Again: “What are you writing?”
“A TV script,” I say very quietly, hoping Diana won’t wake up, come down to the kitchen, and see me talking to her dog.
“I have an idea for a movie,” Bob says. “Wanna hear it?”
Now I think I’m losing my mind. I can hear Bob talking to me like a human being, totally conversational, as if he does it all the time, except his lips aren’t moving and he’s a goddamn dog lying on the floor looking up at me. I figure, Okay, maybe I’m in some weird late-night zone or maybe it’s one of those crazy dreams where you think you’re awake but you’re actually still in the dream and you don’t know it, because it’s so real. So I figure: That’s what it is, and I’ll go along with it. So in that spirit, I ask him a few questions back—like, how long has he been able to talk?
“I don’t know,” Bob says. “Since I was about two maybe.”
“How come you never talked before?” I ask.
“I talk all the time,” Bob says. “It’s just no one ever heard me before. This is the first time.”
“What about Diana, did you ever try talking to her?” I ask.
“All the time,” Bob says, “but she doesn’t hear me.” Then he tells me again that he has an idea for a movie, and do I want to hear it?
Hey, it’s a dream, right? So I say sure and put down my pad and pencil: Tell me. Now Bob lifts his head up off his paws and kind of leans against the kitchen cabinet, getting comfortable. And this is the story—paraphrased, obviously—he tells me …
It’s called First Dog. It’s about the president’s dog, Bob (who else?), who, through an accidental brush with a top-secret scientific experiment, gains the power of intellect and speech and winds up running for president (and winning) when his master reluctantly leaves the White House after serving two terms.
After Bob wins the election, he slowly begins losing his powers of speech and intellect, reverting, inevitably, to his pure canine nature.
Bob tells me he hasn’t figured it out scene for scene—he doesn’t think he could do that—but here’s some story stuff that’d go into it. Candidate Bob would be challenged in the courts on constitutional grounds: age, species, etc. His lawyers would argue that he’s the right age (in dog years), he’s an American through and through, and that nowhere in the Constitution does it specifically forbid a dog from seeking the presidency.
The case would finally go to the Supreme Court, where the deciding vote would be cast by the most conservative justice, ninety-six-year-old Antonin Scalopini, who sees in Bob the reincarnation of his own beloved dog, Bruce, who is infirm and dying. Amazingly, Bob is legally accredited by the high court, runs for president, and wins in a landslide.
President Bob finds the country is in a total mess, the government’s gone to hell, and in the prevailing atmosphere of cynicism and corruption, Bob re-establishes the sense of dignity, simplicity, and purpose that has, at its best, always defined the American people.
In the course of Bob’s first term in office, he gives inspiring State of the Union addresses, presides over brilliant state dinners, brokers peace agreements between nations, manages to bring out the love in all those nasty senators and congressmen, and brokers consensus in a divided nation. He also finds time to fall in love with a beautiful chocolate Lab named First Lady, and together they bring harmony to the chronic racial divide.
Then, as Bob’s powers begin to fade toward the end of his first term, his aides are terrified that they’ll all lose their power as well. All the worst impulses in these political creatures resurface, and in his last days informed by speech and intellect, Bob teaches them the most valuable lesson of all: that what he’s brought to the country need not disappear just because he’s losing his wondrous powers; that the lessons outlive the dog; that the country can go on to greater good regardless of whether Bob is president or not.
Guilty of the only lie he’s ever told, Bob runs for re-election, knowing he’s losing his chops (as it were) but not telling the American people.
Barely weeks into his second term, Bob passes the mantle of the presidency to the vice-president, who maybe was the White House kennel guy, and in his last coherent speech tells the nation that even though he cannot serve out his term, he won’t be gone. He’ll be there (literally) for the next president’s fireside chats, and even as he loses human intellect, his presence (along with that of First Lady) will be a constant reminder of all they were able to accomplish.
