Real

by Merrell Michael

  He sat with Lena in the lobby of the studio while a pleasantly good looking secretary chatted on a headset making what was obviously a personal call. He looked around while he waited. The lobby was much more austere than he had imagined, with no evidence of all the blockbuster motion pictures that had crossed the company's emblem over the years. There were people milling around in what very well might have been stylish suits, although what passed for stylish these days Sam really had no idea. No one he knew wore a suit at all. The secretary said. "Mister Leiksmith will see you now." And it took Sam a minute to realize that she was talking to him.

  It turned out that there was an entire wing of the building that simply changed shape, so that Sam was no longer in the vestige of corporate cubicle drones, but in a bright area with plenty of sunlight, strange stunted trees and cobblestones under his feet. There were several ponds nearby filled with what looked like oversized goldfish, which, after the secretary deposited him in the garden and left him there, Sam spent a few minutes staring at, in the absence of any other form of entertainment.

  "Their called koi." A well-tanned older gentleman in a bright red robe told him. "They’re from Japan."

  "And that's a Kimono?" Sam asked, correctly identifying Leiksmith wardrobe. He smiled broadly, and from the condition of his teeth and the state of his robe Sam drew a brief flashing image of Hugh Hefner during his inglorious decline.

  "Do you mind standing?' Leiksmith said, ignoring Sam's question.

  "No, that's cool."

  Leiksmith took a deep breath and blew it out. "I've often found that standing stimulates the creative juices. Helps the chi in the room, and improves stability." He raised an eyebrow. "Unless you have something to give me. If you have something to give me, I have a desk for that."

  "No." Sam said, "I mean, my agent, he didn’t, uh, tell me to bring anything. So I didn’t."

  Leiksmith smiled in a way that must have been implied to be sage. Up close like this Sam could tell the subtle signs of plastic surgery. Pretty good plastic surgery, but it was still there. "I read the book." He said.

  "Okay." Sam said.

  "You didn’t know I was a reader."

  "No, I uh...sure didn’t."

  "Mostly scripts." Leiksmith said. "And that’s no fun. It’s all tent pole stuff these days. And then, it’s all a race to see how much of that flashy computer shit they can stuff into two and a half hours." He wagged a finger at Sam. "When I started this business...Christ, what year were you born?"

  "Eighty-two." Sam said.

  "Eighty-two." Leiksmith mused. "By then it was already too late. Spielberg and Lucas came along and fucked everything up. But ten years before that? The seventies? We were making art, man. If you want to make art these days, you get no budget for it. If you want a budget, it’s got to be a tent pole, and the real star of the show is that flashy computer shit."

  Sam nodded, only barely following along.

  Leiksmith laughed. "It's okay." He said, "I'm like this with everybody, even just the writers. Treat everybody the same, that's what I believe. I wanted you to hear it from me, because I like you."

  "You do."

  "I mean, I like what you write." Leiksmith said. "What you wrote. It spoke to me. And it’s cool, that you weren’t" He made air quotations with his hands "Actually in the war. There's this old thing we optioned, the Red Medal of Courage, about, I mean, that this guy wrote the Civil War. And he was never actually in the Civil War, the conflict I mean." Leiksmith tapped the side of his head. "He was just using all this to create something. That's what creating is, man. It’s empathy to the harmonies of the universe, and what goes on in real people’s lives, and I dig that shit."

  "Thanks." Sam replied.

  "So..." Leiksmith said. "I have two things to tell you. And I guess we could factor this into the old fashioned model, that good news and bad news scenario, only I don’t believe in those false divisions. What I'm really offering you, is two different types of opportunities." He paused for a minute, and Sam could tell he was supposed to say something. When he refused Leiksmith put his hands up defensively and said, "Okay, okay, here it is. We aren’t going to make your movie."

  "I don’t have a movie." Sam said.

  "I mean your book." Leiksmith said. "Were not going to make it."

  "It’s already published."

  "Into a movie."

  "Fine."

