Bleak (26 page)

I wake with second thoughts and spend the entire day, then week, making and unmaking my mind. Christmas passes in a haze of vacillation. Yes, I’ll invest the money. No, I won’t invest the money.

Several times I find myself on the brink of asking Simon but I always stop myself because I know exactly what he’ll say. Be cautious. Be prepared. Don’t get hurt. Don’t take risks. The discussion would probably culminate in huge argument in which he tells me I’m crazy to even think of investing my money in a film.

I know I’m crazy. I just need him to tell that me crazy’s OK.

I also can’t talk about it with my family. Sometimes I think Carrie would understand. When she bought her apartment on Fourteenth Street, she didn’t just buy a place to put her stuff, she bought a piece of the future, a belief that the world will turn out the way she expects. She’s betting that Al Qaeda won’t wipe out the financial district or that global warming won’t submerge Manhattan under twelve feet of water. She took a risk, too.

But I know she won’t see it that way, and when she calls to give me the details of her visit with Glenn, I realize I don’t want to talk to her about anything. The road trip from San Francisco to Los Angeles has morphed into a week in L.A. with day trips to Santa Barbara and Ojai. Glenn isn’t into the road-trip experience. He’s about the destination, not the journey.

She explains this matter-of-factly, as if he’s not the kind of person she used to make fun of. Carrie thrives on long, leisurely drives. She loves stopping to savor the view, then spending the rest of the afternoon watching the sun move across the sky.

The more she goes on about the things Glenn wants to do, the more cut off from her I feel, and I make an excuse to get off the phone as quickly as possible. I love my sister but I’m not so keen on Glenn’s girlfriend. That sneaky rat has even convinced her to eschew the bright red cabinets she loves for tasteful ashwood ones to ensure the resale value of the apartment. I can just see him counting his half of the proceeds.

I have no idea how I’m going to get through an entire week with evil groping octopus hands. Poor Simon is going to have to spend every waking hour with us. Good thing he likes my sister.

Lester is the obvious person to talk to, but he doesn’t know that I’m working with another agent and I’m not sure how the information would go down. I probably should have told him before I gave the script to Tulk to sell but it felt so unlikely that he’d find any takers that I didn’t seem worth the awkwardness that would ensue. Whatever did or didn’t happen with
Tad Johnson,
we’d still have to work together on
J&J.

Now that
Tad Johnson
is going somewhere, I regret my cowardice. I’d love to get his input on the matter.

Not that I can’t predict what he’d say, too. Lester’s only interest in the big payday. Never once has he shown interest in growing my career or building my reputation. The very idea of investing money rather than making it is repellent to him. In the
Vanity Fair
article, he said the mere thought gave him hives.

No, the only person I can talk about the offer with is Harry.

He wants to take me out for that celebratory dinner at Spago, but I insist on lunch at a diner on Sunset. Dinner is too much like a date. Lunch is friends on the go catching up during a meal. It’s entirely harmless.

I fully intend to break up with him but I’m not sure if I should do it before or after I get his take on the Solution’s deal. I don’t want his feelings about the split to inform his opinion. What if he’s so devastated he can’t think clearly? Or if he’s so angry he gives me bad advise out of spite?

But it seems too calculating to bide my time until I get what I want.

That’s what manipulative people do.

Harry spends most of the meal talking about his trip to Chicago—the shopping was spectacular and he can’t wait to show me his new flat-screen TV—and I listen, relieved that I don’t have to decide anything just yet.

It’s not until the check arrives that he asks about me. “And just in case you think I’ve forgotten about it, let me assure you now that I’m dying to know what happened with Solution Pictures and have only gone on about myself to tactfully give you a chance to bring it up on your own.”

As soon as he mentions Solution, I realize I’m going to be calculating.

Sighing deeply, I lean my head against the pink Naugahyde of the booth. “They want me to come on board as a producer and invest fifty thousand dollars for the privilege.”

“Yikes,” he says.

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “It’s crazy, right?”

“I didn’t say that. Tell me more about the deal. Who’s behind it?”

