"Crazy's the word.” He saw Albert's face, purple with rage, and realized they would have to get back soon; it was too dangerous, this camaraderie, this moment of peace between the two of them. But before he could suggest it, Ralph turned to face him, his big neck corded, all triumph fled.
"I mean,” said Ralph desperately, and this time Drew wondered if he would say what he really did mean, “I never saw one before, you know? You hear about the—the pervs, how they're the lowest of the low, even though we're all sinners saved by grace, like?” He took another drag on his cigarette; exhaled. “I just didn't expect—that sound.” Drew said nothing. After a while the big boy put out his cigarette on the side of his truck, then pocketed the remainder. Silently they slung the stretcher between them and walked back up the trail to the reservoir where the Devil and his henchman were waiting.
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Novelet: "But Wait! There's More!" by Richard Mueller
Richard Mueller says he is a starving writer in Los Angeles when he isn't on strike or otherwise fomenting political discord at the local coffeehouse, where he drinks iced tea.
When it came to planning ahead, Cullin McSherry was not the brightest bulb on the marquee. He had drifted through life on creativity and instinct, laboring in the electric vineyards of television, living the life of a freelancer, writing for sitcoms and episodic dramas. And, since he was a prompt and proficient screenwriter, he was respected—which meant that he was hired when there was work but forgotten or ignored when there wasn't. It was an any-landing-you-can-walk-away-from existence, which suited his personality well. Or it would have been had it not been for the fact that Cullin McSherry was married.
Cullin's wife, Terry Olin McSherry, hated her rhyming name, which she never used except when reminding her husband how much she detested it—which she did nearly every day. “I should never have married you, a man with a name like that."
"Well, call yourself Teresa."
"I'm Terry! I've always been Terry."
"As I recall, nobody twisted your arm. You didn't have to say yes.” And on and on for four years.
When he was writing well and productively, she backed off her criticism and condescended to be the wife of a successful scribe, but during slack times she blamed him for every possible economic bump and pothole in her life. What made it all the worse was that Terry Olin (McSherry) was an actress.
"You would think,” Cullin said on occasion, “that as a fellow show business professional you would have a bit of empathy for the vagaries of that business. That you would understand how difficult it is to make a living in this town."
"I don't want a living, I want a life—"
"Don't say it!"
"A lifestyle, Cullin! A lifestyle. Is that too much to ask?"
It was. Cullin hated the word lifestyle. It was an automatic red flag as far as he was concerned, a triumph of style over substance. Producers and directors trivialized his scripts, and his wife trivialized his life. But it wasn't, he had to admit, without provocation.
The current slump was awful. A writers’ strike loomed on the horizon, and the studios and networks were stockpiling scripts; not that they had stockpiled any of his. He was in a financial cul-de-sac, and to make it worse, Terry had been getting work—on Desperate Housewives of all things. Art imitating life, Cullin thought, grinding his teeth.
At times like this he turned to prayer and craigslist.
EDITOR/WRITER FOR NASCAR JOURNAL
He hated Nascar.
GHOSTWRITER WANTED
He knew who for. A friend of his had written ‘s last book. had never paid him more than a start payment. His friend had the pleasure of seeing the book he'd written become a bestseller, while he lost his house and moved into his mother's garage.
FILM REVIEWER FOR NEW GAY/LESBIAN MAG
He briefly considered switching teams, but quickly gave up on the idea. Most of the gay scribes he knew were hipper than he was. With their gaydar, the editors would see through him in a minute. Of course, they might take him on as the token breeder....
Then he saw...
THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS
Hmmm. He opened the advert.
Can you write to order, yet overcome the order? Are you a devilishly good master of the details? Can you make me feel that I've hired a superior wordsmith, a craftsman nonpareil to take my vision far beyond my poor ability to conceptualize? If so, convince me.
It didn't sound like the same old hackneyed pitch. But was he up for this? Then he heard his wife banging around angrily in the laundry room. What did he have to lose?
