by James Boice
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CONTENTS
SUNDAY
MONDAY
TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY
THURSDAY
FRIDAY
THE WEEKEND COMES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUNDAY
NOTHING WAS MOVING ON THE 405. Richard sat at the wheel, scanning the Corvette’s radio dial, looking for some kind of news about the jam, but there was nothing. He looked at the clock again. Couldn’t be late. On the radio was Prince. It was his daughter’s favorite. He himself wasn’t sure about all that innuendo and raunch. He wasn’t sure about much these days. He had seen the film that Prince had starred in and had liked it more than he thought he would. He had expected a two-hour music video, but it was a drama about family and love and what it meant to pursue your dreams—what it cost. His friend Steven had made him watch it. Called him over to his private theater in his house. It had been nice of Steven to call. It had been months. Maybe longer. At one point he asked Richard what he had been working on. All he had to do was tell him about his project. Steven would have helped him. All he had to do was say the words. But Richard couldn’t tell him. He muttered that he was tinkering with a few different things, then changed the subject to the new project Steven was executive producing, a time-travel film with the kid from Family Ties.
He and Steven had started out around the same time. They were part of a crew of hustlers, strivers, doing whatever they could to make films—Spielberg, Scorsese, Lucas, Cunningham. Back then they all thought it would be Richard who would be the one inviting them over to his private movie theater one day. He had been the first to sell a script, first to get an Oscar nomination. Now almost all of them had become directors on a first-name basis with the world, and he was just another no-name chump stuck in traffic on the 405, running late to lunch with his agent, who held the fate of his project in his hands.
• • •
HE STEERED THE CORVETTE DOWN sunset. The clock said he was okay on time. He relaxed, his mind wandering. He wondered yet again whether or not his agent wanting to meet on a Sunday meant good news. Lori Beth and his mother warned him not to get his hopes up. He could not help it. If the news was bad, legendary Hollywood agent Gleb Cooper would not waste his time with a face-to-face. Especially not on a Sunday. Richard had a good feeling. This would be the day he had been waiting three years for.
He passed Book Soup, where it had all started.
He had been browsing the bargain bins when he came across a remaindered copy of a bizarre-looking novel. Black dust jacket, no art—just the title and author’s name in big, elaborate font that seemed taken off the side of a nineteenth-century circus wagon. It was the black-and-white author photo that most intrigued Richard. Most of them posed very self-seriously, bloodless Ivy Leaguers in tweed. This one, however, named Cormac McCarthy, wore jeans, denim jacket, had uncombed hair. The look on his face was surprised, like someone had shouted his name and snapped his photo when he turned around. He looked like he couldn’t figure out what he was doing on the back of a book jacket. In the background there was not a prestigious college campus or the slick Manhattan skyline but an industrial town. Smokestacks, a bridge, a shipping channel. It looked like the same kind of town Richard had come from.
He took the book to the register. The clerk gave him an approving nod. A good sign. That night at home he started reading.
He could not stop. Three days later, he was still reading. He would have finished the book sooner but the language was like nothing he had ever seen outside of Shakespeare. It was almost something physical to grapple with. He kept having to put the book down and reach for the dictionary. Concatenate. Leptosome. Electuary. They were not even words—they were portals to new worlds.
The story’s grip on Richard was just as mysterious. A man lived on a houseboat in Knoxville, Tennessee, in the 1950s. He seemed to have come from a prestigious family but had been somehow alienated or cast out. A sordid cast of fringe-dwelling characters wandered in and out of his life, pulling him into their small-time hustles and drunken misadventures. Not much happened, on the outside. But on the inside, in the heart and mind of this man, named Suttree, as he tried to hold on to his sense of self in an ever-changing world bent on taking it from him, everything was happening. Everything. Richard understood right away that he knew this character. Felt like he had known him all his life. He could not say why. Not since he was a teenager had he felt this way about a book. Something about this novel brought him back to that vulnerable, openhearted place he had been when he was young. And he wanted desperately to hold on to it. Richard did not know why this character was so appealing to him. Because with Richard’s sports car and slick suits and Spanish Colonial in Sherman Oaks with a pool and detached mother-in-law bungalow in back, he and Suttree would not seem to have a lot in common. He certainly wasn’t a drinker like Suttree. In fact, he rarely drank. Not since one night long ago when he was a young father and the pressure got to him—he took it too far that night and never made that mistake again. But that was what made the book so powerful. It was a kind of art he had never encountered before: the kind that would seem to have nothing to do with you yet still gets to you in ways art that has everything to do with you does not.
