by Simon Rich
Clara took a deep breath and twirled across the shop, her arms arced high over her head, her feet gliding through the sawdust. Charles stretched out his hands, and she landed in his arms, laughing with delight. Then her eyes filled with tears and she began sobbing, overcome with relief at the shocking resurrection of her dreams.
“Okay!” Yoni said. “Cut on rehearsal!”
He glanced at the crew. Instead of dispersing, they remained where they stood, their eyes on Clara.
Yoni turned to his star, and the two of them shared a subtle, victorious smile.
Nikki blinked slowly. “What do you mean ‘new version’?”
“We’ve totally revamped the picture,” Yoni reported. “And I really think it’s got a chance of working.”
Nikki nodded. “You think it will get Clara to stop haunting us.”
“I actually meant, like, I think it works creatively. Like, as a piece of art.”
Nikki’s forehead twitched. “What?”
“You should see Clara in this thing,” Yoni said. “She’s a star.”
“She’s a ghost.”
“The public doesn’t have to know that! We can shoot her from low angles, to hide the fact she’s floating.”
“Yoni—”
“Just let me pitch it to you.”
He fanned out his palms. “Okay,” he said. “Open on…”
He quickly walked her through it—the characters, the story, the scoring, tone, and shooting style. He’d never been great at presenting his ideas, but as he spoke, his confidence grew. By the time he finished, he realized he was standing up, his arms raised in triumph.
“And that’s the final shot!” he said. “They spin out of frame as we fade—no, cut! We cut to black.”
He smiled hopefully at Nikki. At some point her forehead had stopped twitching.
“It wouldn’t cost much,” Yoni pleaded. “All we’d have to do, really, is put a working lens into the camera. What do you think?”
“I think,” she said, “that you guys might be onto something.”
Yoni grinned. “Really?”
Nikki stood up abruptly at her desk. “I want you to mock up a preliminary shooting schedule,” she said. “It’ll give me a better sense of what kind of budget we’ll need.”
“Of course!” Yoni said. “Absolutely!”
“Email it to me by nine a.m. tomorrow,” she said. “In the meantime, I’ll meet with marketing and distribution.” She stopped at the door and looked over her shoulder. “Congratulations, Yoni. You pulled it off.”
Yoni waited until the door was closed, then pumped his fist in triumph.
Yoni knew he should go straight home and get to work. But halfway to the studio gates, he stopped and turned around. He couldn’t leave without telling Clara the good news.
He opened the door to Stage 13 and startled at the sight of her. She was standing in the center of a golden shaft of light, an oddly placid smile on her face.
“Clara?” he asked. “What’s going on?”
Nikki stepped out from the shadows. There was panic in her eyes, but she managed to quickly suppress it. “I was just telling Clara the good news,” she said brightly.
Yoni noticed that Clara was holding a copy of Variety. He winced as he read the front-page headline.
CLARA GINGER SHINES IN MR. CHING CHONG AND THE ORPHAN GIRL!
The newspaper was obviously fake: the pages were printed on computer paper. But somehow the prop had managed to trick Clara.
“Isn’t it amazing, Yoni?” she said as she elevated slowly toward the ceiling. “I had no idea the studio even released it!”
“Of course we released it,” Nikki said, smiling up at the levitating spirit. “How could we not? It isn’t often you see such a star-making performance.”
“You can’t leave!” Yoni shouted. “What about our new version of the movie?”
Clara smiled down at Yoni as her body continued to ascend. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I couldn’t stay even if I wanted to.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “Standard ghost rules. My unfinished business on this earth is finished. I’m finally a star and now my soul is free.”
Yoni watched as a halo began to form around her head. The circle was almost complete when he shouted up at her. “Clara, wait!”
Clara opened her eyes and smiled down beatifically. “What’s up?”
“There’s something you need to know.”
Nikki turned to Yoni in wide-eyed disbelief. “Yoni!” she hissed. “Are you fucking crazy? Stop!”
“That magazine is fake,” Yoni continued.
Clara sunk down a couple of inches. “Excuse me?”
Yoni heard a door slam shut. At some point Nikki had fled the soundstage, leaving him alone with the ghost.
He cleared his throat and kept going.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The whole thing was a trick.”
“I don’t believe you,” she said, shaking her head. “Prove it!”
Yoni held up the lens-less camera, took a deep breath, and stuck his finger through the hollow aperture. Clara began to cry. “Why?” she asked.
“I was desperate,” Yoni admitted. “And they offered me all this money, and I thought it was my chance to get out of here. But, listen, I don’t want to get out of here anymore. I want to stay right here and finish our movie and make you a star. What do you say?”
Clara thought for a beat and then descended to the floor.
“Does this mean you’re staying?” Yoni asked.
Clara nodded. “I’m staying.”
Yoni grinned until he saw her eyes. The tears were gone, and in their place was fire.
Yoni coughed as he wandered through the rubble. The set hadn’t fared well in the blaze. All that remained of the cobbler’s shop were a few scraps of warped, ashy leather. The light fixtures had shattered, and the concrete floor was scorched beyond repair.