Probably the last scene is something like the inauguration of the next president, with Bob there by his side, just being … lovable, slobbering Bob. FADE OUT …
Okay, now put yourself in my shoes for a minute. You’re sitting in the kitchen, it’s after three in the morning, and your girlfriend’s dog has just told you an idea for an entire movie.
“So what do you think?” Bob asks me. “Does it have legs?” And, I swear to Christ, he kind of chuffed at his own joke.
By now I’m so fucked-up I don’t know what to do, so I tell him, yeah, it’s a pretty good idea, it’s obviously a kids’ movie, Disney maybe, maybe animated, I gotta think about it, maybe we should turn in, sleep on it, blah blah blah.
“Okay,” Bob says. “No problem. If you like it, it’s yours.” And he gets up, pads over to his water bowl, takes a few laps, and goes upstairs to bed.
I could tell he was disappointed. I wanted to follow him, tell him it was an excellent idea, it’s just that I’m more of a realistic drama–type writer, plus I don’t have a lot of experience listening to movie pitches from a dog. But I didn’t. I thought it was a better idea to go back up to bed, sleep for a couple of hours, and, in the cold light of day, reassess what I’d just been through. Assuming, that is, I even remembered it, which, I gotta tell you, I was more than half hoping I wouldn’t. And of course I swore to myself that I’d never say a word about what happened to a living soul. I mean, would you? Especially not to Diana, who I’m pretty sure would have sent me packing, or at least sent me off to the puzzle house for extended observation.
As Dennis sips from the last of his coffee, now gone cold, the narrative tightens into a truncated shorthand, sort of a writer’s blueprint for the remainder of the story, which reads like this:
Ron Barkin never writes the dog story. But one sleepless night, at the kitchen table again, the dog winds up telling him another story, which Ron likes a lot better, about a college professor who everyone thinks is a drunk but who’s secretly a spy, and of course he’s got this dog named Bob.
Ron loses the dog, and turns that story into the hit series Sleeper and winds up making millions of dollars, plus a huge three-series deal with NBC. He marries Diana, moves into a big new house in the Palisades, and gets another dog for Bob, who never talks to him again.
Anyway, after one particularly long and hard production season, Ron invites his tennis pro (a wanna-be writer) to house-sit while he and Diana go to Hawaii for a much needed vacation.
Two weeks later, Ron comes home, returns to work. Life couldn’t be better. He’s a huge success, and it’s easy to forget where all that success came from. I mean, who’d believe it anyway? Plus, Ron’s come to believe that the dog didn’t really talk to him at all, that in the silence of the night, he plugged into a channel in his own mind where he was able to access his own best ideas, and maybe in that different space, or zone, he imagined his own writer’s voice coming out of the dog.
Except for this: about four months later, after a Sunday-morning tennis game, the pro tells Ron he’s got some fantastic news. He sold a screenplay.
No shit, Ron says. Who to?
Disney, says the pro.
Hey, no shit, that’s fantastic. What is it?
It’s a kids’ movie, basically, but I think adults will like it too.
What’s it about?
It’s about this talking dog who becomes president of the United States …
Later that night, in the kitchen, two a.m., Ron looks at the dog. They haven’t spoken in almost two years
.
You told the tennis pro your idea, didn’t you?
Yes. I thought he’d like it.
Well, he did. He sold it to Disney. It’s going to be a movie.
That’s good, Bob says. I always liked that one.
How come you haven’t talked to me the last two years?
I talk to you all the time, Bob says. You just haven’t been listening. So Sleeper really hit it big, huh?
Yeah, the writer says. It sure did.
How come you didn’t keep the dog?
I don’t know—it’s an action-adventure show. The dog kind of got in the way. I guess I should I have thanked you, Ron says, but over time, I wasn’t sure it had really even happened.
Well it did, Bob says, and if you’re interested, I’ve got a coupla more stories I’d be happy to tell you.
Ron says, Sure, fire away.
