Barefoot In The City Of Broken Dreams Part 7

He looked back at me, his face breaking into a big grin. I was about to say, "What should we write it about?" But before I could, Otto said, "I could write it about my own experience, about being an actor with a scar. I know there are a zillion web series about people trying to make it in Hollywood, but I've never seen anything like my story. Have you?"

I shook my head no.

"I could call it, like...Scarface," Otto said.

"That's good," I said, nodding.

Truthfully, I was a little disappointed Otto didn't want me to write his web series. He probably hadn't even heard my offer. But he was probably right that it should tell his own story - and he'd be better writing that than I would. Besides, this lunch had been about cheering Otto up. Whatever I'd done, it had worked: he was shoveling up his food in big bites. It was nice to have done something for him for a change.

"Are you going back?" I said, meaning the buffet.

"h.e.l.ls to the yes," he said. "Aren't you?"

"Sure."

"But afterward I wanna take you somewhere. Shoe shopping."

"Oh," I said. "Okay, thanks."

"As a thank you for today."

"You don't need to buy me-"

Otto stopped me with a quick smile. "Oh, I'm not buying. The thank you is helping you shop. And you're still picking up lunch. You're the one with the freakin' ten thousand dollar option!"

I laughed and said, "Fair enough."

It wasn't until the following week that I finally heard from Fiona.

Fifteen f.u.c.king days after we talked on the phone.

I could describe the rest of those days for you, but that would probably drive you as crazy as it did me. What kind of crazy comes after Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight? Bill O'Reilly in real life? Anyway, that was me. I checked my iPhone so often, I probably almost broke it. But finally an email arrived from Fiona: Contract attached. Print four copies, sign, and send all four to me. I'll send you a copy once all are counter-signed. Call with questions.

I knew I was a newbie, but wasn't it typical for the client to be consulted before finalizing a contract? And I hadn't exactly expected a fruit basket and a bottle of champagne from Fiona, but a phone call might have been nice.

I opened up the contract and was confronted by sixteen pages of mostly incomprehensible legal mumbo-jumbo. But I definitely understood the words "ten thousand dollars" in the section marked "Option." And if the movie actually got made at a budget of six million (as Mr. Brander had said), I stood to make another whopping hundred and forty thousand dollars (two and a half percent of the total production budget, minus the option money, up to a "ceiling" of two-fifty). Plus, I had five percent of "net profits," which even I knew that, due to creative Hollywood accounting, was basically meaningless. (Supposedly, the producers of the Star Wars, Spider-Man, and Harry Potter movies - some of the most popular films in history - are arguing that they still haven't turned any profits.) But like everyone who's ever gotten net points on a movie, I could at least imagine that the movie would be so successful that I'd someday get a check for two million dollars.

My first official movie deal, and it was now officially done. So why was I so uneasy about it? I thought about emailing Fiona back and asking if she'd had a chance to read my screenplays yet, but I wasn't even close to being ready to have her write back to say, "Yes, and I thought they were dreadful."

Feeling superst.i.tious, I quickly printed out four copies of the contract, signed them, and then ran out to the nearest post office to send them off. When I got home, Kevin was back from another interview.

"I got the contract!" I said. "It's already signed and off to the agent."

"Seriously?" Kevin said. "That's fantastic!" He kissed me. "Now we have to go out and celebrate."

The contract may have been signed, but we didn't have the check yet, and it was only going to be for eight thousand five hundred anyway (after Fiona's fifteen percent commission). So unfortunately, "celebrate" just meant chicken and waffles at the Hollywood Roscoe's.

But there was a concert that night at the Hollywood Bowl, which is only about a half mile away from our apartment, and walking home you could hear the music flowing out through the whole neighborhood - some kind of jazz instrumental. Meanwhile, the night was cool and the sky was a vibrant indigo. For once, the air smelled more like the sea and the plants of the Hollywood hills than it did exhaust from all the freeways.

When we got back to the apartment, the second we were inside the door, Kevin turned to me and took me into his arms.

"I thought you needed to email your writer," I said. This was something he'd talked about at dinner.

"f.u.c.k my writer," he said, kissing me.

I resisted the obvious joke about how I'd rather f.u.c.k him (and maybe vice-versa). I was too busy kissing him back.

Then we were undressing, even as we were heading toward the bedroom, hopping on one foot and then the other, leaving a trail of discarded clothing behind us just like in the movies.

By the time we reached the bed, we were down to our underwear, both of us tenting big-time.

