Bleak Page 10

  I nod and look down at my muffin, oddly dismayed by his comment. I should find his knowledge and confidence reassuring, but it’s more depressing than anything else. All these events that are exciting and alarming and require intensive hours of examination are just another day at the office for him. He’s lived through every combination and permutation. And that’s the scary thing. If Hollywood is the same story over and over again, then I already know how this ends. Badly.

  Lester motions for the check. The waitress nods and disappears inside. “If you really want to worry about someone—and I can see that you do—worry about Esther Rogers. She’s the new head of Arcadia and she’s brought in a whole new team of people. Which means the old regime, with whom Lloyd had his production deal and who knew his father, is out. There’s no telling if the new regime is going to be interested in Jarndyce and Jarndyce. In the next few months, they’ll be reviewing all the projects in development and deciding which they want to scrap. Now, I think we’re safe because Rogers likes fun, young movies. She green-lighted Sanibel Daze and Wish You Were Here for Paramount. But that’s the situation you want to keep your eye on.”

  I nod and promise to devote all my anxiety to worrying about Esther Rogers.

  Lester laughs. He thinks I’m kidding. “Good. And I’ll call Lloyd in a few weeks to discuss the renewal. In the meantime, good luck with your script. I’m looking forward to reading it.” The check comes and he throws a twenty onto the table to cover the tab. “I hate to run but I have another meeting at ten.”

  Of course he has to dash. His life is an endless meeting with breaks in between to sit in traffic. No doubt he’s off to another breakfast. I was just the prebreakfast snack. “Thanks for the muffin. It was delicious.”

  He smiles. “My pleasure. You are one of my favorite clients, and it’s always a pleasure to talk with you. I’ll be in touch,” he promises with a wave as he strides down the cobblestone path to the parking lot, where his classic red Mustang is parked next to my sensible gray car. I watch him pull out and make a left onto Sunset.

  With nothing to do today except worry over regime change at Arcadia, I gesture to the waitress and get another refill on my coffee. The sun is warm, the breeze is gentle, and the Peruvian brew, when not gulped piping hot, has a lovely bitterness to it. It’s only a little after nine in the morning. There’s still plenty of time to do a full search on Esther Rogers: her movie credits, her career history, etc. I’m happy to follow my agent’s orders and obsess over someone new for a little while.

  But when I finally get home after an afternoon shopping at the Galleria for a coffee table and folding chairs, I turn on my computer and Google Moxie.

  Day 925

  Simon calls himself sixth-generation Hollywood but on closer inspection I discover he means sixth-generation California. Having crossed the Rockies with a pick axe and a mule called Sadie, his several-times-great grandfather arrived in San Francisco in 1849 just in time to find gold. His strike wasn’t huge but contained enough glitter to buy property along the Mokelumne River, marry a pretty girl named Joannie and start a family.

  Still, Simon sets himself up as an expert and cautions me against getting in too deep with the movie. “Don’t invest,” he says, sitting on the stone wall in front of the Griffith Observatory, a sweeping dome perched on the south-facing slope of Mount Hollywood. Stretching before us are the L.A. basin and the Pacific Ocean. “Emotionally, financially, psychologically. Just go on with your life like it doesn’t exist and you’ll be fine.”

  The purpose of this expedition is to introduce me to my new neighborhood. The observatory is by far the most well-known landmark of Los Feliz, and every morning when I pull out of the driveway I see it poised on the top of the hill like an eagle preparing to take flight.

  Or at least that’s what I thought the purpose was. Now I’m not so sure.

  “But throw yourself into the pit of expectation, into the—and, yes,” Simon says deprecatingly, “I know how melodramatic this sounds—the abyss of hope, and you’ll destroy yourself. I’ve seen it happen a million times.”

  The abyss of hope sounds more like a rousing IMAX adventure than a psychological condition, and I have to bite back a smile. My eyes focused on the skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles, I tilt my head slightly and assure him there’s nothing to worry about. I’m not stumbling into any abyss of hope or otherwise.

