Jeremy Thrane (31 page)

“This is my assistant, Mai Lin Chang,” said Josh.

“Hello,” I said.

“It’s really great to meet you, Jeremy,” she said back. To my surprise, she had a strong southern accent.

“Thanks,” I said.

There was a pause as we all looked with bright, expectant smiles at each other.

“So,” said Josh abruptly as if he’d just remembered that he was in charge of this meeting. “Jeremy. We loved your screenplay, I’m sure your agent told you. Your dialogue is very smart, lots of punch and emotion, and the plot is wild. Hilarious. That undertaker is quite a character. Very dark, very original, and in spite of everything, very funny.”

“Thanks,” I said. The flatulence had gone away somehow, magically, although I hadn’t farted as far as I knew.

“Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself? Where you’re from, what else you’ve written, what you’re working on lately, that sort of thing.”

To my private chagrin, I heard myself deliver a sincere, detailed, operatic
description of my childhood whose establishing themes were “peripatetic” and “bohemian.” I presented myself as a bookish, introverted lad, reading until late at night in my sleeping bag with a flashlight, writing stories and memorizing poems at campground picnic tables. For some reason, as I talked I felt the left side of my mouth lift in Frederick’s mocking little half-smile. As briefly as I could, I whisked them through my liberal arts college career, my move to New York, my recent decade of singleminded work on a novel. They appeared to listen as attentively as children at a library story hour, although they might secretly have been mulling over what they were going to say to me when I finally shut up. “In a nutshell,” I said finally, “I never thought I’d be anything but a writer.”

“Are you working on anything else at the moment?” Josh asked. “Any other finished scripts in a drawer somewhere?”

“Well, as I said, I recently finished my novel,” I said bravely. “It’s about an American Marxist in Turkey in the seventies who tries to ignite a revolution but gets assassinated by Muslim fundamentalists. It’s currently being sent out by my literary agent.” There was a brief, odd silence. “Howard Fine,” I added quickly.

“Okay,” said Josh, his enthusiasm undiminished. “By all means, we’d love to see it. But no scripts, no treatments, that kind of thing?”

“No,” I said. “Sorry. I’m really just a novelist.”

“We have a book we’re developing right now?” said Mai Lin. “An amazing memoir by a teenage survivor of incest called
Walking Under Bridges
.”

She handed me a book, which I held in both my hands and squeezed as if I were testing the ripeness of a melon at the supermarket. I wasn’t sure what else they wanted me to do with it right now, since we were having a conversation and I couldn’t very well read it. I checked out the author photo on the back flap and saw a swath of honey-blond hair, a fresh, angelic, freckled face.

“We’d be very interested to hear what sort of ideas you’d come up with, scriptwise,” said Josh. “We have a feeling you could be just right for this material, since you handled the theme of incest with a light touch in your screenplay, which is not an easy thing to pull off.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“The author has a great sense of humor,” said Mai Lin. “We’re looking to develop a script that frankly shows the horrible things that happen to her, but without painting her as this destroyed little victim.”

“If anyone could do it, we think you can,” said Josh.

“Absolutely,” said Mai Lin.

They smiled at me and waited for me to respond.

“Well, I’d be happy to read it,” I said, wondering if this were true, and deciding it might as well be.

“That would be so great,” said Mai Lin. “Take it home, take a look at it, and let us know what you think. We are so excited,” she said, looking over at Josh, “to see what you come up with.”

“We’re really excited,” said Josh. “This could be big. This could be really big. I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, Jeremy, but we’re excited about you in particular and in general. We think you’ve got that something, that combination of originality and insight and humor that’s so rare, it’s like gold. Reading
The Way of All Flesh
was literally like being a prospector who’s been panning for months and coming up empty, and then suddenly, boom, he hits a mother lode. Mai Lin and I were jumping up and down, that’s how thrilled we were to discover you. Most screenwriters are cookie-cutter, jaded, by the numbers. They don’t reveal anything of their souls, they write for a market. You’re an artist, if you will. You’re exactly what we’re looking for.”

“Gee,” I said, smiling, trying to seem unfazed but deeply flattered in spite of my skepticism about these people. “Thanks.”

“And while we’re on the subject of the future,” said Josh. He looked at Mai Lin. “Should I bring this up yet?”

“Sure,” she said. “What the hey, it’s all part of the mix, right?”

“Just off the cuff, Jeremy,” he said, his blue-blue eyes glowing interrogatively at me, “what’s your gut feeling about relocating to Los Angeles?”

