This Is Where We Live

by Janelle Brown

  “I don’t need ten or twenty million. I’m sure I could make it for five,” she offered. “Maybe even less, if I had to.”

  Samuel grunted and rummaged around in the bread basket, coming up empty-handed. A trail of sesame seeds led across the tablecloth from the basket to his plate, a clue to the fate of the missing loaf. He sat back in his seat and rubbed at the place where his cardigan strained across his paunch, and then took a long swallow from his scotch and soda. “Even six months ago, I would have said let’s take this around to the indie divisions, see if we can pitch a development deal,” he continued. “But honestly, I know what they’re going to say already, and I don’t want to waste my time.”

  “I could revise it,” she offered, growing frantic. “I’ll make any changes you think I should to make it more commercial.”

  Evanovich shook his hand. “Pointless. It is what it is.”

  Claudia took a sip of wine, trying to blink back the unprofessional tears that sprang to her eyes. Stupidly, she had not prepared herself for this outcome; had naïvely assumed that their dinner could only have a positive result because why else would he want to meet? She should have known better; she did know better, and yet she had somehow let herself get swept away by the old, alluring dream. Now she wished Samuel had waited until dessert to deliver the bad news, because she wasn’t sure she could sit here for another half hour and make polite small talk without breaking down entirely.

  Samuel continued on, explaining the current state of the film industry—DVD market in collapse, half the indie financiers closing their doors—as if Claudia was a naïf who’d just arrived on a plane from Poughkeepsie, but Claudia wasn’t paying attention anymore. Instead, she let her thoughts drift naturally back to the anxiety she had been suppressing since she walked in the door of the restaurant. Aoki. For the hundredth time, she regretted having left Jeremy behind at the art gallery. She blinked, and the momentary image that danced on the back of her eyelids was of that woman, steering her husband away. Her intestines twisted sourly, insisting that she had made a terrible mistake.

  For the first fourteen minutes at the gallery, she’d been able to convince herself that all her fears about Aoki had been misplaced. Despite the portraits of him on the wall, the flesh-and-blood Jeremy looked awkward and incongruous at Aoki’s opening. He didn’t know a soul there, despite her fears that he might somehow find himself surrounded by long-lost friends, and he held himself stiffly, acutely self-conscious. Aoki hadn’t been waiting to pounce on him; in fact, she hadn’t come to find them at all, and Claudia was able to convince herself that this was because Jeremy wasn’t very high on Aoki’s priority list after all. Her jealousy suddenly seemed unmerited—it was, she decided, simply the exaggerated insecurity of a woman who, all her life, had feared that she didn’t measure up. Just because Aoki was famous and wealthy—just because that one valuable painting held some special resonance for Jeremy—didn’t mean he was going to run off with his emotionally unbalanced ex-girlfriend.

  Coming here was the right thing to do, she had thought to herself. He’s letting go of something, accepting the fact that the past is gone forever. There’s nothing exciting for him here at all. We’ll finally be able to move on. Maybe he’ll even sell the painting.

  Even when Aoki did finally present herself, Claudia didn’t panic. Certainly the woman was stunning, if you went for that whole petite Asian thing, but her appearance was so contrived, her airs so self-consciously dramatic, that it seemed difficult to take her seriously. The Jeremy Claudia knew always gravitated to laid-back types, people who didn’t press him too hard or demand too much of him; Aoki, on the other hand, was clearly a lot of work. With just a few words, Claudia could see why that entire relationship had imploded so violently; it was impossible to imagine them ever being compatible in the first place. And so Claudia had let her guard down, had let herself believe that, if anything, Aoki was someone with whom she now shared more in common than Jeremy did. Weren’t they the only two women in the room—in the world, really—who had spent years of their lives trying to understand his maddening ways? It was a relief to hear that Jeremy had been just as—what was the word Aoki used? Reticent—with Aoki as he sometimes was with her. It’s not just me, she thought to herself, happily.

