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i.
Midge falls asleep, and it’s 1958.
She’s in front of her building, and there’s Joel, approaching her, looking twitchy and nervous, which somehow is endearing to her for reasons she can’t quite parse.
He tells her - doesn’t ask her, tells her - that he’s thinking of giving “it” another try - thinking of giving them another try, as if it’s all up to him, as if their relationship rises and falls based on his command.
And yet.
She looks at him and her heart goes out to him. He’s messed up and he knows how badly he’s messed up. It was just a few nights ago that she would have given anything for him to be standing in front of her, saying these words, saying that he wanted their old life back, just as it was.
And despite it all, she loves him. Maybe she doesn’t want to. At this moment, she wishes she didn’t. If she didn’t, then a future with more nights like this might be in front of her. Nights filled with smoky clubs and making people laugh, nights filled with sharing joints in an alley and trading banter as easily as breathing.
But she loves him. So she says “yes” and steps into the circle of his arms and lets him kiss her like he’s done countless times before.
Midge wakes up.
ii.
Midge falls asleep, and it’s 1959.
She’s standing in the wings of The Steve Allen Show, watching Lenny work his magic. There’s something sad about her friend tonight, though. Anyone else watching probably just sees the brilliance of his act, the dark humor that makes his comedy so much more than just a series of punchlines and godforsaken catchphrases.
Midge sees the truth, though - she’s probably one of the only people in the world who’s allowed to, she thinks. Lenny is tired. Lenny is lonely. Lenny is … exactly who she’ll be if she keeps this up.
(They even have the same signature color).
The thought of it scares her. It clings to her even as she applauds Lenny as he finishes his act, even as she smiles at him fondly, even as they stroll out of the studio arm-in-arm as she finally explains to him what “tits up” means.
She turns down his offer of a drink, promises to catch him before she goes off on tour, wraps her arms around him and leaves a fond kiss on his cheek, and catches a cab instead.
Benjamin looks surprised and soft when he opens the door, like he was already in bed (he probably was).
“I’m going on tour with Shy Baldwin,” she blurts out. His eyebrows skyrocket, but he says nothing as he steps aside to let her in. The whole story pours out: the telethon, her encounter with Shy, the phone call. He raises an eyebrow again when she gets to the part about tonight and Lenny, but he still says nothing until she’s wrapping up.
“I’m going to be away … a lot. For a while. And this could keep happening,” she explains, and he understands now what she’s saying. She’ll never be a stay-at-home housewife again, and as much as Benjamin enjoys a good brisket on the table when he gets home, he’s taking it in stride.
“Well then. I guess we’ll have to make sure the coming back together is spectacular,” he offers up. She smiles up at him and reaches for him, not for a passionate kiss, but for a warm embrace. As she feels his chin come to rest atop her head, she knows with utter clarity that this relationship will break both their hearts someday. But that day is not today, so she pushes it aside.
Midge wakes up.
iii.
Midge falls asleep, and it’s 1960.
She can’t stop staring at the man across the table from her. Somewhere, somehow, between the incomprehensible (to anyone but them) riffing and the music and the colored lights, she realizes something important. Lenny has always been her comedy fairy godmother, popping in at the very moments she needs him most to work his magic and lift her up.
Now, she realizes, she’s assigned him the wrong character. He’s not her fairy godmother, not here, not now. He’s Prince Charming, and she’s not entirely sure what to do with this new information.
For the first time in … she’s not even sure how long, Midge’s mind goes totally quiet as she slips comfortably into Lenny’s arms and sways to the music. She knows, in the back of her mind, that they’ve technically been physically closer than this before. She’s thrown her arms around him, pressed close in a full-body hug. But nothing has felt as intimate as when he slowly lifts her hand to place it on his neck. And somehow, she knows.
She knows that she’s not going back to her hotel that night.
She knows all the things she’s going to learn by the end of the night. That Lenny can laugh joyously, even now. That she’s been too lonely for too long. That Lenny’s mouth is just as talented and clever at other things as it is at rattling off quick-paced, convoluted bits on stage. That being with Lenny is funny and powerful and easy and passionate and all the things that she thought she’d never have again.
And then the “after” part kicks in, and neither of them knows quite what to do. Nothing will ever be the same, and she’s not quite sure if it was all worth it.
Midge wakes up.
iv.
