Channel Blue (20 page)
Authors: Jay Martel
SAVIOURS OF THE PLANET
Two hours later, Perry reluctantly resumed his starring role in his hit series,
Bunt to the Rescue
. The current episode required him to put on a new Armani suit while riding in the back of a stretch limousine that was speeding through Beverly Hills. Since he’d had limited experience with nice clothes, accomplishing this was taking a ridiculously long time and no doubt supplying laughs to viewers throughout the galaxy – especially when, wearing nothing more than underwear and an unbuttoned dress shirt, Perry leaned forward to pick up a dropped cufflink and the limo braked suddenly, sending him sprawling to the floor. He lay there wondering how hilarious his butt crack looked peeking out the top of his boxers.
As Marty Firth might have said: if someone falls on their face onscreen, someone really has to fall on their face.
Perry was en route to a charity function at the estate of Del Waddle, the richest person in Hollywood and the tenth richest man in the world. Even in his glory days as a successful screenwriter, Perry had never actually met the man. The only time he’d come close was when one of his screenplays – a thriller called
Dead Tweet
, about a man who is able to exchange e-mails with the deceased – came tantalisingly close to being produced by Waddlevision Studios, only to be shelved when, according to his agent, Del Waddle baulked at the action star cast as the leading man, saying that the star, for all his on-screen exploits, was a ‘pussy’ in real life. Other than this, Perry knew little more about the billionaire than what the public knew: that with an unparalleled combination of business savvy and a knack for knowing what fantasies people wanted to see on their large and small screens, the young mogul, after inheriting a few radio stations from his father, had constructed a conglomerate so massive that it could only exist in an era in which the word ‘monopoly’ was used mainly to describe a board game. ‘Vertically integrated’ was the phrase now used to describe such awesome entities, and Waddlevision was the Everest of them all.
Waddlevision could take a simple children’s fable, produce it as a movie, distribute it, merchandise it, spin it off into a theme-park attraction, a TV show, a Broadway musical and, finally, a movie based on the Broadway musical, all released with their own hit soundtrack albums and effusive critical praise as ‘perfect family entertainment’ by the newspapers, magazines and websites also owned by... Waddlevision.
But Waddlevision was only the beginning. Del had leveraged his outsized control over media into control over almost every aspect of American business. He owned airlines and Bolivian shirt factories, armament brokers and chains of preschools. As a result, he had a net worth of over forty billion dollars, which was more than the gross national product of most of the Earth’s nations. But despite his mansions, fleet of private jets and liner-sized yacht with its own basketball court, Del went out of his way to portray himself in the media as ‘just a regular guy who caught some breaks’. He had married his high-school sweetheart, given millions to charities and regularly held large benefit dinners at his various mansions. Newspapers (not just the ones he owned) were full of accounts of his philanthropy.
Today, Perry was on his way to a $10,000-a-plate dinner for one of Del’s pet causes, the Little Greenies Foundation, an organisation devoted to educating children about the perils of global warming. Perry was using this function as a pretence to get close enough to the billionaire to ask for his help in saving the Earth. In so doing, he was about to give the famous media mogul his biggest audience of all time.
An hour earlier, while Perry shaved in a bathroom next to the underground dressing room, Marty Firth had explained to him that Edenites were fascinated by super-wealthy Earthles. They couldn’t get enough of men who spent their lives acquiring vast, unspendable sums of money at the expense of other earthly pleasures and relationships, only to die and have that money mean nothing to them. Marty told Perry that he planned to use this fascination with pointless wealth to increase the audience of
Bunt to the Rescue
.
‘You know that money is the only thing that makes a difference to most Earthles,’ Marty had told him. ‘And, after the debacle at St Jude’s, you realise that inspiring the masses to become better people isn’t enough without a real organisation behind you. Del Waddle can give you that organisation.’
Perry frowned. ‘But he’s already giving his money away. And I’m just going to sound crazy. Why should he give away more of it because a crazy man shows up at one of his benefits and tells him to?’
‘Remember: you’re on a mission,’ Marty said. ‘You’re desperate. You’ll do whatever it takes.’ When Perry continued to stare at him blankly, Marty waved his hand. ‘You’re the star – you’ll figure it out.’
