Mr. Schechner shook his head. “Poor Shecky. He’s still angry that he wasn’t home that night, that he never got to meet Mr. Bruce.”
I arranged Mr. Schechner in the back seat, and strapped myself in to drive, wondering how much else of Schechner’s self-proclaimed history might be false. The freeway was still stuck, so I figured we’d head up Sepulveda to Lincoln, take the coast route to Schechner’s pad on Lombard Street.
“A few weeks after the dinner, Lenny called Daphne and me and told us he’d made up this routine based on our dinner, and asked if it was okay to use our real last name, because he just liked the way it sounded, and we said that’d be fine.
“Of course, in Lenny’s version, things weren’t as they actually had been. For instance, he turned us into an elderly couple, even though we were still in our 40s, because it worked better as a story. Which I agree, it did. Hey!”
We were approaching the coast. A beautiful morning, both of us unemployed. Mr. Schechner smiled, a big goofy smile, and poked his face up between the headrests. “As long as Shecky’s not home until tonight, do you have time to take me to the beach?”