Well, Bob says, there’s this one idea I’ve been working on, it’s about this tough cop who gets blinded in a gun battle, and he’s too young to retire, he still wants to be a cop, so he gets this guide dog named Bob …
Dennis laughs out loud. Fucking writers, he thinks, chucking the story onto his desk and going for a fresh cup of coffee. Where do they come up with this shit?
Back at his desk, Dennis dials Bobby’s phone number, and when Bobby picks up, Dennis says, without preamble, “You’re a fucking idiot.”
“What? Who is this?”
“It’s Dennis the cop, and you’re a fucking idiot.”
“Why?”
“I read your story.”
“Oh,” Bobby says, disappointed. “You hated it, huh?”
“I didn’t hate it,” Dennis says. “It’s interesting, kind of like a fiction sandwich.”
“What’s that mean?” Bobby asks.
“You’ve got the first story, about the writer with the talking dog, who’s kind of like a genie in a lamp—I’ll give you three wishes—and the writer takes the dog’s idea and winds up rich and successful beyond his wildest dreams, and that’s the top piece of bread. Then you’ve got the dog’s story, about running for president and all that shit, which is the meat in the middle, and then you’ve got the cute little ending, where the tennis pro steals the movie idea from the dog and sells it to Disney, which is the bottom piece of bread.”
“Yeah well, that’s a very good analysis of the story, Detective, but did you like it?”
“Yeah, but I’d lose the bread and turn the meat into a movie script. I think you could sell it.”
“Then how come I’m a fucking idiot?”
“You mean specifically or generally?” Dennis says.
“Asshole.”
“You’re a fucking idiot specifically because you just threw away the best cop show idea I ever read, and you didn’t even realize it.”
“What cop show idea?” Bobby asks, starting to get exasperated.
“The one about the young cop who gets blinded.”
There’s a pause, and then Bobby’s tone changes. “Really?”
“That’s the idea you oughta be pitching to HBO. It’s different. Here’s this cop, a real tough first-guy-through-the-door type, very physical, hot-tempered, doesn’t hesitate to get in your face, and suddenly he’s blind, and if he still wants to be a cop, he’s got to learn how to use his brains, because he can’t just muscle people anymore. Plus, he’s got to rely on other people in a way he never did before, and it makes him emotionally vulnerable, not to mention he’s completely dependent on the dog.”
“So you play his emotional adjustment, how he has to turn his handicap into an asset,” Bobby says. “He’s got to learn to trust—his senses, his dog, other people—”
“Exactly right, numb nuts. Now you got a game.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bobby says. “You’re right. I am a fucking idiot. That’s a great idea.”
“If you say so yourself,” Dennis says.
“When do you want to sit down and lay it out?” Bobby asks, feeling the little tingle behind his eyes that’s usually a surefire signal that an idea is going to turn into some serious loot.
“Anytime. You tell me.”
“I can’t today,” Bobby says. “I got a lunch date at the Ivy, then some other stuff I have to do this afternoon, but how about dinner tomorrow night?”
“Leave me a message where and what time,” Dennis says, “and I’ll be there. Should I bring a pad and pencil?”
“No, you don’t need to do that,” Bobby says, too excited to realize Dennis is fucking with him.
Hanging up, Dennis rummages around on his desktop for Vee’s eight-by-ten and dials her cell-phone number. When she picks up, he says “Hi, Vee, it’s Dennis Farentino, how are you?”
“Oh, hi,” she says, and he can hear the pleasure in her voice because he called. “I was thinking maybe you’d lost my number, or just lost interest.”
“No chance of that,” he says. “What happens when I meet a woman I really like is, I usually wait a week. Then, if I’m still thinking about her, I know I’m not wasting my time.”
“Thank you, Detective, I’m flattered.”
“So, you want to get some dinner sometime?”
“I’d love to.”
“Tonight?”
“I can’t tonight,” Vee says, sounding genuinely disappointed. “What about tomorrow night?”
“Lemme check my calendar a minute, hold on,” Dennis says, then counts to ten in his head before saying, “Yeah, tomorrow’s good. How about I pick you up around seven-thirty?”
