Wrong City

by Morgan Richter

  Chapter Ten

  Jamie took his resignation well, though she was clearly disappointed. “Interstellar Boys?” she said. “Wow. That’s really cool, Vish. Congratulations.” She paused. “Did you know Troy Van Ellen before this? Is that why she hired us to cater her party?”

  “No. I met her for the first time when she stopped by the shop.” Vish thought for a moment, then gave Jamie a stripped-down version of events. “We ended up talking about my writing career, and she passed along my book to the executive producer, who hired me.”

  “Well, fantastic. I’m glad that worked out so well for you,” she said. “We’re going to miss you, though. Especially since we’re getting into the holiday season.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  She waved a hand. “It’s a great opportunity. Don’t feel guilty.” She smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be great and they’ll love you, but if things don’t work out on the show, you and your napkin-folding skills are welcome back any time.”

  “Thanks, Jamie.” It was weird. Vish had been ambivalent about the catering job from the start; Jamie had been a stellar boss, but he’d come to Los Angeles to write. This was his first opportunity to get paid for doing just that. So why did he feel like giving notice to Jamie was a mistake?

  Because things had happened with alarming speed, and because he was resistant to change, and because he was, at times, a fussbudget who tended to get in his own way. Writing for Interstellar Boys was nothing but a good thing, any way he looked at it.

  He only had to work with the other writers. Nobody said he had to like them.

  Vish included, there were twelve. Most were also credited as producers, or consulting producers, or supervising producers, or executive producers. They all huddled in a big conference room around a long table littered with pizza boxes and water bottles. A whiteboard on the far wall was covered with scribbled notations on a crudely-drawn grid. The ink from the markers had dissolved over time, leaving illegible fragments of words. It was a breakdown of episodes long past and long forgotten; Vish had spent much of the past hour examining the board, and he had yet to see anything on there apropos to the current season.

  A couple of the writers looked like they could still be in college. They were all young, twenties or early thirties, with the exception of Freddie, who sat at the head of the table. All were male, and Vish was far and away the darkest person in the room.

  “Oh, right,” one of the writers said when Freddie first introduced him to the group. “You’re from the diversity program, right? Cool deal.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The writer shrugged. Ken, Vish later learned his name was. He wore a t-shirt and shorts, and he liked leaning back in his chair, hands behind his neck, and propping his dirty flip-flops up on the table, smack next to the pizzas. “There’s some kind of big charity program where they stick minorities on writing staffs. Is that where you came from?”

  “Ah… no,” Vish said.

  “Vish is a friend of Troy’s,” Freddie said, his tone mild.

  Ken shrugged. “Sorry, dude,” he said. “Just as well. Everyone they’ve sent us from there has sucked. If you’re black or a girl, it’s eighty times easier to get a job writing for television than if you’re a white guy. Seriously.”

  Seriously? Vish looked around the table at all the white male faces and remained silent.

  “Oh, that one chick we had. What was her name? She was the worst.” That came from Bob. It was a toss-up as to whether Vish despised Ken or Bob more. It pretty much depended upon which was speaking at any given time.

  “She wasn’t from the program,” Ken said. “I don’t know where they found her. Probably sucked off some bigwig at the network, because she sure as hell couldn’t write.” He shrugged. “She used to bitch us out about how our show was sexist. I mean, we’ve got a lady character who’s both a goddamned astrophysicist and a black belt. That sounds pretty progressive to me, right?”

  Vish said nothing, maintaining an indeterminate half-smile, hoping this was some weird freshman-writer hazing ritual.

  The day went downhill from there. Vish wasn’t expected to participate yet—Freddie advised him just to observe at first—but this was a situation that could go nowhere good. After a morning spent gamely following along, his brain shut down in protest, tuning out the overlapping chatter of the writers as they bounced around ideas. The ideas came in waves of incoherence, each more preposterous and salacious than the last.

  “I think we need a big arc for Starla,” Freddie said. “Something that’ll really show her chops. She’s been back-burnered for too much of the season.”

  Vish perked up. Commander Starla was Troy’s character, the astrophysicist with the black belt, and Freddie’s observation was the only statement in the meeting thus far with which he wholeheartedly agreed.

  “I think she should get raped,” Ken said. “That would give her something really dramatic, huh? People would be talking about it.”

  “Dudge could do it,” Bob said. “We set up some sparks between Dudge and Starla way back, didn’t we? So that would take their relationship to another stage.”

  Vish sat up in his chair. He cleared his throat. “Does that make sense, though?” he asked. Everyone turned to look at him. “Dudge is one of the good guys. We haven’t seen him do anything thus far that would suggest he’d turn into rapist.”

  “Even good guys snap,” Ken said. “That’s why this would be a cool storyline. We’d show how the stress of being in space for so long is really getting to them. Dudge falls madly in love with Starla and then goes too far, and she feels betrayed and uncertain.” He kept going, his voice growing louder, building on his theme. “But she doesn’t tell anyone about it because she’s ashamed, and meanwhile Dudge keeps stalking her around the ship. Leaving her roses on her pillow, shit like that.”