When he closed Suttree after the final page, he saw the whole thing in his head, the film adaption he would make of this novel. He saw it from the opening theme through the end credits. I am going to make it, he told himself. He looked at the cover, then the author photo. He felt a warmth growing in his chest. His fingers and hands filling with blood, like they had been asleep but were now waking up. I am. He had to make this film. He was going to write it, and he was going to direct it. It would be his directorial debut.
Not only that—it would be his triumphant return from the brink of extinction.
• • •
IT WAS A STRANGE CHOICE of restaurant. Typically his meetings with Gleb Cooper took place at Musso & Frank, where Gleb had a booth they’d clear out for him upon his arrival, and the maître d’ would accommodate his every need. Once Gleb had ordered catfish. The menu did not include catfish. But Gleb wanted catfish, and Gleb got catfish. Richard could not imagine how they located and prepared one so quickly, but it arrived on time with Richard’s steak tartare. Richard would try to discreetly eyeball the luminaries filling the surrounding tables without Gleb noticing, because if he caught his companion’s gaze wandering like that, he took it as an insult, a challenge, and he would not let it go. He would hold on to it for the rest of the meal. And he would mention it at every meal after. But Richard would tell his grandchildren about that day at Musso’s when Warren Beatty came over to their table to shake Richard’s hand because, Warren Beatty said, he had just heard from a friend at the Academy that Welcome to Henderson County was going to be nominated for an Oscar, and he wanted to shake the hand of the man who had written it.
But this place. It was no Musso’s. It was a forgettable Italian spot on Wilshire called Michelangelo’s. Richard had never heard of it. There wasn’t even a valet. Inside there was no Warren Beatty, nor anybody else, aside from some waiters, a bartender leaning over the want ads of the Sunday Los Angeles Times, and Gleb Cooper in a booth.
He almost did not recognize him, because it was
the first time he had ever seen him not wearing a suit. He almost did not even see him at all. He had chosen a booth in the corner, in the shadows. He had his head down, reading the paper, a golf hat pulled low. How old was Gleb? Richard could only guess. He had been a ubiquitous presence in Hollywood longer than anyone could remember. But he still maintained the vitality and power of a man Richard’s age. He always wore custom suits. He was the one who first encouraged Richard to put more effort and consideration into what he wore. “Dressing well is a way of showing respect,” he’d say, “not just for yourself but for everyone else. Give respect, get respect. That’s how it all works. Thar’s all you need to know.” When Richard first came to town twenty years earlier, he wore the one blazer he had, which was ill fitting and badly cut. He had gotten it off the clearance rack at Gimbels back home, and he wore it until the buttons fell off and his elbows just about poked through. He thought he looked sharp, but looking back on it he probably looked like an overgrown prep schooler. When it wasn’t that blazer, it was pastel cardigans—Kmart or Gimbels, whichever was cheaper. Gleb told him he looked like Mr. Rogers. Richard thought it was a compliment, because Mr. Rogers was a good person with a solid character, but it was not. Gleb brought him to the store on Rodeo where he bought his suits, put down a stack of money, and instructed the serious quiet man to take care of his boy. He did. Richard still bought his suits there. Every few years he had them altered to match the changing fashions. Today he was wearing the pale gray double-breasted Calvin Klein. It was Lori Beth’s favorite.
