lips parted as he was unable to contain an amused grin, "Don't take me as a liar ―"

      "You are a liar ―"

      "Or just a big flatter ―"

      "You are!"

      "Buddy Hackett would say differently." smirked Lenny. "He wouldn't describe me as a gentle critic either, in any sense of the word, but I digress. My point is I read some of your stuff since the show at The Gaslight and I've got to say I'm impressed."

      "Well, thank you. Herb, my boss, has been really generous in letting me have my own reins of what I want to write and how I want to write it. Obviously, I have a lot of the same restrictions as everyone else, but I get more free-range, so to speak." Valerie explained, before waving a hand and absent-mindedly dismissing herself. She didn't know why she felt the need to expand when she could have simply kept it at 'thank you'. She felt half-compelled in a reckless way to reveal herself as Dear Margo in the vain attempt to showcase her better writing. "I've written for other places though where my work is a little better."

      "Your work right now is good, no need to venture to somewhere else." He interjected, "I would imagine though that you piss a lot of people off, even beyond the Sophie Lennon exposé."

      "Oh, like you wouldn't believe." She answered, chuckling half-mirthlessly to herself. She remembered vividly the slew of hate mail that practically filled an entire bag that was sent to the office after the publication of her Sophie Lennon article. Not to mention, the random invoices and letters that arrived every week whenever she wrote an opinion piece or a Dear Margo column. "The hate mail practically causes an avalanche when it comes by."

      "Anything memorable?"

      Instantly, her focus found the framed letter that she kept nestled next to her typewriter that, to the untrained and blear eye, could have been an inspirational quote or a favorite poem. It was, in fact, not either of those things, but a thickly-laid, unabashed, viperously accursed response letter from a stranger in Staten Island who did not appreciate one of Valerie's letters.  When it first arrived, Valerie found it quite hilarious, to be completely honest, and instantly conjured the idea of buying a frame for it. Some people kept photos of their spouses, or family members, or friends at their desk. Valerie kept hate mail.

      She plucked the frame from the corner of her table and graciously handed it over to Lenny, who turned it over in curiosity. She gestured to the exposing glass surface, "Knock yourself out."

      Lenny straightened in his chair and grinned, before peering at the letter with interest. He began to speak in a boisterous, clear tone, "Dear Mrs. King, I'm writing to tell you that that I did not enjoy your most recent article applauding President Eisenhower's support for the passage of the Equal Rights Amendment and the National Woman's Party subsequent disapproval of the Hayden Rider amendment. Not only are you encouraging a dangerous rhetoric for young girls that their roles do not belong in the house or within the family, but you're actively pushing an agenda that supports the emasculation of men, the destruction of the traditional family structure, the dismantling of Christian values, and immoral lesbianism."

      "You are proof that the United States should have severely regulated Catholic immigration. There's nothing more erroneous than when a foreigner does not assimilate to American principles. God would surely judge you. Fondly yours, Mrs. Jane Worchester." Lenny finished, his expression caught in between disbelieving outrage and astonished amusement.

      "She really brought out the thesaurus for that." surmised Valerie, smirking, her finger following the wide rim of her coffee mug. "And the xenophobia."

      "For a woman who talks about God, she lacks the self-awareness to realize that He would be extremely disappointment with her lack of whit, comprehension, and empathy." Lenny scrunched his eyebrows together, "Well, maybe not God, but Jesus, at least."

      "Believe it or not, that's one of the politer letters I've got." She remarked, going silent for a second, her gaze drifting to a random spot below her desk. "I've got a strange, possibly stupid question for you."

      "I love those. Shoot."

      "When you're up on stage and you're doing your act, are you trying to convert people?" She inquired, trying not to seem insecure in her own uncertainty about her own answer to that question. "Like, try to make them believe whatever it is that you believe through jokes?"

