by Lee Goldberg
Marty wasn't getting married, retiring from the force, embarking on a maiden voyage, or christening some bold, new construction project, each a definite precursor of disaster, at least according to Irwin Allen, the acknowledged expert on the subject.
And at least one thing turned out like the movies—here he was, underneath his car, just like Charlton Heston in Earthquake. That's where any similarity between Marty and Charlton ended.
He wasn't clutching Ava Gardner, and he certainly wouldn't sacrifice himself to save her over Genevieve Bujold. And after the shaking was over, Charlton wasn't curled in a fetal position, covered in dust and sprinkles of broken glass, wondering if the itchy wetness he felt on his legs was blood, something from the car, or his own piss.
Marty didn't want to move. He felt just like he did waking up in his soaked sleeping bag at Camp Cochise, afraid to stir, hoping everything would dry before the other campers, especially that bully Dwayne Edwards, woke up and discovered he was a bed-wetter. The sharpness of the fear and shame, thirty years later, surprised him almost as much as thinking about it now.
It was enough to embarrass him into opening his eyes and pushing away the bricks and broken glass that surrounded the car. He dragged himself from under his Mercedes, scraping his fingers on the shards of glass in his haste. But he didn't care. He had to get out.
The first thing he noticed was the dust, the chalky mist of pulverized plaster, mortar, and brick. It was everywhere. In his eyes, in his nose, in his lungs. Coughing, he staggered to his feet, his balance totally shot. It didn't help that asphalt was all cracked and bubbled, like something was trying to break out from underneath.
The derelict warehouse he'd been in just a few minutes before, making the obligatory network exec visit to the set of Go to Heller, was now just a pile of bricks, which slopped onto his car, flattening it like a $42,000 German beer can.
The warehouse was never retrofitted for earthquake safety. It had been abandoned and neglected for decades, which made it a great seedy location for cop shows.
But it wasn't abandoned today.
There were fifty or sixty people in there. The cast, the crew, the director. Now they were under tons of rubble. And if Marty had schmoozed ten seconds longer, he would have been, too.
Oh my God.
Marty stumbled over the debris, making his way around the edge of what had been the warehouse, and saw a handful of caterers, electricians, grips, and wardrobers swarming over the debris, quickly sorting through the bricks in a desperate search for survivors.
"Has anyone called for help?" he shouted, but didn't wait for an answer. He was already yanking out his cell phone, flipping it open like Capt. Kirk's communicator and dialing 911 as he approached them.
The tiny device bleated an electronic protest. No signal.
Shit!
What was the point of having a damn cell phone if you couldn't depend on it at times like this?
Marty snapped the phone shut, stuffed it into his pocket, and joined the others, picking up bricks and tossing them behind him as fast as he could.
This was really bad. A native Californian, Marty's ass was a natural Richter scale, accurate within two-tenths of a point. He knew the Northridge Quake was a 6.5 before CalTech did. And his ass was telling him this was bigger. Much bigger. Beyond the range of his experience.
"My brother," someone shrieked.
It was the guy beside Marty, one of the grips, the people who do the heavy lifting around the set. The guy was missing an ear, blood soaking his Panavision t-shirt from his shoulder down to his tool belt. But the guy was oblivious to it, he just kept repeating the same thing as he thrashed his way through the debris.
"My brother is in there," the guy said. "My brother is in there."
The guy said it over and over, becoming more frantic with each repetition. Marty focused on digging through the rubble directly in front of him. He didn't know what else to do.
Where the hell were the firemen? The police? Why wasn't he hearing any sirens?
"Over here!" one of the caterers yelled.
Everyone scrambled across the rubble toward the caterer, helping him heave the bricks aside, exposing first a bloody pant-leg, then a big, silver belt buckle.
That was all Marty needed to see. They'd found Irving Steinberg, the executive producer, a New York-born Jew who dressed like he was about to go on a cattle drive. Irving liked to refer to his ever-present Stetson as his "ten-gallon yarmulke."
