Created By (20 page)

Aching “When she died it was worse than … after my other sister died. I’m ashamed I never mentioned her to you. She died when she was four. After being real sick. I used to wish my mother would die … because she was so depressed after my sister died. But I never said it to her. I was sullen … an angry little boy.”

Terrible amusement.

“Oh, listen to this one: at my mother’s funeral, one
of my uncles said it’s too bad I wasn’t nicer to her. Like maybe I’d contributed to her using a pistol for a blow-dryer. Great, right?”

A finger raking hair off forehead, collecting it to one side.

“Just a minor little nuance in my development. Ate me up inside. Horrible thing to say. Especially after my little sister had already died. I’m sure he was just one of those people who are unaware. The whole family was upside down. You know …”

Silence.

“Months went on and the house felt like lifeless soil, and I had this strange sense that … I felt I killed my mother. Like my repressed anger had escaped and found its way into her mind, while she laid in bed like some grieving cadaver. Crawling in through her ear. Murdering her.”

A drink of water.

“I was ashamed my mother had killed herself. Everyone knew. I felt responsible. And I felt rejected. You know … Mommy killed herself … so, I wasn’t valuable enough for her to stick around, that whole maze. I mean, I’ve read about it. I know parents who commit suicide almost never do it because of the children. I was just a kid but I came to fear anger. Mine. Anybody’s. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you about my little sister. I hate talking about it. It makes me feel sick …”

Staring off. Reaching for Kleenex.

“I miss my mother, so much …”

S
o, Joey-the-fucking-hitman makes an appointment through this producer we rep to meet some development guppy at Lorimar, right? Hold on …”

Alan could hear him eating, getting mad at his food, squawking at his secretary. Covering the mouthpiece a little.

“… is this angel hair? Who the fuck shaves these angels. This isn’t what I asked for …”

“Jordan … you there?”

“Alan … back. Anyway, the fucking hitman pitches his life story to this tampon who’s eating it up, sucking on the story. Studio guy says—”

Alan interrupted. “Jordan … going into a meeting. How about later?”

“Just take a sec. So, the studio guy says, ‘Hey, Guido, I love it. But I’ll have to get back to you.’ “Jordan oozed
caustic glee.” The guy doesn’t get back to Guido and he shows up at his office this morning only to find a wheelchair with a fucking note attached, okay? Says … ‘Haven’t heard from you. I thought you liked me.’ ” Jordan cackled. “So, now it’s in development. Is that great?”

“Jordan … I have a meeting.”

“Right. I’ll make it fast. Two things. Number one: wanted you to hear it from me. Andy Singer is thinking about moving the time slot. Wants you Wednesday, ten.”

“Why? So he can move his dross into our time slot? We can guinea-pig for him? Friday, ten is where the show works. He’s an idiot. Fuck him.”

“I know. If you’ll think back, I was the one who first suggested Friday. Look, point is, it isn’t about Friday. It’s about Wednesday. He wants to hurt CBS. They own Wednesday.”

“My show is not his personal chemical weapon. I’m gonna call him.”

“No.”

There was something in Jordan’s voice. It wasn’t fear but sounded similar. “Let the agency handle it. We represent him. We’ll get him to back off.”

Alan rubbed eyes; another all-nighter in the editing room working on the eleventh episode. A blizzard of red flakes fell in his head.

“Don’t let him do this, Jordan. Or I’m going over to his office and personally ripping his two-inch dick off.”

“One inch. Don’t worry. Handled. Second thing: Tony Moore.”

Moore was the hottest director of big-budget action pictures in the business. He was reputedly the skinniest
man in Hollywood, had wanton self-assurance, and there was talk about him being born an actual hermaphrodite. Rumor was surgery had sewn up his socket and given him a plug.

“Wants to meet you. Major fan of the show. Has a big summer picture setup at Geffen.”

“Interesting.”

“Hasn’t committed but he wants you to write it. His last three pictures have done over a hundred. This could get you into features exactly the right way. Very smart guy. Born with fucking ‘Up’s Syndrome’…”

“I hear he’s skinny.”

“What do you consider skinny?”

“Fifty pounds.”