  "I'm getting some hostile energy here." Leiksmith said. "Are you feeling okay? Can I have crystal get you anything? A cucumber wrap, some tonic water? Anything at all?"

  Sam took a deep breath. "Look." He said. "I don’t mean to...I mean, I appreciate this meeting, or whatever, but my agent already told me what was up with the film."

  "Of course." Leiksmith wrung his hands. "Of course he did."

  "Development hell."

  "An ugly term. No Feng shwei in it. The harmonies all misbalanced. And yet it is a kind of purgatory. We acquire certain properties, good properties, fine stories, and these other guys, the marketing guys; they look at it and say, that's not a tent pole. So we try to sell it off to the smaller market types, your indie gurus and your film festival auteurs, they look at it and say, I have my own vision." Leiksmith laughed. "The worst part is we can’t even give it back to you, because God forbid someone else would get a hold of it, and make money! So, its, yeah, it’s in purgatory."

  Sam dipped a sneakered toe in the koi pond. The golden hued fish came up near the surface, sensing the arrival of food.

  "Look." Sam said. "What's the other half of it?"

  Leiksmith fumbled about his kimono, searching for something. "You know what." He grimaced. "We are going to have to go back to my office. I didn’t think we were, but there it is."

  Locksmith’s office was a jarring contrast from the garden outside, although it fit the standard template of Sam's assumptions regarding predatory movie executives. The walls were the same stark white as the rest of the building, the chairs looked uncomfortable, and the desk was unpleasantly modernist in design. Sam could sense the difference between the two. Once was who Leiksmith was, the other was who he wished to be. Everything changed with the man from the moment he entered the room, the way he hunched his shoulders, to the way he muttered "Christ" unhappily.

  "Where did I put it." He said. "That fucking thing." Finally he pointed to the only object on his desk. "You ever hear of the black terror?" He asked.

  "What?" Sam said. "Is that something political?"

  "I know, right? Terrible goddamn name. Have to change it. Look this magazine, it’s really fucking old and shitty, don’t touch it." And from that Sam could tell he was meant to look at the object Leiksmith was pointing at. On the desk was a comic book, golden age from the look of the design, starring a superhero wearing a vampire cape and a domino mask. On his chest was a skull and crossbones from a pirate flag, and he was engaging in single combat with a Japanese soldier who, in modern times, would be considered a very offensive ethnic stereotype.

  "Were getting thin." Leiksmith said. "I mean, when it comes to properties. Disney and Warner Brothers have all the good stuff. This guy, he's in the public domain. So yes, it means that someone else can come along and do their own thing with it, but we're going to snatch all the copyrights...." Leiksmith sighed. "Anyway, your just a writer." He said. "You don’t need to hear all that. Can I bring you in on this thing?"

  "Doing what?"

  "Write a treatment. Give me some fodder that can move this puppy along. Some sort of romance so we can bring in a starlet, and some kind of world ending baddie so we can have lots of that computer stuff." Leiksmith held out his hand to shake. "What about it?" He asked.

  Sam shook the hand, and took the job. He called his agent and got his voicemail, but left a message about it. Then he retrieved Lena from the lobby and asked his car's GPS for the nearest comic book store. What it came up with was something glitzier than he expected, full of mementoes for the latest Marvel comics movie being sold well above his price range.
When he asked for Black Terror, the guy behind the cash register frowned, shook his head, and got someone else. It was like that, back and forth, until finally Sam left with two thin magazines wrapped in polyurethane plastic that had cost him four dollars and fifty cents apiece.

  Back in Santa Monica Sam read both the comic books and felt as if he knew less than before Leiksmith had given him the job. The Black Terror appeared in both of them, but only as a side character, not as the star of the show. A quick Google search later and his apprehension grew nearly into terror. There was very little written on the Black Terror. He had a girlfriend, a sidekick, and powers that mirrored Superman's. He fought Nazi's and Jap's during world war two, and very soon after world war two his comic was discontinued. There was no Silver Age renaissance for the Black Terror, who would most likely be called something else in the event of a Hollywood production, to avoid offending anyone. The entire production seemed like a train wreck from a distance, but there was the promise of a paycheck. Halfway through his reverie he was startled by Lena massaging his shoulders.

