Bleak (10 page)

Although Lester calls our meeting an official welcome-to-L.A. breakfast, I expect him to spend the entire meal trying to talk me out of the move. As I look for parking, I can hear the lecture about hitching my dreams to impossible stars and setting myself up for failure. “Go back to New York, my dear, where there’s a misguided paralegal for every light on Broadway.” I imagine him taking a backroom bribe from my parents to play on my insecurities. I wouldn’t listen to the Pirellis—an insurance salesman and a dental hygienist—but a Hollywood superagent telling me I’m wasting my time would send me scurrying to the airport.

But Lester is warm and encouraging. “I think it’s wonderful,” he says after the waitress takes our order. We’re sitting in the back garden of a light-filled café on Sunset Boulevard. The menu selection is a brisk and efficient array of fresh-baked goods, fruits and cereals, making me realize this is going to be a short meeting. Lester’s calendar is full to brimming; we arranged this gathering a month ago and still he had to squeeze me in at eight a.m.

“You have a very nimble style and tend to write quick, staccato scenes, which I think will translate well to the screenplay format. You’re very talented and I can’t wait to see what you do next.” He pauses as the waitress brings our muffins—blueberry for him, corn for me—to the table. She refills my coffee and brings Lester more hot water for his tea.

Flustered by such effusive compliments from an experienced Hollywood player, I unthinkingly drink from the refreshed cup and burn my mouth. I try not to sputter as the steaming Peruvian blend scalds a trail down my throat. It hurts but I’m too excited to care. For days, I’ve been working up the nerve to ask him to read my script when it’s finished and thought for sure I’d be humiliated with a brusque no, or, worse, a polite yes while inside he curses his bad luck to be stuck with yet another upstart novelist with delusions of grandeur.

“The important thing to remember is a screenplay is tricky,” he says. “It takes a lot of work, and you’ll probably go through two dozen drafts before it’s ready. Don’t lose heart. It’s typical.”

I nod. John had made the same gloomy prediction, and while I’m not surprised to hear Lester confirm it, I couldn’t help hoping he’d feel differently. I want to be practical and realistic in my outlook, but it’s hard to imagine the twentieth draft when you haven’t even started the first. John is still teaching me the basics of screenwriting. This week’s lesson was on the third act—the shortest of the three but the most action-packed.

I cut the corn muffin in half and ask Lester if he’s heard anything about the movie.

“There’ll be nothing to hear until the script’s in. The quality of the material is the single biggest factor in whether a movie gets made. The story has to be on the page. If it’s not, the project is dead in the water,” he explains.

“When do they expect to get it?” I ask, although I’m not convinced the script is as important as Moxie. I go to the movies; I see the trash they churn out. Clearly not everyone is worried about the story being on the page.

But I don’t pursue it. Lester is part of the industry—more than that, he helped
build
the industry. He has to believe in the quality of what he does.

He raises the mug to his lips. The steam curls, rises and disappears. “There’s no telling. Sometimes it can take up to a year, depending on what other projects the writer has going.”

“A year?” I repeat, appalled. “An entire year?” The amount of time seems inconceivably long, an epoch required by a lazy, indulgent idler who can’t be bothered to have one complete thought a day. It took me six months to write
J&J,
and that’s a whopping seventy thousand words. A script is fifteen. I could churn that out in a week.

Lester smiles sympathetically. “Most likely less. But you’re due for a second option payment in March, which is only four months away. That’s good. The longer this drags out, the better for you.”

“Right,” I say, but I don’t need him to remind me about the second option payment. I think about the twenty thousand constantly. What little I have left from the movie is dwindling rapidly, and I need something to refill my coffers. It’s either that or cut in to my inheritance from my grandparents, which I can’t do—under any circumstances. It’s for my retirement or when I buy an apartment or to put my kids through college. “And Moxie’s still attached?”

“As far as I know.”

“I hope she holds on. I’m terrified that by the time the movie’s ready to start filming, she’ll be in rehab, or, worse, in some fleabag hotel in Puerto Vallarta passed out on the floor.”

Instead of putting my fears to rest, Lester reaffirms them. “She’s a very troubled young woman. It’s sad what’s happening to her. But don’t worry. It won’t come to that. If she becomes a problem, Lloyd will pay to get rid of her. It’s done all the time.”

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.

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 redemption 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.