by Lynn Messina
And why do I have to work so hard anyway?
What is the studio really buying? With J&J it was just the premise. Obviously with Moxie Bernard lined up to play the title character, Chancery Productions wasn’t sticking to my original story. Why can’t producers do the same thing with How Tad Johnson Got into Harvard? Why can’t they buy the core idea and rework it until it fits their demographic vision? They’re going to rewrite it anyway. Simon calls it ego, John professionalism. But it doesn’t matter. The bottom line is no script goes to production in its original form. So why does my screenplay have to be perfect when so many other aren’t?
It’s a question without a satisfying answer, one of the infinite things in life that comes down to the arbitrariness of the universe. I might as well ask why the sky is blue.
Confused, exhausted and discouraged, I trudge into my bedroom and pull back the spread. Too tired to brush my teeth, I peel off my jeans before climbing under the covers and laying my head down across from the window, where the poster for yet another film with catastrophic coincidences and little reality shudders, breathes and mocks.
April 21
John says the solution to my problem is the three Cs: cancer and community college.
“This is par for the course,” he says when I show at his door step distraught.
Far from bringing wise counsel, a good night’s sleep has only brought panic. All I can think is, if my life is tied up in my script and if my script is shit, then my life is shit.
Finally, a logic equation I understand.
Bring on the LSAT.
John invites me into his apartment and takes full responsibility for my condition. “I should have warned you,” he says, offering me a cookie. Thank God, there are cookies. “Agents are always rough on the first go-around, even if they think the draft is decent. Everything can stand to be made better.”
The possibility that Tad Johnson might not be totally useless is the first positive thought I’ve had in twenty-four hours. “Really?”
He nods emphatically while chocolate chip crumbs fall into his beard. “Certainly. Some can be perfect monsters about it. You should hear the conversations I have my agent. He doesn’t even bother to lead with the positives. You know, a few token things he likes. It’s just—bam, this is what sucks.”
“Ouch,” I say, flinching. My experience with Lester was too similar for comfort.
John shrugs. “Rule number one: It’s a business. Nobody’s here to hold your hand. As long as they can make money off you, they’re interested. The second they can’t, they’re done. It’s the way it works. Everyone’s like that.”
I take a deep breath and sigh. I’m really not cut out for this.
“Don’t worry,” he says, “you’re still in the money category. If Lester Dedlock thought your script had no potential, he wouldn’t have called you. Six months from now, you would have sent him an e-mail saying, Hey, what’s up with that script I sent you, and he would have ignored it completely. So bad news is good news.”
Slowly but surely, Hollywood is turning into opposite land. Everything bad is good and everything good is bad. It’s a hard concept to wrap your head around. I understand how things sometimes aren’t what they seem and the appeal of willful misunderstanding but not the complete reversal of societal norms. “All right.”
“As far as your script goes, I think some of his concerns are legitimate and I have ideas about how to address them.”
“Really?” I ask, afraid to believe him. I came here this morning determined to leave it up to fate. If John said my script was past help, I’d go back to New York, pass the LSAT, become a lawyer and take the 7:04 out of Norwalk every weekday for the rest of my life. At some point, you have to move on.
But if John thought there was hope, I’d pay him any amount to fix it.
I don’t realize until this moment, when it’s curtain number two, how terrified I am of returning to my old life.
“Absolutely. Your agent hasn’t said anything I haven’t heard before. Actually, they all say the same thing. They learn it at agent camp.”
“Great. And how much does the second revision cost?” I ask with trepidation. Although still remarkably relieved not to have to return to Connecticut, I’m not immune to the fact of my poverty.
John contemplates me quietly for a full minute. “Oh, what the heck! Because you’re my favorite student and I think your story has real potential and I know you’ll recommend me to others when you get the chance, I’m going to give you a deal. Only one thousand dollars.”
I’m grateful for his generosity, but I don’t quite see the deal. “The other courses cost one thousand too.”
“Yeah, but they were beginning classes. Second revision is advanced. Because the framework of the script has already been establish, the possibilities are limited, which makes it more of a challenge. So I charge fifteen hundred. But I like you and know you won’t rat me out to anyone.” He winks.
Feeling equal parts grateful and apprehensive, I write him a check for a thousand dollars, quickly calculating how much interest I’m losing with the withdrawal. Compounded over ten years, it’s a significant amount but there’s no help for it. Spending my inheritance isn’t the worst thing in the world; falling short of my potential is.
Besides, as soon as I sell the script, I’ll put the money back. My parents will never even know.
John takes the check and hands me another cookie. “Bon appetit,” he says. “Now, as far as your agents notes go, the concern we should address first is character. I told you at the onset that likeability was going to be an issue here.”
I don’t remember him saying anything so specific or emphatic but I let it go. “All right. How do we fix it?”
“Community college,” he says with a hint of triumphant.
The genius is escaping me. “Community college?”
