Bleak

by Lynn Messina

  Harry is silent for a long while. “Well, I think you have your answer.”

  I was afraid of that.

  I rest my head against my palm and close my eyes, suddenly nauseous. I might as well get used to it, since the sick feeling isn’t going to go away any time soon. “You don’t think I’m crazy?” I ask.

  “I think you’re a lot of things. Smart, talented, the author of a brilliant script, destined for greatness. But crazy? No, that’s not on the list.”

  He says it so simply, so sincerely, it’s impossible not to believe him, and after we pay the check and leave the restaurant, I find it’s also impossible to break up with him. My intentions remain the same, and when he suggests we go back to his place, I make up an excuse to avoid being alone with him. I know it’s not right or fair to lead him on, but it seems far worse to break up when he’s been so sweet and supportive. I’ll wait a day or two, then try again.

  Before we say good-bye, he gives me the name of a lawyer and tells me not to sign anything without having someone look at it first. “In this business, you can’t be too careful.”

  His concern is so sweet, I kiss him on the cheek, then wiggle out of his grasp before he can do more. The traffic on Sunset is fierce, and the ride home takes three times as long as it should. By the time I pull into the Bleak Lofts parking lot, I’m angry and annoyed at every other driver on the road and the few pedestrians I saw who don’t know how to cross the street and the guy at the gas station who took twice as long as necessary to pay the cashier and with Simon, especially Simon, who doesn’t believe in me one-tenth as much as Harry does.

  Day 1,326

  Solution Pictures’ office is tiny and spare, more like a one-room studio in Manhattan than the center of a burgeoning moviemaking empire. On the back wall is a huge calendar covered with names and dates. Beside it are headshots of actors, with their résumés posted underneath. Abel Fiero’s cocky grin is dead center.

  The floor is a speckled linoleum that’s seen better days, but it’s clean and unscuffed. In fact, the whole office is remarkably tidy for such a small space. There isn’t a stray sheet of paper to be seen. Manila folders are neatly piled on the top of a black filing cabinet, and promotional brochures are stacked on the small side table in the waiting area. Above two reception chairs is a sign that says, “Solution Pictures: The Cure for the Common Movie.”

  Tulk is already there when I arrive. “Come in, Ricki. Don’t be shy,” he says, leading me into the room. There are three desks. One for Joshua Smallweed, one for his assistant and one for the receptionist, Loretta, who only works Monday, Wednesday and Fridays.

  “The rest of the time we let the machine pick up,” she says as she holds out a coffee cup that reads world’s best producer on it.

  I’m too nervous to drink anything but I accept it gratefully. At least now I have something to clutch in a death grip.

  Joshua steps forward and extends his hand in greeting. He’s a tall man, well over six feet, rail-thin, with shaggy black hair falling to his shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard. He’s older than I thought he’d be. From his limited credits, I assumed he was late twenties early or early thirties but clearly this is a man in his forties.

  His firm handshake is oddly comforting, and I feel some of my anxiety, made worse by the dingy office, ebb. Surely the sparse workspace is a good thing. Why waste capital on creating a showplace when you barely have enough to pay the actors? There are better things to spend your money on and it’s good that Solution recognizes it.

  Still, I wish it didn’t look so fly-by-night. Without the heaviness of clutter weighing it down, it feels like a CIA front, the type of place that can be dismantled and reassembled in another part of town within twenty minutes.

  Joshua tells me to take a seat and hands me one of Solution Picture’s brochures. While Tulk drags over a chair from the reception area, I skim the pamphlet, which has much of the same information as the website, mostly earnest pronouncements on the importance of good filmmaking. Joshua Smallweed still believes in the magic of the movies.