I worked my way down to his grey boxer-briefs, to the considerable bulge I found there.

"Unleash the Kraken!" I said to Kevin, who laughed as I yanked his underwear down around his thighs. His d.i.c.k popped upright with the fury of a battering ram.

The Kraken had definitely been unleashed, and I spent at least the next hour wrestling it into submission.

I woke up later that night. It was darker out, but I figured we couldn't have been asleep that long, because I could still hear the concert from the Hollywood Bowl.

No, I thought. Something's not right.

I glanced at the clock. It was 2:07 a.m. So it couldn't be the concert - that had to be long over by now. The music sounded different anyway. That had been jazz, loose and contemporary. This was tighter, more melodic, bra.s.sier - big band, like something from the 1950s. Maybe it was one of the neighbors playing music, or even someone from the sidewalk outside. Except it didn't sound like it was coming from outside. It sounded like it was coming from right inside the apartment.

Did we leave the music on? I thought. But we'd started kissing the second we entered the apartment. Did Kevin get up after we fell asleep? I didn't think we had any music like this. Maybe it was some new ringtone of his, or the television.

The music didn't stop, just kept playing, big and bra.s.sy.

I looked over at Kevin, wheezing softly, sound asleep next to me. There was no reason to wake him, so I pulled on my underwear and t-s.h.i.+rt and slipped out of bed.

I could still hear the music. It had to be the concert at the Bowl - some after-hours party. Except I couldn't believe the city would allow that. Plus, it still didn't sound like it was coming from outside.

I stepped into the front room. The music wasn't loud, but somehow it really did sound like it was coming from inside the apartment. It had to be a trick of the acoustics - something to do with the night air, or the apartment, or both. It was probably the neighbors. It did sort of sound like a radio, one of the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind that you had to tune, that fade in and out. The Venetian blinds were down but open, and the windows were open too. Light spilled in past the vertical slats, casting bar-like shadows. It wasn't moonlight, just the omnipresent glow of the city at night. The trail of Kevin's and my discarded clothing was still there, everything exactly the way we'd left it. But then why wouldn't it be?

I started to turn back to the bedroom, but something stopped me.

My skin tingled, the first touch of a ma.s.seuse.

I'm not alone, I thought.

I turned back toward the front room, but it was empty, completely still. The music played on.

I tensed. Did we have an intruder? But I didn't tense that much, because it didn't feel like that kind of presence. It didn't feel dangerous. It felt like whoever was there belonged there.

I thought about that night before, the day we'd been unpacking, when I'd imagined I'd seen those ghosts from the past. But those had been fantasies, fleeting flights of fancy. This felt different. Maybe I was still asleep and dreaming.

"There's even supposed to be a ghost." That's what Gina had said about our apartment.

That was ridiculous. There was no such thing as ghosts. But I was suddenly a lot more sympathetic toward people who claimed to sense them. Now I knew what it felt like, how your skin p.r.i.c.kled, and your hands and feet went cold. For a second, I thought about going back into the bedroom to wake Kevin. I hadn't even closed the door behind me - I could still hear him breathing. I wasn't sure what he'd think though. And if I went to get Kevin, I wasn't sure the presence would still be here when we got back.

"h.e.l.lo?" I whispered.

The music stopped. Had it stopped abruptly, someone turning a switch, or had it just come to the end of the song? I couldn't tell. I'd been listening for an answer to my question, not listening closely to the music. But did it even matter if it had stopped suddenly, if I'd only been overhearing the neighbor's radio?

Outside the windows, the freeway hissed.

There's no one here, I thought. It was just like before, that night I'd imagined the past, but this time, I'd let my imagination get away from me.

I turned back for the bedroom, then realized I needed to use the bathroom first.

Halfway across the room, a male voice said, urgently, "Whatever you do, don't-"

I turned back for the bedroom, hoping that Kevin would be standing in the doorway, warning me that I was about to stub my toe on a table or something.

He wasn't there.

Maybe it was another trick of the acoustics, another noise from the neighbor's apartment?

It didn't sound like that. As with the music, it had sounded like it was in the apartment with me, in the same room I was in. But the voice had sounded a little like a radio too, like it had to be tuned. We were together, but also somehow not.

What was I not supposed to do? The voice had faded away before he could say.

I was scared, but not because of the presence: I didn't feel any sense of danger from that. No, it was more the urgency of the warning. It seemed like it was directed at me, that it was really important I hear it.