Gleb was dressed for the golf course. Richard could not tell if he was on his way to the links or on his way back from them. It seemed to be an important difference. For the first time, Gleb looked to Richard like an old man, shriveled and small, bent as he was with the paper up close to his face, squinting to read it. Richard grew nervous. But then Gleb looked up and noticed him and his voice came booming across the room with the same energy and enthusiasm as always.
“There he is!” Gleb shouted across the empty restaurant. “There he is! Get over here! Sit, sit!”
Richard went over and slid into the booth. Gleb was drinking coffee. The waiter poured Richard a cup.
“Thanks for meeting me on a Sunday,” Gleb said. “I couldn’t wait to talk to you. I was too excited. Are you coming from church or something? What’s with the suit? You’re making me feel like a schlub.”
“Now you know how the rest of us usually feel,” Richard said.
Gleb grinned. He smoothed his yellow polo shirt, glancing down at it. “On my way to play some golf.”
“No kidding.”
“Sunday’s golf day. No one is allowed to bother me on golf day. I’ve turned down meetings with God on Sunday. No meetings on golf day. That’s my rule. You need rules for yourself. Remember that. Write that down.”
A good sign. A great sign. Richard’s heart was beating hard. It had to be good news. He fought to control the grin on his face. It was a struggle he had been up against since he had arrived in town. His midwestern grin was its own animal—if he did not take care, the thing would eat his entire head. And in this town, a goofy grin like his was a sign of weakness. If you were going to smile, it had to be cool and confident, like Jack Nicholson’s, not unabashed and eager like Richard’s.
Stay cool, Richard told himself. You can celebrate when you get home.
“I’m flattered,” Richard said.
Gleb shrugged. “I’m excited to talk to you. I couldn’t wait.”
“I’m excited too, Gleb. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you see what I see in this project. I know I’ve sort of been on the sidelines the last few years, but—”
“Sort of? Richard, you wouldn’t be more on the sidelines if you were Broadway Joe Namath wearing a Los Angeles Rams jersey in 1977.” Gleb laughed at his own joke.
“Got me,” Richard said, holding his hands up. “Guilty as charged. It’s just that I’ve wanted to get this project right, you know? I’ve wanted to take my time with it, make it perfect, and it’s been very difficult, it’s very dense material, very personal and rich, and, boy, the stream of consciousness of the prose will be very challenging to portray on-screen, but I’m up for it, I really am, I know exactly how to do it.” He started to go into the technical approach he intended to take but cut himself short, seeing Gleb’s eyes glaze over. “Anyway, I want to thank you for sticking with me and believing in me like you have. I cannot wait to get started.”
Gleb said, “Now hold on, Richard, let’s back up. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Suttree,” Richard said, panic creeping in quietly. “We’re here to talk about Suttree, right?”
Gleb let out a deep, wheezing sigh. “Okay,” he said. He waved the waiter over. “Two gin martinis,” he said. “Bone dry and dirty.” The waiter nodded and left.
Richard understood now, all too well. This is why Gleb wanted to meet at such an empty, out-of-the-way restaurant. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed to bring washed-up talent around to his usual haunt. Though that was clearly part of it. No, it was also out of mercy. Gleb had called this meeting planning to kill Richard’s dream but had wanted to spare him the additional pain and suffering of doing it in front of his professional peers, such as they were. He was planning cold-blooded murder en route to a late tee time and didn’t want any witnesses.
“Of course a hit job like this would take place in an Italian restaurant,” Richard said. Gleb did not seem to hear.
“Look, here it is. Okay? I’ve met with everyone about your project. Everyone. From Warner Brothers to a guy named Warner who finances low-budget monster movies for the tax write-off. There is no interest. Zero. I encourage you strongly to forget Suttree. Move on. This should help you do that: I got something for you. That’s why I wanted to meet today. I have a job for you, Richard.”
