Forlorn. A novel by Ira Idlebaum. Except from Chapter One.

Monday morning brought a dull fog to Burbank, as the Ensign stumbled out of the garage and wandered into the Cmmdr’s kitchen to cadge a cup of coffee, before setting out for a jog and more coffee later at the local Starbucks. As the little Jew set about making the brew, he noticed how clean the kitchen was, save for a colony of crumbs on the near counter, left there the evening before, by none other than the Ensign himself. He thought he’d better clean it ASAP; the Cmmdr was a stickler for mess. Not one to go too quickly for a paper towel, he swept up the untidiness in his hands, and as he was dumping the crumbs in the sink, the Cmmdr entered the kitchen.
“Hurl me against some rocks until I break apart, and feed the bloody pieces to the crows,” said the stout, puffy, little man.
“And good morning to you too,” replied the Ensign, setting the coffee to brew.
“A little something from the bean?” asked the tubby, out-of-work actor.
“From the bean, sir,” said the Ensign, in mock courtesy.
The Cmmdr sat down at the small table and let out a deep nauseous moan. “I have nothing.”
The Ensign too had nothing. Last week had been a bust after not one, but two episodic TV shows had informed his agent that the not very important television played had ‘fallen out of the mix.’ Still, it had briefly seemed like activity, while the Cmmdr’s week had been without a single phone call.