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Authors: David Benioff

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BOOK: When the Nines Roll Over
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Hours have passed since the knocking stopped. I very nearly unlatched the hatch a few minutes ago, but decided against it. For one thing, I dete0110101100101 00100110110rmined from the beginning to remain underground at least six months, as a precaution against radioactive fallout. Beyond that is the fear of what I will see, the ruins of my hometown, all my landmarks rubbl0100e.
But there is a deeper dread, scurrying about on tiny clawed feet below the floorboards of my mind, that 0I will emerge from this bunker and find everything untouched, the same houses clad in the same fiberglass siding, th011e same lawns still littered with inflatable pools and children's toys, the same neighbors gathered for their Sunday barbecue, drinking cans of beer and shooing away the horseflies.
This morning I rediscovered hope—I believe I have fou0110nd a01way to de1101feat Air Dred. I01f0011 my101pl0110101010an110101101001011010110110110s10 1101001110101011u00101110100110100111010010c10110 0011100100101101011010111000101101010101001100110 11000100110011001c0101101001011001010101010101100 1100110010011101001111000101101011010010100111001 10110100110010100101001010101010011101001001110ee 0101011001010110110101001111010111011001110111001 1011010110111010101110110101001101110010110101110 1011101101100110110110011110010110101101010110110 101110101001010101001111011011010110101l0101010110 1001011100110010110101100011101001011001011101001 1010011101001010110001110010010110101010111001001 1101010100110l011011000001100110101010010010110010 1010010101100110011001001110100111100010110101101 0010001110011011000110101001010001111001110100100 11100101011l00001101101010011110101110110011101110 0110101101101110101011101110001101110011101011101 0111011011001101101100111100101101011010101101101 0111010100101010100110101101010001101010011101010 0101100101101010001101010011101010010110010110101 0001101010011101010010110010110101000110101001110 1010010110010110101000110101001110101001011001011 0101000110101001110101001011001011010100011010100 1110101001011001011010100011010100111010100101100 1011010100011010100111010100101101101101101011010 1101010110001111010110010110101100011101001011001 01110100110100111010010101100I0111001001011000101 1100001110101010011001101100000110011001010010010 1101010101000101100110011001001110100111100010110 1011010010001110011011000110101001010001111001110 1001001110010101100001101101010011110101110110011 1010110011011010110111010101110111000111110011101 0101010101110110110011011011001101100101101011010 1011011010111010100101010100111101101101011010110 1010110001101101011001011010110001110100101100101 1101001101001110100101011000111001001011000101110 0001110101010011001101100000110011101100011010100 1010001111001110100100111001010110000110010011100 1010110000110010011100101011000011001001110010101 1000011001001110010101100001100100111001010110000 1100100111001010110000110010011100101011000011001 0011100101011000011001001110010101100001100100111 0010101100001100100111001010110000110010011100101 0110000110010011100101011000011001001110010101100 0011001001110010101100001100100111001010110000110 0100111001010110000110010011100101011000011001001 0011001001110010101100001100100111001010110000110 0100111001010110000110010011100101011000011001001 1100101011000011001001110010101100001100100111000
GARDEN OF NO
He was a poet. Burn scars covered his forearms. Whenever the hot grease leapt from the grill to bite him, he'd step back, wipe his arm across his dirty white apron, and stare at the sizzling burgers like a man betrayed. The first time I saw this happen I ran to the ice machine for an ice cube, came back and pressed it against the angry red splotch on his skin. He watched me, smiling. He had the darkest eyes of any white man I've ever known, and the biggest hands.
That was my first day waiting tables at Wiley's. After the lunch rush was over he took his break and came out to the counter for a cup of coffee. I filled his cup and he smiled at me. Sam wasn't an especially handsome man, but when he smiled you wanted to stay with him, to lean back and bathe for a while. After a long day on your feet, Sam was like a tub of warm water.
“So I hear you're an actress.”
Yes, I was a waitress, and yes, I wanted to be an actress. I would meet people at parties and tell them I was a waitress, 147 and they would always ask, “But you want to be an actress?” As if they were so original, these publicists and software designers and production supervisors.
There was no point burdening Sam with these gripes, so I said, “I'm trying.”
“You look a little like Cassie Whitelaw. People ever tell you that?”
I groaned. “All the time. I wish I had her plastic surgeon.”
Cassie Whitelaw, star of the hospital drama
St. James Infirmary
, was my personal nemesis, the beautiful version of me. When I first saw her, in a television ad for dandruff shampoo, it was funny. We were watching the Oscars and all my friends cackled and threw popcorn at me. Now, with her magazine covers and visits with Jay Leno and movie star boyfriend, she's not funny anymore. I saw her one time on the Third Street Promenade and followed her past the movie theaters and sports bars and sidewalk saxophonists, watching her skinny ankles and lizard-skin pumps, watching the promenaders recognize her and nudge each other, watching her bask in the watching.
