"Vivaldi was buried in a pauper's grave."
"Is it creepy non-sequitor day already?" Casey leaned forward a flipped a few pages on his desk calendar.
"Antonio Vivaldi, he of the Four Seasons…" Dan pulled a chair over and sat opposite Casey, "Le Quattro Stagioni , Casey."
"Died and was buried humbly."
"'Pauper's grave' sounds so much more dramatic."
"Notice my trying to steer you from that." Casey gestured.
"He went out of style."
"Is this about your contract?"
"People just … decided they liked these other guys' symphonies instead, and Vivaldi ended up selling his work for a fraction of its worth … just to survive."
"Which he evidently didn't." Casey grimaced and tried to get back to writing his script.
"It was 1741 and he died at 63!"
"How is that 'exactly'?"
"Danny, I have no idea what we're talking about right now, except I'm ninety percent sure it's not the life and death of Antonio Vivaldi."
Dan tilted the chair back and crossed his legs at the ankles up on Casey's desk.
"Now. Is this about your contract?" Casey crossed his arms over his chest.
"It's a lot of money." Dan mumbled.
"Sure." Casey nodded. "It's fair, though. You deserve it."
"You still make more." Dan smiled.
"I'm pretty sure that was an accounting glitch no one caught."
"Knock it off."
"You're worried about squandering your wealth?"
"I'm worried about this big huge number –what if that's it?"
"You realize that the bottom line on your contract is more than most people will make in their life?"
"I do." Dan tilted his head back and covered his eyes. "Please don't think that's not causing just a huge amount of guilt."
"You gave to charity when you didn't make that much. Now you'll just give more." Casey leaned across and shoved Danny's feet off the desk. "Your accountant won't let you blow the rest of it on baseball cards, hookers, and blow."
"You don't know my accountant." Dan sat up and thumbed the Casey McCall bobblehead which Casey kept, without a shred of irony, on his desk.
"Yes, I do."
"That's right; she's your accountant, too."
"She was mine first, and if there's one thing I know," Casey tucked a pencil behind his ear and reached out to still bobblehead-Casey's movements, "it's Sheila's stance on her clients not sliding into financial ruin. At least the one she likes."
"I'm pretty sure she likes me." Dan smiled.
"She's told me as much." Casey smiled right back at him. "And Danny ... we're not going anywhere. And if we do – if this show ends, or you get fired, or the network folds ... there are plenty of places for us to go. Plenty of places that'd bend over backwards to get their hands on you."
"Why am I getting fired?"
"I usually picture it as you just snapping one day for no clear reason, but probably because of a fight you had with the network three months before that no one remembers. You tell everyone off and storm out, all the bridges you've built over the years lying in smoldering piles of ash in your wake."
"You've put some thought into it."
"I like to be prepared for all possible scenarios." Casey grinned.
Natalie opened the door far enough just to stick her head into the office.
"Did you guys save twenty two for the late score in the Lakers game?"
"Tell her what you told me." Casey nodded at Dan.
"Vivaldi," Dan turned comically doleful eyes at her, "was buried in a pauper's grave."
"That kind of day, huh?" She smirked.
Casey laughed. "I had twenty two through twenty four set aside for the Lakers, with copy on the fight from the Devils game to fill in case the L.A. game goes long."
"Perfect. Thank you." Natalie ducked out, then back in. "Hey, Danny?"
"They're wrong -- whoever's got you contemplating Vivaldi -- they're wrong and you're right. And even if you're not right, even if someone's just bugging you – I'll kick their ass, because I love you. Just point 'em out to me." She winked and backed out again.
"She's terrifying." Dan stared at the door after Natalie was gone.
"She loves you. She loves both of us."
"Yeah, and it's terrifying."
"Do you want to get some work done?" Casey turned back to his monitor.
"Let's." Dan rolled backwards in his chair, back behind his desk. "By the way, when you mentioned the copy on the Matvichuk fight...?"
"I meant 'Hey Danny, would you like to write some copy on the Matvichuk fight?'"
"I figured as much."
Dan got as far as We begin tonight's installment of "Hey Man, That's Not Cool" theatre at the Meadowlands, where— before he stopped typing.
"What do you say about getting some lunch, first?" He looked up at Casey.
"You're buying." Casey grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair as he stood.
"My pleasure. You can tell me about all those places that'd bend over backwards to get me in their employ."
Casey laughed and held the door open for Danny, and kept pace with him as they walked down the hall.
"Well, I've always thought you'd be a great addition to SI or any of the sports magazines' or local papers' writing staffs."
"Really. If not in a Dan Rydell, Yankees beat reporter kind of way, which – let's face it, we're too old and lazy for that – then definitely in an editorial or commentative position."
"I think I'd miss being on television." Dan leaned against the wall near the elevator. "If not here..."
"You'd move to Bristol?" Casey smirked as the elevator doors opened.
"Oh, god no."
"This is what I'm saying."
"What about you?" Dan impatiently tapped the button, waiting for the doors to close.
"I'm gonna' start writing symphonies." Casey gently pushed Dan back, since he'd actually been pushing the 'Open Doors' button.
"Sure. I mean, at least until I fall out of fashion. Then I'll mostly just plummet into oblivion, and - eventually - be buried penniless and alone in Vienna."
"I know you mock from a place of love." Dan rested his hand on Casey's shoulder as the doors finally began to close. "But just for that you can buy your own damn lunch."