Barefoot In The City Of Broken Dreams Part 5

I've never been a fan of non-linear storytelling. Yes, there are times when it works, when it's important to the theme of a movie, like in Memento. In A Cup of Joe, I use parallel, interweaving storylines in two different timelines, but they're both linear, and I tried hard to make it all clean and clear. That's because I believe that, first and foremost, it's the job of the writer to just tell the d.a.m.n story, and not get bogged down with distracting gimmicks or your own self-indulgent artistic pretensions.

Which is why it was so funny when I called Kevin right after the meeting, I couldn't seem to tell him the story of what happened with Mr. Brander in chronological order. I kept jumping around all over the place.

"He worked with Tennessee Williams!" I said into my phone. "He was one of the producers on the original Broadway production of Sweet Bird of Youth! He thinks my screenplay is exactly what the world needs right now - that for too long, everything was all doom-and-gloom, but that now everything is either 'shocking' s.e.x or a.s.shole characters, either that or sometimes just romantic fantasy, and that no one is doing what I'm doing - telling the truth about gay love. His house isn't very nice though, the neighbors have a crushed granite gravel garden. Oh, and he's in a wheelchair, and I think he's making this movie because of his handsome dead partner."

When I got back to the apartment, I wasn't much clearer. I guess I was too fl.u.s.tered by everything that had happened.

But in the end, Kevin managed to coax the whole story out of me, from start to finish. For some reason, I never did tell him that Mr. Brander smelled a little bit like pee, I guess because it was so disgusting.

When I was done, Kevin looked at me, thinking, but I couldn't tell what. Was he excited? Skeptical? Still totally confused because, in spite of his efforts to reign me in, my recounting of the story really had been all over the place?

"Well?" I said, seeking clarification.

"You need an agent," he said.

"That's exactly what I thought!" I said. "I was thinking I could call Otto, and he could recommend me to his."

Kevin nodded.

"But what do you think?" I said.

He didn't answer for a second, his face still a kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions. Which, to tell the truth, sort of p.i.s.sed me off. I really, really wanted this thing with Mr. Brander to be real, so I wanted Kevin to validate my hopes that it was real - that it had finally "happened" for me, and my screenwriting career now had nowhere to go but up, up, and up!

Kevin isn't like that. He isn't a "Dream it and it will come true!" kind of guy. Which I usually appreciate, because I mostly think those people are insufferable. Either Mr. Brander was the real deal, or he wasn't, and all my dreaming and hoping wasn't going to change that one way or the other. In fact, playing things a bit more cautious now was one way to keep me from having the rug totally yanked out from under me in the end.

But still. The longer Kevin didn't say anything, the more the air was leaking out of me. If I'd been one of those inflatable Santas, or Baymax in Big Hero 6, I already would've been tipping over.

"I'll call Otto," I said, pulling my phone out.

"Russel?" he said, stopping me.

I looked at him.

"No matter what happens, this is exciting," he said. "And he's right about your screenplay. It's exactly what the world needs right now."

Then he leaned in and kissed me - not a pa.s.sionate, let's-pop-the-champagne kiss, but an I-love-you-no-matter-what-happens one.

Hey, I'll take it, I thought.

Of course Otto was thrilled for me. (Truthfully, he was a lot more excited than Kevin, but then Otto didn't have to live with me if the deal fell through.) He was also happy to recommend me to his agent, and the next morning, I got a call.

"Hold for Fiona Lang," said the voice on my phone.

"Okay," I said. I knew that was the name of Otto's agent.

A few seconds later, a voice said, "Russel? Fiona Lang."

"Thanks for getting back to me," I said. "Otto says good things about you."

"So tell me about this deal."

I did. I told pretty much the whole story, more coherent than I'd been with Kevin, although once again I made a point to leave out the part about how Mr. Brander smelled.

When I was done, she didn't say anything. Finally, she said, "Jesus, Isaac Brander? He must be older than Moses by now."

"He's not that old," I said.

"As far as I can tell, he doesn't even have an office anymore."

"He's working out of his home."

"But why? Isaac Brander hasn't made a film in years."

"Well," I said, "he told me it was because he loved the script."

That shut her up, for a second anyway. The truth is, she sounded put out by this whole conversation, like she was doing me this huge favor just talking to me on the phone, which I guess she sort of was.

"Otto tells me you need representation fast," she said. "As a favor to him, I'll agree to handle this deal on a one-time basis. But I'm not necessarily taking you on as a client, is that understood? Not until I get a chance to read your work."