“Clara?” Yoni called out. “Come on, I know you’re up there.”
Clara lowered slowly from the ceiling. “Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he said.
“I can’t believe it was all bullshit,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” Yoni said.
“The script, the sets, the camera.”
“I know.”
She shook her head and sighed. She was still holding the fake copy of Variety; the pages were singed and crumbling.
“There’s just one thing I don’t get,” she said. “How did you get the crew to react that time?”
“What do you mean?”
“When we rehearsed that new scene. And the crew was all nodding—”
“That wasn’t fake,” Yoni said.
Clara rolled her eyes.
“I swear,” Yoni said. “They were on board.”
“I don’t buy it.”
“Clara, you were there,” Yoni said. “You remember. You felt it. We had them.”
She smiled softly. “I guess we kind of did there for a moment.”
Yoni surveyed the debris. “I really am sorry, Clara.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I guess I’m sorry too.”
Yoni laughed. “For what?”
Clara pointed over Yoni’s shoulder. He turned around and saw a tall golden man smiling down on him.
“Clara?” Yoni asked. “Did you murder me?”
“Oh yeah,” Clara said. “Big-time.”
“Be not afraid,” the angel said to Yoni. “Your pain is finally coming to an end.”
He held out his golden palm.
Clara rolled her eyes as Yoni slowly reached for it. He was about to make contact when he suddenly withdrew his hand.
“If it’s cool with you,” he told the angel, “I think I’d rather stay.”
“What?” said the angel.
“I’d rather stay,” Yoni repeated, his voice a little louder. He turned to Clara and saw that she was beaming.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the angel. “Let’s just talk about
this.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Yoni said. “I came to this town to make movies, and I’m not going to leave until I pull it off.”
The angel turned angrily to Clara. “What did you do to him, Pamela?”
Yoni stepped between them. “Her name isn’t Pamela,” he said. “It’s Clara Ginger.”
The angel threw up his hands in frustration.
“How are you morons going to make a movie? You have no camera, no crew, and you live in a pile of ashes! You can’t even move shit with your hands! You’re a couple of fucking ghosts!”
“That’s just a little hiccup,” Clara said.
Yoni nodded. “Just another hurdle for us to jump over.”
“You’re both crazy,” said the angel.
“Fuck you,” Yoni said. “Eat my ass.”
The angel cursed under his breath and flew back up to heaven.
“Nice work,” Clara said. “I thought he’d never leave.”
She slapped Yoni on the back and, to both of their surprise, made contact.
“Whoa,” she said. “That’s new.”
She tentatively held out her palm. Yoni took her hand and gave it an exploratory squeeze. Their fingers clasped, and Yoni realized, with shock, that he was rising slowly with her off the ground.
“You’re okay,” she said, looking into his eyes. “Just don’t look down.”
Yoni and Clara floated upward toward the ceiling. Outside, the California sun was rising, flooding the gutted studio with light.
“Where do we start?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Clara said. “Pitch me something.”
Yoni let go of her hand and eagerly fanned out his palms. He looked like a bird taking flight.
“Okay,” he said. “Open on…”
Also by Simon Rich
Ant Farm
Free-Range Chickens
Elliot Allagash
Miracle Workers
Man Seeking Woman
Spoiled Brats
Acknowledgments
I want to thank my wonderful agent, Daniel Greenberg, for believing in my writing all these years, even as it has gotten progressively weirder. Thanks also to my excellent editor, Michael Szczerban, and his hardworking colleagues at Little, Brown: Nicky Guerreiro, Alyssa Persons, Lauren Velasquez, and Karen Landry. Thanks to Susan Morrison and Emma Allen at The New Yorker, Jonathan Harvey at the BBC, and everyone at Serpent’s Tail in London. Thank you, Lee Eastman, Gregory McKnight, Patricia O’Hearn, and Ed Steed, for the fabulous cover and spot-on likeness.
Lots of smart people have read and improved these stories over the years. In some instances, they read and gave notes on multiple versions of the same story. Sometimes, they spent hours talking to me on the phone about how to fix a story and are only finding out now, upon getting this book in the mail, that the story they worked so hard to improve is not even in the book, I just cut it in the end. Thank you, Jake Luce, Shana Gohd, and my very patient mother, Gail Winston.
Most of all, I want to thank my brilliant, talented wife, the author Kathleen Hale, who helped me in a lot of different ways, ranging from literally, physically writing some parts of the book to giving me a home and family. I love you.
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About the Author
Simon Rich is the author of Spoiled Brats, Man Seeking Woman, Miracle Workers, Ant Farm, Free-Range Chickens, and Elliot Allagash. He has written for Saturday Night Live, Pixar, and The Simpsons, and he is the creator and showrunner of Man Seeking Woman and Miracle Workers, which he based on his books. His work appears frequently in The New Yorker. He lives in Los Angeles.
simonrichbooks.com