  But he’s far from convinced. “Some movies take a lifetime to not happen. Young men have faded into fathers and grandfathers waiting for their moment.”

  Although I’m the newcomer here, listening to Simon makes me feel like an experienced professional. He’s not an industry insider. He’s a copywriter who spends his days composing snappy descriptions of Los Angeles neighborhoods for a rental website. He knows the landscape, not the lay of the land. Just because they shot Entourage in your office building doesn’t mean you’re part of the movie business.

  If proximity made one an expert, Bob Pirelli would be editor-in-chief of the Hollywood Reporter by now.

  When I don’t say anything, Simon laughs. It’s a surprisingly cynical sound. “I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. I do know of what I speak.”

  “Sixth-generation Hollywood, right?” I say with a smile.

  He returns the gesture. “Former screenwriter. My heart has been broken by the best of them: Paramount, Arcadia, Fox. Rocking Horse Pictures optioned my first screenplay six times over ten years, told me every few months they were minutes away from a green light and cut me lose without a backward glance three weeks before the supposed start of shooting.” The breeze kicks up, and he digs his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket. L.A. is shockingly chilly in early December, hardly the warm-year-round paradise I packed for. “So when I say don’t invest, I mean don’t invest.”

  “That must have been hard. Did it really go on for ten years?” I ask, appalled at the possibility of waiting a decade to see Moxie play Ada Clare Jarndyce. Although, in ten years she’ll finally be old enough for the part.

  “Yep, ten years of living in perpetual expectation, of putting off major life decisions because I assumed the money would come through at any moment and give me more options. I lost a lot of time, wasted a lot of energy and wound up exactly where I started. Don’t do it, Ricki.” His tone is oddly calm for the urgency of his words. “Pretend there is no film and move on with your life.”

  A gust of wind blows my hair into my eyes, and I pull it back into a loose knot. Stray pieces escape within seconds but not enough to impede my view. I can see Simon clearly, his face scruffy and serious under a Dodger’s baseball cap, his blue eyes intense as he looks at me with concern. “What film?” I say.

  But it’s only for his benefit. Although I’m sympathetic to his plight, I know it won’t happen to me. Our situations are nothing alike. The world’s hottest star didn’t attach herself to his project the day after her movie opened at number one at the box office. Variety, Hollywood Reporter, People, EW and Newsweek didn’t announce its development in a flurry of publicity that extended as far as Jaipur, India. His producer didn’t throw him a fabulous Hollywood bash with studio execs, thousand-dollar gift bags and Moxie Bernard.

  Most movies don’t make it. Everyone knows that. The cards are stacked against it, but sometimes it does happen. A book moves effortlessly from page to screen. There’s no rhyme or reason as to why one crosses the finish line and another never gets out of the gate. It’s random and arbitrary, and I don’t know why my fairy god producer looked down on J&J from the heavens and decided it will be one of the lucky ones. All I know is he did, and I’m grateful.

  “You said first screenplay. Were there many others?” I ask because I feel guilty for not being more interested. Simon’s ten-year ordeal, his lapsed option and heart full of thwarted dreams means he’s already failed. There’s no redem
ption from a thirty-five-square-foot cubical in the downtown offices of RentLA.com.

  “Six,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I spent most of my twenties holed up in a one-room apartment on Crenshaw writing spy thrillers. I was obsessed with Graham Greene and John le Carré. The Lindell Assignment, the one Rocking Horse toyed with for ten years, was a total knockoff of The Secret Agent, even down to the plot to blow up the Greenwich Observatory. I didn’t even have the creative energy to change it to, say, I don’t know, this one here. That’s what kills me. My most immature attempt—what was essentially my senior project at USC—went the farthest. There were nibbles for the other projects but no bites. Three years ago, when the project fell through once and for all, I got out. I wanted to have some control over what happens to me, rather than endlessly waiting for someone else to decide my future.”

