Read 1 Breakfast at Madeline's for Free Online

to celebrate getting their task over with. All of the artists in town know each other, and it must be embarrassing to have to reject applications from people you'll be running into at Madeline's the next morning.
    "Congratulations, guys," I greeted them as they headed for a nearby table. "So did you give me any money?"
    "You should gi ve us money, you Hollywood sell out," Antoinette Carlson shot back with a petulant toss of her long dreadlocks, but then softened it with a smile. She was looking flamboyant as always in her dreads and African nationalist earrings.
    Antoinette was a video producer/director who, so far as I could tell, ha d never actually produced or di rected any videos. However, that minor detail didn't prevent her from receiving an astonishing amount of grant money from all kinds of sources. Once you get onto the grant circuit you can ride that wave for quite a while, and if you're lucky, ease on from there to a cushy teaching job.
    As soon as Antoinette sat down, a pale young guy named Steve Something-or-Other scurried over to make sure he got a seat right beside her. Something-or- Other absolutely idolized Antoinette, maybe because she had so much exube rant vitality and he had so lit tle. She was also a good six inches taller than he was, and they made an odd but sweet pair: the Queen of Sheba and her faithful Caucasian sidekick.
    Something-or-Other had been rewriting the same eighty-page novella for the past two years. Having once labored for almo st that long on a hopelessly un commercial screenplay about elderly Cambodians in a garment factory, I was tempted to identify with him. But the fact that he had a rather large trust fund made me keep my empathy for Mr. Novella to myself.
    Sitting down next to him was a folk musician with a long, droopy, hairy face named Mike Pardou. Pardou's biggest claim to fame was that he played the spoons on a Jim Kweskin Jug Band album thirty-some years ago, back in the fabled 60s. His other claim to fame was that he once had a torrid affair with Maria Muldaur—or so he said. Every time he got high, he'd start singing her hit song "Midnight at the Oasis," and burst into tears.
    Behind Mr. Novella and the King of Spoons came Bonnie, who gave me one of her killer hugs before heading over to join th e others. She seemed to have ac quired several new muscles on her neck since I saw her this morning. Was I sexist for thinking all those huge muscles of hers were starting to make her look a little weird? "If you want to make money," she in formed me, "you better invest in my boxing video now before it's too late. I've got investors lining up."
    George Hosey, the last artist in the flock, stroked his white goatee, pointed a finger at me, and declared sternly, "Uncle Sam, and Aunt Bonnie, want you ."
    They all erupted into huge gales of laughter at Hosey's sally, acting punchy as hell. Hosey was a re tired chemist from Finch Pruyn who grew a mustache and long white goatee just for kicks, and suddenly everyone started telling him he was the spitting image of Uncle Sam. It's true, he was. So now he went around playing Uncle Sam at parades and conventions.
    I saw his act once and hated it. I may not be the fairest critic, because I think patriotism is for the birds and the fascists, but it sure looked to me like the only artistic talent the guy had going for him was his facial hair. Nevertheless, Hosey was making more money doing his inane routine than he ever made as senior vice president of research and development.
    I tri ed to shake these negative thoughts out of my mind and just enjoy the happy mood at the table. Even Mike Pardou, who usually looked about as cheerful as a dead basset hound , was smiling and beating an up beat rhythm with a couple of soup spoons.
    "So how about you guys?" I kidded them. "Did you give yourselves any grants?"
    I have a long-standing knack for putting my foot in my mouth. I meant it as lighthearted teasing, but in stantly everyone at their table