* * * *
He wrote a snappy letter, attached a resume, and sent it back through the aether. Forty minutes later the computer played its posthorn to announce that he had mail. It was more than brief. “Ten a.m. tomorrow,” with an address on Ventura Boulevard.
He did not tell his wife, but shut himself away in his office and worked on his latest screenplay until she had gone to bed.
"Where did you sleep last night?"
"On the couch in my office."
"Hmmmph."
While Terry went off to the beauty salon Cullin hurried to make his appointment, but when he reached Ventura Boulevard he found that the address was that of an optometrist. He panicked. Had he written down the wrong number? No, the email printout matched the number above the door. He was in the right place. Perhaps this was some sort of elaborate practical joke. Well, if it were, he didn't find it funny. With a sour growl he pushed into the optometrist's, where a prim blond woman in a white coat waited behind a glass-topped counter full of sunglasses. “Mr. McSherry?"
"Uh—yes."
"Out through the back, sir. It's across the alley."
"Thank you."
Across the alley was an eight-foot hedge inset with an arched wooden gate and door. The doorplate read beale. Deciding not to knock, he pulled open the door and stepped into the backyard of a large, square McMansion on Cantura Street. He'd seen a few of these being built, and he knew what the locals thought of them. But there'd been no way to stop this nouveau riche trend. In Los Angeles, money rolled over taste every time. Whoever this Beale was, he'd made a pretty good job of civilizing the house.
The paintwork was subtle; the building actually reminded Cullin of a vintage Georgian. Trees close in broke up the severity of line, while the hedge seemed to surround the entire property, entwined with decorative flowers. The lawn was perfect; a walk of interlocked flagstones wound toward the house, dividing to circle a cunning stone fountain, crowned with a horned Pan peeing water in an endless stream. The air was perfumed with fragrance. “Mr. McSherry, I would guess. You're prompt."
Cullin turned to see a slim, precise man appear from around the corner of a garage that he had not realized was there. The property was much larger than it looked. “I try to be on time,” he said lamely, attempting to reestablish his equilibrium. You certainly have the advantage of me, he thought.
The man offered his hand; Cullin found his grip cool and firm. “You are Mr. Beale?"
"Yes.” Beale removed his gardening apron, hanging it from a hook on the garage. “Please. Let's go inside. Coffee?"
"Thank you."
Beale left Cullin in a windowed parlor, returning a few moments later with a silver tray of coffee and those little cookies that the English called biscuits. In appearance and voice Beale reminded Cullin of an older, slightly grayer David Hyde Pierce. The writer decided almost immediately that he liked this man, even more so a minute later when Beale said, “So, Mr. McSherry, I've read your resume and many of your writings. The job is yours if you'll take it."
Not, if you want it. Cullin knew that many of his scripts were on file at the Writers Guild, much of his prose in various libraries, but it would have taken Beale some time to have found it. And... “Job? What sort of job, sir?"
"Call me Howard."
Cullin smiled. Howard Beale was the character Peter Finch had played in Network, the one who had s
creamed, “I'm mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!” If it were a coincidence ... well, in Hollywood you learned not to trust coincidences.
Howard Beale put down his coffee cup. “Cullin, I'm an entrepreneur of sorts. I buy and sell things, and, while I've had some influence on television through finance and content, I'm now ready to make a more direct impact."
"Ah.” The producer-investor drawn to the other side of the camera; an old story in Tinseltown. “So, what sort of influence were you planning on? Dramatic? Commentary? Public television?"
"Infomercials actually."
Cullin's heart sank. The lowest form of writing; commerce without art, taste, or honesty. Pocket fishing rods, Ginsu knives, haircutting vacuums, oldies music collections, exercise machines, get-rich-quick schemes. Still, it would be no worse than writing for Fox Noise, which he'd done for six months before they'd canned him for his politics. Buck up, Cullin, old scout. If you're going to be a whore, be an egalitarian whore. He forced himself to smile and nod, but Beale was ahead of him.
