Selling Out

by Dan Wakefield

  “But we will! I explained all that. I even spoke to Al today. He’s going to talk to the dean. He’s sure he can fix it! I told him we’d be back for Christmas, just like you want. Then I’ll teach the next semester.”

  He went to her, taking her by the arm.

  “Dammit, don’t you understand?” he demanded. “We can go back for Christmas. We can live there and teach, and come out here and do TV and movies. We can do both, live in both places. We can have it all!”

  She shook his hand off, and resumed her packing, placing in a dress with extra precision.

  “I don’t want it all,” she said.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  “I want you. Us. The way we used to be. The life we used to have.”

  She was still speaking calmly but there were tears coming out of her eyes now.

  He went to her, put his arms around her, held her to him.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “But you love this more.”

  He broke away.

  “What do you mean, ‘this’?”

  “What you’re doing. Here.”

  “I love it, sure, is that a crime? Do I have to choose? Between my wife and my work?”

  “You have to think about the way you want to live.”

  She turned away, wiping her eyes, and resumed the packing.

  “You really are leaving me,” he said.

  “No. I’ll be home. You can come back anytime you want.”

  “But now—just when all this is breaking for me, just when I need you with me, you’re cutting out, is that it?”

  “You won’t even miss me.”

  “That’s crazy. Listen, you’ve forgot your own advice.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “When we first came out and I was the one who wanted to pack it in, after that crazy network meeting. You told me to hang in there, you told me if the people bothered me, just to pretend I was a ‘field anthropologist,’ doing work among the ‘Dippy-dos.’ Well, you can do the same. You can start taking pictures of the people here. You haven’t even been using your camera, lately.”

  “I know. That’s one reason I have to leave. I can’t even see things any more. Everything looks the same to me. Flat and lifeless. Repetitious.”

  “Jane, please stay.”

  “You don’t even know I’m here. You’re living the show. You’ll be able to do it more freely with me gone anyway.”

  She shut the suitcase and pressed the lid, snapping the catches.

  Something in Perry wanted to yank the suitcase open and throw everything to the floor, fling Jane down on the bed and make mad, passionate love, make her stay. He felt paralyzed, though. He stared at her and blinked, trying to put her in focus, trying to see clearly what was happening, yet everything seemed fuzzy and unreal.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I have to take a shower and change.”

  She brushed past him.

  He picked up the bottle of champagne and walked out to the backyard. He sat down in the lawn chair, next to the hot tub, and took a long pull from the bottle. His head felt bubbly and numb. He held the bottle in both hands and looked at the label.

  Blanc de Blanc.

  Blank dee Blank.

  Blankety blank.

  Blank.

  He closed his eyes, put the bottle to his mouth, and tilted his head back, gulping.

  Blank.

  Perry woke to a feeling of emptiness. His arm reached out automatically in the bed beside him but no one was there to touch. Nothing. He had a sense of vacancy, of blank space. He jumped up, dressing as fast as if the house were on fire, and got out into the street, into the car, into a restaurant and up to the counter, where he ordered and ate a cheese omelette, toast, blueberry muffin, orange juice, coffee, and an order of fruit salad. Filling up. Trying to cover the hole he felt inside himself, the cavity.

  Get busy. Take action. Take care of the things you’ve been putting off. Like the option on “The Springtime Women.” There was a gold mine, just waiting to be used. Vaughan had called a few days ago to say Harrison Ford had actually read the story and liked it! This was no Hollywood hype, this was a real project, ready to fly.

  “What about your agreement with Ned Gurney?”

  Perry jumped, as if a pin had stuck him.

  That was Jane’s voice.

  “My agreement with Ned was only verbal,” he said out loud, as if he were answering her back.

  Damn. Was he flipping out? No. This was normal, it was simply a reaction to his wife’s being gone when he was used to having her there all the time.