      "Oh, no, not at all." He shook his head, speedily answering. "First and foremost, I'm an entertainer. Banana peels and baggy pants. I want to make people laugh ― think and laugh, sure ― but more importantly, laugh. If they end up agreeing with me at the end of the night, great, and if they don't, no sweat off my back." He raised one of his brows, clearly aiming for a gest. "I'm just trying to make a buck!"

      Valerie softly chuckled, "And the primary motivation for any comic to be on stage is to make people laugh, I guess."

      "And to have fun. Most of all, I go up there to have fun." Lenny chimed, his voice soothing with tenderness towards the end, as if he was privately cherishing the memories and emotions of being up on stage at some club, an entire sea of people in the palm of his hand. The blonde sitting across from him could relate, could feel that twin sense of hunger to get up on stage again and again. "Why? Why do you get up there and say the jokes that you say?"

      Valerie hesitated, slightly regretful she even started this train of thought, because of course, Lenny was going to turn the conversation back around just to hear her opinion. He didn't quite understand that the premise of an interview wasn't an equal two-way conversation. But repeating the concerns and reflections in her own head felt strangely endangering. 

      Then again, looking at him across from her and seeing the patience etched into his posture while he paused for a response felt reassuring. She was a comedian just like him. She could talk about work and the insecurities she felt concerning her stand-up. He, all of people, wasn't going to judge when he surely could relate.

      "Sometimes I worry that I'm trying too hard to convince people to see things my way." Valerie admitted, shifting in her seat as she pondered, "Like when I tell a story about my first day at Sunday school with a nun, I'm trying to persuade people to see how fucked up the church is. Or when I share about how I want to get my tubes tied after seeing a baby, what I'm really trying to say is that we should normalize how a lot of women don't want kids. It's not just about making people laugh, it's about trying to make my own views valid, which means it's more about me than it is the audience, and that's fucked up."

      Instantly, Lenny retorted: "Why's that fucked up?"

      Valerie shrugged, taken aback by his lack of agreement, "I don't know, it just is! You're suppose to do things for others, because it's the right thing to do, not do them just to make yourself feel better. A comic isn't suppose to secretly host a lecture on the world's social ills through jokes."

      Lenny reclined in his seat, settling one leg over the over comfortably, cigarette perched in his mouth and billowing white smolder, keen gaze surveying with gentle fascination. "I think I have a diagnosis for you, Boston." A smirk fell onto his lips, though not mocking ― more tender than anything else. "You suffer from Catholic guilt."

      Abruptly, she laughed, rolling her eyes as her head tipped back. "You are so full of shit," exclaimed Valerie, startled gaiety cushioning their atmosphere. "What would you know about Catholic guilt?"

      "That it's a serious, chronic illness that requires extensive treatment," Lenny curled his fingers together, peering at her from above his clasped hands, an exaggerated imitation of Dr. Freud's Austrian drawl. "And is plaguing the minds of many Irish roses around the world."

      Valerie scoffed loudly and threw a crumpled piece of wrapping paper towards his arm. It bounced off his suit without making a sound.

      "Christ, am I not thankful everyday that the only things Jews are beholden to are our mothers and camp liberators." He commented, shaking his head in indignant humor. Nevertheless, his eyes held empathy. "Most people do nice things, because it makes them feel better. Why do you think random people donate canned goods for Thanksgiving, or open doors for old ladies with walkers, or buy terrible lemonade from a kid's box stand? Nine out of ten times, people do those things, because they want to pat themselves on the back and make themselves feel good."

      "And the other one out of ten?" She questioned, still skeptical.

      "Angels on vacation." Lenny's mouth twitched sardonically, "Point is that you cannot expect yourself to be charitable and selfless all the time. It's not like it's a crime to make yourself feel good, and if you ask me, we don't do enough things that make us feel good. Plus, as long as the audience is laughing instead of dozing off like they're sitting in front of a preacher, then it doesn't matter what your motivation may be."

      Valerie remained silent, nodding her head absent-mindedly, absorbing his meanings. Much to her private surprise, a part of her was washed over in cool reassurance, like an intramural balm. A pleasant warmth unfurled across her skin, "That almost sounded like some very sage advice, Mr. Bruce."

