Clams and Comebacks

A diner conversation between Alan Arkin (channeling his anxious, overthinking Barney Cashman from Last of the Red Hot Lovers) and Jean Harlow (as her smart, sassy, platinum-blonde screen persona with razor wit).

Scene: A modest diner in some in-between dimension where time is elastic and fame doesn’t expire.
The wallpaper is outdated, the pie is always fresh, and the waitresses know your name even if your mother doesn’t.

Barney Cashman (aka Alan Arkin) sits hunched in a booth, nervously folding and refolding his napkin like it's a coded message from the CIA. Across from him sits Jean Harlow, all curves and confidence, sipping her soda like it’s laced with diamonds and double entendres.

ARKIN (Barney) (clears throat for the third time, then blurts):
I’m not… look, I’m not used to this. To sitting across from a bombshell who looks like she just stepped out of a magazine I wasn’t allowed to read in the eighth grade.
HARLOW (smirking):
Relax, Romeo. I don’t bite unless it’s written into the contract. And even then, I use a stunt double.
ARKIN:
I’m not Romeo. I’m… I’m more like Romeo’s dentist. You know, cautious. Ethical. I floss. Emotionally.
HARLOW:
You’re adorable. Neurotic, but adorable. You remind me of a goldfish I had once—swam in circles, always looked surprised to be in the water.
ARKIN (chuckles, then worries if he’s laughing too loud):
So. You were the Blonde Bombshell. That must have been… terrifying?
HARLOW:
Terrifying? Honey, it was exhausting. I had men following me with their eyes and women trying to figure out where I bought my brassiere. I wanted to act. They wanted me to wiggle. Same script, different studio.
ARKIN:
You were funny. You were really funny. Quick. Sharp. You weren’t just wiggling—you were throwing darts while everyone else was juggling eggs.
HARLOW (softens a bit):
That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me since 1936. Most people just remember the hair. You? You saw the heat under it.
ARKIN (earnestly):
I mean, I don’t get much heat. I perspire a lot, but it’s not sexy. It’s more… damp regret.
HARLOW:
You’ve got your own sparkle, Barney. You ever stop to think you were ahead of your time? Neurotic men didn’t get sexy until Woody Allen and... maybe him alone.
ARKIN:
Yeah, but Woody got the Upper East Side and a typewriter. I got a clam house in Queens and a marriage with more silence than a Quaker funeral.
HARLOW:
You ever want to be sexy? Or was it always about being nice?
ARKIN:
I tried! I bought cologne once. Smelled like a pine tree in a panic attack. I even read Cosmopolitan. Do you know what it's like to read Cosmo in a laundromat while hiding it inside a copy of Time?
HARLOW (laughs like champagne being poured into mischief):
Oh, honey. You wanted to be a red-hot lover in a beige world. I get it. I was a flame they kept trying to screw into a refrigerator light socket.
ARKIN:
I always thought if I could just say the right thing, at the right time, then everything would click. That the world would go, “Yes! This man deserves his fantasy!”
HARLOW:
Let me guess. The world just looked at you and asked for the check?
ARKIN (sighs):
Every time. And I left a good tip, too.
HARLOW:
Barney… you don’t act, you confess. Every performance you give feels like you’re trying to get out of jury duty with sincerity.
ARKIN:
Well, I always thought honesty was… y’know, erotic in its own way.
HARLOW:
That’s adorable. No, really. You ever play a gangster?
ARKIN:
I once yelled at a bus driver. That’s as close as I’ve gotten. And I apologized afterward. Bought him a Danish.
HARLOW:
That’s your problem, darling. You’re the only man in history who’d rob a bank and leave a thank-you note.
ARKIN (defensive, but polite):
I just think there’s a way to commit emotional larceny without being rude about it.

Waitress drops off a slice of lemon meringue pie and a side of existential dread. Both remain untouched.
HARLOW (leaning in, eyes suddenly sharp):
You know what I would’ve loved? A movie where I didn’t have to die or seduce someone or get slapped. Just a film where I’m a woman with a job and a sense of humor, and you—someone like you—are the guy who notices me when I’m eating a sandwich alone.
ARKIN:
I do notice women eating alone. I just never knew what to say that didn’t sound like a Yelp review.
HARLOW (smiling):
You would’ve said, “That’s a nice sandwich,” and I would’ve said, “Wanna split it?” And boom—scene one, take one, chemistry.
ARKIN:
You ever think we were both just... miscast in life?
HARLOW:
Constantly. I was cast as the fantasy of ten thousand lonely men. You were cast as the conscience they ignored.
ARKIN:
I would've cast you as the woman who saves the day without needing to trip in heels.
HARLOW:
And I’d cast you as the guy who doesn’t get the girl, but somehow you still make the audience cry. Then laugh. Then cry again.
ARKIN (quietly):
Maybe we missed our moment.
HARLOW:
Or maybe this is it. A diner. A booth. Two has-beens talking like we never got to on Earth.
ARKIN:
You think people will remember us?
HARLOW:
They’ll remember the myth. The wiggle, the whimper. The mumble, the middle-aged panic. But maybe someone, somewhere, will see us. Underneath.
ARKIN:
That would be nice.
HARLOW:
Nice? Barney, that would be a miracle.

Outside, the moon is full, and the stars are gossiping.Inside, Jean Harlow and Alan Arkin sip coffee like it’s a second chance.
Fade out, not because the story ends—only because the check is paid.
Credits roll in lipstick smudges and napkin folds.