I tell him what I know about Joshua Smallweed and Solution Pictures. We talk about Abel Fiero and the thirty-one-day shooting schedule. As I run through the details, I can hear the doubt in my voice and the desperation to overcome it. I make the argument for as if I’m trying to convince myself it’s a good idea.

It’s terrifying.

The bottom line: I’m not brave enough for this. I should take that as my final answer and move on.

Harry listens quietly, nodding solemnly and only interrupting once to have me clarify a point. When I’m done, he leans back and stares at me. “The question is,” he says finally, “do you believe in the script?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you believe in yourself?”

That’s the million dollar question. How do you know if you believe in yourself? Just because you like what you do doesn’t mean anyone else will. A work’s value is in the eye of the beholder. There is no universal good.

I hesitate too long.

“Come on, Ricki,” Harry says. “Do you believe in yourself?”

“Yes.”

But the lone syllable comes out more like a question than an answer, and he rejects it on the spot. “You get one more chance. Do you believe in yourself?”

“Yes,” I say, my tone emphatic.

Harry is silent for a long while. “Well, I think you have your answer.”

I was afraid of that.

I rest my head against my palm and close my eyes, suddenly nauseous. I might as well get used to it, since the sick feeling isn’t going to go away any time soon. “You don’t think I’m crazy?” I ask.

“I think you’re a lot of things. Smart, talented, the author of a brilliant script, destined for greatness. But crazy? No, that’s not on the list.”

He says it so simply, so sincerely, it’s impossible not to believe him, and after we pay the check and leave the restaurant, I find it’s also impossible to break up with him. My intentions remain the same, and when he suggests we go back to his place, I make up an excuse to avoid being alone with him. I know it’s not right or fair to lead him on, but it seems far worse to break up when he’s been so sweet and supportive. I’ll wait a day or two, then try again.

Before we say good-bye, he gives me the name of a lawyer and tells me not to sign anything without having someone look at it first. “In this business, you can’t be too careful.”

His concern is so sweet, I kiss him on the cheek, then wiggle out of his grasp before he can do more. The traffic on Sunset is fierce, and the ride home takes three times as long as it should. By the time I pull into the Bleak Lofts parking lot, I’m angry and annoyed at every other driver on the road and the few pedestrians I saw who don’t know how to cross the street and the guy at the gas station who took twice as long as necessary to pay the cashier and with Simon, especially Simon, who doesn’t believe in me one-tenth as much as Harry does.

Solution Pictures’ office is tiny and spare, more like a one-room studio in Manhattan than the center of a burgeoning moviemaking empire. On the back wall is a huge calendar covered with names and dates. Beside it are headshots of actors, with their résumés posted underneath. Abel Fiero’s cocky grin is dead center.

The floor is a speckled linoleum that’s seen better days, but it’s clean and unscuffed. In fact, the whole office is remarkably tidy for such a small space. There isn’t a stray sheet of paper to be seen. Manila folders are neatly piled on the top of a black filing cabinet, and promotional brochures are stacked on the small side table in the waiting area. Above two reception chairs is a sign that says, “Solution Pictures: The Cure for the Common Movie.”

Tulk is already there when I arrive. “Come in, Ricki. Don’t be shy,” he says, leading me into the room. There are three desks. One for Joshua Smallweed, one for his assistant and one for the receptionist, Loretta, who only works Monday, Wednesday and Fridays.

“The rest of the time we let the machine pick up,” she says as she holds out a coffee cup that reads world’s best producer on it.

I’m too nervous to drink anything but I accept it gratefully. At least now I have something to clutch in a death grip.

Joshua steps forward and extends his hand in greeting. He’s a tall man, well over six feet, rail-thin, with shaggy black hair falling to his shoulders and a salt-and-pepper beard. He’s older than I thought he’d be. From his limited credits, I assumed he was late twenties early or early thirties but clearly this is a man in his forties.

His firm handshake is oddly comforting, and I feel some of my anxiety, made worse by the dingy office, ebb. Surely the sparse workspace is a good thing. Why waste capital on creating a showplace when you barely have enough to pay the actors? There are better things to spend your money on and it’s good that Solution recognizes it.