“Maybe he just has small bones.”

“Maybe he just has small skin.”

Jordan emitted throat noise; snide amusement. “I’ll get back after we talk to Andy. Don’t worry about the show, it’s priority one. Don’t forget, if you know you’re gonna win, it isn’t a game. When you leaving for New York?”

“Tonight. Be back in three days. Press junket.”

“Call me when you get into the city.”

The McIntellect brewed. A final concern:

“And by the way, you didn’t hear that Guido story from me. Okay? I don’t want this guy coming by and leaving a fucking horse head in my gym bag.” His voice went up in cheery farewell. “Hey. Have fun in New York, pal. Chow mein.” And he was gone.

Alan hung up, leaned back in his chair, hating Andy Singer. He tried to imagine how the self-revering little
spaz would look in Tony Moore’s mouth: legs dangling from Tony’s dinky lips. Kicking helplessly, as the head and upper body disappeared down the skinny man’s throat.

Oh,
yeah …

EXT. VIETNAMESE POW CAMP—NIGHT

A hideous aviary. We see the face now: A.E. BAREK. Gaunt. Sick. Hating this place.

BAREK (V.O.)
(a rasp)

 … I won’t be here for long. I’ll
get out. Kill all these motherfuckers
and get out. Go back to L.A.…

RESUME-BAREK

GUARD

(Vietnamese accent)

 … fuck you! Hey? Fuck
you!

Barek glares. The guard laughs. Spits into the cup. Offers it. Walks on.

BAREK (V.O.)

 … I want out. I’ll get out!

He suddenly grabs the wooden bars. Shakes them. SCREAMS hatred.

BAREK

You hear me? I WANT THE FUCK OUT!

Play his toxic features and

SMASH-CUT TO:

A
lan leaned back in his seat, staring at New York. Skyline twinkled vacantly against black sky and Erica took his hand, afraid.

“How are you?” She was the one who hated takeoffs.

“Fine.” Alan was an unmoving silhouette, still thinking about the phone call. The way Jordan had sounded so businesslike. The way he’d joked about some new development deal Eisner and Katzenberg were anxious to make with Alan to create the “ultimate” violent sitcom. Something about a gun and a funny guy.

Alan wasn’t interested. Everybody told him working for Disney was a nightmare. Too much input. Some people hated the place so much they’d taken to calling it Mouse-schwitz.

Then, Jordan asked him if he’d heard.

“What’re you talking about, Jordan?”

He told him Franky had been found in his office, O.D.’d. A post coke scatter. The paramedics faxed him to Cedars and he was in bad shape, not responding to anything.

“But he’s still idling …” It was Jordan’s comforting postscript.

Still, the Eisner news was more important. That’s why it came first. Jordan always talked the important stuff first. Mister all-fucking-heart.

Erica studied Alan. “Hey …?”

He looked out the little swim-mask window, unwilling to turn, staring at the glittering despair below. Erica tried to comfort him, sneaking him an extra pillow and one of those absurd, paper-thin baby blankets. Any reason to get close; to have a chance.

Alan looked at her but the look fenced her out and she felt it. Something was wrong; she was sure. It was more than Franky. More than the exhaustion of doing endless promotion in the city. It had started weeks before. Alan seemed different. He looked ill; didn’t joke with her.

The flirting glances. The inside asides. Replaced by sullen quiet. When he looked at her, he didn’t.

Passengers were noticing him and his fame drifted through the jet like a pheromone. The stewardess brought matchbook covers and coasters for him to sign; requests. Alan nodded; signed.

Then, he went back to his staring. Looking at nothing, trying to get some rest; to get away from the twenty-four-karat schism that had become his life.

“Have you thought about Christmas?”

Alan looked at her.

“Do you want to go away? Maybe Vail? Saint Johns?”
He wasn’t responding. “Maybe we just stay in L.A. Check into a sleazy motel. Bring Windex, stare up at ourselves?”

He wasn’t smiling.

“Erica …”

She did a Marcel Marceau face of astonishment. “He
speaks.
”

“I don’t want to go anywhere. I don’t want to make plans. Of any kind.” He glanced at her. Then, away.

