by Ray Succre
Emery would spend the next few weeks grafting the stories to his newest conceits, and then spend the season giving monologues for each episode, episodes he felt, for the first time in two years, would be worthy of the attention he had already received. This, too him, felt as if repaying a massive loan and being finally clear of an unscrupulous bank’s harassment. These scripts, some of his most neglected, forgotten work, would become his best new work, once revised and re-written, and he felt they even rivaled his early, award-winning scripts in both potency and drama. He felt as if he had spent a great portion of his life building his body, and now he would finally get to take his shirt off in front of others. The first episode was ready to shoot, and Emery knew it was a strong one.
Belmont was having a difficult time adjusting to the longer scripts, but his first attempts were working somewhat. He had a script cleared for appearance near the middle of the season, and Emery was confident that Larry would hit a stride soon enough. Moffat was an entirely different problem: He was on the verge of quitting. Emery had found that speaking to Calvin about the nature of the show’s new direction, in the manner of its new format, helped somewhat, but while both of Emery’s writers were accustomed to a shorter allotment of time to express their stories, only Moffat felt going into an hour-long format was a mistake. He felt it would ruin the pacing, that people would become bored before the tilts and shocks could surface. He felt that adding more drama would detract from the speculative attraction of the stories.
Emery’s answer was natural and cohesive, and gleaned from years of success in the matter: An hour meant not only more drama, but more speculation, which was somewhat Moffat’s specialty. This was a chance for the writers to stretch their wings and take some chances, because there was room in each script to iron those rough edges out, if needed. The Other Side was no longer offering the small treat, but was going to exhibit a true, main-course. Calvin was in, for the time being, and had begun working out longer scripts, but Emery knew there were only so many pep-talks Calvin could be given before something else would be required. To Emery, that something else would be the unfortunate but necessary termination of Calvin’s contract. This was a disheartening plan, but Emery had little choice. Calvin would be replaced if he could not provide.
The itch crept into his fingers and the urge to smoke became overwhelming. Technically, Rebecca wouldn’t have a scene in the play for at least the next ten minutes, and so Emery excused himself to go out front and have a cigarette. Two. Beth frowned at this, but nodded. As he made his way down the seats and into the aisle, Clyde Larkin, a neighbor that lived about a block away from the Ashers and who now sat at the row’s edge, gave Emery a nudge on the leg.
“She’s great!” he whispered. Emery thanked him quietly and continued outside. The Larkins had no children of their own, but were friendly and quite involved in the neighborhood. They knew several of the children in the play, and their nephew, Charlie, was performing as the Carpenter.
Once the cigarette was lit and his first inhale had been taken, his mind calmed. Things were so simple when a man could get away from them for a moment. Stepping outside to smoke was a friend that helped him clear his mind, but the content of the cigarette itself, nicotine, was the true relationship. The incessant stresses of his life dissolved for a moment or two while dragging from his cigarette. It was during these brief reprieves from anger and frustration, these chemically-induced spots of calm amidst complexity, that he fathomed his best ideas, that he made the most ground when trying to ascertain his life and those in it. Everyone had a process. Calvin claimed his own best ideas came to him on the toilet, and Larry couldn’t come up with anything unless, as he said, there were at least three cups of coffee in him. Emery inhaled, soothed himself, feeling the crispness in the air. This was good time of year.
While smoking outside of the elementary school gymnasium, Emery went over some romantic notions regarding Beth, realizing how much he was still very much in love with her. It was while standing there, smoking, that he thought up an idea of later pitching Rebecca on an extracurricular theater group, if she were so inclined. While smoking and listening to the play, still audible, he also made a few changes to the plot of a half-finished story he would attend once home. He inhaled the smoke, the nicotine entered his bloodstream, and his brain curled like a dog before a fireplace at the end of a tiring day. So many things he could do with an hour long episode. So many new arcs and plots.
When the cigarette was extinguished, he glanced inside and saw that Rebecca was not yet onstage. The Dormouse would be out until the very end, if memory served him. He leaned against the outer wall of the gymnasium’s façade, listening to the lines being delivered within by the group of children in their wondrous costumes, and he lit another cigarette. Roy Cully walked out of the building and stood on the other side of the entrance, lighting a cigarette of his own. Emery had never liked the Cullys much, as they were the sort of neighbors that did not understand the idea of a neighborhood. They saw everything as offense and intrusion. They were also quite crass and Mr. Cully had too eager an eye near the neighborhood's wives. Roy acted friendly enough, but his mannerisms often came off as if he were giving an extended pitch. The few times Emery had spoken with Roy Cully, there had been a feeling in the air that Mr. Cully was trying to sell him something. The Cullys played inferno to the Larkins’ paradiso. Emery had a long-established, yet somewhat hidden despisal for those damnable wind-chimes the Cullys had hung on their porch several years back. The chimes were quite long and out-of-tune, and once something made them move, they kept moving for hours, ringing off-key and unrhythmic notes that stretched without end. This trouble had been remedied quite recently, in the manner of a sneak-attack. Someone had gone after the wind-chimes with Beth’s sewing shears at three in the morning. This suburban rogue, whoever he was, had gone undetected, but his mission had been fruitful: The nights beyond the typewriter were sanely quiet again.
