Blind Ambitions

by Lolita Files

“Dang!” the surfer dude chuckled as he handed her one. “I thought I gave you a menu! Like, where’s my mind?”

  Obviously at sea, she thought.

  The waiter stood there with his pad and pen. Waiting.

  “Can I have about five minutes?” Desi asked, uncomfortable with his hovering.

  The waiter chuckled again.

  “Oh! Sure! Dang! Of course! I’ll be back in a few!”

  He darted away.

  “Seems a little slow on the uptake, doesn’t he?” Randall said with a smile.

  “Something’s wrong with him,” she replied as she opened the menu and began to peruse it.

  Desi loved The Cheesecake Factory. Loved practically everything about it. Except for one annoying factor: the menu. It had too many choices, and, being the true Libran that she was, while she could make critical decisions without hesitation, when it came to making decisions about things like movies or meals, when there were too many options to choose from, she was always stymied and overwhelmed.

  She nipped to the first page, appetizers, and was just about to scan the list, when the waiter suddenly reappeared.

  “You guys ready?” he said, beaming, pen and pad in hand.

  “Goodness,” Desi said, flustered. “I just opened the menu. I asked you to give me five minutes. Is that going to be a problem?”

  “Oh! Dang! No! Cool! Five minutes? That’s nothing! Take your time! I’ll go get you guys some water!”

  He dashed away again.

  Randall was softly chuckling and shaking his head. Desi glanced at him over her menu.

  “He’s something else,” Randall said, studying his menu.

  “I told you, he’s got problems,” she replied, flipping through her menu as well.

  “Here you go!” the surfer dude said, placing the glasses of water in front of them.

  Randall and Desi both looked up simultaneously. No way was he back. He had just left. It wasn’t even twenty seconds.

  “Ready to order now?” He grinned. His pen was poised.

  Desi huffed and slammed her menu shut against the table.

  “Just give me the Jamaican Black Pepper Shrimp,” she said, disgusted. “With a glass of Paradise Tropical Iced Tea.”

  She picked up the menu and practically threw it at him.

  The surfer dude, oblivious to her annoyance, was scribbling away, but managed to catch the menu, a vacant smile on his face.

  “And you, sir? What’ll you be having?”

  Randall, also irritated, leaned in towards Desi.

  “Are you sure that’s what you want? Don’t just order something if it’s not what you really want to get.” He looked up at the waiter. “She asked for five minutes. Don’t you have any concept of time?”

  The surfer dude’s brows rose and his head drew back into his neck.

  “Don’t worry about it, Randall,” Desi said. “I always get the same thing when I come here, so it’s no big deal. I just thought for once I’d try something different, but perhaps I’d better stick with what I know.”

  “You sure?” he asked again, truly concerned.

  “Positive,” she replied, impressed with his sincerity. She felt herself beginning to relax a little.

  He handed his menu to the waiter.

  “Alright, I’ll have the same thing, too. With a frozen Iced Mango.” He looked over at Desi again. “You sure you don’t want an appetizer or anything?”

  “No,” she said, openly smiling. “I’m fine.”

  Don’t I know it, Randall thought. So I know you’ve got to know it, too.

  The waiter scribbled away.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes,” they both responded at the same time. Their eyes met, and they both laughed.

  The waiter laughed, too.

  Desi and Randall both stopped laughing and frowned at him. He caught the hint and abruptly walked away.

  Randall laughed again.

  “I hope he’s as quick with our food as he was quick to press for our order.”

  Desi shook her head, smiling.

  “I don’t know where they got him from. That was a first. The waitstaff here is usually cool, not kooky like this guy.”

  Randall raised his glass of water.

  “Well, here’s to a productive meeting, and the opportunity to discuss business with such a beautiful dinner guest.”

  Desi raised her glass, and he clinked his against hers.

  “Thank you,” she said, “I think. Unless you got me here under the pretenses of business, and this is really a cheap attempt at a date …”

  “No, ma’am!” Randall reassured her. “This is definitely about business. I think, after you hear everything I have to say, you’re going to know that for sure.”

  Desi took a sip of her water and leaned back in her chair, ready.

  “Then, Mr. James, let’s hear it. I want my full celebrity pitch, just like you promised.”

  By the time the Jamaican Black Pepper Shrimp dishes arrived, Randall and Desi were in the thick of conversation.

  There was a slick brochure for Vast Horizons on the table. Desi had already gone through it and learned of Randall’s extensive impressive credentials: double degrees from NYU, one in business and the other for film school. (She’d already asked him why he was working in television and not film. He had film projects already lined up for the production company, he said. His dream had always been to positively change the way African-Americans were portrayed, not just on the big screen, but on the small one as well.)

  Right after college, he came out to LA and, through a friend from NYU, immediately booked a job as a production assistant on John Singleton’s Boyz N the Hood. That job led to other projects and connections, and a chance to show off some spec scripts he’d written. This resulted in a position as a writer at NBC. After a two-year stint writing for three shows, all of which were ultimately canceled, Randall ended up at Massey-Weldon. He was referred by Donald Seltzer, one of television’s top producers and powerbrokers.