I slid my eyes to the door, then back to him. “Los Angeles?”

“I know this is premature,” said Josh. He spread his hands on his knees, palms up, nothing to hide, all his cards on the table. “But we wanted to just run the idea by you, all completely hypothetical on both sides, but something to keep in mind in the eventuality that this project works out the way we hope it will.”

“We would really love to have you on our team?” said Mai Lin. “But you couldn’t stay in New York, unfortunately.”

“Aren’t you based in New York?” I asked carefully. I didn’t necessarily want to sound accusatory, but I had a sneaking suspicion they were trying to pull some kind of bait-and-switch on me; suddenly, I felt the uneasy antennae-prickling alertness of the gull.

“Well, we just opened this new office here?” said Mai Lin. “Right. But this New York office is primarily for the purposes of interviewing, recruiting, that sort of thing. Like this meeting right now. All the real work gets done in our L.A. office. We’re actually just here for the week for meetings with—well, with people like you.”

Josh’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully; he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely. He fixed me with a warm, frank smile. “Waverly is a very close-knit group, Jeremy,” he said earnestly. “And it’s based in L.A., as Mai Lin just told you. We’re small, we’re pretty new, and we work very closely together on our various projects. We really like our writers to be in-house. They work in open offices around a central atrium, where there are conversation pits, with modular couches and conference tables for workshopping and discussions.”

“Sounds really great,” I said with a smarmy enthusiasm I couldn’t disguise or suppress. It did sound really great; I just couldn’t buy it at face value.

“It’s an amazing way to run a production company,” Josh said energetically. “It’s Stuart’s original vision and impetus, of course.”

“He means Stuart Waverly,” interjected Mai Lin. “Our founder and CEO.”

“He’s galvanized a lot of like-minded people in the industry,” Josh went on without missing a beat, as if they’d rehearsed this many times, “who feel exactly the way he does, and convinced us to come on board. So when I say ‘we,’ I really do mean all of us, from Stuart on down. We’re trying to be a community rather than a corporation, if you will, and we hope our films will reflect this. We’re looking to get back to the roots of what was great about American movies in their golden ages, the forties and seventies: We want original scripts by great writers to be shot by brilliant directors, and we want to cast the most interesting, genuine
actors, not golden-calf idols. We want to create art. We think the world’s ready for us.”

“We think it’s starving for us!” Mai Lin chimed in.

Their smiles were dazzling.

“Are you trying to recruit me into a cult?” I blurted out before I could censor myself.

They looked at each other. Mai Lin wrinkled her nose and Josh raised his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry to be so impolitic,” I went on apologetically. “But I’m not a joiner or a believer in any way. I’m a very bad prospect for this kind of thing.”

They burst simultaneously into merry peals of laughter.

“That’s hilarious,” said Josh. “This is exactly one of the reasons we want you to work with us. We need that sense of humor. The fact that you’re not a joiner is a plus, believe us. We’re none of us joiners; that’s why we work for Waverly, because we can be individuals there. We don’t have to toe any party line.”

Mai Lin was still giggling. “Oh my God! I can totally see why you said that though. Like, we’re all happy and we have this whole, like, philosophy and all, and a quote-unquote leader, and all this talk about community.” She grinned at Josh. “He is so funny,” she told him as if he’d just walked into the room and she was catching him up. “Jay and Cindy would just eat him up. Two of our writers,” she said to me. “Former New Yorkers. Most of our transplants live in a small community of bungalows in Santa Monica, near the beach.”

“Your transplants,” I said.

“Waverly owns several of these houses,” said Josh. “We lease them at very reduced rents to our staff. There’s one for you if it works out, and you want it. They have avocado and lemon trees in the yard, patios with barbecue pits, most of them are within walking distance of the Pacific Ocean. We have lots of parties, we socialize, anyone who relocates has a built-in life waiting there.”

“Jeremy would have loved that beach party last month,” said Mai Lin.

“He would have seen Jay and Cindy at their best, that’s for sure,” said Josh.

“Those wisecracks were flying thick and fast,” said Mai Lin. “I was laughing so hard, I almost choked on my hot dog. That kind of laughing where you don’t want to laugh so you don’t miss a word but you can’t help it.”

“If the Algonquin writers had been transplanted to California and the present day,” said Josh, “they would have felt right at home at that party.”

They both turned simultaneously to me.