  “You’ll have to excuse Amity Jarek, my story editor,” Joshua says. “She has a meeting this morning with a potential funder that she couldn’t reschedule. She’s sorry to miss you, as she’s a big fan. She’s the one who insisted I read How Tad Johnson Got into Harvard. She gave it great coverage. But I think she was inclined to love it, considering how much she enjoyed Jarndyce and Jarndyce. It’s a great book, by the way. We’ve all read it here and think it will make a great movie. We can’t wait to see it.”

  I close the brochure, put it on my lap and wrap my hands around the coffee mug, savoring the warmth. All of a sudden I’m shivering. I know it’s just nerves, but I can’t make it stop. “Thank you.”

  Tulk places the chair next to mine and crosses his legs. “Shall we get started?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to skip over all the gushing that’s customary in meetings like this and cut to the heart of the matter,” Joshua says, leaning a hip against his desk. From my sitting position, he seems even taller. “Here at Solution, we don’t like to think of ourselves as Hollywood. We like to pretend we’re based on a small Midwestern city like, say, Duluth, with old-fashioned values and real people. At Solution, we often say people are our greatest asset. That means you are our greatest asset. Growing your career means growing our business, and we want to develop a relationship with you to our mutual benefit. We don’t want to take what we can get from you and throw you away. That’s what we like to call studio think. We’re the anti-studio. We keep the process streamlined and efficient. We like to think of ourselves as aerodynamic. Here at Solution Pictures, we can fly.”

  “That’s a great slogan,” Tulk says. “Have you thought about using it in your brochure?”

  Joshua smiles. “It’s being silk-screened onto T-shirts as we speak.”

  Tulk nods approvingly. “Dark blue on white?”

  “Light blue on navy. They’re mostly larges but Amity made me get a few baby tees.” Joshua looks at me. “I’ll send you one as soon as they come in.

  “Thanks,” I say, clutching the coffee mug tighter as I imagine the $50,000 T-shirt. God, what am I doing here?

  With the pleasantries out of the way and Solution’s mission well and clearly stated, Joshua gets down to the details of our deal, reminding me with great force exactly what I’m doing here. He hands me a contract, a copy of which Tulk has already marked up.

  For the most part, Tulk is happy with how the negotiations are going. As he’s said many times, it’s a fair offer and Solution has given in on several important points, but there are a few outstanding issues. If they aren’t cleared up to Tulk’s satisfaction, or if I don’t feel comfortable with Joshua for whatever reason, we walk out of here and don’t look back.

  The freedom to say no is the only reason I’m not hyperventilating.

  Tulk’s biggest concern is the turnaround clause. He doesn’t think it’s fair that Solution refuses to allow the reversion of rights when I’m not only the screenwriter but an investor. Joshua makes several arguments about why it’s company policy to never allow reversion but in the end he gives in. Tulk doesn’t gloat but merely moves on to the next item.

  After the endlessness of the J&J contract, after cooling my heels for nine months while Lester and Lloyd went back and forth with Arcadia’s lawyers, it’s a special pleasure to watch the straightforward process of two people hammering out a deal. Tulk proposes, Joshua counters, Tulk amends, Joshua concedes.

  It’s a thing of beauty.

  It takes all morning but eventually we have an agreement. Tulk has managed to get my percentage of the gross up to fifteen percent. Joshua argued that so much is unheard of but Tulk kept pounding home the $50,000 investment. Great risk deserves great reward.

  �
�We’re serious about the producer position,” Joshua says as his receptionist updates the contract. “We think you have a lot to contribute to the process. If you’re willing to deal with the close quarters, we’d love to squeeze another desk in and get you into the office on a regular basis. We can’t offer you much compensation other than pizza for lunch every Friday and tons of free screenings but it’s part of the relationship we’d like to build with you.”

  I’m too consumed by the prospect of investing $50,000 to consider his offer, but I promise to think about it. I’m sure in the end I’ll say yes. The best way to keep an eye on your money is to stay in close proximity to it.

  “Fair enough. If nothing else, you have to come back again to meet Amity. As I said, she was very disappointed she couldn’t be here.”