Midge falls asleep, and it’s 1961.
She’s in the kitchen, making breakfast, when Lenny stumbles in, looking surprisingly good for someone who, only twelve hours earlier, had been almost passed out on the sidewalk.
He very much does not want to talk about it. So much so, in fact, that he flees her apartment when she tries, leaving his coat on the coatrack and his tie on the couch in his haste.
He drops a shoe on the way out, and there’s that Cinderella motif again, only this time, he’s the one fleeing out of fear that the royalty in the shining palace won’t want him when she realizes who he really is in the bright light of day.
(Really, she thinks, picking up his shoe and chasing after him, they haven’t spent much time together in daylight, have they?)
This time, they argue, and for the first time in the three years of their friendship, it doesn’t end well. He makes snide comments about her life, her children, her rescue of him, and she knows he’s lashing out at her because he can’t handle everything that’s crashing in on him and she saw his weakness, something that’s simply not allowed.
(“You know why,” he snaps, anguished, when she begs him to tell her why he’s so angry all of a sudden, and her heart shatters a little bit).
She snaps when he tries to offer her money, to pay her back, but it feels wrong, it feels cruel and small and beneath them. They don’t do this, this formality, this “pay you back” - they pay each other back in favors and quips and moments of relief from the spotlight. They don’t “owe” each other, ever, and it’s that more than anything that cuts deep, that sends her storming back across the street. She hears him call her name, but doesn’t turn around.
Later, she finds his coat still hanging on her rack. She slips it on when she heads out that night, and it slowly works its way into her wardrobe. Susie raises an eyebrow exactly once, but never comments. No one else knows.
She doesn’t see Lenny again for a long time, and something small but important breaks in both of them.
Midge wakes up.
v.
Midge falls asleep, and it’s 1966.
There’s a phone in her hand, but she can’t feel it. Susie is saying something next to her, but she can’t hear it. There are words running through her head, but she can’t comprehend them. She’s heard every four-letter word in the same sentence as Lenny’s name, but this is the one she can’t handle.
She moves in a daze through the next … days? Weeks? She realizes, at some point, that the whole of the comedy world is treating her with surprising gentleness and understanding.
Like a widow. Well, you always did look sensational in black, a voice whispers in her head, and she curses that voice even as she realizes it’s (he’s) right.
She gets back on stage again at some indeterminate point, with more bite and anger in her act than has ever been there before. She takes the reins dropped by the knight who took on too much and fell, never to rise again. She rails against the unfairness of social norms, the unfairness of the law, the unfairness of double standards and putting institutions on pedestals and creating nonsensical taboos. She rails against the unfairness of a world that would leave her all alone.
Sometimes, she thinks, she catches a glimpse of him in the back of an audience, hand resting over his mouth, staring straight at her, eyes glittering with mirth and pride. He’s always gone by the time she blinks.
Midge wakes up.
+i.
It’s 1961, and Midge falls asleep. When she wakes up in the morning, there’s a man on her couch, who flees like a guilty teenager when he’s confronted with the easy, domestic realities of the scene in which he finds himself.
They fight, out in the street, where anyone might hear them but no one pays attention except some hecklers on a bus. She slaps his shoe into his hand and stalks away from the proffered money, ignoring the urge to turn around when he calls her name. They’ve always come when the other has called. Something is different now.
Two weeks later, Midge returns home from a meeting to find a bouquet of flowers waiting with the doorman. It’s not lost on her that the soft lavender-pink shade is almost exactly identical to the dress she was wearing that morning. There’s a card too, and she waits until she’s home, alone, to open the small envelope. The first thing she notices: the handwriting on the note isn’t the elegant script of a florist, but the messy, imperfect scrawl of a messy, imperfect man.
Midge,
I owe you an apology. And an explanation. And maybe another apology after that. I behaved very badly, even by my standards, and you don’t deserve that. Did I mention I owe you an apology?
I’ve got a little gig next week - someone apparently still trusts me to be a good boy, even after everything that’s been happening. You should come, so I can grovel in person. There’s two tickets in here, so you don’t even have to bring your umbrella.
LoYours,
Lenny
P.S. Do you still have my coat, or have you burned it in (well-deserved) vengeful rage by now?
She goes. She wears his coat.
