by Lynn Messina
The more John flatters me, the more my confidence fades. I know nothing about the technical details of a script. For weeks, he’s been lecturing me about multidimensional villains and classic reversals, in which a scene ends in the exact opposite place it starts. The words camera angle never once passed his lips.
Seeing the panicked expression my face, John rushes to reassure me that all readers aren’t so rigid. “Don’t worry. Some will overlook a few structural mistakes if they like the story.”
Now I know he’s only being kind. Readers are the people producers send out scripts to for an initial take, and for weeks John has been pounding into me their importance in the Hollywood system. Rule number one: Coverage runs this town. Any reader worth his salt is just looking for an excuse to consign your work to the dust heap. Don’t give him one.
“You’ve got FinalDraft, right?” John asks.
I nod. I haven’t actually bought the $249 software yet but I intend to.
“Then you’re fine. It’s smart stuff, not as smart as, say, a person who’s been in the business for years and years, but the next best thing. It has all the lingo; you just need to figure out when to apply what. For someone like you, it’s as easy as cake.”
He snaps his fingers to prove his point and looks at me with so much expectation I have to turn away. It’s wonderful that he believes in me so strongly, but I know it’s unfounded. When I submitted J&J to Julie, it was one endless chapter of events and conversations. She broke it up into nineteen separate episodes, which my editor further subdivided until it looked and read something like a novel.
“Really, I can’t wait to see what you do,” John states, bringing the tray of cookies to the kitchen. “It’s going to be fantastic.”
Thoughtful, I watch him put the remaining six back in the pastry box and retie the white-and-red string. He sticks them in the fridge. While he refills the Brita, I consider my options. I can write the screenplay on my own and hope for the best, or I could hire the best.
Sighing deeply, I reach for my bag and pull out the checkbook.
Day 983
As much as I want to take Simon out to thank him for his help in feeding and entertaining my family, I can’t bring myself to face him. His failure to have his movie made—which I know isn’t really his failure and yet is somehow inimitably his—is a constant reminder of how fragile my own success is. In this town, everyone has the same story. Agents and producers and studio execs swear up and down that their film will happen. They hold meetings, revise scripts, hire actors, plan budgets. And then it doesn’t happen. Then it’s over, gone, not a trace remains, and you’re left wondering if you imagined the whole thing.
I’ve heard the same sorry tale a thousand times since moving here, and with each retelling I have to work harder and harder to insulate myself. It’s their story, not mine. Mine is different. Mine has a fabulous Boodle’s party, Moxie Bernard and the savviest fairy god producer in Hollywood.
Simon doesn’t say it, but I know he expects me to fail like he did. He doesn’t wish it and would do anything he could to stop it, but he’s marking time until it happens. He has to be. The only way to cope with your own failure is to wait for someone else’s.
We bump into each other in the elevator and he says he was just coming to see me. “It’s been a while. I thought we could go down to the Growlery and you could tell me how the visit went.”
Deeply mortified, I stare at the buttons and try to think of something to say. This is the problem with avoiding people, it feeds on itself, so that after a while you’re avoiding them because you’re avoiding them.
The elevator hisses and pings as it travels from floor to floor. The silence is deafening.
“I was just about to suggest the same thing,” I say with too much enthusiasm. “My treat. All your choices were a big hit. Mom’s still raving about Taylor’s.”
“That’s a relief. When I didn’t hear anything, I was imagining a tapeworm or food poisoning or indigestion at the very least.”
The elevator arrives at the fourth floor. “No tape worms or food poisoning. Indigestion, yes, but that’s just because my dad won’t stay away from the things that set off his GERD. I can’t blame you for that.”
Simon digs out his keys and unlocks the door. “Cool. So fifteen minutes?”
“Sure.”
At the bar, I get a lite beer, which is embarrassing but necessary. Since adopting the car lifestyle, I’ve gained eight pounds. In New York exercise is endemic. You burn hundreds of calories going from your apartment to the subway to your office to the deli on Sixth to the movie theater to your apartment. Here you only go from your car to the front door. Just thinking about it makes my muscles atrophy.
On the plus side, it’s remarkably lovely to wear sexy high heels and not have to worry about your feet being mutilated before you even arrive at the party.
“So what’s going on?” Simon asks.
Since I have nothing new to report on the movie, I tell him about the screenplay I’m writing. “How Tad Johnson Got into Harvard. Overachiever gets wait-listed fifth at Harvard undergrad and decides to whack the four people before him on line.”
“It’s dark. I like that.”
“Yeah, total black comedy. But I know the antagonist still has to be likeable and relatable, so the first death is an accident. He’s just checking out the competition and pushes the guy in front of a car when he trips on a pot hole. He’s totally freaked and feels awful, but that’s where the idea comes from.”
“Does he get away with it?”
“That’s the million-dollar question. I think yes, scot-free. I see the last shot as the camera pulling away from him as he crosses the quad with his L.L. Bean backpack. But John thinks there should be some comeuppance.”