“We take away Tad’s safety school and introduce the looming threat of Tukawa County Community College, the worst community college in the entire country. There’s no way he could get into Harvard, or any Ivy league, from there, even with his perfect SATs and ten AP credits. Without strong undergrad, he won’t get into one of the nation’s top law schools, which means he won’t get a federal clerkship when he graduates or work his way up to a chief justice of the supreme court. In a flash, he sees his entire future crumbling. This is the one moment on which everything else depends. He must get into Harvard.”
As he talks, I feel the old excitement return. This idea isn’t so dead. “That’s really good.”
John takes a small bow. “As for Maryanne, we turn her benign cyst into full-on ovarian cancer. Rule number one: Everyone loves a cancer patient.”
“That’s it?” I ask, surprised. It seems too simple.
“Absolutely. Nothing makes a character more real than a little suffering. Trust me, Lester will love it. And if he doesn’t, you should think about finding another agent. Don’t get too caught up in a sense of loyalty. It’s all one-sided. Like I said, Lester would dump you in a heartbeat if he thought he couldn’t make any more money off you.”
“I’m not sure I’m ready for that,” I say honestly. The thought of finding new representation is overwhelming. I wouldn’t know where to start. Google “Hollywood agent”?
“Don’t worry. I’m here to help if it should come to that. I know some people who know some people. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. As I was saying, ovarian cancer is the way to go. She’ll have a cute, pixie Audrey do, which we’ll later learn is because of the chemo.”
“Lester said the coincidences have to go,” I say, still mildly resentful, “so how will he find out she’s sick?”
“He figures it out when her wig falls off just as he’s about to shoot her. He discovers she’s dyi
ng and he can’t bring himself to kill her. He lets her live and keep her slot at Harvard, which he thinks of as his.”
“And when he sucks it up and goes to Tukawa, it’s a testament of his love,” I say excitedly. It’s the perfect ending. I can see the last shot: Tad in flannel walking across Tukawa’s quad, a large cement square with a lone sapling struggling to survive in the center.
“Well, no. He moves to Boston, takes classes for non-matriculated students and enrolls the following year.”
“What?” I ask, recoiling at the eminently sensible suggestion. Nothing like that had ever occurred to me. “Doesn’t that invalidate the whole story? Why doesn’t he just do that in the first place?”
“It’s the surprise twist,” John says with a triumphant smile. “Nobody will see it coming.”
This logic seems shaky to me, but I don’t press it. John is the professional and I’m the rookie who just got bitch slapped by her agent.
I stay another five hours, working out the intricacies of the new plot and adding as much artifice as necessary to make it the realest real. It’s much tougher than I expected and at one point I have such a headache from thinking hard that I want to give up entirely. Suddenly the 7:04 out of Norwalk doesn’t seem so bad.
By the time I leave, I’m drained but happy. The script is in a radical new place. It’s better, stronger, more real. With so much input from John, it doesn’t quite feel like my own anymore but I don’t let that bother me. Film is a collaborative medium.
It’s about time I understood what that means.
April 30
I bring Harry to the Growlery for quiz night because it’s a fun evening and there’s always a chance we might win the thousand-dollar prize. The competition is still stiff but the owner recently instigated a no-technology rule to level the playing field. Anyone caught using an electronic devise is immediately disqualified.
This is the first week it’s in effect and everyone has a new sense of purpose.
Simon and Wren are there when we arrive, and we squeeze into their booth. The bar is so crowded, there’s barely enough room to stand, let alone sit comfortably. A pitcher of beer is on the table and I fill our glasses while making the introductions. Simon is as affable as ever, but he eyes Harry warily.
“You’re an actor,” he says.
Harry laughs easily. “An aspiring personality. I want to be famous for being famous. It seems like a lot less work.”
Wren, whose most recent audition for a midseason replacement series went well enough to break her heart, clicks her tongue. “I don’t know about that. Don’t you need a head start for that? Famous and/or rich parents?”
“No,” Harry says, “that’s to be Miss Golden Globe. For personality, all you need is one inciting event. I have to be held hostage in a bank for nine hours or save a man from getting run over by a train.”
“Or reality TV,” Wren throws in.
Harry shakes his head. “Well, no, then you’re famous for being an asshole, which is a whole nother thing.”
Wren laughs and moves the empty pitcher to the end of the table to get the attention of one of her colleagues.
“So what do you do while you’re waiting to be kidnapped?” Simon asks.
“You know, a little bit of nothing,” Harry says casually.
“Don’t listen to him,” I say, used to his modesty. Pretending he’s not really into it is Harry’s way of dealing with the ups and downs of acting. There are thousands upon thousands like him in the city, striving every day to make it, and he finds it embarrassing to think of himself as one of the struggling multitude. “He works hard.”
Simon isn’t satisfied. “Doing what?”
Before Harry can answer, Molly stops by to pick up the pitcher. “Can I get you some eats? The jalapeno poppers are especially good tonight.”
Wren laughs. “Why? Is Mickie defrosting them differently?”
“New brand. So what will you have?”
After we order chicken wings, mozzarella sticks and nachos, the conversation turns to more general topics as Wren mentions a trip to Vancouver for a bachelorette party. “I can’t afford it but she’s my best friend so I have to go.”
