by Stan Lerner
CHAPTER THREE
Hello Brad
"Mr. Jones, should I begin packing your files?"
Brad looked up at his secretary, the venerable Mrs. Beasely. A woman well into her sixties, she had been a fixture at the studio for more than forty years. "That won't be necessary; I'm going to stay in this office."
Mrs. Beasely rarely smiled but her face warmed slightly when she approved of an executive's decision. "You don't think you'll be needing more space?"
"There'll be some additional staff." Brad looked around the office, "But this will be fine for me. It's been a lucky office. Besides, there's a lot of work to do to get this place straightened out. I don't want to create a distraction."
"Good." And with that one word of affirmation she turned and walked back to her desk in the outer office of Brad's suite.
Brad opened his desk drawer and pulled out the latest edition of Sports Illustrated. His parents had bought him a subscription for his tenth birthday and he had been reading it ever since. With great enthusiasm he opened to the first page-only to be interrupted by the ringing of his phone.
"Yes, Mrs. Beasely."
"I have Rick Sheinberg on the line for you."
"I'm kind of in the middle of something. Is it important?"
"He said to tell you there's a problem on the set of "Kevin's World"."
Brad opened the desk drawer and dropped Sports Illustrated in-exasperated. "Put him through." Brad gave the magazine one last glance and shut the drawer.
"Hey Brad, are you there?"
"Yeah Rick, I'm here. What's going on?"
"We have a hundred thousand gallons of water on the set of Kevin's World. That's what's going on? Oh, by the way, congratulations on the promotion."
"Thanks Rick, it was a nice surprise."
"So, what should I do about the water?"
"What water?" Brad turned over the antique hourglass on his desk so he could watch the sand pour through the small hole from one side to the other.
"The water on the set, Brad."
"I don't know. What do you usually do with water on the set?" Brad picked up his Etch a Sketch and turned the white knob on the right. "Whatever it is, do that."
"We've never had a hundred thousand gallons of water on a set before, so there is no protocol. Now that you're head of the studio it's up to you to create one."
"Oh? Well how'd the water get there? I mean since we don't normally have any."
"The fire marshal turned off the fire control system?"
"The what system?" Brad interrupted.
"The sprinklers that come on when there's a fire. He turned them off, or at least he thought he did?"
"Why turn off the sprinklers?"
"Brad, just out of curiosity when was the last time you were on a set?"
"That's none of your business, Rick. Just answer my question." Silence. "Twenty years ago, I was on a set, once."
For $600,000.00 dollars a film, three films a year, Rick didn't mind assuming the role of educator. It had been the same when they worked in the mailroom together. "When we build a set on location, we turn off sprinklers because the lights, the big 10k's we use, get hot enough to set off the system. This time it turns out that the ceiling we were looking at was a sub-ceiling. The fire marshal turned off the sprinklers in the sub-ceiling but not the ones above in the real ceiling. There was no way to know they had even gone off, the water just pooled up in the sub-ceiling until it came down, all one hundred thousand gallons. Luckily, no one was hurt."
"Rick, between you and me, what would someone say like?say?Stan Peters do in a situation like this?"
"He'd throw a lot of money at it." Rick paused. There was a chance that Brad might take him literally. "What I meant by that is he'd have a thousand guys down here rebuilding the set around the clock. He'd probably rent some airplane engines and use them as fans to dry the place out. I could call him and ask if you want."
Brad put down the Etch a Sketch. "I told you, this stays between us. Just do what Stan would do. Comprendo?"
"Brad, you do realize this is going to throw off our shooting schedule? There'll be penalties to pay at all the other locations for being late."
Brad put his elbow on the desk and rested the side of his head in his hand. "What would Stan do?"
"He'd pay the penalties and make some kind of ridiculous product placement deal to offset the cost."
"There you go. Can you handle it from here on out or do you still need more of my input?"
"No. I think I can take it from here." Rick infused still further mockery into his words. "You've been a lifesaver Brad, thanks."
"Good luck! Let me know how it goes." Brad hung up the phone satisfied that he had handled his first task as the head of the studio appropriately.
"Mr. Jones, I have Sherry Jacobson on the line," said Mrs. Beasley over the intercom before Brad could retrieve his Sports Illustrated and resume reading.
Brad picked up the phone. "Sherry Jacobson. Who's that?"
"She's the head of development," said Mrs. Beasley in her usual dry tone.
"Well that's good to know. So what exactly does she do?"
"She works with writers to make sure that the scripts we acquire are up to the studio's standard of excellence."