“John?” he asks, taking a sip of his full-calorie Guinness. I watch in envy.
“John Vholes. He’s a screenwriter. You might have heard of him.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard of him,” he says.
His tone is cool and his smile cynical; both make me uncomfortable. “You don’t make that sound like a good thing.”
He shrugs.
I narrow my eyes, unnerved by his response, which is completely unexpected. “If you’ve got something to say, I wish you’d just say it.”
“All right.” He finishes his beer in one thick gulp, puts the empty glass on the table and gestures to the bartender for another. “John Vholes is a mediocre screenwriter who offers his questionable agenting skills for a sizable fee to newbie screenwriters who don’t know yet that they should never pay anyone to read their work.”
Heat suffuses my face, but I’m not sure if it’s anger or embarrassment. Nobody has ever called me a newbie anything before, and the insult of all it implies—gullible, naïve, trusting, dupe—seeps through me. That’s he’s wrong doesn’t make it any better. It’s what he thinks of me that counts. I take several deep breaths and wonder how to respond. I don’t know whose honor I should defend first, my own or John’s.
The bartender delivers a second round of drinks, bringing me another Corona Lite even though I didn’t ask for one. I push the lime into the bottle before responding in a lively, indifferent tone. I don’t want him to know I’m hurt and disappointed. It’s none of his business.
“I don’t know where you got your information from, but it’s completely inaccurate. John Vholes teaches seminars in screenwriting to students of all skill levels, including up to but not excluding experienced, nonnewbie writers. His seminars are informative, educational and practical. I’ve learned as much from him as I would at USC or UCLA in far less time and a fraction of the cost,” I say, my carefree, indifferent tone losing some of its carefree indifference as I warm to my subject. I am far more offended than I originally think. “He�
��s never offered to agent my work for either free or a fee. He’s given me advice, guidance and the best pastries this side of Patisserie Claud on West Fourth Street. He’s a mentor and a friend, not a scam artist looking for an angle, and I resent your implying that I’m too stupid to know the difference.”
I end my speech with a bang, pounding my fist as well as the Corona bottle against the table. The head immediately bubbles up and beers slides over the side of the bottle and onto the table. Not willing to let the spill ruin the effect, I ignore the mess and continue to stare at Simon.
He grabs a few napkins and wipes it up, making me look and feel petulant. “All I’m saying is be careful. There’s an entire industry out here set up to take advantage of people like you—writers, actors, musicians looking for a toehold—and it feeds on hope. For a fee, they’ll make over your image or rewrite your résumé or invite you to parties where the right people are supposed to be. For a considerably larger fee, they’ll get you access to agents, casting directors and studio execs. Everything in L.A. is for sale but success doesn’t have a price tag, so however much you spend, you never get anywhere. And, no, I don’t think you’re stupid. You’re inexperienced. And I know you’re smart enough to recognize the difference.”
He balls the wet napkin in his fist and pushes it to the other side of the table against the wall.
I get it. The industry is full of businesses, organizations and people—all legitimate, which is the amazing thing—that exploit the dreams of struggling artists. Just last week, Wren plunked down four hundred bucks to meet with the casting directors of five soaps: Love & Valor, General Hospital, Days of Our Lives, The Bold and the Beautiful and The Young and the Restless. It’s a workshop, not a job interview or audition, and the vast majority of participants don’t receive offers as a result of these meetings. Wren knows this, and yet she still hands over her hard-earned money.
But understanding where Simon’s coming from doesn’t help. His know-it-all attitude, smug to the corners of his smile, puts my back up. He has a way of making me feel like my experiences aren’t my own, as if they’re mere echoes of things he’s already done. His present isn’t my future, and I’ll thank him to stop acting like it is.
Still, I don’t want to seem defensive so I promise, with quiet dignity, to keep his concerns in mind.
He sees right through me. “You’re annoyed.”
I take a sip of beer and look over his shoulder at a poster for a movie called The Van starring Stuart Goetz. “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” he says, grabbing my hand and squeezing. “You’re sitting there calculating how many minutes it’ll take you to finish your drink so you can walk out and never see me again. Don’t deny it. Your face is very expressive. All right then, I’m sorry. I overstepped my bounds. I wouldn’t have done it but—” He breaks off, shakes his head. “Nope, I won’t say it. See? I’ve learned from my mistakes. You’ve made me a better person. Thank you.”
His expression is such a mixture of eagerness and pride, I can’t help laughing. His reformation is probably as sincere as it is long-lived, but I give it to him. Holding grudges isn’t my strong suit, unless it involves my sister’s boyfriend.
With surprising tact—perhaps he did learn a lesson after all—Simon changes the subject entirely, entertaining me with stories from a recent bachelor party camping trip to Kings Canyon with a group of rank amateurs who’d never set up a tent before. “Once the stripper showed up, it got very Blair Witch very fast. And by that, I do not mean the shaky camera work,” he says.