"I know what you're thinking,” Beale said in a kindly tone, “but I don't believe that this will bore you. Cullin, I daresay you'll find it downright fascinating. But let's talk money and time. I'll need you full days Mondays and Fridays, and Wednesday afternoons. Later, when we get rolling, there may be some functions to attend, but nothing egregious, I assure you. You'll be in charge of writing copy, coordinating with our Producer and our Customer Relations person, the young lady who'll be running our phone banks. Oh, and our Lawyer, of course. But you'll report to me."
"Exclusivity?"
Beale blinked. “Oh? No, not at all. So long as you fulfill your obligations to me, I encourage you to write, publish, and produce your own work. The better for us all if we are each successful in our personal endeavors. The only work I'll make any claim on is the work you'll do here, in my service. And for this service, I propose to pay you two thousand a week."
Cullin fought to keep his jaw from dropping. He'd been expecting twenty dollars an hour. Two thousand a week for a part-time job? “Well,” he said quickly, “that would be fine. Of course, I'd have to read the contract first."
"I would expect you to."
"Then I guess I'm your man."
Howard Beale broke into a brilliant smile, a winning, becoming smile. “Well done. First rate. Oh, I should ask; are you churched?"
"Churched?” asked Cullin, puzzled. “I'm afraid I...."
"Are you a member of a church? Do you attend regularly?"
"Uh, no.” A flash of panic. “Should I be?"
"No, not at all. It was just idle curiosity. Welcome to our little family."
* * * *
It was the worst possible timing, it was the best possible timing. He opened the front door of his house to find his wife's matching luggage lined up in the hall. “Terry?"
She came bustling down the stairs, dressed in her best peach suit. “Oh, there you are. You'll never guess; I got a movie. We start shooting tomorrow, in Italy. I'll be gone six weeks. You'll be okay, won't you?"
"Well...."
"It's a real break, a caper film with Leo and Brad and Angelina. Please be happy for me."
"Sure, I..."
"I'll call from the hotel the moment I'm settled.” There was a knock on the door. “Get that, will you darling?"
Cullin opened the door to reveal a young Keanu Reeves wannabe in a black suit and Matrix sunglasses. “Miss Olin?"
"Right here, dear,” Terry chirped. “Get my bags, will you?” She turned to Cullin and made a little moue. “Darling, I shall miss you terribly."
Said the Walrus to the Oysters, Cullin thought sourly, but he tightened his smile and nodded. Then he hefted her remaining bag and helped Keanu load the trunk. Terry poised at the car door.
"I never asked. You had some sort of appointment this morning, didn't you?"
Like there's time now. “Just coffee."
Terry smiled knowingly. “I guess it beats working."
* * * *
Cullin walked around the empty house, feeling light and relieved. Thank God I didn't tell her about the job. If she leaves me for some Laurel Canyon clotheshorse, well, one can live much more cheaply than two in this town.
He took himself out for an expensive dinner at Terusushi, watched Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert, then went to bed. Tomorrow was Friday, and Cullin McSherry would be working.
* * * *
This time he went to the front door of Beale's house and was admitted by a fortyish man in a T-shirt and khakis, a green ball cap back to front on his head. “I'm Gerry Gold, the producer."
"Cullin McSherry, the writer."
"Nice. We're in here."
Here was a pleasant dining-cum-conference room; coffee on the sideboard and the obligatory muffin basket. Seated at the table, fiddling with their iPhones, were two others.
Cullin assumed that the sharp-faced man in the $1,200 suit was the lawyer. The suit glanced at Cullin and gave him a noncommittal lawyer's smile. But the girl was something else.
She was a sprite, in a floppy gray pullover and black tights, her bare feet curled up on the chair in what Cullin assumed was a yoga position. Her small face was made smaller under Clark Kent glasses and tumbled masses of light brown hair, as her phthistic hands caressed the iPhone's touchscreen. She reminded him of an oldies song, “Sugar Shack.” Your wife is away for six months, maybe for good, whispered a voice in his head. He shook it off. Beware of the opportune attention shift.