  It wasn’t until the end of their conversation that the warning bell began to clang. It was Aoki’s hand. Aoki had placed her palm low on Jeremy’s waist as if she had every right to put it there, touched him with the possession of a girlfriend or wife. Women simply did not touch their estranged ex-boyfriends’ bodies that way. Claudia’s breath had stopped in her throat. And then, with Aoki’s blithe dismissal of her—“don’t ground him if he gets home late”—she recognized a new dynamic that Aoki had somehow forged, with Aoki as exciting lover and Claudia as nagging (pretty fucking boring) mom. Before she could figure out how to respond, Aoki simply steered Jeremy away, and he passively let her do it.

  That was when she knew: Aoki wanted Jeremy back.

  She stood there, for a beat too long, watching Jeremy disappear into the throng at the rear of the gallery. When she looked back, Cristina was staring at her. “Well,” Cristina said, clearly wounded, “Aoki lives up to her reputation.”

  “She’s a pathological narcissist,” Claudia replied, but the insult was a weak rally against a formidable opponent. Even then, she knew she should have chased them down, forgone her meeting, glued herself to Jeremy’s side for the rest of the night. He is vulnerable right now, and that woman is not to be trusted, she thought. But no. She’d stupidly put her career first and fled here, to this stuffy restaurant, trying to convince herself that Jeremy loved her and would never betray her. On the car ride here, she realized for the first time how pitiable positive thinking really was: an avenue of last resort, a candy-coated mirage for powerless people who had no other options at their disposal. Who had no other way to prevent a husband from cheating.

  She’d done that, for this: Evanovich’s blithe dismissal of her work. She should have known better. She considered flagging down the waiter and asking for the bill, fleeing back to the gallery before it was too late, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to be so rude, despite the emotional injury Evanovich had just inflicted. What had this whole charade been about? At least he liked the script, she consoled herself. At least he validated the fact that I have some talent, even if it is a completely wasted talent. She took a sip of Pellegrino to moisten the dry paste that glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth, and realized that Samuel Evanovich was awaiting her response.

  “Well, I appreciate your honesty,” she said stiffly, aware that she didn’t sound appreciative at all.

  “Oh, don’t get all touchy artist on me, kiddo,” Samuel said. She wondered when she’d been demoted from Mizz Munger to kiddo. “Shelve the script for a while, and we’ll try again in a few years. The industry always goes in cycles. Just think of what we got stuck with in the 1980s. Captain EO. Howard the fucking Duck.”

  We. She revived at his unexpected use of the pronoun. “So what do you suggest I do, then?” she said, deciding to take a chance. What did she have left to lose? “Because honestly, I’m stumped. My film career has stalled completely.”

  “You know how many working feature directors there are in the United States, ones who actually make a good living doing it?” Samuel said. “My guess, less than two hundred. You have a better shot at getting hit by lightning. It’s not a profession for sensitive types. You sure you really want this? What’s wrong with the teaching thing?”

  “It’s not what I want to do.”

  “Ah, that old story. Let me tell you something: No one gets to do what they really want to do all the time. That’s just a pretty fairy tale. Real life is just a never-ending string of compromises that you make in order to survive.”

  Claudia picked up her fork and prodded at an oily pillow of ravioli, sending orange squash squirting across her plate, and then pushed it away. The rich, loamy scent repulsed her.

 
“Not good?” he asked, pointing at her pasta with his fork.

  “Not hungry,” she replied.

  Samuel began to guffaw, a rolling, churning sound that reverberated across the restaurant, ending only when Samuel choked on his own laughter. “Ah, women,” he gasped. “Four wives and not a one who didn’t worry about her weight.”

  “I’m not on a diet,” she said, growing indignant. “Can we get back to the subject of my career?”

  Samuel stabbed at his eyes with the bottom of his napkin, drying invisible tears. “Of course, of course. I apologize. Let’s keep this professional, no?” He placed two meaty fists on the table, framing his plate, and leaned in. “Soderbergh.”

  “Soderbergh?”