Still, I wish it didn’t look so fly-by-night. Without the heaviness of clutter weighing it down, it feels like a CIA front, the type of place that can be dismantled and reassembled in another part of town within twenty minutes.

Joshua tells me to take a seat and hands me one of Solution Picture’s brochures. While Tulk drags over a chair from the reception area, I skim the pamphlet, which has much of the same information as the website, mostly earnest pronouncements on the importance of good filmmaking. Joshua Smallweed still believes in the magic of the movies.

“You’ll have to excuse Amity Jarek, my story editor,” Joshua says. “She has a meeting this morning with a potential funder that she couldn’t reschedule. She’s sorry to miss you, as she’s a big fan. She’s the one who insisted I read
How Tad Johnson Got into Harvard
. She gave it great coverage. But I think she was inclined to love it, considering how much she enjoyed
Jarndyce and Jarndyce.
It’s a great book, by the way. We’ve all read it here and think it will make a great movie. We can’t wait to see it.”

I close the brochure, put it on my lap and wrap my hands around the coffee mug, savoring the warmth. All of a sudden I’m shivering. I know it’s just nerves, but I can’t make it stop. “Thank you.”

Tulk places the chair next to mine and crosses his legs. “Shall we get started?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to skip over all the gushing that’s customary in meetings like this and cut to the heart of the matter,” Joshua says, leaning a hip against his desk. From my sitting position, he seems even taller. “Here at Solution, we don’t like to think of ourselves as Hollywood. We like to pretend we’re based on a small Midwestern city like, say, Duluth, with old-fashioned values and real people. At Solution, we often say people are our greatest asset. That means you are our greatest asset. Growing your career means growing our business, and we want to develop a relationship with you to our mutual benefit. We don’t want to take what we can get from you and throw you away. That’s what we like to call studio think. We’re the anti-studio. We keep the process streamlined and efficient. We like to think of ourselves as aerodynamic. Here at Solution Pictures, we can fly.”

“That’s a great slogan,” Tulk says. “Have you thought about using it in your brochure?”

Joshua smiles. “It’s being silk-screened onto T-shirts as we speak.”

Tulk nods approvingly. “Dark blue on white?”

“Light blue on navy. They’re mostly larges but Amity made me get a few baby tees.” Joshua looks at me. “I’ll send you one as soon as they come in.

“Thanks,” I say, clutching the coffee mug tighter as I imagine the $50,000 T-shirt. God, what am I doing here?

With the pleasantries out of the way and Solution’s mission well and clearly stated, Joshua gets down to the details of our deal, reminding me with great force exactly what I’m doing here. He hands me a contract, a copy of which Tulk has already marked up.

For the most part, Tulk is happy with how the negotiations are going. As he’s said many times, it’s a fair offer and Solution has given in on several important points, but there are a few outstanding issues. If they aren’t cleared up to Tulk’s satisfaction, or if I don’t feel comfortable with Joshua for whatever reason, we walk out of here and don’t look back.

The freedom to say no is the only reason I’m not hyperventilating.

Tulk’s biggest concern is the turnaround clause. He doesn’t think it’s fair that Solution refuses to allow the reversion of rights when I’m not only the screenwriter but an investor. Joshua makes several arguments about why it’s company policy to never allow reversion but in the end he gives in. Tulk doesn’t gloat but merely moves on to the next item.

After the endlessness of the
J&J
contract, after cooling my heels for nine months while Lester and Lloyd went back and forth with Arcadia’s lawyers, it’s a special pleasure to watch the straightforward process of two people hammering out a deal. Tulk proposes, Joshua counters, Tulk amends, Joshua concedes.

It’s a thing of beauty.

It takes all morning but eventually we have an agreement. Tulk has managed to get my percentage of the gross up to fifteen percent. Joshua argued that so much is unheard of but Tulk kept pounding home the $50,000 investment. Great risk deserves great reward.

“We’re serious about the producer position,” Joshua says as his receptionist updates the contract. “We think you have a lot to contribute to the process. If you’re willing to deal with the close quarters, we’d love to squeeze another desk in and get you into the office on a regular basis. We can’t offer you much compensation other than pizza for lunch every Friday and tons of free screenings but it’s part of the relationship we’d like to build with you.”