Sam said, “Nah, you're prettier than her.”
The first morning at Sam's I woke to clacking, loud and unsteady, like shots fired from a capgun. I staggered to the bathroom, opened the door, and flinched as the sunlight attacked me. Below the bright window sat Sam, on the closed toilet seat, an old manual typewriter on his lap. The typewriter looked like a toy in his giant hands. He wore plaid boxers and an L.A. Raiders T-shirt and a ridiculous pair of horn-rim glasses.
“Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”
“What are you doing?” I was shielding my eyes with my hand, trying not to imagine what I looked like right then, what kind of monster risen from the deep I most resembled.
“If I don't get my writing done in the morning, I don't get it done. It's a poem.”
“A poem? You write poems?”
“Yes,” he said, and there was both pride and resignation in the way he said it. “Yes, I do.”
“Oh” is what I said. Mostly I wanted to escape the sunlight. There was something wonderful and admirable about a man who wrote poetry in the morning, but something embarrassing as well, and I wanted to go back to bed, to my own bed.
My mother did not approve of the Sam situation.
“What does he do?”
“He's a poet.”
Silence on the line. “But what does he really do?”
“I'm telling you, he's a poet.”
“All right. And what does he do for money?”
I sighed. “He's a short-order cook.”
“Thank you,” she said. “And how old is he?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Oh, thirty-five. Well, that's nice. So this is what he wants to be, a short-order cook? He's happy with that?”
“I don't know about happy. It's a job. It pays the rent.”
“June—”
“He can bring home the bacon,” I said, and then I laughed and laughed. It was an old joke of Sam's. I laughed and laughed, not because it was so funny, but because the longer I laughed, the longer I could put off listening to my mother.
“Wonderful,” she said, when I finally stopped. “That's wonderful.”
In the middle of May everything changed. My agent called after months of silence and I asked him if he had the wrong phone number. He laughed and said, “Nah, champ, I've been waiting for the perfect part. No use dragging you to a lot of calls if the part's not you. This one's got your name all over it.”
I pictured
June
scrawled one hundred times on a blackboard.
June will never get this part. June will never get this part.
After seven years of close calls and bad luck, I had learned to treat hope as a dangerous emotion, the mother of all suffering. But I called Showfax and had them fax the sides to a mailbox store on my block. Two of my friends came over and read with me until my timing was perfect. My agent was right: The part had been written for me. Linda McCoy, the third biggest role in
Joe's Eats
, was a wisecrack ing waitress at a greasy spoon. Somebody in power was having a little joke, and I was happy to play along.
On a Tuesday morning I read for the casting director's assistant. She was about my age and prettier, and she fed me lines in a robotic monotone that seemed calculated to throw me off my stride. But I was strong. I was Linda McCoy. By the end of the scene the casting director's assistant was giggling despite herself.
They gave me a callback and a week later I read for the casting director, and a week after that for the producers. Bucky Lefschaum, the man who created
Mr. Midnight
and
The Campus Green
, a man I'd seen cavorting with the stars at the Golden Globe Awards, stood up in the middle of my read. His curly hair was fading from his forehead but he was fit and tanned. He looked like the tennis pro that all the country club wives were fucking.
“Stop,” he said. He took off his sunglasses and hooked the stem in the collar of his polo shirt. “Just stop right there. Why go on? You
are
Linda McCoy. You're my girl.”
He shook my hand and left, just like that. I turned to the casting director.
“I got the part?”
“Not yet,” he said. “You still have to read for the network.”
“Mazel tov,” said my agent when I told him the news. “If Lefschaum liked you, you're golden. Just look as good as possible for the network. That's all they care about. What do they know about acting?”
I read for the network in a conference room at their studio in Century City. Framed posters of sitcom stars hung from the walls, flashing bleached teeth and airbrushed cleavage. The producers, including Bucky Lefschaum, sat on one side of the table. The network executives sat on the other side. It was casual Friday and it was beach weather, the stupid Los Angeles sun beaming its indiscriminate love on everyone, and the executives wore short sleeves. They were much younger than I had imagined. I only recognized one name, Elliot Cohen, the senior vice president of something. He slouched in the corner wearing faded corduroys and a linen shirt, with a surfer's lean body and freefalling hair. I recognized his name because he was a well-known Hollywood swordsman, notorious for sleeping with two of the three female
Friends
, though at that moment I couldn't remember which two. He was a man of stature in the community. He looked like he would smell good.
BOOK: When the Nines Roll Over
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