"Don't do what?" I said to the room, to the presence.

It didn't answer.

"Please," I said. "Tell me."

There was still no answer.

Suddenly I felt like an idiot. Of course I hadn't heard anything real. I probably wasn't fully awake or something. If there had been music and a voice, it was just a radio. It had even sounded like that. Why in the world would I a.s.sume it was a ghost trying to communicate with me from across the dimensions?

I used the bathroom and went back to bed, cuddling up to Kevin, who never did wake up. I didn't care that the room was stuffy, and his body was sweaty. I'd already decided I wasn't going to tell him what I thought I'd experienced. I felt stupid enough about it already.

But I didn't drift off to sleep, not until even deeper in the night. I couldn't shake the feeling that the voice and its warning had been real, that it had been meant for me, and that I was somehow about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

CHAPTER SIX.

Everybody makes a big deal about the first time you have s.e.x, and it is a big deal, mostly because you don't really know what to expect. But don't people kinda sorta know what to expect, at least these days? I mean, it's not like we live in Victorian times where people haven't ever seen another person naked. Most teenagers have seen plenty of s.e.x online. Even if "p.o.r.n" isn't exactly the same thing as "s.e.x," people still have a general idea of what goes where with who.

The following Monday, Lewis called and invited me over to Mr. Brander's house for the very first A Cup of Joe development meeting. It was scheduled for the next day.

Unlike s.e.x for a virgin, I had absolutely no idea what to expect.

I'm not a complete idiot: I a.s.sumed that "developing" a project meant figuring out how to turn the screenplay into an actual movie. It's not like they're the same thing. So I a.s.sumed we'd talk about a director, and the budget, and locations, and casting, and probably also what was wrong with the script itself, what needed revising. But exactly what did all that involve? And who would be involved? Just Mr. Brander, Lewis, and me?

When I was still on the phone with him, I thought about asking Lewis what to expect, but I figured that would paint me as even more of a total newbie, so I decided not to.

Basically, for the second time in my life, I was a fumbling, awkward, blus.h.i.+ng virgin. And I had no choice but to drop trou, clench my teeth, and get the d.a.m.n thing over.

Once again, I was determined to be at Mr. Brander's house early, and once again, thanks to the horrible traffic, I just barely made it (and, of course, at one point I was almost killed).

Still embarra.s.sed by my car, I parked along the street and let Lewis buzz me in on foot.

He met me at the front door.

"Lewis," I said.

"Russel," he said.

There was something different about him this time, but I couldn't figure out what it was. It wasn't his shoes or his clothing, which I'm pretty sure were exactly the same as before.

"What's up?" I said.

He was looking away. "This way."

I could hear voices behind him in the front room. Rather than being decorated with movie posters and photos and awards like Mr. Brander's office, this room was filled with antiques: fixtures with crystal beads and pots made of hammered bra.s.s, even a big carved wood fireplace mantle. The curtains dripped with ta.s.sels, and the couches were mostly of the "divan" type. The area smelled like dried flowers, something vaguely sweet and a little like hay.

I stepped into the grand arch of the entryway. Mr. Brander wasn't there, but there were four people - three men and a woman, all seated. For a second, no one noticed me, so I took the opportunity to scan their shoes. They all looked nice - various shades of leather - but even after going shopping with Otto, I still didn't know anything about shoes, so I decided then and there that I needed to stop checking them out.

By now, people were noticing me, and noticing Lewis standing next to me, like I was someone important, like he was about to introduce me. Weirdly, once again, I wasn't that nervous.

"This is Russel," Lewis said to the gathering. "The screenwriter of A Cup of Joe?"

Everyone smiled and talked at once, complimenting me and telling me how much they liked the script. I knew they were probably just being polite, that it was mostly a lot of hot air, completely insincere, but I confess: I definitely liked insincere hot air better than the cold indifference of Fiona Lang.

Then someone said, "I especially liked the flashbacks."

Someone else, "Oh! Yeah, that wasn't what I was expecting," and everyone else agreed with him.

Maybe they're not just being polite, I thought.

Lewis went around the room introducing them: Evan, the casting director, tall and slouchy, with a nervous edge; Andrea, the line producer, in a baseball cap and ponytail, somehow a little too enthusiastic; Bryce, the co-producer, an aging surfer-dude type with a bristly grey goatee and premature wrinkles; and finally, Justin, the a.s.sociate producer, a surprisingly buff Asian guy of indeterminate age, the calmest of us all.