      He waved his finger, as if chastising her, "It was practically swindled out of me when you gave me those puppy dog eyes."

      "I do not have puppy dog eyes," corrected Valerie. "Besides, I did not mean it in a bad way! It's good when a geriatric comedian is kind enough to help the younger generation."

      The offense that bloomed within his expression was hysterical, "Geriatric?"

      "The byline is gonna read that you're halfway towards retirement," She casually said, covering her beaming expression with the circular rim of her mug, delighted by the incredulousness entrenched into his face and tone. "Trying to pass on wisdom, before the great white light takes you."

      "I am not that old." Lenny maintained, mouth gaping, still in shock over her assertion despite not being the slightest bit rooted in truth. "I'm thirty-three, actually, and you're ― what― twenty-nine, twenty-eight..."

      "Twenty-six."

      For the first time tonight, Lenny genuinely faltered, his witty reply dying on his tongue as his eyes widened and quickly roamed the features of her face. Valerie had to stomp down the urge to spit out her spiked coffee and thrust her fist into the air in hilarious triumph over catching him off-guard. "Jeez, you're practically a child." He eventually acknowledged, some of the color returning to his skin. "Were you even alive for Pearl Harbor?"

      "I think I was about nine ―"

      Lenny's eyes immediately pinched shut, "Oh, God..."

      "Don't worry, I won't confuse you too much with my youthful slang or lack of understanding for the wonders of the Jazz Age."

      "I might have a heart attack."

      "Is that because you're old?"

      "Please have mercy on me." Lenny half-heartedly pleaded, looking at her intently while the blonde leaned back and bit her lip, failing to stifle her amusement. "Otherwise, I'm gonna start thinking I need to tap into my social security."

      Still giggling, Valerie opened one of the drawers of her desk and plucked a spare piece of untouched gum. Gingerly, she tossed it towards him, "Okay, okay, I'm done, I promise."

      He caught it easily and unwrapped it to reveal a thin pink stick, "You're forgiven, and quite generous for letting me in on your stash." His jaw moved as he chewed on the gum quietly, a contemplative look seeping into his attributes. "Why do you write?"

      "Hmmm?"

      "Why do you write?" Lenny repeated, "I know you said you got into writing in high school, but why do you love writing?"

      Uncertain, Valerie remained silent as she thought about her answer, though a small part of her was concurrently commended by the fact that he remembered their conversation from The Gaslight bar. "Uh, I suppose, because I'm good at it." She eventually explained, her smile tight and tinged with sheepishness. "Because it's important to let people to know what's going on in the world. Because it's..."

      She trailed off.

      Why did she write?

      That seemed to be the question of the hour ever since Christmas.

      When she first started to write, as an adolescent who was barely a teenager, it used to be because she needed a distraction. It was because nobody listened to her and all the thoughts in her hand pounded in frustration until she got them all out in some way. It was because she hoped, in some pathetic and insecure way, that someone would read one of her works and validate her, to say 'I understand why you feel the way you feel and it's a shame nobody understands that'. It was because she wasn't the best at expressing herself with words, always opting for cynical avoidance or sharp cuts, and sometimes could only say what she meant when it was written in ink on lined paper. It was because she was close to God when she wrote, the same way the men who wrote the Gospels and the Didache and the epistles were thousands of years ago.

      All of those affections and foibles had been inadvertently damaged by grief, but there was still a buzz of anticipation that tingled underneath the pads of her fingers whenever she picked up a pen or itched towards the keys of a typewriter, whether for a Dear Margo column or an upcoming stand-up routine or a tear-stained poem hazardously written the night of Christmas Day. It was enough to keep her from hating writing forever yet still not enough to have her falling back in love with the vocation. Is that how it's meant to be? Parts of her identity are irrevocably stripped away in the aftermath of losing her husband and they can never be retained?