“If it’s writing a Sorority Slaughterhouse sequel, forget it.”
Richard had written the schlocky slasher film years ago, when he was first starting out. It was the first job Gleb got him. Everyone was doing the same thing, all his friends. Whatever it took. But unlike their films, which were quickly forgotten except among film scholars as their creators ascended to greater things, Sorority Slaughterhouse had become a cult hit. For a time it had been a favorite of midnight screenings. Theater owners used to beg for a sequel. Gleb had pressed Richard on it a few times, but Richard had always refused—especially after the Oscar nomination.
“That was a very profitable picture,” Gleb was saying, pointing his finger at him. “Don’t turn your nose up at it. Be proud of it. You were hungry. You were driven. You were willing to do whatever you had to do. You had grit.”
“What do you mean had? I still do.”
“Sure, sure, yeah, you still do.” Richard could tell Gleb was saying it but he wasn’t meaning it. “But anyway, Richard, no, it’s not that, it’s not Sorority Slaughterhouse.” He moved his eyes to a point just behind Richard’s left shoulder. His face took on an expression of amazement. He raised his hands in the shape of a camera frame, like a cinematographer gauging a shot. Gleb held it there for so long that Richard turned his head to see if something really was back there. Then Gleb announced majestically, jolting his hands at both words for emphasis: “Space Battles.” He moved his hands a little lower then jolted them again as he said, “Original Screenplay by Richard Cunningham.”
Richard sat forward, his grin coming to life again. He knew George, they used to shoot pool together—why hadn’t George called to break the news himself? He didn’t know he was planning another Star Wars. And he certainly had no idea he was thinking of Richard to write it.
“Gleb, that’s incredible news. Incredible! Star Wars! Wow! I have ideas already. I thought the last installment lacked the gravitas of the original. Man, I’d love to restore some of the seriousness and literary value to the franchise.” He let out a whoop that turned the heads of the staff. “Wow, Gleb. I could kiss you. This is exactly what I needed. It’s go
ing to change everything for me.”
“What? No, Richard, no, not Star Wars. Space Battles.”
“I don’t understand.”
“A wicked kingdom, an underdog hero, a foxy princess—and all of it in space.”
“That sounds an awful lot like Star Wars, Gleb.”
“No. Space Battles has two things Star Wars does not.”
“What’s that?”
“Blood and bazoongas.” Richard put his hand over his face. Gleb continued. “Did Star Wars have blood and bazoongas? No it did not. Think about how much more money it would have made if it had. It’s more realistic. It’s realism. That’s your trip, right, Richard?”
The waiter set down the martinis and a small dish of olives. Gleb speared one and put it between his molars and bit. He lifted one of the martinis and drank. “Drink up,” he said, gesturing to the other martini. “Relax. Celebrate. We’re celebrating.”
“No thank you,” Richard said. He and Gleb had worked together fifteen years, and Richard had never been a drinker. Now he was starting to wonder how well his agent knew him. He wondered if Gleb had even read his Suttree script.
Gleb reached over and slid the drink like a chess piece to his own side of the table.
“I don’t want to do this. I want to make Suttree,” Richard told him.
“I know you do. But, look, Richard, the days of a movie like that getting made are over. Ten years ago, yeah, maybe. But now? People just don’t want it. They want people running for their lives and heroes saving the day. They want the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man exploding over Manhattan. They want Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone mowing people down. The rest of your generation figured this out long ago. Look at your buddies. Look at Spielberg. Why can’t you be more like him? Why can’t you just give the people what they want? Now, this job, this is your chance to do that. The kid producing Space Battles, his daddy’s a shah or a sultan or something, I don’t know what he is, but the kid’s a prince. A real live prince. He’s got jets. He’s got jewels. He’s got it all. And he wants to get into pictures, Richard. I know this sounds awful to a writer of your caliber, but know what it sounds like to me? Work. A job. Something you’re sorely in need of.”