Gold bent close to his ear. “That's Marvin Needleman, Beale's attorney. And the ninety-pound hippie chick is Erica Donat. She handles the phone banks. She's some sort of distant descendant of Robert Donat, the actor, and a whiz at human resources."
"Hmmm.” Cullin sat down across from Erica, who wrinkled her nose at him. Like a rabbit, he thought. The lawyer, Needleman, passed him a card. Cullin fumbled for his, and got Gold's and Erica's as well.
"Ah, everyone's getting acquainted?"
Beale had come in, looking folksy in a cardigan straight out of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood. “I see you've all met Mr. McSherry, our scribe. Good, then let's get started."
Beale talked—they listened, took notes, and agreed. That was the way of it, and while later their meetings might become cooperative affairs with more blue-skying, today it was marching orders. Cullin not only accepted that, he was comfortable with it. Howard Beale understood how things were done.
Gerry Gold was instructed to have every studio resource, B-roll footage library, and CGI source standing by.
Erica Donat was to hire six shifts of five phone answerers, and three backup shifts if expansion looked likely. And she was to vet them thoroughly. Beale wanted the best.
Marvin Needleman, as Beale's lawyer, was obviously much more in the know than the others. He reported that he had agreements signed with eight cable networks and Fox, and had retained the firm of Creelburg, Garvin, and Smoot if they ran into any problems.
And Cullin was instructed to start developing open-ended, non-specific pitches for very high-concept products. When Cullin attempted to find out more about those products, Beale only smiled and said, “Every man and woman's heart's desire."
Cullin left, knowing little more than he had when he'd gone in. As he was heading down the front walk to his car, Beale called from the porch. “Do you have lunch plans?"
"Not really, no."
"Join me."
Beale led him to a gleaming silver sports car parked in the shade of an old oak. “What kind of car is this?"
"It's a Tesla,” Beale said proudly, running an admiring hand over its curves.
"I've heard of these, but I didn't think any were out yet."
"They're not. This is a prototype. The man who designed it owed me a favor."
* * * *
The car was a success monster. He remembered Will Smith's signature line from Independence Day: “I gotta get me one of these!"
Beale wheeled them onto the 101, the 405
, the 5, the 210; driving effortlessly, as if the speed limit were only advisory, talking softly above the humming engine, making everything he did seem autonomic. The Tesla swept through traffic like a boom camera speeding through a model. “Where are we going?"
"There's a wonderful little Tex-Mex place at the foot of Kagle Canyon.” Cullin knew it, The Stagecoach Stop. It dressed like a Colorado diner, but sat within shouting distance of L.A. and served the second-best biscuits and gravy in Southern California.
Over a late breakfast, Beale steered the conversation through a dozen subjects, none of them pertaining to the work Cullin would be doing. Finally, over coffee, the producer smiled at his writer. “You're dying to know what you'll be selling, aren't you?"
Cullin shrugged. “I am curious, but I figured that I'd wait you out. You had to tell me some time, otherwise what's the point?"
Beale laughed. “True, quite true. Very well, Cullin, do you believe in souls?"
"I'm not sure,” Cullin replied carefully. While he was normally pragmatic in his honesty, something told him not to lie to this man. “I think it's a way of defining the essence of personality. Guilt is the body temperature, and the conscience is pain—if that makes any sense."
"Perfect sense,” Beale replied. “You have a concept of right and wrong, and you try to do right."
"Whenever possible."
"Yes."
"But I never saw it as a specific organ, or a spirit, or a thing. That's for devout Catholics, Evangelicals, Orthodox Muslims and Jews, I suppose...."
"None of which would work well on this project,” Beale said. “I need pragmatists, humanists, agnostics...."
"Atheists?"
"Atheists, no. How can you get atheists to buy or sell souls, if they don't believe in their existence? Besides, they never shut up. They're continually trying to convert people. They're worse than Mormons."
Cullin sipped his coffee, digesting this. “Is that what we're going to be doing? Buying and selling souls?"
"Yes. Do you think you can do that? Promote a soul bank?"
"Is this why I haven't been asked to sign a contract yet?"
FSF, August 2008 Page 16