  He met Donald, a native New Yorker (which was an instant connection for them both), at a Seinfeld cast party. Someone had pointed Donald out to him, and he went over and introduced himself. They talked. Donald was impressed. So was Randall by Donald’s approachable and candid demeanor, a rarity in Hollywood at any level. He told Randall to give him a call. Randall did, and actually got him on the phone. They did lunch at Donald’s office.

  From that day forward, Donald had been a mentor and industry godfather to him. He offered wisdom, advice, and encouragement. He even schooled him on the realities of the business when it came to people of color. Randall respected his opinion because, even though Donald was white, he had done his share to get shows about people of color on the air.

  Three Emmys later, Randall had no question about the value of Donald’s friendship, expertise, and the contribution the man had made to his burgeoning career.

  At Massey-Weldon, Randall was paired up with a hotshot GQ-handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed writer named Steve Karst. They seemed as different as night and day. Steve was a golden boy from a well-heeled family in Beverly Hills. Randall expected him to be white-bread, but he was nothing of the sort. Hardworking and self-sufficient, Steve loved and loathed the industry. He loved it for the art form and opportunities for creative expression, but he hated it for its prejudices and warped presentation of cultural images.

  Their first project together was to write for a show called Creep, a sitcom about an unlucky man who alienated everyone he met. Neither Randall nor Steve liked the premise but, since both were still relative newcomers and determined to make their mark, did their best to come up with quality scripts. After four well-written but poorly viewed episodes, Creep was canceled. Randall and Steve, however, learned that, as writers, they had incredible chemistry.

  Massey-Weldon also noticed. The two were immediately moved over to write for Stickles, Massey-Weldon’s top-rated sitcom. One season later, the James/Karst combo came up with a kick-ass epis
ode that all of America was discussing the day after it aired.

  The episode, entitled “Spongecoke,” was an instant classic. The wife of the main character, desperate for sex but temporarily short on birth control prevention, poured some cola onto a kitchen sponge and used it for what she thought was a quick solution. Once in place, the sponge went haywire. The bulk of the show was devoted to her discomfort, then attempts at its removal—first by her husband, then her best girlfriend, and, ultimately, the hospital.

  Deemed too irreverent at first by the producers, the actors loved the script and were able to pull it off with just enough raciness to not be censored. It brought Randall and Steve their first Emmy, and their partnership was officially sealed.

  Since then, they’d won two more Emmys for episodes of Westwood, a dramatic series based on LA’s hip community. Randall was concerned because there weren’t any characters of color represented, but he faced resistance from Meredith Reynolds, his boss, every time he insisted something be done. He had lost count of how many meetings he’d been in where he found himself shouting and pounding tables, trying to get someone to listen.

  After one such working session where he’d complained loudly about wanting to write an African-American character into the show, he was pulled aside and privately reminded by Meredith that he didn’t have as much clout as he obviously believed he did. Just because he’d won some Emmys didn’t mean he was irreplaceable.

  “Randall, you can’t keep going off like that in meetings. It makes you stand out, and not in a way that’s favorable to your career.”

  “So what?!” he asked angrily. “Am I supposed to not say anything while I’m surrounded by institutional racism on a daily basis? This is bullshit!”

  Meredith pursed her lips together, annoyed.

  “You don’t seem to understand,” she replied. “There aren’t many African-Americans behind the scenes in television. Only a handful. But there’s plenty of them on the outside, just itching to get in.”

  Randall was silent.

  “They would be happy to be here,” she stated, “just to have the chance to work.”

  She locked gazes with him, hoping he understood the full gist of her words.

  It was a threat. Not even a veiled one. Either pipe down or ship out.

  “Look, Randall,” Meredith sighed, “I’m not saying that what you want doesn’t make sense. But it’s best to do it slowly. Right now, people like you and Paris Barclay are winning Emmys. Use that power the right way. Don’t just set it off like a bomb in people’s faces. Timing is everything.”

  “Paris Barclay is getting to develop his own shows,” Randall countered. “He has the chance to make a difference.”

  “But you’re not him. Your time will come.”

  “My time is here. You and everyone else refuse to see it.”

  Meredith was unrelenting.

  “America can’t instantly accept black faces into their homes,” she commented, honestly believing her own words. “It has to be done gradually, and be a true reflection of how things really are in the world.”

  Randall had wondered which world she lived in, where black people weren’t walking around functioning as regular members of society on a daily basis. Maybe her world was like the New York on HBO’s Sex and the City, where, amazingly, the characters never seemed to run into or associate with black people. Randall realized that the only person of color coming into safe, secure Meredith’s Hollywood Hills home was probably her maid. She had no idea or concern that the world around her was changing, and that the so-called minorities were now becoming the American majority.

  “What about people like Yvette Lee Bowser, Susan Fales-Hill, and Tim Reid? They’ve been executive-producing shows and carving the way for a while now. They’re making changes.”

  “But not enough for America to notice,” she answered. “Like it or not, Randall, the face of television is white. I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m just saying that’s the way it is. The best we can do is color that face in a little at a time. But you can’t just spring it on viewers all at once.”