  He had never mentioned to Jane his whole conversation with Vaughan about “The Springtime Women,” fearing she wouldn’t understand. And she didn’t! At least the way her voice sounded just now she didn’t, but that of course was just Perry’s imagination. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. Forget about Jane. There was nothing in the world to stop him from going ahead with Vaughan since he had nothing signed with Ned Gurney. He was simply taking a much better deal. He was simply being practical.

  Perry whistled to himself as he drove to his agent’s office, reflecting how, as if by the miracle of his simply being in Hollywood, that once-modest short story of his had become something of a hot property!

  “I thought you told me you were going to do this project with Ned Gurney,” his agent said.

  Charlie Brindle was one of the old school of Hollywood agents. It figured. Perry had gone to him through the recommendation of his literary agent in New York, who himself was one of the old school of the publishing world. Clement LeMoyne had been a friend and supporter of Perry’s ever since he sold his first stories, and was perfectly good at negotiating nice little distinguished literary works, but he wasn’t really in tune with the pulsing new world of the bi-coastal entertainment business. He in fact had seemed almost as shocked as the faculty of Haviland College when he heard Perry was going out to work on a TV script in Hollywood. LeMoyne had warned him about “getting in too deep” or “with the wrong sort of crowd” (as if he were a kid going off to college!) and strongly recommended Charlie Brindle as the right man to handle his business out there.

  “He’s one of the solid old-timers,” LeMoyne had said. “Not one of these flashy new shark types. You can trust this man. His word is his bond.”

  Charlie Brindle was an old-timer, a man at least in his seventies. He did not even look like a Hollywood agent, but with his unbuttoned vest and loosened tie he reminded Perry more of those veteran crusty city editors of newspaper legend. He had done all right in handling Perry’s business up to now, but he obviously wasn’t in synch with the new breed of operators, or familiar with the new way of doing things in the supercharged new bi-coastal, megabuck world of tomorrow. Perry tried patiently to explain the situation to him.

  “I never signed any papers with Ned, and it just so happened that Vaughan Vardeman, who’s an old friend of mine from way back, is in a far better position to make this happen. He even has Harrison Ford hot about it.”

  “You told Ned Gurney you and he had a deal on this. You even shook hands on it. Have you told him you want to sign this option with Vardeman instead?”

  Charlie held up the option papers Vaughan’s lawyer had sent over, as if he were exhibiting damning evidence.

  “No, I haven’t told Ned about this, but of course I eventually will, and I believe he’ll understand and want me to do what I think is best for me.”

  Charlie tossed the papers across the desk at Perry, as if they were a bad piece of copy he was giving back to a cub reporter.

  “That’s not the way I’ve done business for forty-five years.”

  “Well then,” Perry said, trying to keep his voice calm, “I guess I better find someone who’ll do business for me the way it’s done today.”

  “I’m sure you’ll have no trouble,” said Brindle, lighting up a big black cigar.

  Perry grabbed the contract with hands slightly quivering from rag
e and stuck it into the inside pocket of his new safari jacket. He had got up and turned to go, when Charlie called after him.

  “Hey Perry, let an old-timer give you a tip. A piece of free advice.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Go home. Go back East and write your books. It sounded like a good life. Go on back, before it’s too late.”

  Perry made a snortlike little laugh.

  “I’ll remember that,” he said.

  “There’ll come a time,” said Charlie, “when you will.”

  There are times when everything falls into place, times of being so in tune with the world and with the work you are doing that it seems instead of thrashing around to find something you need, all you have to do is think you need it and it appears, like something materializing at the touch of a wand, to the trill of the magic music, outlined by a lacing of stardust.

  That’s how fortuitously Ravenna Sharlow appeared.

  It was the day after Perry’s visit to old Charlie, and he had decided to take off an hour or two in the afternoon to call on some agents. He hated to take any time away from the lot, but this was crucial. He not only wanted to get the option with Vaughan nailed down, he wanted to have his new deal as executive story consultant negotiated, making sure he was getting all he deserved in that lofty new position. He tried to put all this out of mind while he focused on the script he was writing, but just as he began to really concentrate, a sudden knock came at the door.