  “He’s got a handle on his career. A smart kid, wife’s a real looker, even if some of his films are self-indulgent snores. Anyway, this is the way it works. You make a movie with big mainstream appeal so you can bank a reputation with the studios as someone whose name means box office. Then cash that in to make your quirky indie drama. You alternate, like Soderbergh. One for them, one for you. See?”

  This wasn’t particularly useful advice, she thought. “You make it sound so easy—just make a movie with commercial appeal, like he does? But that’s precisely the problem. I’m not Soderbergh. I’m ready and willing to make a big mainstream movie but no one will give me that chance in the first place. It’s a Catch-Twenty-two.”

  “Yes, I understand.” Samuel sat back in his seat with a frown. “But let me tell you. I wanted to meet with you because I have a project I think you might be right for, a project that calls for a female director. It’s not as serious as what you have here, of course, not as edgy, but I think you’ll find the themes are universal. The screenplay’s got a lot of promise, and you could do a rewrite if you have ideas. I’ve got it set up at Spyglass; it’s a go film, and they’re planning on plugging it into their summer lineup. They want it to be a vehicle for Jennifer what’sherface. Looking at a twenty million budget, in all likelihood.” He quaffed the last of his scotch while simultaneously gesturing for another one with his index finger.

  Lightness, like a soap bubble, rose up in her chest. Working together! It wasn’t what she’d expected—it wouldn’t exactly be her movie—but it certainly wasn’t anything to sniff at. A go film! “What’s it about?” she asked, not bothering to mask the eagerness in her voice.

  Samuel shook his head, dislodging bread crumbs from his beard. “I don’t pitch. Look, you read it; you tell me what you think. We’ll work it from there.”

  He rummaged around in a battered leather satchel on the banquette next to him and withdrew a script, sliding it across the table. Claudia read the title page upside down: QUINTESSENCE. A felicitous name. She smiled, drawing it toward her. “I’ll get back to you in the next day or two,” she said.

  “I need an answer early next week,” he said. “Preproduction is scheduled for late November. We had a director signed on already but she got herself knocked up and had to drop out.”

  She looked down, a new lump lodging in her throat. “Why me?” she blurted out, before she could think better of it.

  Samuel sat back in his seat and flung an arm across the back of the banquette. “You’re a talented kid.” He shrugged. “I liked that film of yours. What was it called? Funny. Showed promise. Not a lot of women directors out there. And honestly, new talent is a hell of a lot cheaper on the bottom line.”

  This time the infantilization didn’t even bother her. “Thank you,” she offered, sincerely. “I really appreciate your enthusiasm.”

  She smiled helplessly around the room, wanting to share her joy; she found herself directing her grin at the eager waiter who was pushing a dessert cart in their direction. Gelatin confections jiggled on their plates as the cart made its bumpy way across the ancient carpet. The waiter whisked a chocolate pudding under her nose, tempting her—“Budino cioccolato, madam, con panna”—as Claudia thought, Everything will still all be all right after all. We’re going to make it. I’m going to make another movie. I’ll get home tonight, and Jeremy will already be there. We’ll celebrate together.

  Samuel grunted. “My daughter,” he said.

  “Your daughter?” She startled, realizing that she’d forgotten about Penelope entirely.

  “She says she’s getting an A in your class. Is this true?”

  She hesitated. “Yes,” she finally said, wondering what Penelope had told him. What part was the bogus grade playing in all this? It didn’t matter now, she supposed. The A had clearly done whatever good it could do; she could assuage her guilty conscience that she had made the right decision after all. Perhaps someday the three of them would even be able to laugh about the whole episode together. For now she could put it out of her mind, forget it ever happened.

  “Good.” Samuel pulled the napkin from the neckline of his shirt and dropped it on the table, waving for the bill. He patted Claudia’s hand on the script, absently. “I’m glad it’s all working out.”

  EXT. CONSTRUCTION SITE: DAY

  A high-rise construction site in downtown San Francisco.

  BETH

  walks briskly down a plywood walkway in heels and skirt, a baby strapped to her front and back, pushing a triple stroller with three more, all wearing little hard hats.