  "Are you feeling okay?" She asked.

  "I guess so." He answered.

  "You haven’t said anything to me all day." She told him.

  Sam looked up, startled. "Really?" He asked.

  Lena shrugged. "Just get in the car. After that, we drove around a few places. It was pretty boring, in that big room."

  Sam rubbed his eyes. Had the day gone by already? He was unusually tired. "I'm sorry babe." He said. "Its work stuff."

  "Why did I have to go?" She asked.

  "I thought you would enjoy it." Sam said. "I mean, a movie studio or whatever, I thought that there would be something for you to enjoy. I mean, I just assumed, the business of entertainment, they would have something there to fucking entertain people. And then I had to go to the comic book store."

  "I don’t like comic books." Lena said.

  "What?" Sam asked.

  "I said I don’t like comic books."

  Sam rubbed his eyes. "What makes you say that?"

  Lena shrugged. "You had a bunch of them in a long white box." She said. "I read a few of them one day, and they were all pretty much terrible."

  "What was so bad about them?"

  "The art wasn’t very good." Lena said. "I mean, it’s all a bunch of bright colors, and people in tights. And the stories are awful. If you have a bunch of people in tights, why would they fight with a bunch of other people in tights? Why does that even make sense?"

  "I haven’t thought about it that way before." Sam said. "I guess I just got into them when I was a kid, and never looked back."

  "But you didn’t think when you were older." Lena said. "That okay, this is kids’ stuff, this is dumb."

  "No. I guess I didn’t." There was a moment of silence between them. Finally Sam spoke. "Let me ask you a question. Let’s say that you could like superheroes."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, let’s say that there was some magical way, for you to change your mind. Without even knowing that you had. Would you want that?"

  Lena shook her head. "No."

  "Why not?"

  "I wouldn’t want to be someone who likes those things. I like who I am."

  Lena left and Sam sat alone in his study, thinking to himself. On the one hand the path was clear, he could simply write in the computer

  Lena loved all comic books

  Or even

  Lena loved superhero comic books

  Or possibly

  Lena was interested in the creative side of graphic novels, even when they didn’t personally interest her

  And the matter would be settled. He had done it before, a dozen times. Sam was personally very attached to superheroes, more than he cared to admit to a critic. They had been a fundamental part of his childhood. And shouldn’t his mate share that love? Shouldn’t he want to share that enjoyment, with her?

  On the other hand, Lena had expressed something beyond mere hostility at the idea of comics, and brightly colored fantasy heroes. She had told him that she didn’t see that in herself. More importantly that she liked who she was, the way she was, and she didn’t want to change. Was she aware when she did so? Was some part of her mind subconsciously aware whenever Sam rewrote her, for whatever reason, and added or subtracted to his choosing? The more Sam sat and thought, the larger the questions grew. What was inside Lena's mind, really? Was she a person at all, a mate, or simply a puppet for him to control?

  Sam grew frustrated. He looked out the window at the beach. He still liked his view, but not as much as when he had first moved her. You could get tired of anything, given enough time, even paradise, or the Californian equivalent thereof. The worm had hatched in his brain. Sometime in the future he would even tire of Lena, tire of her compliance, of her.....whatever she was to him. But what would he do then? Perhaps he would simply write her out of being. Uglier thoughts blossomed. He could have her commit some form of suicide, something spectacular and romantic. The golden gate bridge was always popular. Then he wouldn’t have to tire about her. She would be his forever.

  "Are you bored?" Lena knocked on the door, smiling shyly. "I thought maybe if you were bored, we could, you know, do something."