      Undoubtedly, comedy had fulfilled a void in her after Mark's death, something that writing ceaselessly for hours would have done years ago. Still, she didn't want to lose that part of herself. She wanted to hold on to her childhood comforts and girlhood escapes. She wanted to preserve the miniscule parts of herself that were original and untarnished by lamentation. 

      Glancing up at Lenny, seeing him look back at her with patience and interest, Valerie felt ― for a lightening-bolt of a second ― that she could tell him anything. She could sit her for hours and hours, and relay every piece of her that was broken or torn or mentally disordered, and he wouldn't judge, but instead listen. He would look past the grief and the fucked up childhood, and just see her for who she was. He would understand. Funnily enough, the only other person in her life who she felt that towards was Mark.

      A heartbeat.

      Apprehension gripped her like a vice, pummeling her chest. That moment was eviscerated by a cut of anxiety, and it was as if the walls of a guarded tower were being dragged back up by drawstrings. She pulled back from jumping recklessly into the deep end of the water and instead, warped the lower half of her face into something resembling a sarcastic smile, "I write because God loves stories." She tipped her drink towards him and took a sip, hoping that the slab of coerced dryness successfully hid what she was trying to mask. Maybe he would simply take her words as a light-hearted joke.

      Lenny huffed a chuckle, shoulders shaking upward once, his head momentarily ducked low. "God does love stories. He also loves humor. So I suppose that as long as we're doing something that God loves, nothing else matters, including what the critics and the cops and the letter-hating schmucks from Staten Island think."

      He finally met her eyes, catching her in his orbit, and offered her a wry, but unfeigned smile that showed more kindness than what she warranted in this moment ― probably more than what she deserved for her lifetime, in her mind. 

      She was offered private reprieve with one smile.

      She was offered understanding and camaraderie.

      She was offered friendship without catches.

     Whether she realized it in that moment or not, Valerie was both convicted and forgiven by Lenny Bruce in one night.

☆

AUTHOR'S NOTES.

⋆ Before we get started, anyone recognized that jawline in the gif? That dark hair? The nose? That, ladies and gentlemen, is Luke Kirby. He starred in an episode of Sorry for Your Loss, a show on Facebook that starred Elizabeth Olsen and that has served as a huge inspiration for this story. In the episode (which is 1x09), they hook up and it's very romantic. If anyone wants to the see visual, in-person chemistry between Lenny and Valerie, go watch that episode. All you need is a Facebook account. You're welcome.

⋆ This is a groundbreaking statement that could possibly make headlines, but...I actually like this chapter?? And I'm kind of proud of it?? I know ― shocking! ― but for some reason, this chapter turned out much better than I thought it was going to. Also, I wrote this a lot faster than originally planned (and it's much longer, I mean, almost ten thousand fucking words). My biggest concern prior to approaching this interlude was writing Lenny, because he's always been the character I feel the most anxiety about. The reason being is that he's such a magnetic and beloved character that requires a lot of consideration when describing his mannerisms/actions. Moreover, since he's a supporting character that shows up sporadically throughout the show (nine out of ten times, shooting the shit), his characterization isn't the most fleshed out so I'm constantly worried that I will accidentally make him OOC. 

⋆ However, for some unknown reason, I felt very calm while writing Lenny in this, and my perception of his characterization felt fairly smooth. Of course, we can debate if Lenny would actually say some of the stuff he does in this, but overall, I felt like I nailed him. I'm pretty proud of myself actually. I also feel like my writing in this is the closest to Amy Sherman-Palladino's style in terms of the constant humor, various pop culture references, and speedy dialogue. I've never watched Gilmore Girls, but a video analysis I watched recently basically said all of her shows are like that lol

⋆ Also, the very last scene wasn't suppose to happen, but the idea of a Jew-turned-Atheist and a Catholic-turned-Atheist discussing God is always intriguing to me. I always find that atheists actually contemplate God and debate biblical principles more than practicing members of faith. Personally, I find myself more intrigued by religion and considering God now that I identify as an atheist than when I was a Catholic lol. Furthermore, I feel like considering how both Lenny and Valerie interweave religion into their comedy, they contemplate it too.