Lenny Bruce makes any space he’s in magical. She’s known that since she was in college, sitting in a dingy strip joint and feeling the electricity buzz through the room when a smirking, wisecracking man took the stage and shifted the whole energy of the place.
Here, in Carnegie Hall, even with a blizzard raging outside, Midge feels warm from the inside out, and it’s not because of all the people packed into the sold-out space. Susie sits beside her, begrudgingly doing the “friend” thing instead of the “manager” thing, realizing which one Midge needs more tonight. Joel has the kids tonight, so Midge has all the time in the world to absorb whatever happens.
By a few minutes in, Midge knows she’s watching something that will go down in history.
Afterwards, Midge makes her way backstage, knowing without being told that she’ll be allowed to pass. Susie not-so-subtly begs off and heads home, telling Midge to congratulate Lenny for her, leaving Midge to knock on a nondescript door alone.
The door swings open, and there he is. Dark suit, hair just this side of messy, a guarded set to his handsome face.
“Maybe you should keep it. Looks better on you anyway,” he says by way of greeting. Midge pushes past him into his dressing room, as Lenny closes the door behind them. She remains silent, keeping her eyes locked on his.
“Who’s got gout?” he tries again. Still no answer. Something passes over his face, something Midge can read like a book but isn’t quite ready to consider.
“I’m sorry,” he says. She’s only heard that soft tone from his voice once before, during that night that’s been burned into her memory for the past year. It’s the same voice that said, “So are you” and “It’s kind of nice, isn’t it?” and “I thought it was sensational.” And it’s that voice that makes up her mind for her. She takes a step forward, keeping eye contact with him the whole time, watching the confusion and caution sweep across his face.
Then she slips her arms around him and rests her head on his shoulder. She hears the hitch in his breath as he registers the situation, feels the warmth of his arms wrap around her in return, the slight huff as he exhales just above her head. They just stand like that for a minute.
“If you ever pull anything like that again I will kill you myself and get Susie's mob friends to hide the body. Got it?” Midge mutters into his chest. To Lenny's credit, he doesn't even comment on the second half of her threat.
“Yes ma’am,” he replies. Then, a hesitation. “I can’t… I can’t guarantee anything, Midge. I’m trying, I am, but it’s not… it’s not easy. I’m gonna screw up again. I’m gonna need help.” Midge pulls back again, enough to tip her head up and look at him.
“Well, lucky for you, I’m something of an expert when it comes to screw-ups,” she replies. That earns a tiny smile from Lenny before he bends forward to press a quick kiss into her hair. It’s chaste and simple and over almost instantly, but it’s that casual affection, as if it’s something they always have done and always will do, that sends Midge’s heart racing.
When they pull apart, Lenny is smirking again, and Midge’s heart lifts to know that some part of him is back to his normal self.
“I meant what I said, about the coat,” he says, gesturing at her. She grins, then reaches into her purse.
“I’ll consider it. But take this back, at least. I can’t think of any use I could possibly have for it.” She pulls out his black tie, the one he’d left on her couch in his haste to leave that awful morning, and holds it out to him. “Unless you can?” she asks, eyebrow raised, a dare in the upturned corners of her mouth.
Lenny’s jaw drops open, and Midge has to work very hard not to yell in triumph over having managed to shock the Lenny Bruce. But he’s not the Lenny Bruce, is he? Not to her. He never really has been. He’s just … Lenny. The colleague who she swaps bailouts with. The friend who shows up when she needs him most, and vice versa. The best dance partner she’s ever had. The screwup who admits when he’s wrong and that he might be wrong again, but asks for help.
The someone who might be something.
So, when she grips the end of the tie that’s in his hand now, and uses it to tug him a little closer so she can press her lips to his, it doesn’t feel like a beginning. When she laces her fingers through his in a cab, it doesn’t feel like something new. When he walks through her apartment, it doesn’t bring back unpleasant memories. When he holds her and touches her, when they learn each other’s bodies as well as they’ve already learned each other’s minds (and yes, the tie gets involved at one point), it doesn’t feel inevitable - it feels like a choice, perhaps a risky choice, but one that’s worth the reward, one that offers a new way forward.
Midge wakes up, and there’s a head of dark curls on the pillow next to her, a long road to trod, and a lot of questions to figure out.
But the important thing is: Midge wakes up, and she’s not alone.