I finish my beer and the bartender brings me another. Simon’s camping disaster culminates with a pair of flat tires outside Sequoia National Park. I follow that with the story of how my college roommates and I spent three days in Yahoo, Mississippi, with a broken timing belt.
Two hours later, I’ve completely forgotten why I’m annoyed at Simon. He’s kind, funny, smart, easygoing and charming enough to cajole a rattlesnake out of its bad temper.
In my tipsy mood, his disheveled hair and five-o’clock shadow start to take on the sexy appeal of a cologne advertisement. Simon’s a man’s man: woodsy, outdoorsy, self-sufficient, athletic.
At midnight, I push these thoughts aside and suggest we leave. Somewhat unsteady, I hold on to his arm during the ten-minute walk to Bleak Lofts. When we get there, I decide to take the stairs for the exercise but the elevator is waiting and he pulls me into it. The space is small and confined, and I recall how just hours before we’d been in the exact same situation, although then I was avoiding him and now we’re best friends.
When we reach the fourth floor, Simon takes my hand and leads me down the corridor to my apartment. Like a gentleman, he waits until I unlock the front door before going home himself. I tell him he’s really too sweet to exist, but he just laughs and points out that home for him is two feet to the right.
I know he has a point, but it still seems like a mighty impressive courtesy, and I kiss him on the cheek, adding a heartfelt “my hero.”
Simon laughs. “You are so drunk.”
I shake my head and say “nuh-uh,” vaguely aware in some part of my brain that the use of such a juvenile, schoolyard response can only mean total inebriation.
He laughs again and brushes his finger against the tip of my nose as if I am indeed a little girl. “Get some sleep.”
I nod but don’t move. He gently pushes me inside, reminds me to lock my door and goes home. Willfully disobedient, I stand on the threshold for a long while, thinking about Simon.
February 1
The second I hear Lester’s voice, I know. It’s all there in the pitch of his hello, an entire universe of disappointment couched in a single syllable.
Bad news is never delivered; it’s always conveyed.
“The studio passed. They didn’t like the script,” he says, his voice soft with sympathy. “The project is dead.”
The news hits me in the gut, a sucker-punch straight to the stomach. I can’t breathe.
When I don’t say anything, Lester continues. “I still have high hopes for Jarndyce, and I’m eager to take it out again as soon as the option lapses.”
My head begins to ache as I force air into my lungs. It makes no difference; I still feel sick.
“The climate isn’t the same, of course,” he adds. “There’s a lot more material like this circulating now, and The Hanging Judge at Midnight is going to be a problem. Before it wasn’t far enough along to cause a conflict, but people might take the attitude of wait and see, which is not necessarily a bad thing. I just want you to be prepared.”
Closing my eyes, I clutch the phone in my both hands. He wants me to be prepared. What a joke. “I don’t understand,” I say.
“All right. What can I clarify?” he asks, his usual matter-of-factness reasserting itself as he reverts to the superagent he is.
I struggle to think clearly. At the moment, not a single thing in the whole entire world makes sense; it’s all a glaring Day-Glo jumble of lost opportunity.
“What about Lloyd?” I ask, after a long silence, meaning, What about the party? What about Moxie? What about the sexy new edition of J&J? What about the buzz? What about the IMDB entry? What about Chancery’s grand plans? What about all the promises he made?
Which is really all to say, What about me?
Predictably, Lester answers only the question that was asked. “When a studio passes on a project, a producer has the option of taking it elsewhere. That won’t happen in this case for two reasons. One, the script is worth a half million dollars so whatever studio takes it on would have to first buy the script from the old studio—this is done for copyright reasons—then invest another half million in a rewrite. It’s very unlikely a studio would do that for a project that’s already been rejected. Second, Lloyd has a deal with
Arcadia, which he needs to protect. All his contacts left with the old regime, so it’s as though he’s starting from scratch. Trying to set up the project somewhere else would only offend his new bosses. Now, that isn’t to say he wouldn’t team up with a partner if one approached him. It’s simply that he won’t expend any energy in the next six weeks looking for someone. Lloyd’s done with Jarndyce and Jarndyce.”
Although I hear every word of Lester’s long speech, the only thing that penetrates my stunned brain is the sentence “Lloyd’s done with Jarndyce and Jarndyce.” It repeats in my head like a security announcement in an airport. It has that same note of detached urgency.
I block it out. I have to. It takes up so much room in my mind I can’t think. Lloyd’s done with Jarndyce and Jarndyce. Lloyd’s done with Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
The truth is, Lloyd’s done with me.
I’ve never felt so abandoned in my entire life.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and sort through the rest of the information. There has to be some scrap of hope I can cling to. “Would the script necessarily need a half-million-dollar rewrite? I thought it was good.”
“It has problems. Nobody really likes it,” he says.
A hot spurt of anger surges through me as I latch onto a genuine grievance. I might have dug my own grave, but here’s a concrete example of Lester handing me the shovel. “But you told me they did. You said they liked the script.”