  “Yes?” he shouted, with a mixture of annoyance and urgency.

  The door opened, and standing inside it was a tall, sun-bronzed, ravishing blond woman in a tailored, businesslike suit with a jacket, plain silk blouse, and medium-length skirt that hovered over fabulous, perfectly shaped calves, ending in high-heeled sandals held together by some sort of gossamer threads. Perry’s first thought was that she must be either an actress or some powerful new network or studio executive, at least a vice-president.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Her voice was husky, provocative.

  She must be an actress, he figured.

  “For what?”

  “The fabulous show you’ve created.”

  She must have just read for a part—they were casting for a teacher friend of Laurie’s, and though this woman was far more glamorous than Perry had imagined for the role, she would certainly be an attraction for the show. Might even be worth tilting the story a bit to make it exactly right for her.

  She stepped forward, extending her hand with a jangle of bracelets, and shook Perry’s hand, gripping it firmly, looking him squarely in the eyes.

  “I’m Ravenna Shadow,” she said.

  “Perry Moss.”

  “I know. I’m a great fan of your work.”

  “Why, thank you. Are you here to read for a part?”

  “Oh, no! I brought in a client of mine who’s reading for that juicy role of Laurie’s new teacher friend. It’s a gem. Like everything you do.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t take credit for that. Hal Hagedorn wrote that particular episode.”

  She shrugged off that information with a toss of her blond mane, throwing her head back proudly.

  “It’s your show—it’s all your creation, no matter who develops little variations on the theme.”

  “Well, that’s very generous of you. Please sit down.”

  She sat with smooth grace on the little folding chair, making it seem like a throne. She crossed her legs, and the skirt rode up to the lovely, shimmering knee.

  “So, you’re an agent?” Perry asked.

  “Partly that. I’m also a business manager for my clients.”

  She smiled.

  “I have a degree in business administration, as well as drama. I’m a full-service agency.”

  He felt his throat go dry.

  “I believe it,” he said. “Well, you represent actors. Do you know anyone like yourself, but who handles writers?”

  “Writers,” she said, “are my favorite.”

  “This is amazing,” he said. “Uncanny. I was just about to go looking for a new agent.”

  “I’m sure the top people in town would be happy to have you. You could take your pick. I’m only a small operation, myself–just me and my secretary—but let me confess that representing you would be the greatest thrill of my entire career. It would be like—well—”

  She shifted her legs, recrossing them, and smoothed a hand over one radiant knee.

  “—like having my most outrageous dream come true.”

  He felt himself swell, grow expansive. Here was this gorgeous, no doubt brilliant woman sitting before him, herself a fantasy of flesh and brain, and he, Perry Moss, had the power to make her dream come true!

  “Are you free for lunch today?” Perry asked.

  “On two conditions.”

  “Name ’em.”

  “One, you let me use your phone to cancel the lunch date I had till just now. Two, you let me take you to my own favorite spot.”

  Perry leaned back in his seat, smiling.

  “You got it,” he said.

  The place was suffused with gold.

  You followed Sunset Boulevard to get there, passing through the flashy vulgarity of the Strip, curving down into the lush, palm-lined precincts of Beverly Hills, the famous pink stucco hotel that was paradise for fortunate, important pilgrims from the East, past the fairy-tale mansions of tropically inspired imagination, down and up and around the hills but still coursing west through the lesser pastel apartment buildings and subdivision homesteads spread through Pacific Palisades, and finally, plunging headlong toward the ocean itself, crashing right up against the thin line marking the edge of a world, the Pacific Coast Highway; and there it was, not just a symbol or phrase but the real smashing surf and bald rock and enormous hot sky of it, reminding him again with a thrill where he was: the Coast.