Brad sighed. "Put her through?Hello Mary."
"Hi Brad?My name is actually Sherry, Sherry Jacobson."
Brad snapped his fingers together-frustrated that he hadn't gotten the name right. "Sorry Sherry. What can I do for you?"
"We have a real problem with M Day Blabonandon."
"You've got to be kidding."
"No, he's very unhappy. And I think he might be writing a tell-all book."
"I meant you have to be kidding that there's actually someone named M Day Blabonandon. What is he, a foreigner?"
"He's Indian."
"I thought they usually have names like Running Deer."
"Brad, he's from India. He's not an American Indian."
"India's a Third World country." Brad laughed. "What's he unhappy about? He lives here. Probably doesn't like how we treat cows."
"He's unhappy because I told him his new script sucks. "The Seventh Sense" was brilliant. But since then, every script just keeps getting worse and worse. I can't sign off on this one-it's a loser. Oh, I left out the best part. He sees himself playing a character in the movie that turns out to be the savior of the world."
"Sherry, just out of curiosity, what do you think a guy like?say?Stan Peters would do with this crazy Indian?"
"Stan would've thrown him out on his ass three movies ago, Brad."
"So why have we kept him around?"
"He fills our minority hiring quota. His movies suck but his wacky sounding name makes us look good."
"I see." Brad thought for a moment. "Lose the Indian and get a Chinaman. That ought to do the trick."
"We have a script about a female martial artist in China that I've been wanting the studio to take a risk on for a longtime. And making a movie in China will be cheap. They pay their people a dollar a month and you don't have to worry about health insurance, lawsuits, polluting the environment-Communist China has turned into a capitalist's heaven. I'm talking pure unadulterated exploitation."
"Good. Tell M Day it's his last day and greenlight the China project."
"I'm on it, Brad."
Brad hung up the phone. "This isn't so hard."
"Mr. Jones I have Rick Sheinberg for you again."
"Put him through." Brad leaned back in his chair. "Rick, long time no talk."
"Sorry to bug you again, Brad. But I just made a call to see if I couldn't pick up a quick product placement deal to offset all of the flood related new costs. I think I have one."
"What did you come up with, Rick?"
"How do you feel about Trojans? If you like 'em, we're covered. No pun intended." Rick knew the studio would never do a deal on rubbers but thought he should run it by Brad just to cover his own ass.
"What, are you kidding me? I
was a USC football fan even when I was at Harvard. Do the deal, Rick!" Brad's eyes went wide as Nelson Ballsworth, trailed by a large assistant with a handlebar mustache known only as the Colonel, walked into his office unannounced and sat in the chair in front of his desk. Nelson wore a brown, tweed, three- piece-suit with a pocket watch chain stretched prominently across the right side of the vest. Nelson peered at Brad through round wire-rim glasses.
"I've got to go, Rick." Brad hung up the phone and rose to his feet. "Mr. Ballsworth. What an unexpected pleasure."
Nelson pulled out his pocket watch and looked at the time. He did so when talking to underlings so that they understood they did not merit his full attention-ever. "Sit down, Brad. I have some matters I'd like to discuss with you." He closed the ornate gold face of the watch and retuned it to its pocket in his vest.
"Yes, sir," Brad said sitting like a well-trained Labrador retriever.
Rick Sheinberg stood on the soaked set and looked at the cell phone in his hand. "He said yes. I can't believe it."
"Maybe he's not as big a geek as everyone says," said Rick's uninformed personal assistant, Bobby.
"He thinks a deal with Trojan Condoms has something to do with USC football," Rick said, wondering if he should just take a yes for yes.
Bobby answered, trying not to laugh, "This guy actually does give new meaning to the term dickhead."
Brad's bladder trembled; the sensation to urinate was almost uncontrollable. "What matters would those be, Mr. Ballsworth? Also, Mr. Ballsworth, may I just say what a great admirer I am of you and your family. In fact, I'm a graduate of the Ballsworth School of Business."
"Brad, I picked you to head the studio because I don't like the trash we've been spoon-feeding the American public. My brother is tickled that what was supposed to be a tax write off is making billions but I actually care about our legacy."
"I agree, sir. I've already started cleaning things up. I just got off the phone with Sherry Jacobson?"
"And fired her I hope," Nelson interrupted. "The head of development at this studio is about to have a child with another woman."
Brad winced. "How is that possible?"
"She's a dyke, Brad. A carpet muncher, totally ill-suited to be making decisions that require moral clarity."
Brad gulped. "I'll fire her immediately! I had no idea."