  The receptionist finishes the contract, prints it out and runs off copies. She hands one to me, Tulk and Joshua. We each read silently. For someone who’s used to reading documents, the language is pretty straightforward. My book contract was more involved, not to mention the movie contract, which went on for seventy-two pages about theme-park-ride and slot-machine rights. The Solution deal is much simpler since they’ve let me keep all those rights. Any Tad Johnson action figures or Happy Meals come through me.

  It’s lovely to be working with the anti-studio.

  Still, I don’t feel comfortable signing. This is all happening too fast. I need to give it to Harry’s lawyer if for no other reason than to put off the moment of inevitability.

  “It looks good to me,” Tulk says, making my heart drop. The least he could do is have one more objection. “But if you want to have a lawyer look it over, I won’t be offended.”

  I take out my phone and dial Archibald Seaville. His secretary puts me right through. After I explain the situation, he asks how long the document is. I check.

  “Thirty-seven pages,” I say.

  He’s silent for a moment. “That won’t take me long. E-mail it to my office and I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

  His answer is entirely reasonable and yet I can’t accept it. The pressure in my chest won’t accept anything less than immediately gratification. Either I do this now or not at all. “Are you sure you can’t look at it sooner?”

  “Well, I did have an appointment just cancel on me. I suppose I could squeeze it in. How about you e-mail me the document and I’ll see what I can do? If it’s straightforward, I’ll have feedback in ninety minutes, two hours tops.”

  Relieved—and yet oddly distressed—I give the e-mail address to Loretta. Then I sit down and watch the second hand travel around the clock for a full minute. Suddenly I feel like I’m keeping a deathbed vigil.

  “This is perfect,” announces Joshua. “We can grab a bite and discuss my notes for Tad Johnson,” he says. “It’ll be our first working lunch, the first of many, I hope.”

  We go to a modest French bistro and I nibble at my salad nicoise as Joshua talks about other projects he’s developing. He orders a bottle of wine to celebrate our partnership but the Chardonnay doesn’t go down any more smoothly than the tuna. I’m too nervous for this.

  While he signs the credit card slip, he talks about the changes he’d like me to make in the screenplay. Realizing my attention is divided, he promises to type them up as soon as possible and send them my way.

  I thank him.

  By the time we get back to the office, Seaville has finished reading the contract and explains his concerns with me. Most of them have to do with my getting my money back if the movie falls through. I put him on speakerphone and listen to him negotiate with Joshua. The head of Solution pictures puts up a good fight but in the end he gives in to all the lawyer’s demands.

  A half hour later, he’s putting the contract in front of me.

  Suddenly I can’t breathe.

  Tulk pulls me aside and says gently, “We don’t have to do this. We can still walk out of here and never look back. We don’t owe them anything.”

  He’s right and knowing he’s right gives me the courage to reach for a pen. Yes, I can walk out of here and never look back. But that’s the cowardly Carstone way to behave. For once, I want to be brave.

  “Nope, I can do this,” I say, more for my own benefit than for his.

  But it has to happen now, right now. If we put this off, I’ll never do it at all. My courage is a fleeting thing.

  I sign the contract and watch silently as Joshua adds his name. Now there’s nothing for me to do but write the check for $50,000. I pick up the pen again and open my checkbook. My hand freezes in the middle of all those zeros but I find the strength to continue. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I hand it over to Joshua.

  He accepts it with a smile. “I’m torn between cashing this check and hanging it on the wall. Because it’s not the money that means anything to me, it’s the faith you have in us—and by us, I mean Joshua Smallweed and Ricki Carstone. We’re going to go far.” He stands up and holds out his hand, which I take.

  Strangely, I don’t feel sick at all.

  Day 1,330

  Glenn arrives on a flotilla of complaints. He didn’t get an aisle seat; his cushion was too thin; the peanuts had a strange curry flavor; he couldn’t see the movie screen because of the large head in front of him; the flight attendant didn’t give him enough water; the baggage carousel was very slow; there were too many people in the arrivals hall.