⋆ If it wasn't clear, by the way, Lenny's becoming a total simp for Valerie. Don't get me wrong, he's holding him back, but he's falling for her quicker than a dog with a bone. Valerie's slower on the drawl, but the connection is there. Right now, she's just really grateful to have a friend. Unfortunately, Lenny won't make another appearance until episode five (which is approximately Chapter Twenty-Fix), but hopefully, this long interlude will hold everybody over until then.

⋆ The question that Valerie asks at one point ("Are you trying to convert people?") was pulled from an actual interview with Lenny Bruce and Nat Hentoff in 1966. Lenny's answer about not trying to convert, making a buck, and having fun was his actual answer.

⋆ Next chapter finally kicks off season two of the show! I made hints, but just to clarify, this interview takes place during episode one. I figured that it might as well, because it's not like Valerie would have much to do in the episode with Susie being kidnapped and Midge off in Paris. Until next time!

HISTORICAL NOTES.

⋆ Count Dracula is the titular character in Bram Stoker's novel Dracula, published in 1897, following a menacing vampire living in a Transylvania castle who's eventually hunted down by Van Hesling. It's one of the most iconic vampire stories ever and significantly influenced the gothic horror genre. I enjoy relating the vampire references to Lenny, because he's done it twice in the show. In Episode Five of Season Two, Lenny tells Midge: "That you've been corrupted; lured to the darkside of the microphone", and the accent that he's imitating is Bela Lugosi, the Hungarian actor who famously played Dracula in the original 1931 film adaptation. When Lenny gets into a fight with Midge in Episode Six of Season Four, he again uses the accent and mimics the gestures of Lugosi when he says, "Creatures of the night!". Due to the fact that he's referenced Lugosi's performance twice, I headcanon that he's a fan of the movie. On a side note, I highly recommend you watch the 1931 movie, because it's truly captivating and eerie.

⋆ WNEW-FM was and continues to be a radio station that broadcasts music in New York City.

⋆ Maintaining some continuity, there's a slew of comic book references, because one, I know a fair amount about comics, and two, Lenny mentions Detective Comics in the final chapter of Act I. Batman is one of DC Comic's (though, at this point in history, the vigilante was featured in Detective Comics) most famous superheroes. He debuted in 1939 and instantly became popular. Lenny also refers to Valerie as Wonder Woman, who was another brilliant superhero that debuted in 1942 in Sensation Comics, a subsection of DC. Originally, I wanted him to say Supergirl, because she's blonde, but she did not make a debut until May of 1959, so roughly five months before this interview. Finally, the reference to the 'yellow sun' part is to Superman, who refers to the sun as 'Earth's yellow sun', because he's from a different planet.

⋆ Valerie is a bubblegum fanatic (like myself) and is shown to have two brands in her desk. Topps, which is a company that produced chewing gum that was sports themed (and continues to operate today), and Leaf Royal Cherry, which was another company that produced cherry-flavored gum. When Lenny asks how much money Valerie has given the MLB (Major League Baseball), it's because bubblegum was hugely associated with baseball players back then and they made a lot of money off sales.

⋆ Judy Garland is an iconic actress who Lenny's mentions and is most well known for playing Dorothy Gale in The Wizard of Oz. Despite having a fruitful career, she was most notable for suffering from addiction issues. She ended up dying at the age of forty-seven due to a drug overdose of barbiturates.

⋆ Jerry Lee Lewis was a successful rock-n-roll singer from the 50's and 60's who recently passed away. The media nicknamed him 'The Killer', because an aspect of his schtick was to act wild while playing the piano, which he did wonderfully. A profound moment in his career is when he performed on The Steve Allen Show in 1957, right around the time that Valerie interviewed him. The part about him going off about people who listen to rock n roll and how they're going to Hell is actually a rant he would sometimes go on in front of his friends, like fellow singer Johnny Cash. Jerry Lee Lewis was a devout Christian and apparently struggled with the 'sinful' nature of his music. There's a great scene in the movie 'Walk the Line' that dramatizes this rant. The part about marrying a thirteen year old, as Valerie mentioned, is true. He married his cousin-once-removed who was thirteen at the time, which caused a huge scandal and halted his career.