In truth, Irving wore the Stetson because he thought it was less embarrassing and would draw less attention than even the most expensive toupee. Just look at Burt Reynolds and William Shatner, Irving would say. Wouldn't they look much better with hats?
Irving always made Marty smile. In fact, Marty was walking out with one of those Irving-produced smiles just before the rumbling started.
"Put this show on the fall schedule," Irving said, "and I can finally afford my dream."
"What's that?" Marty asked, willingly playing the straight man.
"My own ranch," Irving replied. "Right in Bel Air. I'm gonna call it the Bar Mitzvah spread."
They uncovered the rest of Irving.
If it wasn't for the trademark clothes, he would have been unrecognizable.
Marty backed away, shaking his head, struggling not to lose his balance as he fled. Irving was dead. Just a few minutes ago Irving was talking and joking and dreaming and now he was dead.
How could that be?
That's when someone jacked up the volume on the world. Suddenly Marty's ears opened up and he was bombarded by a shrill chorus of horns and car alarms, punctuated by the muffled rumble and pop of explosions, volleys on a distant battlefield.
Marty looked up.
It was like the theatre lights coming on after a movie, when he would notice the walls, the aisles, and the moviegoers he had forgotten were there. Now the lights were coming up on Marty's new world.
All the warehouses on the decaying, industrial block had either folded in on themselves in giant slabs or were reduced to rubble, all under a huge cloud of dust. The only structure still standing was a cardboard box mansion in the alley, its dirty-faced owner peeking out hesitantly at the destruction, then disappearing back inside, closing a flap behind him. His building was the only one on the block that seemed to be up to code.
Marty turned and saw the 6th Street bridge, the Art Deco giant slumped into the concrete banks of the LA river, pouring cars into the polluted dribble of water below. A big silver line of Metrolink rail cars had derailed, dangling over the vertical concrete embankment like decorative tinsel. Fire licked out of the windows, the flickering light shining off the dented, metal skin.
Marty turned again and saw the downtown LA skyline. Most of the glass towers still stood, like giant shattered mirrors, the harsh sun reflecting off their hideously cracked faces in jagged rays. They had swayed with the earth, as the engineers promised they would, shaking off their tinted glass skin. Only one high-rise couldn't hold on, and now leaned against another, as if too tired to stand any longer, panting smoke and flame in enormous bursts.
Marty turned and turned and turned, trying to take it all in. He couldn't. The enormity of the destruction was too much.
He felt an immediate distance, as if seeing it on a TV screen instead of living it. These were special effects, cardboard miniatures and plastic models. For a moment, he almost believed if he squinted, he could make out the matte lines between the real image and the computer-generated one painted in around it.
But he couldn't.
All of a sudden the ground started to heave. At first Marty thought it was an aftershock; then he realized it was himself, his whole body shaking violently. He fell to his knees and started to gag, vomiting until he thought he'd start spitting out organs.
Finally, the gagging stopped and Marty just stayed there, his eyes closed, waiting for his body to stop shaking, puke in his throat, in his nose. He found the horrible smell and sick taste strangely reassur
ing. It was something he recognized.
Marty straightened up and found a Kleenex in his pocket. He blew his nose, balled up the tissue, and tossed it.
Now he knew why he didn't hear sirens. Because no help was coming. Not for anyone. Not for a long time.
Time.
He'd left the warehouse set in a hurry, glancing at his watch as he rushed out, worried he'd be late for the staff meeting.
That was the last thing he did before it happened.
Now he looked at his watch again, a drop of blood landing on the cracked crystal just as he noted the time: 9:15 a.m. Tuesday.
* * * * *
7:00 a.m. Tuesday
The radio report that woke Marty up predicted another day of sweltering heat and unhealthful air quality. Everyone was urged to stay indoors and avoid breathing too much.
