by Ray Succre
“I’m with you. Get to the end.”
“Now, after this bit of explanation, some of the townsfolk voice that they think God has forsaken them. They think they’re being punished, but other townsfolk get very angry at this and the crowd starts fighting and bickering. Someone shouts out that they’re cursed. Damned. Pandemonium breaks out. It’s obviously been building for quite some time. Our man just wants to get the hell out of town. Away from this madness, any way he can, back to his life. He runs fast, blindly, leaving the crowd behind. A few give chase but they can’t catch him. So yes, let’s make him young, fast. He runs past several houses out into the scrub, and we cut to the commercial. Come back for Act III. Now, we have him running through the scrub, anywhere, just as fast as he can across the dry ground, trying to get away from Marburg. He’s gasping for air, running and falling and running some more.”
“It’s a dream. Wakes up on the side of the road. Took a nap on a long drive.”
“Not at all. He stops running; camera gives us his eyes, then what they see. It’s the neighboring town. He’s finally escaped Marburg, and for the love of God, the sun is coming up. It’s dawn. He begins running toward this small town, the one that Marburg bought out and that died first. But this town, as we see it, is like an oasis in the desert. This town is thriving, beautiful, floral, people bustling about. It’s like a view out of a dream. He runs into this town in frantic relief, exhausted and thanking God for saving him, for letting him leave the previous nightmare in which he had found himself.”
“It’s a trick. Something’s fooling him.”
“Exactly, though not the way we might at first think. Our guy is shocked. The audience is shocked. He runs toward the center of town and we see a deputy approach him. ‘You all right, son?’ Our man explains that he just left Marburg. He says the people there are on the verge of killing one another, that they’re cursed and he was lucky to get out at all, that something needs to be done, fast. The deputy seems puzzled. ‘Well friend, there hasn’t been a Marburg in near five years.’ ‘What do you mean? I was just there!’ he shouts. Then the officer tells him something like: ‘Terrible thing. A fire burned the entire town to the dirt. Only thing left of Marburg is the steel supports of the buildings that used to be there, and rusty, abandoned cars. Near a hundred people were lost in that fire.’ I mean, that’s not dialogue yet, but you see what I mean. Anyway, our man stares at him. It can’t be true. It can’t be. And he says that. He turns around and looks back in the direction he came. No town in the distance, just the slight remains of ruins. We get a long shot of this, maybe eight seconds of slow zoom. ‘No… no, that can’t be,” our man says. The deputy explains:‘They made a bid to buy out all our farms here. Would have ruined many a family. Almost happened, too, but then that fire happened. Early in the morning. It’s a shame it happened that way, but at least we still have our farms. Poor folk of Marburg never knew what hit them.’ And then the deputy probably says something like ‘If you ask me, you can’t ruin other folk’s lives without payin’ for it some way or another.’ You know, to address the theme, which is definitely greed and penance. A few smaller things, too.”
“Marburg was a ghost town, then.”
“Yes.”
“Was it arson?” Dozier asked, smiling and lighting a second cigarette.
“We don’t say. It’s mysterious. Who knows what force caused this strange and tragic thing to happen. Our guy tells the deputy about how his car broke down outside of Marburg, and the deputy, a nice fellow, radios to his station and arranges a pull-truck to get the car and bring it to town. ‘Officer, I’m... suddenly very hungry. You got a place to eat around here?’ he asks. The deputy points the way and our guy heads into a diner, sits down, orders. We see him sitting there, lost in thought. But that’s right when our narrator steps out and the scene stops. The narrator, whoever we get, I’m thinking someone with a deep voice, maybe Rory Setter, walks into the scene and addresses the audience, us. Right to the camera. He closes the story with the moral, like he would for every story, the overall gist of what’s just been shown. Giving each story a touch of Aesop, you know? A sort of summary and wrap-up of the evidence and morality at stake. In this case, man’s greed and a covetous nature for... just, the bounty of his neighbors. And it results, fantastically, in this hellish punishment of being lost to time and the working order of things. For Marburg’s attempt to rob the treasures of others, their own treasures were stripped away. There’s irony there. And they’re dead. Busted. Ghosts in a true ghost town and struggling with their terrible fate ever on. Our man was lucky to escape; he’s gotten free of the nightmare, but only because he was innocent and he didn’t belong there. And then the narrator says where the story takes place: “Marburg. Just up the road. On The Other Side.”