I’m too consumed by the prospect of investing $50,000 to consider his offer, but I promise to think about it. I’m sure in the end I’ll say yes. The best way to keep an eye on your money is to stay in close proximity to it.

“Fair enough. If nothing else, you have to come back again to meet Amity. As I said, she was very disappointed she couldn’t be here.”

The receptionist finishes the contract, prints it out and runs off copies. She hands one to me, Tulk and Joshua. We each read silently. For someone who’s used to reading documents, the language is pretty straightforward. My book contract was more involved, not to mention the movie contract, which went on for seventy-two pages about theme-park-ride and slot-machine rights. The Solution deal is much simpler since they’ve let me keep all those rights. Any Tad Johnson action figures or Happy Meals come through me.

It’s lovely to be working with the anti-studio.

Still, I don’t feel comfortable signing. This is all happening too fast. I need to give it to Harry’s lawyer if for no other reason than to put off the moment of inevitability.

“It looks good to me,” Tulk says, making my heart drop. The least he could do is have one more objection. “But if you want to have a lawyer look it over, I won’t be offended.”

I take out my phone and dial Archibald Seaville. His secretary puts me right through. After I explain the situation, he asks how long the document is. I check.

“Thirty-seven pages,” I say.

He’s silent for a moment. “That won’t take me long. E-mail it to my office and I’ll look at it tomorrow.”

His answer is entirely reasonable and yet I can’t accept it. The pressure in my chest won’t accept anything less than immediately gratification. Either I do this now or not at all. “Are you sure you can’t look at it sooner?”

“Well, I did have an appointment just cancel on me. I suppose I could squeeze it in. How about you e-mail me the document and I’ll see what I can do? If it’s straightforward, I’ll have feedback in ninety minutes, two hours tops.”

Relieved—and yet oddly distressed—I give the e-mail address to Loretta. Then I sit down and watch the second hand travel around the clock for a full minute. Suddenly I feel like I’m keeping a deathbed vigil.

“This is perfect,” announces Joshua. “We can grab a bite and discuss my notes for
Tad Johnson,
” he says. “It’ll be our first working lunch, the first of many, I hope.”

We go to a modest French bistro and I nibble at my salad nicoise as Joshua talks about other projects he’s developing. He orders a bottle of wine to celebrate our partnership but the Chardonnay doesn’t go down any more smoothly than the tuna. I’m too nervous for this.

While he signs the credit card slip, he talks about the changes he’d like me to make in the screenplay. Realizing my attention is divided, he promises to type them up as soon as possible and send them my way.

I thank him.

By the time we get back to the office, Seaville has finished reading the contract and explains his concerns with me. Most of them have to do with my getting my money back if the movie falls through. I put him on speakerphone and listen to him negotiate with Joshua. The head of Solution pictures puts up a good fight but in the end he gives in to all the lawyer’s demands.

A half hour later, he’s putting the contract in front of me.

Suddenly I can’t breathe.

Tulk pulls me aside and says gently, “We don’t have to do this. We can still walk out of here and never look back. We don’t owe them anything.”

He’s right and knowing he’s right gives me the courage to reach for a pen. Yes, I can walk out of here and never look back. But that’s the cowardly Carstone way to behave. For once, I want to be brave.

“Nope, I can do this,” I say, more for my own benefit than for his.

But it has to happen now, right now. If we put this off, I’ll never do it at all. My courage is a fleeting thing.

I sign the contract and watch silently as Joshua adds his name. Now there’s nothing for me to do but write the check for $50,000. I pick up the pen again and open my checkbook. My hand freezes in the middle of all those zeros but I find the strength to continue. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I hand it over to Joshua.

He accepts it with a smile. “I’m torn between cashing this check and hanging it on the wall. Because it’s not the money that means anything to me, it’s the faith you have in us—and by us, I mean Joshua Smallweed and Ricki Carstone. We’re going to go far.” He stands up and holds out his hand, which I take.

Strangely, I don’t feel sick at all.