  Brief moments later lying in bed next to her naked, his passion cooling, Sam felt ashamed. Something was seriously wrong with him, for the way he thought about Lena. If she wasn’t her own person, she certainly felt and acted like one, and seemed enough like the real thing to split the difference. He was going to be more careful about her, going forward, and try not to cause her any harm, intentional or otherwise. Whether she was his property was an irrelevant question, she was his creation, and he owed a debt to that fact.

  They had dinner with Jesse that night. Sam had written earlier that Lena was a fabulous cook, practically a gourmet chef, and she had spent nearly all day in the kitchen getting ready. As she was doing so, and as Sam and Jesse were sharing a little too much of a bottle of wine, Sam came clean and told Jesse everything. Jesse's reaction was to be expected.

  "Prove it." He said.

  Sam paused in front of his laptop. "Do you speak a foreign language?" He asked.

  "No. What does that have to do with anything?"

  "I was going to have her speak something to you."

  "Like in Spanish, or French, or whatever."

  "Yeah."

  "But that proves nothing."

  "It doesn’t?"

  "No. It’s like when the magician asks for volunteers from the audience, and it’s his assistant. You set the terms and you dictated how they would be successful."

  "So, what would prove my point."

  "Obviously, if I were to set the terms."

  "Which are?"

  "Type in that she lactates breast milk."

  "Really."

  "No, wait. Type in that she lactates breast milk, and can ejaculate that stuff across the room."

  "What the hell."

  "I would like to see that."

  "I have serious misgivings about this."

  "Are you telling the truth or not."

  Sam typed on his laptop, shaking his head. As soon as he was done Jesse called Lena in the room. She responded, smiling. Smiling back Jesse asked, "Can we see that thing you can do with your tits?"

  After it was done, and the lactose staining the far wall seemed to ooze down in an unnatural way, Sam saw that Jesse was standing there with his mouth open. Finally he lit a cigarette with a shaking hand and said with a quiver in his voice, "That was downright fucking disgusting."

  Sam nodded, though he wasn’t sure entirely what he thought of the matter.

  "It was like a donkey show." Jesse said. "Like some weird crap you would find in Mexico, with some dumb whore so strapped up on junk that she'll do anything. Why did you let her do it?"

  "You asked for it." Sam said.

  "I had no clue." Jesse said. "I mean, I thought you were full of crap, so I asked for the dumbest thing I could think of. You were the
one that knew what was going to happen. Jesus Christ, man, that's your fucking girl were talking about."

  "But you believe me." Sam said.

  "I out to slap the shit out of you." Jesse said, with far more hostility than Sam had realized existed in the man, "Doing that to her. That's like mutilation."

  "I can erase it." Sam said, moving over to the laptop. "It won’t happen again."

  "You need to do better than that." Jesse said. "You need to make it so she doesn’t remember any of this happened. That you did it like this."

  Sam wrote, not looking at Jesse as he did. There was something of the bully in the other man, Sam realized, when he was provoked. For the rest of dinner none of them talked about anything serious, just a little small talk here and there. Finally they ending things on the patio chairs staring at the beach. It was dark out and the waves took an ominous tone, or rather they would have, if not for the carnival sounds of the nearby boardwalk.

  "I'm sorry I blew up earlier." Jesse said.

  "Forget it." Sam offered.

  "You know I got dumped, during my second deployment, right?" Jesse said.

  Sam nodded.

  "I shouldn’t have gotten married." Jesse said. "She was too young, and I was too young. There was no kid involved, or anything. But after the first time I went over there....you start thinking, right? Who's going to be waiting for me. And if it’s no one, that's a hole in the gut that gnaws at you. So I got myself involved and I shouldn’t have."

  Sam said nothing.

  "We fought a lot." He said. "Right before the deployment. I was drinking heavy, which at the time was no big deal, because fuck it, everyone I knew drank. But she noticed. And it was one thing after another. I could tell things were strained just by the way she sounded when I called her, like she was forcing it, or hiding something, or both. When she didn’t write for a month and then sent me the letter, I knew what was going on."