“All right, I’m gettin’ it, now. Name of the show. On The Other Side. That’s a nice setup.”
“And all the stories take place in some way connected with the title of the show. They all close with a monologue summary. We could open with one, too.”
“Dave Allen wasn’t kiddin’ when he talked about you, Asher. You swing hard.”
“I suppose I do, sir.”
“You think in acts and you can really get in there. Now I see why they call you Mr. Emmy.”
“Uh, thank you. I just think this way we can show something about people, nature, fate, all sorts of important things, all without agitating sponsors or alarming the people, because it’s masked in spectacle. In fantasy. Or even a wild setting. But the theme is there. That’s the deal. We can really show a thing.”
“You’re sellin’ what’s sold, Asher. I’m in.”
“You are? Well great, that’s... that’s what I was hoping to hear! Thank you, Mr. Dozier.”
“I’m in the mood to acquire, and I like what you told me. The Sun not coming up… damn, it’s creepy. Really bizarre.”
“People would watch it and want to know why, want to know more. That’s the bait, really. They’d stick around past the first act.”
“So yes. Yes indeed. I want a pilot from you. We’ll pay you if we use it or not. Either way. Don’t worry about that. Give me that story you just told me, and another one. A new one. We’re looking at a half-hour format. Let’s make a pilot, Asher.”
“A half-hour?”
“Look, I know you’re pitching an hour drama, and that’s how we started, but since those first letters we’ve had to change a few things with the network. Half-hour format is all we can think about right now for your show. But this is your kid, so you know the way with it. This actually makes things a lot easier for you, too.”
“It’s not an hour show anymore?”
“I want to be up-front about something. The anthology shows are dying. Even that fat pill, Hitchcock, is on the ropes here. Lot of bad writers who couldn't cut it in movies are making for the networks, while most of the good writers are jumping ship for the motion pictures again, to take up the slack. There's good money there, but here, we have no room for mistakes, and the audience is always changing. Fact is, people want to see the same characters each week, learn with them, and so on. That can work for an hour show. But the anthology format is only a couple stories above skid row right now and no one wants to give ‘em much time. They’re the ugly cousin right now. No offense meant.”
“I’ve been called worse, but for better reasons.”
“Well, the new audience wants familiar characters, stories that ring a bell, little switches in the feel of it all, but only little, and they want it to come back each week. Sponsors find anthologies unnerving, but you already knew that. Listen, Asher- it’s gonna be tough to pitch this to my guys even at a half-hour, but I’ll do it. I think this’ll fly for a pilot and maybe more, if we do it right.”
“Thirty minutes. I was hoping for more than that.”
“We’ll be lucky to get that.” Emery sighed then, perhaps to clear his mouth for the anger that had begun trickling upward.
“Mr. Dozier, I’
ll be frank with you. Thirty minutes will not work. That’s appalling. I haven’t worked in the half-hour format in years. That’s for other writers who haven’t done anything or can’t write an hour. I- This has meaning, Mr. Dozier. Too much for thirty minutes down to twenty-six with commercials. I’ll need that hour. I can’t accept any less.”
Dozier chewed at the inside of his cheek then, annoyed in the slight, thinking over how to explain his resolve more clearly. He nodded after a moment.