There was a moment of awkward silence before they acknowledged one another.
“Emery.”
“Roy.”
“Smoke time, huh?”
“Sure; my daughter is off-stage for a bit. Thought I’d sneak away.”
There was quiet then. Roy Cully had no response, which was fine. Neither had much wanted to talk to the other. Roy paced as he smoked while Emery settled into his position against the wall, leaning and relaxing, becoming isolated in thought.
Theater had eluded him. In previous years, he had placed much emphasis on converting All the System and especially Coronach for the live stage, but unlike his other projects, he simply had no grip on it. The various devices and ploys he tried to use either did not function well, or made the story too cinematic for a live performance. A small hole had formed in his mind, an empty spot that the project continually hid within. Things slipped into this and rarely came back. He could spend a week writing several scripts for the screen, but his conversion of those first successes into stageplays had been in the works for nearly six years. A sort of medium-specific writer’s block was in play. This was frustrating and felt alien.
Over the course of the summer and fall, with the fifth season underway, he would use his spare time to wrestle the live theater projects into fruition. His respect for theater was sharp, and while the format had substantially fallen out of his grasp these past years, he would change this. He would go see more plays, read some of the fresh, new talent. He would study the craft and work himself into it. The live stage was a fraternal twin to the screen. Even the writing formats were incredibly similar; he simply needed to give it some study and then focus on completing the project. Much would happen, he hoped.
“I uh, noticed you took down those wind-chimes of yours,” Emery said with an internal smile.
“Well, somebody did,” Roy replied with a frown.
“Not you?” Emery asked, exhaling a flow of sating smoke into the affectionate, night air. He felt as if he were in a scene, cameras in the distance. The chill of the
air seemed, by its peregrine scents and breezes, to both commission and endorse the grand feel of late summer. For a moment, Emery leaned against the cool wall, watching just about everything in view alight with life.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lieutenant Merrill sat before him, hardy and decked in Macy’s fare. His medals and epaulets were pinned to his cheap, business suit, and he had attempted to slick back his withered, white hair. Situated at the mahogany desk in his office at CBS, Merrill twiddled his fingers somewhat, rubbed his chin much, and wore the strange complacency of a man who prided himself on expressing bad news so well that he might no longer feel even the briefest twinge of remorse or compassion. Crushing a fellow was business as usual. Merrill may as well have been a world league wrestler, waiting in the ring. There was an opponent, after all.
Emery’s presence was tacit. The reason he had been called to the office was one of clipping an errant hair after an established cut. The orders were in, had been decided without him, and were quite settled. Emery suspected the news the very moment he had received the memo summoning him. He sat in the office before Bernie Dozier’s boss. It was telling that Bernie had not been asked to take part.
“Is this what I think it is?” he questioned, tired.
“Son, that depends on what you think it is,” Merrill said, his pistol laying in plain view on the desk.
“Terry Nichols, right? The big man is swinging his dick around, and so we’re cancelled. Again.”
“That’s not the tone I’d use, private, but affirmative; it’s a cancel,” Merrill said.
“Then Bernie should be here, too.”
“No, Bernard Dozier is oblivious and I’ve stripped him of rank. I know him too well and I don’t feel like putting up with his squealing. This is your squad on the skids, so you’re the man I’m talking to. Tried to call Rowe, but couldn’t get ahold of him. I meant for you both to be here.”
“No one can ever get ahold of Rowe. He does nothing and he’s a liability. You should discharge him, dishonorably.”
“I have, he just hasn’t heard about it yet because he doesn’t answer his damn phone.”
“You know, this last year, I actually started to admire you a little,” Emery admitted, “because you kept giving Bernie the benefit of the doubt, and I thought the network had come around. I thought you actually believed in the show.”
“That was silly of you, but thanks.”
“Do we at least get to air the full season? It’s shot and edited. We worked hard.”
“Yes, I know. And I’ve had a lot of faith in it, private. The others, however… Well, it’s something like this: Command wants to be done with The Other Side. They just don’t want it anymore. Especially General Nichols. You’re not a productive squad, and they’ve decided to ground you.”
“When, sir?”
“About three hours ago.”
“You mean nothing airs after tonight’s episode?”
“We’ve lost this skirmish beyond expected casualty. They’ve already replaced tonight’s episode with some sort of Christmas caper. Tis the season, and all. The commercials are running with it even now, soldier. We’ve been cut off from supplies and our horses have starved. The war is over. We have neither won nor lost; we are but survivors without map or home. The important thing now is to figure out how to tell our men.”
“They’ll be remiss,” Emery muttered.
“Make certain you salute every last man, Asher. The women, too. The grunts and captains, every member of your squad. All. And with nobility. Don’t be stingy with the chevrons and medals. And do it with respect; even the teamsters who just came on for the first time today. You salute and salute again until your arm feels to fall off.”
“I see.”