  A group of male WORKERS walk with her, led by the contractor, GUY (pronounced “ghee”).

  BETH

  points to sections of the half-built lobby as Beth’s ASSISTANT strides next to her, writing down her every word.

  BETH

  This is unacceptable. You’re going to

  have to rip out this wall and redo it.

  GUY

  But we’re already over budget—

  BETH

  But it’s not right!

  The baby on her back starts to cry. She stops abruptly, making a loud shushing sound, jiggling up and down. The men wait, exasperated. The baby calms.

  BETH

  White noise. Simulates the womb.

  Then the other four start to cry.

  GUY

  You know, it might be better if you left them at home next time—?

  BETH

  You sound like my ex-husband. Anyway—I had to let another nanny go.

  GUY

  Now? We got the city inspector in two days!

  BETH

  Well, when your babies aren’t receiving the care they deserve, you act quickly. (sighs)

  It’s impossible to find anyone you can trust more than yourself.

  She notices the men staring at her silently.

  BETH

  What?

  Guy points to her chest: It’s wet.

  WORKER

  What, one of ’em piss himself?

  Guffaws in the group. BETH slips her hand inside her blouse, checking her breasts. The men like this.

  BETH

  Shit, I’m leaking.

  (to group)

  That wall better be history or you’re fired.

  She rushes off with the babies. GUY watches her go.

  WORKER

  (coughs under breath) Bitch.

  INT. OFFICE ROOM: CONTINUOUS

  BETH

  drags the stroller into an unfinished office space, juggling her five crying kids. She sits down on a stack of plywood, undoing her nursing bra.

  She attaches a baby to one breast, works open the other side, and latches on another one. The other three start crying.

  BETH

  What do you want, I’ve only got two!

  She juggles babies, her breasts hanging in full view, when she hears a catcall. She looks up.

  The ceiling is incomplete. Above her, sitting on a girder, are a dozen construction workers, applauding.

  CONSTRUCTION WORKER

  Brings back mammaries of my youth.

  The group cracks up. Another worker holds up an Oreo he’s eating with his lunch.

  CONSTRUCTION WORKER #2

  Hey sugar tits, how ’bout some milk
with these cookies?

  BETH

  sits, smoldering, as the cacophony of her babies competes with the men’s laughter.

  By the time she finished reading the script, it was eleven-thirty and there was still no sign of Jeremy. She lay back on their makeshift bed and stared up at the ceiling, thinking. Back in its old position on the living room wall, Beautiful Boy leered down at her; she rolled on her side so she wasn’t looking at it, and the plastic air mattress squeaked under her weight. The living room furniture cast menacing shadows in the glancing light from the lamp in the corner. Her footprints were visible in the dust that had settled on the hardwood floors. She imagined herself floating on an inflatable island, surrounded by sharks, buoyed by air that was slowly leaking out beneath her. Jeremy should have been home by now, even if he had gone to dinner with Aoki afterward. It didn’t bode well.

  She flipped back to the first page of the script and began—reluctantly—to read it again. The elation she’d felt in the restaurant resolved itself into a tight knot of heartburn the further she read. Surely this was some kind of joke. Surely Samuel Evanovich, of all people, didn’t think that a script with universal themes and a lot of promise would feature eleven boob jokes? Quintessence was a 102-page high-concept chick flick about a divorced career mom who hires a male nanny to take care of her quintuplets. It was assembled out of every Hollywood cliché ever conceived, every wooden piece of dialogue and forced plot contrivance, every toothachingly sweet “meet cute” and banal character stereotype. The male lead lived on a sailboat and rescued stray puppies; the female was a controlling architect who needed to learn how to relax. Claudia counted four gags involving women’s underwear. There was a makeover montage and a drunken sing-along to a classic seventies song. The movie ended with a chase scene, the woman rowing after the love-interest nanny as he sails away, eventually repudiating her high-powered job to spend more time with her improbably adorable kids.