Frankly, I was finding this all a little surreal. She was an agent, right? This was what she did: represent deals like this. So here I was, a writer coming to her with an offer already in place from a famous movie producer, but she was giving me all this att.i.tude. I kind of wanted to tell her to go f.u.c.k herself.

But she was also Otto's agent, and he'd stuck his neck out for me, and I didn't want to get him in trouble. Plus, the fact was I did need an agent fast, and I had this weird feeling that almost any agent I talked to would react about the same way.

"Understood," I said. "I'll send you his contact info, and a couple of my screenplays, as soon as we get off the phone."

She grunted and hung up before I could even ask for her email address (but I knew I could get it from Otto).

Would Fiona Lang have given more of a flying f.u.c.k about me if the offer on my screenplay had come from Christopher Nolan, or if it really had been Steven Spielberg who'd called me up? Probably. But that just confirmed something I'd already suspected about agents and managers: they're totally willing to help out new talent, but not until you reach the point where you've pretty much made it, and you don't need their help anymore.

So now came the waiting. How long did it take to negotiate a movie contract anyway? I had no idea, and I didn't want to bother Otto again. Kevin was out on an interview, so I spent the next couple of hours pacing back and forth in the apartment, waiting for Fiona to call back. I couldn't help but spin a fantasy about how A Cup of Joe would have its premiere at the Chinese Theatre, and they'd ask me to write my name in the concrete. Did they do that with screenwriters? Probably not, but if they did, I'd do something incredibly clever, like press my forehead into the concrete - the font of my amazing creativity - the way Roy Rogers made an imprint of his revolver, and the kids from the Harry Potter movies pressed their wands.

Needless to say, I was feeling a little loopy. Maybe even very loopy - like, Heath-Ledger-in-The-Dark-Knight loopy.

I decided to go for a walk.

Down in the courtyard, I ran into someone on the way to the street.

"You must be Russel," she said. "Or is it Kevin?"

It was a woman - short, black, and nerdy. She had gla.s.ses with lenses that were too thick for her frames, a bit of an overbite, and cargo shorts that were pulled up a little too high. Basically, nothing quite fit. She was like the wrong lid on a piece of Tupperware.

Needless to say, I liked her instantly. I couldn't help glancing down at her shoes. Sure enough, she was wearing Onitsuka Tigers.

"Russel," I said. "But how-?"

"I'm Regina. Gina's girlfriend? She mentioned you to me. One of you is a screenwriter, right?"

"Oh!" I said. "Regina, huh? Gina and Regina?"

She rolled her eyes. "I know, how annoying. But I wanted to introduce myself, because there aren't many gay folks in this town, and we sorta have to look out for each other."

I stared at her.

"That was a joke," she said. "Because this town is, like, half gay?"

I laughed - maybe a little too much. "Yeah. Sorry, kind of slow here. So you're a comedian too?"

She made a face. "G.o.d, no! I'm not sure a couple can handle two comedians. I think that must be like two tops. There has to be someone to tell the joke, and there has to be someone else to laugh." This wasn't good. I'd known that Gina and Regina were a couple for all of ten seconds, and I was already sensing tension in their relations.h.i.+p.

"I'm a screenwriter too," she went on, and I couldn't help thinking about what Otto had said about the Screenwriter Loophole. Regina definitely looked the part. On the other hand, I hated that I'd been in town less than a week, and I was already putting people into boxes.

"Oh, that's great," I said. I desperately wanted to tell Gina the story of what was happening with Mr. Brander, in one big, long, firehose-like gush. But we'd only just met. Besides, it felt like bragging.

Instead I said, "What kind of things do you write?"

"Well, for a living, I wrote for reality TV for a while," she said.

I looked at her.

"Don't tell anyone," she said. "A lot of' reality TV is scripted. But you probably already knew that."

"I actually didn't know that."

"Now I've done it, I've spoiled the illusion. We don't write the actual dialogue. We just set up the situations. Okay, you dragged it out of me: sometimes we do write dialogue. Everyone says, 'This is so fake, they should show the unedited footage.' But I've seen the unedited footage, and trust me, no one would want to watch that. Real 'reality' is actually quite boring."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I think most reality TV is quite boring too."

Regina laughed. "Spoken like a writer of the actual scripted stuff. And I don't disagree. The longer I did it, the harder it was to escape the conclusion that reality TV is entertainment for stupid people."

"Oh, ouch!"

"What do you write?" she asked me.