Ordinarily, that wouldn't be a problem for him. He'd just go from the re-circulated air of his house to the re-circulated air of his car to the re-circulated air of his office with only seconds in between. But not today. He had to go downtown and make an appearance on the set.
Marty slapped the radio silent and didn't bother to look on the other side of the bed. He knew she'd already fled downstairs to the safety of the morning paper. Beth was always gone when he awoke, no matter what time it was.
It wasn't always that way.
They used to make love in the mornings, then lie tangled together, the sheets twisted around them, waiting for the radio alarm to go on and the chatty newscasters to drive them out of bed. Not any more.
He got up.
His house was above the smog, or at least he was high enough on the Calabasas hillside to enjoy the illusion that he was. From his bedroom window, he looked down onto the San Fernando Valley, at the thick, brown haze blanketing the flat urban sprawl. The layer of floating crud was trapped between the hills, which were slowly being devoured by tract homes like his. Only those homes cost about $300,000 less and were crammed onto a mere 6000-square-foot patch of dry graded dirt. They were stucco boxes for the Camry class.
Marty shifted his gaze to the red-tile roof of the Spanish colonial guard house and the morning progression of gardeners and pool cleaners and housekeepers climbing up the steep hill of his gated community in their over-loaded pick-ups and dented cars. He wondered if they knew they weren't supposed to breathe today.
He trudged naked into the bathroom, and as he stood urinating into the toilet, reminded himself of all the things on his schedule. First, visit the set of Go to Heller, a supernatural pilot about a dead cop who rises from the grave and becomes a private eye.
Marty's plan was to shake a few hands and pretend the network was wildly enthusiastic about the footage they were seeing, then rush back to the office for the weekly staff meeting where, as the guy in charge of current programming, he was responsible for the creative direction of the network's shows.
Standards & Practices was in an uproar over the nipplage in the romantic adventure series Sam and Sally. Seeing erect nipples under clothing once in an hour was considered an acceptable accident. Twice was salacious. Three times was offensive content. They wanted Sally to start taping herself down. Marty was adamantly against it.
In the shower, under the hottest spray he could endure, he considered the various ways he could argue his point. He could try and shame them: Nipples are a fact of life. We all have them. What are we trying to hide here? It's not like she's running around topless. It was ludicrous to demand that an actress "restrain her aggressive nipples" so some tight-ass censor could pretend women didn't have them.
Or he could take the artistic, pragmatic approach. More and more viewers are fleeing the artificially chaste world of network television for the more realistic programming on pay-cable, where nudity, sex, and profanity are commonplace. If they are going to successfully compete, they have to be less puritanical in their thinking.
Or he could try the truth. The only reason anybody watched Sam and Sally was to see Sally's nipples. And if she taped them down, they might at well cancel the show.
As Marty slipped into his beige pants, white shirt, and navy blue dark jacket, he decided to go with the truth, if only to see that standards prick Adam Horsting turn pale.
He headed for the stairs, pausing for a moment to look in the kid's room. They didn't have a kid, but they had the room. For some reason, he just couldn't pass the open door without looking in. Stuffed animals with permanent, vacant stares looked at him between the slats of the empty crib. We're waiting.
Marty went back and closed the door, but he knew it would be open by the time he got home. He hurried down the stairs and into the kitchen with an enthusiasm he didn't feel.
Beth was sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, leaning over the LA Times and a cup of coffee, her bare feet entwined in the fur of their sleeping dog, Max. The fat golden retriever delighted in being her ottoman. It was one of two things Max was good at. The other was the ability to pick the most expensive shoes Marty owned to chew on. Max obviously liked the taste of Italian leather.
His wife had short blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a band of freckles across her nose that made her look like a mischievous child. People thought she was cute, and she hated that. She was certain it meant that no one took her seriously.
"Good morning," He said, sticking his head in the pantry, looking for something he could eat on the run.