“Now go to it. If you see Bule Rowe, you tell that AWOL fuck to get his lazy, craven ass in here. And don’t tell him he’s being discharged. I want to do that.”
Todd Hargens, Buck Mifflin, Belmont and Moffat, Nina, Ted Williams, all the actors, the curse of the second director’s assistant and all the replacements over the five seasons, Charlie Houghton, the guest writers, Dozier, Rowe… so many more. He dreaded the notion of giving bad news, and of giving sudden, awkward goodbyes, but perhaps these things were needed. They bore more weight than his dread. Emery stood before the network executive, pondering what else he might say, and if there was anything that could be done beyond exiting as a stray.
“Your uh, your wings are showing,” Emery said. Merrill paused at this and then craned his head around, seeing the large, veiny wings that had protruded from his back. Bored, he briefly fluttered them. This gave off a fanning, papery sound that made Emery’s ears seem to vibrate. Merrill returned his attention to the writer.
“So they are.”
“Mr. Merrill—”
“That would be ‘Lieutenant’, private.”
“No, sir. It would not. I believe I am done with you,” Emery said. The confederate executive stared at him a moment, designing response. Emery stood, lifting the Colt from atop the desk and, with a moment of steadying and certainty, he fired the weapon, killing his commanding officer and abandoning his service to the War Department. High treason. Emery gave a final salute and set himself at ease. In a moment, the gun was gone. His hand was empty.
“I’ll go find Bernie, I suppose.”
CUT TO:
INT. BERNIE DOZIER’S OFFICE - AFTERNOON
A mid-sized office on the second floor, overlooking a parking lot. The office is untidy, and there is a dead potted plant in the corner.
EMERY and BERNIE are both present. EMERY leans against a wall of the second story office as BERNIE sits at his desk with a telephone receiver to his ear. Smoke lingers in the air.
ECU on BERNIE’s face, the awkwardness of momentary shame.
BERNIE:
All right. Thank you. No, it’s clear. Look I’ll- just give me some time. I’ll call back. I gotta think. Yeah, bye.
(hangs up)
So, it’s bad. Nothing they can do on our behalf. They don’t want to touch this. Fucking Nichols has spoken and... that prick has never liked us. They shouldn’t have called you in without me. I needed to be there.
EMERY:
(sighing)
We did everything he wanted, and then some. Still pushed us over the cliff. It was the hour time-slot, I think. Broke the camel’s back.
BERNIE:
I guess there’s nothing else to say, Em. We’re fired. We’re both fired. You and me. Rowe. Your writers. Everybody. Right now, and that’s it.
ZOOM TO:
The cigarette. The cigarette burning into its yellow filter. The yellow filter to his mouth. The stinking moment to his nerve. He exhaled but air through his grimace. Slowly, Emery snuffed the cigarette in the ashtray on the desk. He then reached into his pocket for another cigarette, stopped, and shook his hand a moment, staving off the intensity of his anger. He had suspected something bad was going to happen when the network had shortened the season to eleven episodes. He had thought the diminished episode roster was due to the longer format, to keep the same budget, but he should have known another cancellation was en route.
“How pissed off are you? At me, I mean,” Dozier asked.
“Not very. It’s all right, Bernie. I more want to yell at myself than you.”
“Neh, I’d deserve it more.”
“No, I know you put in a lot of effort these last two seasons.”
“Sure.”
“And I know your ass was on the line here, this time, so... are you really off the network now? All the way out?”
“Well, I gambled and I lost. They want me to finish out the holidays, first. Catch up and finalize everything for our show and get all the rights contracted away into the void. You know, get everyone paid and settled and mop up the floor. I’ll be unemployed just in time for the New Year. But I saved. I’m okay for now.”
“What about Rowe?”
“Rowe’s an old boy. Been around town a few times
. You know how those guys do things. He’ll never struggle for work, or do much of any, but I think he actually wants to retire. He’s talked about it a few times. He’s tired, and I can’t blame him. Your apprentice there, Belmont, he was approached by two other shows this year. He declined, of course, but now that we’re getting the guillotine, well, Larry has options. Moffat, too.”
“Larry does all right by The Gentleman alone. They’ve made him a staff-writer. His bills are fine. What about Buck?”
“No idea. I know over the summer he signed a deal to direct a picture with MGM. It’s for sometime next year. Asked me to co-produce, but I just didn’t have the capital. Maybe now he can focus on it more.”
“And then there’s me.”
“Right,” Dozier said in a nod.
“What about me?”
“Well, remember The Turquoise Chain? What you said in the closer? Something like ‘Man makes his destiny with wit and work, and when those-’”
“‘-and when these will not suffice, he falls on that great muse of the ages: Luck,’” Emery finished, sour.
“Yeah, that one stuck with me, I guess. I think it summarizes the both of us pretty well right now.”
“Luck, huh?”
“Sure, wouldn’t you like some? Good time for it to show up.”
“I’ll take that you remembered that line from Turquoise as a compliment. It’s a shame no one will ever see that episode.”
“For now. Maybe they’ll toss it on the air during a slow week sometime, or feed it to the reruns in a year or two.”