Was this enough of an opportunity to tell her about my impending deal with Mr. Brander? I decided it was, so I (briefly, modestly) told her what was going on.

"Hey, congratulations!" she said, genuinely happy for me. "That's really, really great!" I'd told her about my experience with Fiona, so she also said, "Don't let that stuff with the agent bug you. Think about it from their point of view: it's a job to them. There are a zillion people who want to be screenwriters, but only a really small number of them are ever going to make any money. So they're just really, really, really selective. But I definitely know the vibe you're talking about. They make you feel like you're something on the bottom of their shoe. I think it's impossible to be a 'gatekeeper' without it going to your head. But hey, I can refer you to my agent if you want. a.s.suming she'll still take my calls."

"Really?" I said. Suddenly I was in love with the idea of calling Fiona Lang up and saying, "You know, you didn't seem very excited about my screenplay deal, so I've decided to go with another agent."

But that didn't seem quite right. She had agreed to rep this one deal, and I didn't want to get Otto in trouble. Regina had a point about everyone wanting a piece of a Hollywood agent, that it had to go to a person's head.

"I should probably wait and see how it goes with Fiona," I said. "But if it doesn't work out, I may take you up on that."

"Anyway, it was nice to meet you."

"Likewise!"

As I walked away from Regina, I suddenly remembered what Otto had told me: that living in Los Angeles, it was easy to meet other people in the industry.

He'd been so right. Literally all I'd had to do was set foot outside my door.

Later that afternoon, back in the apartment, I still hadn't heard from Fiona, and I was starting to feel like Heath Ledger's Joker again, so I decided to use the pool. Kevin was back now, and he came with me. Always before, we'd had the pool to ourselves. But this time, one of our neighbors was already there.

Daniel.

(Remember? The hot teenage neighbor we met before?) He was floating on his back in the middle of the pool in a pair of black trunks. It was late in the afternoon now, so the deck was mostly in shade, but Daniel was still wearing dark gla.s.ses.

He looked great, of course. His trunks were skin-tight, not the baggy kind, and his body was lean and tan and ripped. I had a feeling Kevin was noticing him too, but it's not like we were going to stare.

Kevin and I put our towels on the deck chairs, kicked off our flip-flops, and slid down into the pool.

Daniel was right in front of us, still floating on his back. As we entered the pool, we basically came face-to-face with his crotch (face-to-crotch? Oy!). For someone so lean and muscled, Daniel was surprisingly buoyant, so we were definitely getting an eyeful. I'd thought before that he was wearing a pair of skin-tight trunks, but now I wondered if it wasn't just a pair of boxer briefs. The material seemed that thin and cotton-y.

At least I wasn't thinking about Fiona and Mr. Brander and the movie contract anymore. On the other hand, and maybe this is internalized h.o.m.ophobia on my part, I've always been annoyed by those gay guys who make a point to openly leer at other guys. A quick peek is one thing, but anything that makes the other person uncomfortable has always seemed like a d.i.c.k-y thing to do, whether you're a straight guy ogling a woman or a gay guy ogling another guy. (Women rarely leer at all, which should tell us something right there.) In the middle of the pool, Daniel bobbed in our wake. He slowly rotated away, so he was almost parallel to us now. At least we weren't staring directly at his crotch anymore, but unfortunately, he looked pretty good in silhouette too. I could see the waistband of his shorts now, the logo that read "Under Armour" - he was definitely wearing boxer-briefs.

Kevin caught me staring and gave me a knowing little smile.

I'd glanced over at Kevin at just the right time, because now Daniel looked over at us both. He scowled, I guess because we'd disturbed the water in "his" pool.

"Hey, there," Kevin said. "Daniel, right?"

He stared at us a second longer. Then he said, "Yup," over-emphasizing the "p," almost like he was making a popping sound.

Well, I thought, at least now we know he speaks English.

He settled back into the water like he was lying on a bed. He'd gone from looking annoyed to emanating complete boredom.

"So I guess you're in high school," Kevin said.

"Yup," he said, making the almost-pop with the "p" again.

"What, a senior?"

"Yup."

I couldn't help wondering how Daniel had ended up living with his sister, where their parents were.

"Hey," I said to Daniel, realizing something, "you must go to Hollywood High!" That was the local school where all these famous people went back in the seventies.

This time, he didn't even give me a "Yup," just stared at me blankly from behind his dark gla.s.ses, and I felt stupid for showing enthusiasm about anything in his presence. Did everyone in this d.a.m.n town have att.i.tude?