“Sorry,” said Josh. “We get carried away sometimes, you know?”

“Sure,” I said, feeling an odd compulsion to reassure him. “I can imagine.”

“But you don’t have to take our word for it,” said Mai Lin. “We can’t really convey what it’s like. You should come out and see for yourself.”

“Not to be intrusive either,” Josh said, “but we gathered from your script, and from what your agent told us, that you’re gay, am I right? I am too. Quite a few of us at Waverly are.”

“But not to pressure you!” said Mai Lin. “Oh my God, we never pressure anyone, we’re really and truly not recruiting you into any kind of cult.” She giggled again. “We’re just trying to paint an accurate, complete picture for you of a really truly special, wonderful place to live and work.”

“The upshot of all this is, Jeremy, we know you’ll do great things with your talents, and we hope you’ll decide to share them with us. What more can we say?”

“Thanks,” I said quizzically. There was a suspiciously warm feeling in my chest I tried and failed to quell. “This is all very flattering.”

“We really, really appreciate your taking the time to come today,” he said, then he and Mai Lin simultaneously stood up. A beat later, I stood up too. They escorted me to the elevator, flanking me like a pair of vice cops. I pressed the down button, then the three of us stood while I waited for the car, somewhat awkwardly after the ebullient meeting we’d just had; we were strangers, after all, and we’d said everything we had to say back there in the conference room. I had no idea what Josh and Mai Lin were thinking, or what they really thought of me. I glanced over at the floor by the chair I’d sat in; the water bottle was gone. I didn’t turn to catch the eye of the receptionist, but I could feel her cool
gaze on the back of my neck as we all stood there facing the closed elevator door; for some reason, I felt a sudden affinity with her, as if our unspoken but honest dislike trumped any manufactured affection this pair of Californians could throw at me.

When they heard the little ping as the car arrived, as if a spell had been broken, Josh and Mai Lin suddenly resumed their effusive informality, wished me well, told me how great it had been to meet me and how much they looked forward to our next meeting, and shook my hand firmly. Finally, just when I feared the doors would close and the elevator would go away and leave me stranded there in their affectionate clutches, they released me and I was free to board the vast white empty car and ride back down to the street in humming silence.

The rain had stopped. A warm, humid wind blew up the avenue, carrying with it lightweight plastic lids, Chinese restaurant menus, ATM receipts, and a flurry of handouts advertising dry-cleaning services and manicures. I plucked a pink square of paper off my pants leg and scrutinized it briefly, wondering what else those House of Nails places were selling. They couldn’t possibly make a go of it on manicures alone, could they? According to the flyer, a deluxe mani-pedi with all the trimmings was only ten dollars. That didn’t seem to add up to a whole lot of revenue.

When I got home, I let myself into the empty apartment and went straight to the kitchen, where I made a cheese sandwich with mayo on rye bread and poured a glass of tomato juice, a quick, cold substitute for the diner lunch I’d envisioned earlier. I wolfed it all down, standing at the counter, then went into my room, took off my shoes, flopped onto my bed, and was asleep within five minutes.

When I woke up, my room was flooded with sunlight and I felt wide awake and energetic. It was almost six-thirty. I was supposed to meet Amanda and Emma at seven to shop for Amanda’s wedding shoes and, in the process, buy Max some kind of a birthday present, although I had no idea what to give him. I’d been somewhat roped into this expedition; Amanda had pleaded with me the day before to come along and protect her from our mother, whose enthusiasm for the future groom had apparently not substantially increased in the duration of their months-long engagement.

As I walked down toward the West Village, it occurred to me that I was being pressed into service in this helpful capacity quite a bit lately; maybe I should start a business, “Extra Man, Inc.” or “Third Wheel Ltd.” I was feeling handsome and devil-may-care and refreshed after my nap; my meeting with Josh and Mai Lin had given me a shot in the arm I hadn’t been aware of at the time. I began swaggering a little, eyeing all the men who passed me with some of the sexual confidence I’d felt when I was with Ted. As we approached each other, I caught the eye of a ravishing black youth with sparkling eyes who carried himself like a prince. As his eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, my stomach felt flatter, my arms magically more powerful, my aura irresistible. As he passed by me he looked away and was gone forever. But coming toward me in a great unending phalanx were other men, young, old, sexy, odd-looking, chubby, svelte, every race and ethnicity and range of intelligence, on and on, a never-ending army walking up the avenue. I continued on my way, undaunted and hopeful, looking at them all.