“And treat her to everything she wants,” I say, remembering my cousin’s. It was only to a transgender Chinese restaurant in the East Village and a Broadway show plus a whole lot of bar hopping but it still set me back a pretty penny.
“Speaking of Canada,” Harry says, “the last time I played Trivial Pursuit, it was the Canadian edition—it had a stamp on it that said NOT FOR EXPORT—and most of the questions were Canada specific. Things like which Western Canadian city once had the world’s largest paper mill?”
“Vancouver,” Wren says with conviction.
Harry makes a surprisingly harsh buzzing sound. “We were looking for Powell River, British Columbia.”
“British Columbia. That’s Vancouver, which is what I said.”
Her faulty logic doesn’t impress Harry. “All of Western Canada is in British Columbia, so that’s like saying Western Canada’s largest paper mill was in Western Canada.”
“Which is true,” Wren says.
“But not right,” Harry contests.
Wren refuses to concede the point and they continue to discuss it for some time to their mutual entertainment. Listening to the nonsense, I’m relieved Harry feels comfortable after that shaky start. I know Simon’s pressing him on his job made him uncomfortable. Of late, things have been tight for Harry. When we go out, I pick up the tab because he can’t swing it. Deprecating as always, he makes jokes about being a sponge or a kept man, but I see through him. He’s trying to deflect the nicks to his pride with humor. It’s really very sweet.
Simon’s silence is unusual, and I lean over to ask if everything is all right.
“Fine,” he says. “So how long have you guys been going out?”
I shrug. “A couple of months.”
He nods. “You never mentioned it.”
His tone isn’t the least bit accusatory but I still feel defensive. Mostly because he has a point. I haven’t mentioned it. I’m not sure why other than the moment never seemed right. “It’s not serious,” I say, wondering for the first time why it’s not. Harry’s a nice guy; I like him. We have fun together. Yet there’s something very fly-by-night about our relationship. We crash parties and sneak into movies. How can that be real?
“Where’d you guys hook up?” he asks.
Harry emerges from the Western Canada debate to relate the story our meeting. “It was at the Hollywood release party for Jarndyce and Jarndyce. The very first time I saw her she was standing next to Moxie Bernard having her photo taken and she looked like a genuine, grade-A movie star. Very beautiful. Very glamorous. I was instantly intrigued. Then we got to talking and I discovered she was brilliant too.”
I fight the urge to tell him to stop because I know it will sound coy, but his effusiveness is genuine, grade-A mortifying. I can’t figure out if it’s for my benefit or Simon’s.
“The connection was instantaneous, at least on my side. Then she moved out here, which seems too good to be true. Although I like to think I had something to do with that,” he says with a wink. “I knew she had talent and would excel at anything she did, so I suggested she try screenwriting. I hooked her up with someone I know and as far as I can tell, it’s worked out pretty well.”
Simon seizes on that. “You introduced her to Vholes?” Simon asks, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
I was afraid this would happen. Mine and Simon’s easy relationship rests on the tacit agreement that we don’t talk about John Vholes. I know he thinks I’m a naïve fool to pay him and he knows I think he’s a cynical, sanctimonious, judgmental know-it-all. Not saying t
he words out loud makes them not real.
“Who’s John Vholes?” Wren asks as the loud speaker screeches.
Harry leans forward to explain, but Jody’s high-pitch welcome to the first-ever tech-free quiz night preempts him. She runs through the new rules, which alternately earn her cheers and boos. In the middle of her speech, a cell phone rings and true to her word, the player is immediately disqualified.
“Let that be a lesson to you all,” she says over the applause.
Wren laughs. “She’s been waiting two years to do that.”
The room falls silent as Jody reads the first question. “Who was the first quarterback in the NFL to throw 5,000 yards in a season?”
“Easy,” Harry says and writes down a name on our answer sheet. “This is going to be cake. I wonder what I’ll spend the thousand dollars on first.”
“You mean five hundred,” I say. “We split the kitty, remember.”
He immediately smiles and backtracks—“Well, of course. My half of the thousand”—but his flippant tone makes me look at him twice. Maybe he didn’t want to remember.
Molly brings by our assortment of appetizers and the fresh pitcher. “Sorry it took so long. Things are crazy,” she says, putting down a stack of little white plates and extra napkins. “I’ll be right back with silverware.”
She runs off as Wren takes a mozzarella stick. “I’ve been dreaming about this all day,” she says, her teeth sinking into the melted cheese.
The next question is about Laura Ingalls Wilder and Harry loses some of his confidence. Next to us, Wren scribbles down the number of books Wilder wrote for the Little House series.
As the questions get tougher, the crowd gets rowdier. When Jody takes out her iPod for the name-that-tune portion, someone yells, “Hey, no technology.” Everyone laughs when Jody threatens to hum.
Through it all Simon is quiet and thoughtful. He tells Wren the answer when he knows it but for the most part he keeps to himself. Every so often he looks over at me consideringly and I know what he’s thinking. Harry’s introduction to Vholes is playing in his head, and he has much to say on the topic.