  I wrap my arms around my legs, huddling for warmth, and look for some sign of bitterness, but there isn’t any. He’s calm and detached. “Did you think about moving?” I couldn’t imagine living here, in the middle of the film industry, in what is basically a company town, after it had spit me out.

  His eyebrows dart up in surprise. “Leave L.A.? Never. I love everything about it—the weather, the ocean, the way nature trails butt up against the freeway. I even love traffic. It gives you time to think. I do some of my best writing in the car.”

  I picture him in his little mint green VW Bug dictating into his iPhone and laugh. “It’s a lucky man who loves the bars of his cage,” I say with genuine envy. “I can’t stand traffic. Forget the soul-destroying effects of perpetual expectation. Try perpetual frustration. My blood pressure must be through the roof by now. Every time I get stuck, I have to fight the urge to get out and walk, even on the 405. I’m always late now wherever I go, and I used to be the most prompt person I know. I hate having a car. The price of gas is killing me, and I resent insurance. I should be allowed to try my luck without it. Life is a gamble, isn’t it? Other than being a giant purse, which is tremendously handy, I can’t figure out how the car is anything but a scourge on humanity.”

  “A giant purse?” he asks.

  “Yeah, you know, for carrying books, magazines, lipstick, a change of shoes, your laptop. In that way, I’m fully behind the automobile.”

  “Of course,” he says with a smirk, as if he too doesn’t drive with half his belongings on the floor of the back seat. It’s endemic to the lifestyle. “I tend to think of mine as a giant backpack.”

  I accept his gender-specific amendment and look at my watch. It’s a little after two. “What time’s the show?” Our curator neighbor, who I only met briefly this morning when we did the handoff, supplied the planetarium tickets.

  “Three. We’ve got some time. If you want, we can check out the Leonard Nimoy Event Horizon.”

  I have no idea what that is but it sounds fabulous. “Let’s. If my new neighborhood has an event horizon, then I must be introduced to it posthaste,” I say, getting to my feet. The weather is still brisk, and I shiver as the cold wind blows through my sweater. Simon wraps his scarf around my neck and leads me inside.

  The Event Horizon is a 200-hundred-seat multimedia theater featuring a short film narrated by Leonard Nimoy. We sit down and catch the last eight minutes and then wait five until it starts again. It’s impossible to watch without picturing Mr. Spock, and Simon makes me laugh by translating everything into phony Vulcan. As I watch the credits roll a second time, I can’t help thinking how much I like Simon. I trust him and want to take what he said about J&J to heart.

  But it’s so much easier to forget his advice than the movie.

  Days 946 through 953

  My parents and sister descend the day after Christmas and leave New Years morning. It’s the most time the Carstone family has spent together since our weeklong trip to Puerto Rico during my sophomore year in high school, and even then we saw each only other at dinner. My parents hung out at the pool at the hotel, and Carrie and I walked the one block to the beach. A champion tanner, Carrie would soak up rays for hours, shifting her towel like a human sundial every time the sun moved a fraction of an inch, while I read trashy novels in the shade. On one particularly good day, I read The Valley of the Dolls and The Betsy.

  While we wait at baggage claim for my father’s black suitcase, which is indistinguishable from every other black suitcase in the universe despite the many pink ribbons Mom has given him to tie to the zipper, I wonder if the old system would work now. My apartment has a pool. Although considerably less glamorous than the Embassy Suites San Juan, it has four sleek lounge chairs, multicolored floating noodles and a vending machine that sometimes works. I could set them up there while Carrie and I cruise Robertson for high-end kitchen appliances.

  I’d only have to hear about Dad’s subpar packing abilities during dinner.

  In the car, Mom rattles off a list of things she can’t wait to do like Disneyland and Mann’s Chinese Theater, and I realize I’m stuck. There’s no you-go-your-way-and-I’ll-go-my-way-and-we’ll-meet-up-for-steaks-at-Ruth’s-Chris-at-eight. We’re in this together.

  Oh, God.