“Asher, you’re an east coaster, and a pro, sure, but out here, you’re still a foreigner. I don’t mean to insult you, but that’s the fact. We all have something to sell out here. That’s the system, and you can’t buck it. I like your stories and I want to work with you, so I’m gonna give you some advice. This comes straight from the mouth of Ari Dozier, best door-to-door salesman in all of Sonoma, right up until the end: You can’t make the big sale from the porch. Only the little one. If you got somethin’ good on your hands and you want to make the big sell, you gotta get inside the house. Asher, what I’m offering you is bigger than a little sale, you see? It’s rare and could be big. But more importantly, I’m letting you in the house. This network. That’s where you pitch an hour, or other shows, whatever you’ve got on your mind. But you have to understand, nobody’s gonna listen to you from the porch. Nobody. And that’s exactly where you’re at right now.”
“I’m assuming this salesman named Dozier is a relative?”
“Yeah. My pop could sell a ham in a synagogue. I learned a lot from him.”
“I see. Well, I do appreciate the advice, Mr. Dozier, but I’m not a salesman. I’m a writer.” Dozier snorted at this.
“Do you sell the writing, Asher? Do people buy it?”
“Sure, in the end, but what I think-”
“Let me stop you right there. I have two other shows I watch over. Two of ‘em. Both fill half-hour slots. That’s the only way this is goin’ over smooth, for anyone concerned. It’s half-hour, weekly, or nothin’. Not to push things where you’re not used to having ‘em pushed, but I need you to pick yes or no before you leave my office. I don’t like draggin’ things out. Most writers who come in here don’t leave with a pilot to make.”
Emery’s bluff had been called and he had no space in which to move. The half-hour format would give his stories all the stretching room of a coffin. He had written that way in the past, and due to his radio days, certainly knew the time-span well enough, but he was now accustomed to more. He had designed his stories around a very particular span of time. After a moment of reflection, the two men smoking their brands, the producer took on that expression of an annoyed man sitting out another. It seemed Dozier was waiting for the writer to go away. Emery began to panic.
His situation was somewhat alarming. He thought of his wife and daughters, the girls then at the zoo likely touring past the zebras and polar bears. They were the other three Ashers in his family, and they would want to know how the interview went. His wife somewhat adored the sprawl of Los Angeles and its weather. She would be upset to learn the trip had been for naught. Emery felt short and tried to make himself taller, then. He felt both dominated and dominating, and quite compromised. Better to get in while he could, and work his needs from the inside.
“Well, then it’ll be a half-hour. Fine. But only at first. We need to get ourselves an hour. You should know that I will keep pushing for it.”
“Sure kid, you can champion that all you want. I won’t promise anything on that end because it’s not up to me. You might become my writer, and it may be your show, but it’s their network and the sponsors’ time. That’s the breaks. We’re all in bed and everybody gets their turn.”
“All right.”
“Then you’re in?”
“Yes, I’m in. Let’s make a show.”
“Good. Let me see more and we’ll maybe start talking out a deal, get you some staff. I got a buddy of mine, Orson Banry. He’s been waitin’ for something good to come along. He’s part of the Orange Grove group. If you don’t know who they are, they’re a bunch of guys who write stories out here, get together. Sort of a club. A lot of talented guys. Seth Berber, Ray Scholl, that guy Larry Belmont who writes for The Gentleman- you read that mag?”
“My wife won’t let it in the house. But yes, I do.”
“Don’t we all, right? What I’m getting at is that there are a lot of writers in the Orange Grove, and we get a lot of work out of ‘em, and there’s Orson, too. Just a mess of writers. Might be able to convince a few to sign on. Maybe you already have some people in mind, so however you want to do it, we can figure it all out a little further down the road, get to that when it’s time. You’ll have creative control, as was offered. I’ll look around for a director and we’ll collaborate soon enough.”
“Orson Banry. Wow.”
“Yeah, writes books. Kind of a hard-ass, if you ask me, but he’s in a lot of mags, has a big audience.”
“Oh, I’m very much a fan. I read his work in college. On my own, I mean. He wasn’t part of the curriculum or anything like that.”