"They found a shark with a mouth that glows in the dark," she said. "It got caught in a fisherman's net. They think it's some unknown species that lives in the deepest, darkest part of the ocean."
"Uh-huh." He peered into an open box of Cinnamon Pop Tarts. There was one foil package left inside. That would hold him until he could swipe some fruit off the craft services table on the set.
"They think the shark swims with his mouth open. The light attracts the fish and they swim right down his throat," she flipped through the pages, scanning the headlines. "They think there could be lots of species down there we've never seen."
"Sounds like there could be a series in that." He stuck the foil pack in his pocket and went to the refrigerator, where he snagged a can of Coke, absently knocking something on the floor. "Though the last successful underwater show was thirty years ago."
"The whole world doesn't revolve around television." Beth said, followed by one of her dismissive sighs.
"Most people wouldn't know what they wanted to eat, what they wanted to wear, or who they wanted to fuck if the TV didn't tell them," he bent down to pick up whatever he dropped. "So as vice president of current drama, I obviously play a vital role in our society."
Marty smiled to let her know he was joking, or at least being delightfully self-deprecating.
"You dropped something," she motioned to the floor with a slight nod of her head.
It was a tiny vial. He picked it up. Pergonal. It had expired months ago. He was about to throw it out when he saw her staring at him. So instead Marty hastily put the vial back in the refrigerator and slammed the door, as if the vial might fight its way out again. The last thing he wanted to do was resurrect The Discussion.
When Marty turned around, he was relieved to see she was reading her paper again. He popped the top on the Coke and took a big gulp, studying her over the top of the can as he swallowed. She was especially lovely in the morning, hair tussled, face still flushed with the warmth of sleep.
Beth seemed to sense his eyes on her and the affection behind them. "Are you going to be late tonight?" she asked softly.
"I should be back before primetime." That used to make her smile, a hundred repetitions ago.
And then, as if reading his thoughts, she gave him a small smile and returned to her paper.
* * * * *
9:16 a.m. Tuesday
Marty sat on his Richter scale, picking bloody bits of glass out of his hair as he wondered what the hell he should do.
It wasn't supposed to happen like this. He wasn't supposed to be here.
In all his earthq
uake scenarios, he was always at home, where he was fully prepared. Everything in the house was bolted, strapped, or stuck down. There was bag under the bed bulging with survivalist stuff?bought in a binge after the last quake. There was even a sack of food for the dog. And on the slim chance the house was decimated, they had camping gear in the garage for emergency shelter.
At least he knew that Beth was safe.
If the house didn't collapse on her.
There was nothing to worry about, he told himself. They had a thorough geological survey done when they bought the house. The report said it was earthquake safe and built on solid bedrock.
Yeah, and the house inspector said the drainage was great and what happened the first time it really rained? Water flooded the yard, seeped under the French doors, and ruined the hardwood floors. Remember?
He had to go home.
But how?
He was stuck in downtown LA, a decaying urban wilderness, thirty miles from the safety of his gated community in Calabasas, his Mercedes crushed. And even if it wasn't, the roads and freeways were going to be all but impassable for any vehicle.
He'd have to walk.
No easy feat for a guy who's idea of a long walk was from the couch to the TV set, but he could do it. He had no choice, unless he wanted to stay here. And he knew what happened to guys like him who took a wrong turn and ended up in the 'hood alone, looking white, rich, and privileged, armed with only a spring-loaded Mercedes key-fob.
His heart started to race. He thought he might begin gagging again. He took a deep breath and willed himself to focus.
Marty looked back at his E-class. The trunk, defiantly shiny and unscratched, pinched out from under the rubble. He hurried over to the car, popped open the trunk, and rooted around the piles of scripts and videos until he found an old LA street map. Then he grabbed his gym bag, which was wedged into the furthest corner. It had been six months since he used the bag, back when he was caught up in the early enthusiasm of a new year's resolution and a two-year gym membership. He went twice and never went back.