  Luckily, my parents insist on staying at the Super 8 on Western. I offer them my bedroom—Carrie and I could share the couch in the living room—but they say they’re on vacation and want to be pampered. What kind of luxuries they expect to encounter at a cut-rate budget motel, I have no idea, but I don’t say a word. Far be it for me to reason them out of a comfortable distance.

  By the time Mom and Dad are settled in their standard king bedroom, daylight is gone and I suggest places for dinner. Their dining habits are safe and predictable. Dad likes red meat and red sauces. With Simon’s help, I’ve pulled together a comprehensive collection of pubs, diners and Italian restaurants. I also have a list of attractions and activities like the Getty Museum, Universal Studios and Santa Barbara. The point is to keep them so busy they don’t ask about my job hunt. They’d freak if they knew I was investing money in my writing career.

  My efforts to distract my parents work for three days, but during lunch at the Santa Monica pier Mom pulls out that morning’s L.A. Times and hands it to me. Nine positions are circled in blue pen. “I didn’t know which ones you’ve already applied for, so I sent your résumé and cover letter to each. It never hurts to be too thorough.”

  Appalled, I picture the Super 8’s inadequate business center, a closet of a room with a hanging bulb, a computer and a dot matrix printer. Apparently, that’s all you need.

  Next to me, her mouth full of New England clam chowder, Carrie giggles.

  Biting back a cutting remark about her touchy-feely, clingy boyfriend, I pretend to examine the paper with intense concentration. “Yes,” I say after a minute, “I’ve applied to all of these.” Since I’m already lying to my parents by omission, I might as well go all the way and add commission. There’s no point in being dishonest and uncomfortable.

  “Are you sure?” Carrie asks with a big grin, spooning more soup. “I don’t remember seeing you at the computer this morning.”

  She has no idea how vulnerable she is with her loser boyfriend. But I take the high road. “Positive. I did them when you went to the bakery to buy Mom and Dad croissants for breakfast.” I turn to my parents. “How were they? I sent her to a wonderful little bakery on Los Feliz. They make killer pastries.”

  Mom’s eyebrows knit. “We didn’t get any croissants.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I guess Carrie ate them all.”

  In her rush to defend herself, my sister swallows wrong and chokes. She says, “I didn’t—” several times but can’t get out the full sentence.

  Dad pats her on the back. “That’s all right, sweetie. We all know how you love to eat.”

  Gasping for breath, Carrie stares daggers at me.

  As far as family bonding moments
go, it’s one of our best.

  Carrie sulks for the next day and a half and it’s only when Mom is fitting her hands perfectly into the cement impression of Bette Davis’s (“Look at that, George. We could be twins.”) that she tells me Glenn is moving in with her.

  The admission is so stunning, I need a moment to regain my breath. I knew it was coming from the proprietary way he talked about her cabinets and yet I’m totally shocked. I try to imagine what it will be like to be related to him. I picture introducing him to the people in my life. Hi, Simon, do you know my brother-in-law, Glenn?

  My stomach ties itself into greasy knots.

  I plaster a smile on my face and tell myself it’s not about me. “Congratulations. When’s moving day?”

  “We’re thinking February. He hasn’t told his landlord yet. But it shouldn’t be a problem. The person he got the apartment from broke her lease, too.”

  I nod and try to think of something positive to say. “You’ll save a ton on rent.”

  “I know. We’re thinking of getting an iPad with the extra money.”

  If they’re buying things together, all hope is lost. Co-ownership is the same as marriage. Wren, let me introduce you to my brother-in-law, Glenn.

  The topic is so depressing, I immediately change it. “How’s Ruby? Her last e-mail was garbled and confused. They’re adopting a puppy?”

  Carrie smiles as Mom slides off her sandal and puts her left foot into the casting made by Jean Harlow. “They’re having a baby.”

  “A baby and a puppy?” I ask, surprised. I can imagine Lionel easily juggling the two but his wife is a little more scattered. No doubt she’d put the puppy in the cradle and the baby on a leash. “That’s a double whammy.”

  “No, just a baby,” she says. “Puppy is Ruby’s term for it but she forgets that everyone doesn’t know the code.”