“Oh yeah? Well, he sort of runs the Orange Grove thing. They meet at his place sometimes. We all live just up the road from each other around here. You could probably join his group, what with your Emmys and all. If we can get this pilot off the ground, you might even get him to be on your staff.”
Emery blinked and swayed in his mind a moment. He had never thought something like this would be plausible by any stretch of luck. He had read nearly everything Banry had published, and Emery’s love of other-worldly tales stemmed in part from that novelist’s works. To be working close with a celebrated writer like Orson Banry would be an incredible arrangement. Could that really happen?
“Look around for some writers and people you know. We’re always lookin’ for new blood to try on things. I’ll call a few directors and see who can shoot the pilot.”
“Consider it done. I was thinking of having a different director each week, if we get on.”
“Every episode? Eh… we’ll get to that another time. I’ll be up front here… that’s not likely. What I need now is the broken town story, and then a new one. And I mean new. Fresh from your head. Think of it as a test. I want it written start to finish in the next week. Could you do that? Can you give me that in one week?”
Emery drew from his cigarette and then nodded.
“Mr. Dozier, I can give you that every week.”
Chapter Thirteen
In addition to the two launching scripts for The Other Side, Pacific Pictures still wanted the three film scripts; these being of various make and size. Emery was still under contract for three other scripts, as well. These were to be written for two studios back in New York, and for a decent amount of money. This particular facet of his schedule was troublesome. There were only so many scripts Emery could write in a given time, even with his accountably high output. The three-movie deal with Pacific Pictures and his conversion of Coronach into a stage-play needed to be pushed back in order to work on the Other Side pilot, and he needed to better polish the backup story for which Dozier had asked. This was fine, and he had time do finish his projects so long as he was diligent. The trouble was not in having enough time for these assignments, but in the ever-growing number of assignments that began coming in after his interview with Bernie Dozier.
Unless the pilot took off, Emery had no other writers to begin concocting more Other Side episodes, yet he was expected, pilot or not, to begin submitting these, and quite soon. Worse, the network under which Emery and Dozier were working, CBS, now wanted several more scripts up front, to give to sponsors, so that the show might carry more weight than that given by its pilot. He had been asked shortly after his interview with Dozier to write a few more scripts, giving the show credence and casting it as both viable and intriguing. This was a common enough arrangement. It was useful to offer sponsors padding, in that the show’s beginning needed to have that necessary feel of being assuredly underway, and wort
h a sponsor’s investment. Emery polished and he wrote, and two weeks after leaving Los Angeles, Bernie Dozier sent out the contracts.
With The Other Side now officially contracted into being (for a pilot, at least), the Ashers began to pack their belongings. The constant work a show would need required the family move to Los Angeles, and they were excited at the prospect of seeing anything outside of Cincinnati. Emery was gambling on the success of the as-yet-to-be-filmed pilot. In the scenario it might fail, he supposed it was time to leave Ohio, anyway. If he rotted out in Los Angeles, he knew it would be time to relocate to New York. There were options, and for a short while, the Ashers had the money to wage these options. The girls had been quite fond of the Californian desert city, and were looking forward to living there, should they end up being able to stay. With Beth as guidance, each of the daughters packed their lives into boxes and prepared to leave their entire known world behind. Everything was riding on the pilot episode and Emery was emphatic that every aspect of the project be given his scrutiny.
Emery packed badly, mind lost in stories and mental rewrites. The family was lucky to have been offered aid in the move. Susa, his mother, was looking somewhat worn and tired, but her energy in helping the two children pack was rather surprising, and much needed. Beth’s grandmother was less helpful, but her presence added a touch of support to the move, and she had proven masterful at keeping Beth’s ear. This meant that Emery’s mouth had little to spill into, which kept him, in turn, working and packing. The typewriter would be the very last thing packed for the move. It sat on the kitchen table, attended to frequently by the ever-growing sense of responsibility, and fear, to which Emery was falling prone.