  “If you make him a rapist, the audience will turn against his character forever,” Vish said. He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

  “Not if we handle it correctly,” Freddie said. “Some of the most nuanced characters in television history have been villains. We’d be giving him layers. Done right, it’s good character development. And I think there’s a tendency among viewers to see Starla as too ball-busting and competent, so this could show them her human side.”

  Vish glanced around the room at the rest of the writing staff. A few looked interested in the conversation, a few others typed away on their laptops or tablets. Maybe they were taking notes or jotting down ideas. Maybe they were checking email, or surfing porn. Maybe he should start bringing his laptop to work.

  “Ken, why don’t you and Bob have a powwow this afternoon and pound out the details? Email me your treatment for the storyline by the end of the day, and then you can start on the script.” Freddie continued around the table, assigning bits and pieces of multiple storylines to individual writers. This, Vish had gleaned, was his usual method. At the end of the week, the episode would be then cobbled together, piecemeal-style.

  Vish did not receive an assignment, nor did at least half of the other writers. What were they expected to do for the rest of the day? Maybe his entire position on the staff would consist of this, sitting in on endless meetings and eating free pizza.

  The meeting broke up. He headed to his newly-assigned cubicle, which was bare except for a computer and a stack of health-plan brochures given to him at the new-employee orientation he’d attended that morning. The sight cheered him up. He’d receive a hefty paycheck each week until the show went on summer hiatus in March (unless he was canned before that, a little voice inside his head reminded him). This was a job many would envy, perfect for putting some flesh on his malnourished résumé.

  He looked over at Mark, the writer occupying the cubicle next to him. Mark hadn’t spoken much during the meeting; when Vish, his attention drifting, had happened to meet his glance, he’d rolled his eyes in what seemed like commiseration.

  Mark smiled at him. “Enjoy your
first creative meeting?”

  “Very much,” Vish said. “It was interesting.” He paused. “Ah… what should I be doing now?”

  Mark shrugged. He had curly hair, already receding though he was probably younger than Vish, and wire-rimmed glasses. “Check email. Hang out in the break room and watch TV. Doesn’t really matter. I was going to head over to the set for a bit. Want to come with?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” He followed Mark across the empty lot to the big white soundstage.

  They were quiet. Finally, Mark spoke. “So. What’d you think?”

  Vish considered. “I think I’m a little unclear as to what I should be doing here,” he said cautiously.

  “Collecting a paycheck,” Mark said. “As near as I can tell, that’s what I was hired to do.” He smiled at Vish. “Attend the meetings. Participate in the brainstorming and bring up your story ideas, by all means, but don’t expect them to go anywhere. Work on the script whenever Freddie tells you to write something. If you’re one of his pets, that will be daily. If you’re like me, that won’t be often.” He gave Vish a sidelong glance. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but at a guess, you’re not going to be one of his pets.”

  “Ah,” Vish said. “And Ken would be?”

  “Ken and Bob, mainly. A few of the others, too. Sure. Ken and Bob were Freddie’s assistants on the first season, before they got promoted. They’re simpatico with him.” Mark shrugged. “It’s how Freddie wants to run things, and he’s the boss. Hard to get work these days, especially in entertainment, and I’m getting paid a lot of money to sit in on some meetings. Not a bad deal, really.”

  No, it wasn’t, not when it was laid out like that. Vish felt better. There’d been something hostile and acrid in the meeting room, but now that feeling was dissipating in the balmy air. The lot was studded with neat rows of palm trees, spindly stalks that rose up above the stages until they exploded like fireworks into mad bursts of spiky fronds. An iconic symbol of Los Angeles, all promise and potential and fresh starts.

  A red light flashed above the closed door to the soundstage. Mark and Vish waited until it went out, signifying a break in filming, then slipped inside.

  The main set, the spaceship bridge, was drenched in bright studio lights. Costumed actors huddled in consultation with the episode’s director, a gaunt man in a baseball cap and jeans. Vish looked around, but didn’t see Troy.

  Mark gestured with his head to the end of the stage where the craft services table was set up. Great platters of sandwiches with cold cuts and cheese spilling out of crusty Kaiser rolls. An assortment of salads: something with feta and multicolored olives, cold tortellini with pesto and crabmeat, chunks of fresh fruit and berries. Coffee, sodas, baskets of Frisbee-sized cookies and brownies.

  Mark picked up a plate and began grazing. Vish had filled up on pizza in the writers’ room. Too bad. He’d have to remember to save room next time. He looked up and saw Freddie heading over to them.

  “Hey, Mark. Vish.” Freddie nodded at them both. “How’s it going here?”

  “Really well, Freddie. Scene looks great,” Mark said. Mark must be precognitive, since the cameras hadn’t rolled since they’d entered the stage.

  “What’d you think of the meeting?” Freddie asked Vish.

  “Very interesting. I enjoyed it,” Vish said. “It was my first experience with anything like that. They seem like a good group.” He sounded chipper. Good.

  “They are, they really are. Smart bunch of guys. Some of the best writers in the business,” Freddie said. He paused. “One thing that I really try my best to reiterate, everyone needs to feel totally comfortable expressing an opinion. Even if it’s not necessarily the most diplomatic, or the most ‘correct’”—and here, Freddie used finger quotes to make his point—“it’s all part of the creative process, and it’s all valuable to us. Right?”