  Meredith, he ultimately realized, was off her rocker, just like most of the white producers and studio heads in their lofty ivory towers. They had no idea what was going on in the world around them, and still insisted on white-washing everything on the air. African-Americans had been happily welcomed into the homes of a variety of viewers ever since The Cosby Show successfully depicted the diversity of the culture. Randall and Steve knew it was time for them to leave Massey-Weldon.

  They also knew that, whether Meredith believed it or not, they did have enough clout to make a difference.

  The final straw was when he and Steve pitched a dramatic series to Meredith that they knew would help change the face of prime-time television. It wasn’t an all-black series, but an LA-based drama that involved a variety of cultures connecting through a common setting.

  Ambitions was the story of five people. The central character, a sexy, sophisticated African-American woman in her thirties, was the owner of a popular upscale restaurant that catered to a high-powered clientele. Just ending a long-term relationship, she was cautiously putting herself back on the market and coming to grips with what it meant to be a successful single black woman looking for a partner. Her best friend, also African-American, was just beginning her second marriage amidst a maelstrom of controversy with her children and extended family. The conflict was over her choice of a husband, a prominent white plastic surgeon with a successful practice in Beverly Hills. The other two characters, a twenty-five-year-old white singer and a Chicano percussionist, both of whom played in the band at the restaurant, were slowly becoming romantically involved.

  Meredith’s expression as she listened had been stone.

  “It won’t work,” she announced, once they finished their pitch. “The demographics are too crazy. Who’s your audience? Teens? Twentysomethings? Thirtysomethings? What? Is it Dynasty 2000? Melrose Place Revisited? I can’t tell what this is. And it’s entirely too much color. This is not what I meant when I said do it gradually.”

  She rifled through their presentation packet, picking it apart.

  “It reads like a daytime soap. Look at this. You’ve got Mexicans in here. Who wants to see a Mexican storyline? Mexicans aren’t everywhere. They’re really only found in California, Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. The rest of the country won’t get it.”

  Randall and Steve, amazed, glanced at each other as she prattled on.

  “And the lead character is a black woman. That definitely won’t fly, not unless it’s a comedy. You’d have to work it so the plastic surgeon was the central figure, but I doubt if that’s a compelling enough storyline. Middle America will kill a show like this after the first few episodes. What’s in it to make them commit? They simply won’t be able to relate.”

  What got Randall was that Meredith was so comfortable with him that she didn’t even bother to consider if he, as a black man, found her words offensive.

  “I’m just telling you like it is,” she continued. “That’s the way of this industry. The public doesn’t want to see dramatic shows about people of color and the white people who mingle with them. Not unless the show is primarily white. Maybe, just maybe, if this were a cop show, you might be able to pull it off. But not like this.”

  “How does this industry know?” Randall argued. “No one’s ever given a drama with a black person in the lead enough of a chance to find out. This one will work precisely because it is so diverse. It has something for everyone. It’s a real show about real people doing real things. Sure, some of them are wealthy, but some of them aren’t. Because the demographics are so wide, that’s exactly the reason it’ll succeed.”

  “It’s too risky,” she said flatly, tossing the packet back across the desk at them. “Too much diversity scares people. I don’t care what you might be seeing in all those Gap commercials or on videos on MTV. Those are just thirty-second spots and three or four minutes of singing.
It might work in those formats, but not for prime-time programming.”

  Both men glared at her as she carelessly dismissed them.

  “Bring me something with some teeth in it. Something young, hip, and fresh. Not too rainbow. Something where we can ease the color in a little at a time. Then we can talk.”

  Randall snatched up the packet, and he and Steve walked away.

  “As a matter of fact,” she called out, “leave that with me. I always like to keep a record of projects people come to me with.”

  Randall handed the packet to Steve to give to Meredith. He stood by the door and waited, the urge to strangle her almost overpowering. Steve tossed the packet onto her desk, and the two of them, disgusted, stormed from her office.

  A week later, they were having another meeting. One that took several phone calls to make happen, but, with some strings pulled here and there, it was finally taking place. This time, the response was positive.

  When they walked away, they had an official partner and financing for their production company. Dawson “Jet” Jonas, the legendary former running back for the Los Angeles Lords, had agreed to come on board. Since his retirement, Jet had amassed a half-billion-dollar empire of real estate and franchises, and was now ready to branch out into entertainment. He had run into Randall several times over the course of the past five years, and the two had a casual friendship.

  The challenge had been talking Jet out of insisting the company be called Jet Jonas Entertainment. Randall and Steve assured him that their names would not be in the company title, either. After they explained to him their goals for Vast Horizons, along with their plans to reshape the face of television and film, Jet was excited. It fit perfectly with his own agenda for becoming a formidable, permanent part of the Hollywood landscape.

  Jet agreed to use part of his real estate as collateral, and to flex his clout with banks to garner start-up capital in the amount of one hundred million dollars. All this in exchange for fifty percent of the company. They haggled with him, negotiating for a three-way, thirty-three-and-a-third partnership split. Sure he was bringing capital, Randall acknowledged, but they had talent and know-how. The conversation had gone back and forth until Jet finally agreed.