"Beau Carlson. Have you heard that name before?"
"No sir."
"He has an office on the lot. Not because we've given him one, but because he's screwing our director of real estate. If that's not bad enough, I have it on good authority that he's a drug dealer."
"A drug dealer on the lot! I'll have him arrested straight away."
Nelson smiled. He was pleased with Brad's level of moral outrage. "Have his girlfriend arrested also. It will set a good example for our next director of real estate. Now, on a more serious note, the studio's biggest star is a scientologist. What do you plan to do about that?"
"A what?" Brad asked, stumped.
"A scientologist. We're making movies with a star that belongs to a cult that worships little green men from Mars or Zeon or somewhere. I want this wacko off the lot."
Brad nodded. "I'll put it at the top of my list."
"Make it look like he's a financial liability or my brother will hit the roof."
"But he's brought in billions."
"His last movie would have brought in more, I'd say a hundred and fifty million more, if he wasn't always talking to the press about his Martian friends and their crazy religion. When my brother hears we have a hundred and fifty million dollars less than we should have-outer space boy is out."
"Mr. Ballsworth, your business acumen is stunning."
"I know. Let's talk about Stan Peters. Quite the interesting fellow."
Brad's confidence soared. "I have him making a religious themed movie about Jews that see the light."
Nelson's face went flush. "Really! I'm told he's a carouser, a womanizer, fond of drink and gambling. Are you telling me he's not bringing in billions on smut movies?"
Brad cleared his throat. "Well sir, it's true that Stan has in the past made some provocative movies, three of which have won Academy Awards. But he is a good movie maker. And frankly, he's completely loyal to me. If we take him under our wing, I believe he can be saved. He's told me personally that he wants my guidance."
Nelson snorted then grumbled before speaking. "My brother seems to see something in him also."
"Sir, why don't you drop in on him and decide for yourself." Brad leaned forward. "He's a good egg, you'll see."
Nelson's eyes narrowed. "For your sake, Brad, he better be." He then reached into his interior jacket pocket, withdrawing a folded piece of paper-which he extended to Brad, who took it without hesitation. "This is a list of the rest of the people you are to get rid of today. All undesirables."
Brad unfolded the paper and looked at the sixty names on the list. "They will all be gone by tonight, Mr. Ballsworth."
Sherry had just given the news to M Day that he was finished at the studio when her water broke. Fortunately, her life partner Emily had stopped by the office to meet for lunch and was able to take her immediately to the hospital.
"Breathe! Breathe!" coached Emily.
Sherry stared up at the delivery room ceiling. "Fuck, this hurts! "
"Breathe!"
"Why the fuck did I let you talk me into this! Ahhhhh!"
"I didn't talk you into this. We mutually agreed that your hips we more conducive to child bearing. Breathe!"
"You mean I'm fatter! Fuuuuuuck!"
The doctor had delivered other Hollywood brats and was used to the stupidity of their parents. "Ladies, need I remind you that your child is able to sense your discord? Do you want your child to be born unhappy? I think not."
"Fuck! Is that my cell phone ringing?"
Emily shook her head. "You wouldn't."
"It might be the office! Hand me the fucking phone you bitch! Or you can get a job and pay the bills."
Emily retrieved Sherry's phone and handed it to her. Tears ran down her face: staining her surgical mask. "I can't believe we did Landmark together and you still talk to me like this."
Ignoring her-Sherry answered the phone. "Sherry?Jacobson!"
"Hi Sherry, it's Brad. Did I get you at a bad time? You sound a little winded."
"No, it's okay. I'm in the delivery room giving birth right now, so I'm a little uncomfortable. I fired M Day. He cried like a baby but too bad. He had it coming for writing such crap."
"Thanks for getting right on the M Day situation, Sherry. Why don't we talk face to face when you're done having your child?"
"What do you mean face to face? What do we need to talk face to face about? For five years you haven't even known my name. What are you keeping from me, Brad?"
"You're fired, Sherry. Sorry to tell you while you're having a child and all. But maybe it is better just to get it out of the way. I'll have your office packed up for you."
"Fuuuuck! I'm having a baby and you fire me! I have a family to support."
"I'm sorry, Sherry. My decision is final. I'm sure your husband will be able to take care of you during your time of need."
"My husband?"
"You did tell HR that you were married when you came to work at the studio. Our records show that the studio pays healthcare benefits for you and your spouse. Has there been a mistake?"
Sherry looked up at her blubbering partner Emily. "We all make mistakes, Brad." She pressed end and threw the phone to the floor. "Fuuuuck!"