⋆ Espresso is a classic type of coffee originating in Italy. Apparently, it's quite strong, but I wouldn't know, because I can't stand coffee. Americanos, which is just espresso with hot water, was invented by American soldiers who could not handle the strength of espressos while stationed in Italy during World War II and decided to dilute it down. Everclear, which is another strong drink that Valerie mentions, is a liquor that has incredibly high amounts of alcohol in it by volume. It's utterly disgusting. And the mention of 'Irish teas that taste like a wet paper bag' is a reference to Ted Lasso, who does not like tea. 

⋆ Jack Daniel's is an iconic American brand of whiskey that originally comes from Lynchburg, Tennessee and was crafted in 1875. Old Number Seven is a common nickname for the brand, but it specifically refers to the original whiskey recipe, not other offshoots, such as their rye make. Frank Sinatra was a notable Jack Daniel's drinker as it was apparently his favorite whiskey and when he died in 1998, he was buried with a bottle. Sidenote, my favorite whiskey (not that I drink whiskey a ton, because it's not my favorite spirit) is also Jack Daniel's and I am honored to have something in common with Frank Sinatra.

⋆ Gig Young is an actor who portrayed film noir cop in the 1953 movie 'City That Never Sleeps."

⋆ Austen and Bronte refers to Jane Austen and Charlotte Bronte, two female writers who wrote classical literature.

⋆ Tennessee Williams was a playwright known for writing 'A Streetcar Named Desire', 'Cat on a Hot Tin Roof', and many others. He's one of the most influential playwrights of the 20th century. The name might sound a bit familiar, because he's the offscreen, southern voice that Lenny get into an argument with in the Miami episode.

⋆ Alcatraz was a federal prison off the coast of San Francisco that operated from 1934 to 1963 and was known as one of the most brutal prisons in the country at that time. It housed some of the worst criminals, such as Al Capone and Robert Franklin Stroud.

⋆ The newspaper headlines in the printing department are all legitimate headlines that I pulled from other newspapers online. The 'NEGRO LEADERS ARRESTED IN ALABAMA BUS BOYCOTT' referred to the boycott against buses in Montgomery, Alabama, in 1957, in protest of racially segregated transportation. This campaign started after Rosa Parks refused to get up from her seat to a white man while on a public bus. The campaign was successful in that the Supreme Court ruled that Alabama's segregated laws for busing were unconstitutional. The second headline, 'U.S. VIEWS SATELLITE RUSSIAN VICTORY' is a reference to Sputnik, the first satellite launched into space as part of the Soviet Union's space program in 1957.

⋆ On the mirror (inspired by The Crown's 2x04 episode) are various nicknames for different celebrities. 'Sonny Boy' refers to Eddie Fisher, a famous singer and actor who once had his own variety show on NBC. Infamously, he divorced his first wife Debbie Reynolds (another iconic actress ― mother to Carrie Fisher, who was also Eddie's daughter) for her best friend, Elizabeth Taylor (again, another iconic and glamorous star) after her husband was killed in an airplane crash. Talk about scandal. The reason I chose his code name to be 'Sonny Boy' was because apparently, that was his childhood nickname.

 Sister Rosetta Tharpe was an African-America blues singer who inspired many groundbreaking rock-n-rollers, such as Elvis Presley, Chuck Berry, Eric Clapton, and many others. She played the electric guitar while singing gospel music. I chose to name her 'The Godmother' because retroactively, Tharpe was given much praise for her influence in rock and was nicknamed 'The Godmother of rock and roll'. Seriously, watch her perform on YouTube, she's got an insane voice.