Perry shook his head. ‘I’ve known rich people. They really like hanging onto their money. That’s why they’re rich.’
Marty smiled the crinkly, eye-twinkling smile that Perry had quickly come to loathe. ‘No one ever said saving Earth was going to be easy.’ He then excused himself to consult with other producers about ‘setting up shots’. Perry took the opportunity to slip back into Amanda’s dressing room. He needed to talk to someone about his misgivings. ‘The upcoming episode’, as Marty referred to it, seemed like a Sisyphean task at best. If Earth’s survival depended on Perry making an effort to redeem the planet in the eyes of its viewers, there were certainly better ways to do it.
He found Amanda attempting to fasten a string of pearls around her neck and offered his help, which she gratefully accepted. Her initial enthusiasm for dressing up like an Earthle had subsided. ‘I don’t know why anyone would do this,’ she said. ‘Such a waste of time.’ With the necklace in place, she turned and looked at Perry. ‘So, what do you think?’
Perry had fallen in love with Amanda when she’d worn her blue Galaxy Entertainment jacket and no make-up. Now, seeing her in the evening gown, radiating the same effortless beauty on a much larger scale, he thought he’d pass out from blood rushing to places it didn’t normally go, and certainly not in such volume.
‘Not bad,’ he managed to say, and was about to discuss his problems with the new mission when Marty entered.
‘Your limo’s ready,’ he chirped. ‘Come on, superstar. Let’s go save the planet.’
* * *
Perry finally had his second cufflink in place when the limousine, which seemed nearly a block long, turned into a mansion-lined street and pulled up to an imposing wrought-iron gate. In the distance, he heard his driver talk into an intercom. After a few moments, the great gate opened soundlessly and the limo drove through.
Perry reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and removed an engraved invitation on thick creamy card stock that probably cost more to print than Perry spent annually on clothes. When Marty gave him the invitation, Perry had wondered how viewers were going to believe that a poor screenwriting teacher would be able to afford ten thousand dollars for a dinner when he’d just given all his money away.
‘You had a retirement account with the Writers’ Guild,’ Marty said. ‘We took it out of there.’
When Perry had protested, Marty cheerfully reminded him that retirement funds were now wishful thinking at best to the lead character in
Bunt to the Rescue
.
The limo continued driving through a landscape of trees and lush meadows with no house in sight. Just when Perry was convinced that they had somehow become lost in a wilderness area in the middle of Beverly Hills, a white mansion fronted with ionic columns and topped with gleaming solar panels came into view. The limo nosed its way into a bevy of other stretch limos that fanned out like shiny sticks of liquorice before the mansion’s entrance. Perry thought that it was a good thing the partygoers were financing a foundation to educate children on global warming, since they clearly weren’t up to it.
The driver opened Perry’s door and he cautiously emerged, half expecting his flung-together outfit to fall apart when confronted by gravity. Miraculously, it stayed intact. Attempting to exude the air of someone who actually belonged at such an exclusive address, Perry nodded to his driver and walked from the limo.
‘Tuck your shirt in.’ Amanda’s voice rang in his ear. He noticed her standing with a group of other beautiful people by the mansion’s entrance. She appeared strangely at home in the plush surroundings. He watched as she turned away from the group and opened her Louis Vuitton purse, releasing a small swarm of flies into the air. ‘Don’t look at me,’ she said in his ear. ‘Remember, you don’t know me until we’re back underground.’
Amanda and Marty had repeated this so many times that Perry thought he would scream: Amanda is your field producer, but you don’t know Amanda. She’s there to guide you through the episode but can’t help you in any other way.
Perry tucked in his shirt while walking towards the front door. ‘I’d be looking at you even if I didn’t know you,’ he muttered softly.
‘And don’t talk to me,’ the voice in his ear said. ‘What are the viewers supposed to think?’
‘That I talk to myself,’ Perry said. From the other side of the driveway, Amanda scowled at him. Perry smiled back at her and she turned away.