She flipped through the big summer
Mirabella
issue. Said nothing. “Are we breaking up?”

He didn’t say no. She wanted to know why. He flashed back into shadowed corners of his childhood, remembering how complex and scarring things had been. Oblique vistas of family dysfunction spread, then retreated. Things which felt like long-hidden secrets. Abuses. He suddenly felt angry at everyone; betrayers. Invaders.

He looked around at sleeping passengers, realized they all looked dead. He imagined himself, like A. E. Barek, in the pilot, swimming through the crashed jet, under the ocean, moving past drowned faces; corpses held by seat belts. He tried to escape the image; couldn’t.

“I don’t know,” was all he said. “I thought we weren’t going to pressure each other.” He shut his eyes, trying not to see the sunken morgue in his mind. He struggled to speak. “We agreed in Hawaii.” He saw Camille in his mind. The cryptic sexuality that drew him. The way Erica never had, never could.

Erica spoke softly; vulnerably.

“I want to have children with you, Alan. Start a family.” A wounded secret. “I’ve been selfish my whole life … you know that. The marriages were … things.” She took his hand. “You make me want to put us first. Not myself.”

He looked at their twined fingers, wanted to get away. Close himself off. Save his energy. Protect himself and the show. Protect Barek. It was the only priority that mattered.

She took his hand, more tightly, in the dim cabin, gripping it. Knowing she was losing him. Unable to prevent it.

“Alan … I love you. I need you.”

Alan just stared out the window, thinking about his latest “Mercenary” script. He pulled out his Toshiba laptop and started working on the new episode that would include a San Salvadorian nun who was crucified on the huge wooden cross of a rural church by leftist guerillas. Alan could hardly wait to write the scene.

Erica whispered, emotionally. “Goddamn you … how can you do this to us? I feel something. I finally
feel
something!”

He looked over at her, awash in laptop screen-glow, feeling almost nothing as she began to weep. All he felt was something inside himself, expecting more of him. His energy, his focus. Maybe it was his own ambition.

But mostly, it was A. E. Barek.

Demanding more and more.

S
o, what we’re thinking, is that maybe this thing can read a person’s thoughts by say … subtle variations in heat from the, you know … the brain? And … the pulse, let’s say. Not a lie detector, as such … think more like an actual thought reader. Okay? Able to perceive and assess cognition. Naturally, as time goes on, this thing becomes very dangerous to the company it’s working in. Or maybe this thing gets recruited, let’s say by law enforcement. It’s even possible the judicial system begins to incorporate these things, okay?”

Alan nodded. Okay.

“But major problems are stirred up … we’re talking a kind of Robocop, Orwellian, compromised privacy kind of world. We’re talking the elimination of the individual. A paranoid culture. What was thought to be a good invention was in fact, a nightmare. A device so Fascistic and … 
and … and … inhumane, it encompasses a sense of absolute evil. Which we think could be a lot of fun as a picture.”

Tony stopped his deep-voiced pitch to sip some chocolate milk. His hands moved wildly, juggling nothing, then played with shoulder-length blond hair. His Texas accent bopped like a candy-apple pick up.

“Then, BOOM … 
complications.
This thing goes chew-off-your-asshole nuts. So far, it’s been great, been perfect, made the company lots of money, made lots of good decisions. It’s the perfect executive and everybody thinks it’s a human, and why wouldn’t they, okay?”

Alan nodded. Okay.

“I mean, they would, the way we see it. Now imagine an innocent young junior exec brought into this company, knowing nothing and this robot can read every thought. Think Costner … Keaton for the young guy. We may be able to get Keifer Sutherland … just did another picture with him. He’s very strong. We wanna make this our big summer picture, so we’ll spend if we gotta spend.”

He cleared his throat, narrowed bloodshot eyes.

“Anyway, this robot is like fucking HAL or something. It can read your mind by taking your—I don’t know, I’m not a goddamned med student—but let’s say it can read your skin temperature and when your pupils dilate if you’re lying, it’s right with you and it can analyze your breath while it’s talking to you to see if you’ve been drinking, and it can analyze your voice to see if you’re lying, and your urine to see what drugs you’re using, so it can mess with you … on and on.”