  If you kept careening down Sunset through the traffic light on the highway you’d smash right into the restaurant, but you stopped, slowed, took a dogleg jog across the highway and into a parking lot, then crunched on foot across the gravel and into the nautical entrance (lobster nets, cork floats, life preservers) where, as the door shut behind, you at once were bathed in a brilliant intensity of sunbright light and deeply chilled air. Blinking, looking down at the sawdust floor softens the glare, and soon, seated at your smooth wooden table of butcher-block wood, you become accustomed to the juxtaposition of natural and artificial elements, sunlight and ice-cold air-conditioning, everything intensified, colors as well, deep sea blue reflected through the plate-glass view, but above and behind and over all, the radiance of sun, the sense of gold, its elemental presence.

  The gold reverberated in the frosty glass mugs of beer, the fluted glasses of wine, those liquid shades of sun, and the customers consuming them, absorbing them, taking them into themselves, letting them circulate, being lifted by their magic, taking on their glow, so the gold of the place was inside the people as well as the room, and Perry felt a part of it, felt it a part of him, not just a visitor now or a tourist, but participant. One of them.

  To make it complete was Ravenna, across from him, golden girl, or once a girl grown into goddess now, of this time and place, rising queen resplendent as the light glistened from her long gold hair and smooth gold skin, and she fluently spoke the eloquent, lullaby language of the realm.

  “Two hundred thousand, maybe two-fifty, for an overall deal in television with a studio, for a year, I could get you that tomorrow, whenever your own show’s over or your contract is up, whenever you want.”

  “Wow.”

  The innocent word popped out before he could restrain it.

  “But you wouldn’t want that,” Ravenna revealed.

  “I wouldn’t?” he asked, wondering. “I mean—well, it sounds OK—but hey—how would I know?” he asked, fumbling.

  “You’d have to be ‘exclusive’ to that studio,” she explained. “You wouldn’t be able to entertain offers from anyone else, so
your hands would be tied for a year, just for the guarantee of two-fifty.”

  “Oh—well, hell,” he sniffed, shook his head, sighed at the narrow escape, the seemingly golden trap that would have closed on his God-given, constitutionally guaranteed freedom to make more than a mere quarter million in one precious year.

  “I don’t want to jostle the Vardeman deal, let’s leave that stand as is.”

  Ravenna had of course immediately understood and approved Perry’s decision to give the option to his story “The Springtime Women” to a proven producer of power like Vaughan instead of risking it with Ned Gurney. She was happy to handle the whole matter, including, if need be, explaining to Ned why he wasn’t going to get the rights, when the time came. She was also dying to meet the Vardemans.

  “If Vaughan gets that off the ground,” she said, “as I’m sure he will, and you have that credit under your belt, we’ll be talking two-fifty, three for your next feature script.”

  Two-fifty, three?

  Let’s see. It took two months to write a two-hour pilot, which is about the length of a regular feature film, so—well, figuring it would take more time, a feature after all was an art form, a goddam film, you wanted a little leeway, a little creative breathing space, so double that, say it took four months to do the script, well, you could turn out three a year, which at two-fifty, or three—

  Wheee!

  Three-quarters of a million, or better still, at the higher rate, which by then would be only deserved, $900,000, or almost a mill—

  million a year—

  meant—

  millionaire—

  me!

  He raised his glass, the cool gold kissing his lips, gold reflecting back from her shimmering hair, gold pouring in through the windows, shining in the glasses of wine and beer, paving the sawdust floor, golden, gold, up and down and all around, everywhere.

  A millionaire needs a staff.

  Poor old Charlie Brindle didn’t understand such things. Ravenna not only understood it was necessary, she understood how to do it, whom to hire.

  The best.

  Reg Melman, the powerful young attorney whose silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist and array of gold chains around his neck made him seem to Perry as if he might be able to grab a microphone and entertain a Vegas nightclub audience with ease, was way overbooked with clients, but as a favor to Ravenna was willing to take on Perry, not even charging a fee but simply taking five percent of all entertainment earnings. That meant Reg had confidence in Perry’s earning potential, or the five percent would hardly make the paperwork worth his time.