The other day we were talking about Neil Simon, and I'd mentioned how his first memoire, Rewrites, was a dear book to Dear Wife Joy and me.
Way back when she was living in Washington, DC, and I in New York, we were both reading it at the same time. The book covers Doc Simon's life from the time of his first play, Come Blow Your Home, to the time something earth-shattering happened to him in the early 1970's. I'd thought this event was rather well-known, as he'd written a play about it which has been filmed. But Joy was unaware as she read the book, a few chapters behind me.
All sorts of details of the Simons' life led Joy to believe that she and I were very much like Joan and Neil. Like the characters in Barefoot in the Park, he was a stuffed-shirt and she was loosening him up. (Or was this a description of us?) Neil was a writer; Joan played tennis. True of us as well. Eventually, Joy took the screen name Joan Simon.
Now, when I got the idea that Joy was unaware of how the story would end, I didn't have the heart to tip her off. She was reading the book and loving it, and it was Simon's job to relate the story, not mine. So, Joy's telling me she's reading about how a doctor looked at a little bruise Joan got while playing tennis, and I'm keeping mum.
A day later, I pick up the phone, and there are tears on the other side of the line. I knew what had happened: "It's Joan, isn't it?" <sniffle, sniffle> "It's O.K., honey - we're not exactly like them."