‘Stop messing around and get in there,’ she said. Perry showed his invitation to a woman with a clipboard standing at the door and walked between two huge bronze doors depicting scenes from the Old Testament. Perry recognised them as reproductions of ‘The Gates of Paradise’, the famous baptistery doors in Florence, and he wondered what Del Waddle did when he had a fight with his wife – there was definitely no way to slam these without heavy machinery.
Perry crossed the marble floor of a gaping entryway, pausing to navigate a busy ant trail of white-suited caterers dashing back and forth with shiny silver trays. He finally came to another set of double doors that opened onto a lawn so rich and lushly green in the dying afternoon light that Perry wanted to drop to the ground and hump it. A tastefully designed sign informed him that ‘The grounds of the Waddle Estate are maintained with reclaimed water’. All around the green expanse were clusters of beautiful and immaculately dressed partygoers.
Perry perused the perfectly tanned and tucked faces of the saviours of Earth. Everywhere he turned his head he saw movie stars, studio heads, and A-list directors. If a bomb went off, Perry thought, Americans would have no choice but to start reading again. No writers, however. Even the most sought-after screenwriters weren’t sought after for an event like this. At such a happy, carefree occasion, no one want to be reminded that they were all dependent on some greasy little computer jockey’s imagination.
Seeing all these outstanding individuals in one place, Perry felt even more fraudulent than usual. To seemingly underscore this feeling, a few of the partygoers glanced over at Perry and quickly looked away. No one was faster than the Hollywood elite at telling who did and didn’t belong.
Between the conversing partygoers frolicked laughing children of all ethnicities garbed in the official uniform of the Little Greenies: green cap, green neckerchief, and a T-shirt reading ‘Save the Planet’. At one end of the perfect lawn, a group of pale and serious young men played acoustic music on a stage. Perry recognised them as a popular rock band that had just released its sixth consecutive platinum album. He couldn’t fathom what it would cost to have them play at a party, let alone play softly.
He took a sparkling flute of champagne off a passing tray and sipped it. The vaporous elixir playfully tickled the back of his tongue and made him instantly happy. He realised that he’d probably never tasted real champagne before. As the soaring strains of another international hit emerged from the original artists and the Southern California light became even more golden, he surveyed the glowing glade before him, the bubbling fountains, the amazingly attractive, charming people, none of whom – women or men – Perry would throw out of bed, especially after his second sip of champagne.
And he realised that he was in deep, deep shit.
Who, standing in this beautiful preserve of the rich, would believe that the Earth was in real and immediate danger?
Perry snapped out of his reverie when a large bald caterer yanked the champagne flute out of his hand, scowled at him and strode off. He was about to protest when Amanda’s voice purred in his ear. ‘I told him to do that.’ Perry turned and saw her in the distance walking towards the stage, her back to him. ‘I told him you’re a recovering alcoholic.’ Perry started to speak. ‘Again, no response is necessary. You’re desperate and you’re here on a mission, don’t forget that. The group just to your right: there’s your man.’
Perry turned to a nearby conversation cluster and saw, among several men in expensive suits and women in designer gowns, Del Waddle. Unlike the rest of his guests, Del wore jeans – the ultimate power statement at a gathering like this – a baseball cap from one of the teams he owned and a ‘Save the Planet’ T-shirt. He was tastefully unshaven and, in one arm, held an adorable young girl wearing a Greenies cap and neckerchief. Perry steeled himself and walked towards the group.
‘Watch it, mister!’ Perry looked down to see that he’d nearly stepped on one of the Greenie children, a boy playing in the grass with a ball painted to resemble the Earth.
‘Sorry,’ Perry said.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ the child said.
Perry realised that, peering up from under the green hat brim, was none other than Nick Pythagorus.
THE PHILANTHROPIST
Inside a control room within the Galaxy Entertainment building on Ventura Boulevard, all hell was breaking loose. The Nakeeth director, his many eyes swivelling wildly, faced thirty-six monitors, many of which showed Nick Pythagorus confronting Perry Bunt. He yelled at the assistant director and oozed several pints of dark green liquid onto the control board. The assistant director, in turn, yelled at his technicians, who then yelled at each other.