  From the second he gets into the car at LAX to the moment I pull into the parking lot of Bleak, he goes on and on about the inferiority of air travel. It’s like he’s never been on a plane before.

  Carrie handles it with such good humor, I’m not sure she notices it. Maybe he’s been this way since they got out of the cab in JFK, in which case she’s probably so immune to his whining, she can’t hear it.

  Or maybe I sparked it by asking how the trip was. Engaging in the most basic form of common courtesy is a rookie mistake I won’t be making again.

  As soon as we enter the apartment, Carrie announces she’s taking a shower and disappears into the bathroom, leaving me alone with Glenn.

  “This is a great apartment,” he says, looking out the window toward the courtyard and the billboard advertising a movie with Jack Nicholson.

  “Thanks. Can I get you anything? Water? Lemonade? Coke?”

  “No apple juice?”

  I look in the crisper. “Apples.”

  “Water’s fine,” he says in such a resigned way I feel like another disappointment he has to suffer like a slow luggage carousel or a thin cushion.

  While I’m filling the water glass, I hear Carrie turn on the shower. “I have some cookies if you want. Milanos? Or roasted peanuts. I promise, no curry flavor.”

  Glenn sits on the couch and bounces twice as if to test the springs. “I’m all right, thanks.”

  I put his water on the coffee table and return to the relative safety of the kitchen. Everything is where it should be—no dishes in the sink, no mail on the counter—and I wish I hadn’t cleaned for them this morning so I’d have something to do right now. But there’s no help for it. I have to talk to him. “You and Carrie will take my room. I’ll sleep out here on the convertible.”

  “That’s not necessary,” he says.

  On the face of it, it sounds like a nice, well-mannered, Long Island boy thing to say, but it’s completely devoid of sincerity. It’s entirely necessary.

  “So you’re going to Santa Barbara tomorrow?” I ask.

  “We’re gonna check out a few wineries.”

  I’m not really hungry, but I dig an apple out of the fridge to give me something to do. It’s so awkward chatting with Glenn. I can’t tell if he knows I don’t like him or if he’s just a difficult person to talk to.

  “We’re going to do t
he Sideways tour,” he adds. “I printed out the map. We’ve got reservations for lunch at Los Olivos Café. That’s where Miles, Jack, Maya and Stephanie have dinner.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I say, although it seems pretty lame to follow in the footsteps of a decade-old movie that’s wasn’t even that good.

  “It should be.”

  Silence again.

  I realize it’s my turn. “And Disney the day after?”

  “I’ve never been. I hear they have a system so you don’t have to wait on the really long lines.”

  “Yeah, the fast-pass service. You get a time stamp that tells you when you can go on the ride, so you don’t have to wait.”

  “That’s cool. I hate waiting on lines at amusement parks.”

  “Interesting. Waiting for rides is my favorite part, except for waiting for food. Now that I really love, especially when I’m hungry.”

  Glenn looks at me funny but doesn’t call me on the sarcasm, possibly because he doesn’t recognize it. His tendency toward literalness is why he doesn’t get me or Ruby. He thinks we’re stupid instead of clever.

  While Glenn is trying to come up with something to say, Carrie comes out of the bathroom with wet hair and bare feet. “Wow, I feel so much better. It’s amazing how the smell of plane diesel fuel really clings to you.” She throws herself onto the couch.

  I offer her something to drink.

  “Nope, I’m fine. Fully hydrated from the plane. And no food either. I don’t want to ruin my appetite for dinner. What time’s the reservation?”

  Tonight we’re going to a Japanese spot Simon picked out. It’s replica of a palace situated high on a hill, with excellent views of the city and sumptuous red couches. I think Carrie will like it. The food’s pretty good too.

  “Eight-thirty.”

  Glenn yawns pointedly. “Yikes, that’s late. I hope I can make it with the jet lag and all.”