 Beverly Cleary was a children's fiction author who was best known for her Beezus and Ramona series. By 1959, which Act II is officially set in, she had already published the first book focusing on Beezus and Ramona and eight other books. Personally, my favorite novel of hers is Dear Mr. Henshaw, which I read in eighth grade as a requirement in my English class and was absolutely taken away. It's a wonderful book. The reason I gave her the nickname 'Blackbird' is because when she was in primary school, the kids were placed into three groups based on their ability to read: Bluebirds, Redbirds, and Blackbirds. Despite her desire to read, Beverly was placed with the blackbirds, which meant she possessed poor reading skills.

The nickname I gave Valerie is kind of a historical reference, but not really. Medusa refers to one of the three Gorgons (scary women with wings and snakes instead of hair) who are featured in Greek mythology. As legend states, anyone who looked into the eyes of Medusa or her sisters instantly turned into stone. Her head was eventually cut off by Perseus, one of the greatest Greek heroes. While I have an appreciation for Greek mythology and I think Medusa is an incredible story, the real reason I chose this for Valerie's name is because of Grey's Anatomy. In Grey's Anatomy (the greatest yet most erroneously medically inaccurate show in history), the main character Meredith Grey eventually gets called Medusa by her interns, because she's a scary boss. By far and in large, Meredith is one of my favorite female characters ever and I draw a lot of parallels between her and Valerie, so there's that.

⋆ Lenny's joke about Arthur Miller being unable to date women that are around his age is a reference to his famous marriage with Marilyn Monroe, who was thirty when they got married, when he was forty. I want to point out, in relation not only to this joke but the conversation later in the interlude about the age difference between Lenny and Valerie, that I have zero problem with age gaps between adults. I can't exactly judge because I am the product of an age gap relationship (a whooping twenty-seven year difference between my mom and dad). Also, I see zero problem with age gaps as long as the relationship is healthy, happy, and between adults. I understand why some people are uncomfortable with it and that's fine if you personally wouldn't date someone who you saw as significantly older/younger than you, but don't judge other relationships. To be it bluntly, only be concerned with who you're fucking and not who someone else is fucking. Okay?

⋆ The Comstock Act of 1873 was a federal law that prohibited the U.S. postal service from sending anything 'obscene', such as but not limited to: birth control medications, sex toys, abortifacients (substances that can cause an abortion), letters that contain sexual descriptions/references, or informational material detailing any of the previously mentioned things. This act was eventually broadened to include other laws involving censorship. Unsurprisingly, since the United States supports freedom but not that much freedom, parts of the Comstock Act still remain today.

⋆ Yellow journalism refers to a type of journalism that's rooted in sensationalism, exaggeration, and sometimes straight up lies. It relates to the Spanish-American war, because back in the late 1800s, when Cuba was a Spanish colony, the island was fighting for independence against their colonizer. Many people in America supported the idea of Spain withdrawing from Cuba after newspapers published sometimes exaggerated stories of Spanish cruelty and the rousing revolutionary acts of Cuban rebels. In 1898, a US battleship sank in the harbor of Havana, the capital of Cuba. The explosion that caused the sink to crash was proven to be caused on-board, but newspaper head-honchos, such as Joseph Pulitzer (published of the New York World, commemorated by the Pulitzer prize, the villain in Newsies) wanted to seize consumer attention and published conspiracy theories about the Spanish purposefully sinking the ships. This increased anti-Spanish tension and later that year, the US went to war with Spain. The result of this war led to American acquisition of overseas territories, such as Puerto Rico and Guam. Just goes to show that journalism, unregulated and not called out, can help imperialism.

⋆ Buddy Hackett was another famous comedian from the 50's and was an actual friend of Lenny's in real life. They were even roommates at one point.

⋆ The Equal Rights Amendment (ERA) was a proposed amendment for the federal constitution that explicitly stated that there would be no discrimination of any sort based on sex in the United States. Multiple versions of this amendment have been written and one version did successfully pass Congress, but did not become a part of the Constitution, because not enough states voted to ratify the amendment and conservatives heavily fought the bill. If you want to hear the fully fleshed out story of this, watch Mrs. America on Hulu.