Dear Valentina [The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel]

⠀⠀⠀An Impolite Interview with Lenny Bruce

"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.