  “Sure,” Vish said. “Of course. I get that.”

  “Good. Good.” Freddie cleared his throat. “You didn’t sound too enthusiastic about the idea for Dudge’s plotline.”

  “I’d have to see how it was executed,” Vish said. He picked his next words with care. “From my viewpoint, it seems as though it might be a mistake to turn a regular character—a character who’s been pretty sympathetic thus far—into a rapist. Just speaking as a fan, I don’t think I’ve seen any indication that this would be a logical path for Dudge.”

  “But it’s like I said. Characters change and grow, sometimes in ways the audience doesn’t necessarily approve of. I think if you’d learn to open your mind a little more, you’d see how this could really be an interesting development for Dudge and Troy—and for the show. Okay?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Good.” Freddie gave him another smile and a quick pat on the arm, then shuffled over toward the action on the set.

  Vish exhaled, short and violent. He turned to Mark. “Was I out of line in the meeting?”

  “By objecting to having Dudge rape Starla?” Mark rolled his eyes. “I wish I could tell you that was the most objectionable idea that’s been raised in that room.”

  Mark picked his way through the salads on his plate with his fingers and popped a purple olive into his mouth. “My advice? Don’t waste energy arguing. If Freddie thinks something’s a good idea, it’s going to make its way into the script.”

  Vish nodded, digesting this. He wished he had the sort of personality that could enable him to take charge of meetings, to suggest powerful and evocative plotlines that would win back viewer acclaim and reverse the downward trajectory the show had been on for the past two seasons, but that wasn’t in his nature. Which was probably why he had no money, no car, and no noteworthy accomplishments to his name.

  He did have a smoking-hot TV-star girlfriend, though. When Mark wandered off to talk to one of the production assistants, Vish looked around again for Troy. She was listed on the call sheet for this afternoon, which meant she was probably resting in her trailer. He could go looking for her, but she might prefer some time to herself to prepare for her scenes.

  An actress approached the craft services table. A day player, not a series regular. She was in costume, a skimpy toga-style dress in sparkly lavender taffeta. Her dark hair was arranged in an elaborate topknot of coiled braids. She had a snub nose and a prominent overbite, and while she was maybe shy of being a knockout, she looked lively and pretty. She looked up from the table and grinned at Vish.

  “God, those brownies look fabulous,” she said. “I keep gravitating over here, even though I know I can’t eat anything. With this costume, I’ve been sucking in my gut all morning as it is.” She looked at Vish in curiosity. “What do you do on the show?”

  “I’m one of the writers,” he said. Maybe he should add a disclaimer after that, mention that he was on a trial basis, because he didn’t belong on that staff yet. Maybe he never would. “I’m Vish.”

  “Carlotta,” she said. They shook hands. “I’m playing Vera.” At his blank look, she elaborated. “The tavern girl who gets mauled to death by the mysterious space entity?”

  “Ah. I haven’t seen the script for this episode.” Which, if he thought about it, was kind of a strange thing for one of the writers to admit.

  “It’s a tiny part. I’m just here today and tomorrow,” she said. “I always wanted to be a writer. You guys get a lot more respect than actors do.”

  “I’m not sure how true that is,” Vish said. “I’m pretty sure I’m standing on the lowest rung of the ladder. I just started on the show today.”

  “Oh, wow.” Carlotta looked around. “Do you feel anywhere near as overwhelmed as I do?”

  “Very likely, yes,” Vish said. “Until last weekend, I was working as a caterer.”

  “I’m a waitress,” Carlotta said. “At a Denny’s in Pacoima, no kidding. This is my first paid acting job in like forever.” She looked around the stage, then back at Vish. “Hey, I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, but if we finish up around the same time
, do you want to grab a drink later?”

  “He’s got plans.” Vish jumped as Troy’s arm slid around his waist. She was in her costume and heavy makeup, all long legs and stretchy silver fabric. She smiled at Carlotta and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Troy. You’re in the next scene with me, right?”

  “Oh. I didn’t…” Carlotta looked stricken, clearly afraid she’d made a career-derailing gaffe by flirting with the boyfriend of a cast member. She recovered and shook Troy’s hand. “Really great to meet you, Troy. I’m Carlotta. I didn’t know you and Vish…” She reddened.

  Troy laughed. “Don’t worry about it.” Her dimples flashed. “Vish and I were just going to grab dinner nearby, if we get done here at a reasonable hour. We’d love to have you join us.”

  “I…” Carlotta looked wary, then relaxed. “Really? That would be great. If you don’t mind.”

  “Perfect.” Troy released Vish and linked her arm with Carlotta’s. “One of the PAs told me they’re about ready for us. Shall we?” With a wink and a wave at Vish, she led Carlotta over to the set, where the director and Freddie huddled in conversation.

  There was something so nice about Troy. She didn’t make a stink about little inconveniences, she was free of neuroses, she went out of her way to make everyone feel relaxed and welcome. Though from Ridpath’s account, that wasn’t always the case…

  Vish stared after Troy and wondered.