“Great,” Vee says. “I’m staying with my friend Lisa Jacoby at 8221 Norton Avenue, it’s a block north of Santa Monica Boulevard.”
“Great. I can’t wait,” says Dennis.
“Me either,” says Vee. “Really.”
Now Dennis has to call Bobby back and tell him something came up for tomorrow night that he’s got to take care of—would it be all right if they had dinner the night after?
Bobby says he can’t imagine anything more important than figuring out the story about the blind cop, that it’s only going to make them a million bucks, but if that’s the way Dennis wants to be, okay, they can do it the night after.
CHAPTER 20
Dennis’s enthusiasm for the blind-cop idea has inspired Bobby. It is a better idea than the other one. It’s more original, and even though there’s still plenty of room for action, there’s also the more thoughtful kind of detective work Dennis was talking about. The beauty of it is, it’s character-driven, and the character is Dennis. Bobby knows he can write it, and the certain knowledge of it makes him smile. He’s hot and he knows it.
Getting ready to meet Linda at the Ivy, Bobby’s feeling better than he’s felt in years. Sure there’s still an ache when he thinks about Vee, but more important, he’s writing for the first time in over a year, really writing, not just hack rewrites for the money, and it’s going great. He’s inside Linda’s head, he and Dennis have really hit it off, the screenplay inspired by having seen Ramon’s murder is maturing nicely, and he loves the fact that the story is playing itself out in real time, that instead of being some contrived piece of crap like most of what he does, this one is true.
The only downside is that if Dennis stalls on the murder investigation, Bobby may have to help things along, and if that means he’s got to give Linda up, then so be it, he’ll live with it. Shit, how’s it different than if he’d called 911 as soon as he saw the murder?
And because Bobby’s a writer and he’s used to having conversations with himself, he lets himself answer the question.
Of course it’s different, asshole. The difference being if you’d called right away, you’d have been reporting a crime, whereas now, you’re betraying a woman you’re having an affair with under false pretenses.
A distinction without a difference, Bobby tells his contrary self. The result is the same whether he did it then or does it now, and the result is all that matters. Besides, how can something that would’ve been right then not be right now?
In the silence that follows, with Bobby satisfied that his moral compass is still pointing true north, he finishes dressing and heads off to the Ivy.
Over lunch and a bottle of wine, Bobby and Linda find themselves intoxicated not only by the wine but by the excitement of clandestine romance (is there anything sexier?).
Barely touching his food, Bobby never takes his eyes from Linda, telling her how attracted he is to her—that it’s not only the sex, which (“don’t get me wrong”) is great, but their synchronicity—that incredible feeling that, in all the important ways, they click. Both of them are tough, smart, quick-witted, and opportunistic—but they’re also caring, sensitive, and giving, always searching for the right someone to be with, and to love.
Linda reaches over to take Bobby’s hand, not caring who’s watching. And, trust me, people are watching. “Listen to me,” she says, with surprising urgency. “In all the years I’ve been married to Marv, this is the first time I’ve ever been truly unfaithful.”
Off Bobby’s understandable skepticism, she explains that she’s not talking about sexual fidelity. Marv lost sexual interest in her years ago, as his tastes got, shall we say, more exotic. Linda tells Bobby that while she and Marv never talked about it, she always assumed that at some point Marv realized she was discreetly taking care of her own needs and didn’t care, as long as it stayed pretty much in the same category (for Marv) as taking a crap. It was something you needed to do on a regular basis, but you didn’t talk about it, you did it in private (even if you were using a whore as your toilet), and you cleaned up afterward.
Marv was the kind of guy who could split his sexual self off from the rest of him, and he expected Linda to do the same, an expectation she always thought was fair, given that she’d made the deal in the first place. And so her affairs were discreet (at least until the one with Ramon, Bobby’s thinking), they were emotionally undemanding, and in her way she was as true to Marv as he was to her—until now, with Bobby Newman, who, she’s beginning to think, might turn into something more than a quick flop in the feathers.
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