Blind Ambitions

by Lolita Files

  “Yeah,” Desi replied softly, now concerned. “So what does that mean?”

  “It means you just finished reading a phenomenal pilot script. Before you commit yourself to anything, you need to make sure the scripts that follow are going to be just as good.”

  Desi grew silent. She hadn’t even thought about that.

  “I mean, I don’t think you seriously have anything to worry about,” Sharon added, sensing Desi’s change. “Look at David E. Kelley with Ally McBeal, The Practice, and Chicago Hope. He does it all. But it takes a minute to get to where he is. He’s what’s called a show runner.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A show runner is a person who executive produces and writes. It’s just like the name sounds … they pretty much run the whole show. David E. Kelley EP’s all three of his shows and writes full-time for Ally and The Practice. It can be done.”

  “You say that like you don’t think Randall and his partner can do it,” Desi said.

  “Well, I don’t mean it like that,” Sharon replied. “All I’m saying is that it takes a while to become a David E. Kelley. It doesn’t just happen overnight. He started out as a story editor for LA Law, proved himself, then ended up taking over the show as EP when Steven Bochco left. He worked with Bochco on Doogie Howser, and then he did Picket Fences, and started getting all kinds of critical acclaim. Show runners are made, not born.”

  Desi was still worried.

  “Are you saying Randall and Steve aren’t show runners?”

  “Well, as of right now, no, they’re not. Show runners have the ear of the networks and can get projects put on just like that. They can shepherd projects in. Networks know that they can deliver. Mention the name Bochco, and see if anybody at a network walks the other way.”

  Desi was silent, poring over the meaning of Sharon’s words.

  “Right now Randall and Steve have some clout because they’re Emmy-winning writers. That’s nothing to sneeze at, either. They’re on their way. You’re hooking up with them at a good time. Just make sure you find out if they are, in fact, going to be writing for the show full-time.”

  “I’ll make sure Ken asks Randall about that,” Desi said. “I can’t believe I didn’t. I remember him saying something about the receptionist at Massey-Weldon coming to work for them as a writer and producer.”

  “Really? The receptionist?”

  “That’s what he said. I should have asked more questions.”

  “You’re used to dealing with film,” Sharon replied. “Television’s a whole ’nother ball game. You’ll see.”

  Desi heard Sharon mumble something, then make a muffled, cooing sound. The phone dropped onto the floor. It clanged in Desi’s ear, making her pull the receiver away. Sharon fumbled around until she found it again. She could hear Desi shouting as she brought the phone up to her ear.

  “Sharon? Sharon! Are you there?!”

  “Wooooooops! Sorry.”

  “What happened? What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” Sharon’s voice had a cryptic edge. “I dropped the phone.”

  “Oh. Well, thanks for pointing that writing issue out to me.”

  “No problem,” Sharon replied, preoccupied. There was a muffled noise on her end of the phone. “Look, Dez, I gotta go.”

  Desi heard tussling, then grumbling, and another muted coo.

  “Okay. I just called because I wanted to share my excitement with you.”

  Sharon let out something deep and throaty that seemed as if it could have been a laugh. Or a moan.

  “Believe me, baby,” she grunted, “I’m excited all right.”

  Desi was now frustrated by Sharon’s antics.

  “Just confirm for me one more time, and then I’ll let you go … Is this guy Randall really legit? No bullshit?”

  She distinctly heard activity in the background. The deep grumbling had turned into deep moans mixed with short, muffled cooing.

  “Sharon! Did you hear me? Is he really legit?!”

  There were more tussling noises, then Sharon answered.

  “He’s legit. Just make sure you get everything in writing. I don’t care who anybody is these days. Randall’s a good friend, an old friend, but a contract’s a contract. Get that shit in writing, and make sure you’re paid up front. If he wants you, make him work for it.”

  “I will. You know, you didn’t tell me how good-looking he is.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  “It’s no big deal,” Desi replied quickly. “I’m just saying. So you guys grew up together, huh? Was he somebody that you used to date?”

  “No, Dez,” Sharon answered, her voice flat. “He’s fair game. Free and single, as far as I know.”

  “I’m not trying to go out with him!” Desi protested. “This is work. I’ve got bigger issues on my mind. I was just asking.”

  “Whatever,” Sharon mumbled, resuming what she was doing in the background.

  “He’s going to be talking terms and figures with Ken tomorrow,” Desi said, ignoring the obvious symphony of sex that was orchestrating.

  “Get everything in writing” was all Sharon replied.

  “Alright. Can I show you the contract once I get it? You’ll probably know what I’m looking at better than I will.”

  “Mmmmhmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm …”

  Desi was quiet, pondering. Moans and coos billowed from the phone.

  “Glen’s an entertainment attorney, right?” she asked.

  “Mmmmhmmmm … you should see how he’s entertaining me now.”

  Desi laughed.

  “You’re crazy. Seriously though, do you think I could get him to take a look at the contract? At a discounted rate? If it works out, I could pay him more later.”

  “If you let me get back to business,” Sharon groaned, “I might be able to get it done for free.”

  “Okay,” Desi quickly replied.

  She opened her mouth to say something else, but the phone went dead.

  Sharon clicked off the phone and dropped it onto the floor. She rolled over, climbed on top of Glen, found his already-risen center, and, making a circular motion with her hips, slid down onto it.

  He placed his hands on her waist, holding her in place as she rocked above him.

  Sharon threw her head back, her locks falling deep into the arch of her spine.

  “Was Desi calling about business?” Glen grunted, leaning up to kiss her breasts.

  “Unnnnnh,” she moaned. “No. Yeah. Sorta. Once again, someone other than me is being put on.”

  She rocked faster, trying to lose herself in the sex.

  “I’ll put you on,” he groaned, sliding his hands up her back. He sat up, pulling her into him. Sharon rocked harder, her eyes squeezed tight. A score of errant locks had fallen into her face. Glen, still holding her close, gently brushed them aside as he kissed her lips, her cheeks, and her forehead.

  They rocked in unison.

  Sharon began to moan loudly. He watched her face, seeing the intensity of pleasure neatly blended with career frustration. Her eyes were closed and she was biting her lip. He wanted to do something to make everything alright for her. He cupped her behind, and rocked against her harder.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” he whispered reassuringly, “everything’s gonna be just fine.”

  Sharon, furiously working her crotch against his, was so deep inside her sexual stupor, his words seemed as if they were coming from outer space. She opened her eyes, twisting her face as she looked at him. What the hell was he talking about?

  “Your time is gonna come,” Glen continued. “I can feel it.”

  “I know it is,” she replied in a staccato moan. “If you hang on for just a minute, it’s about to come … right nowwwwwwwwwwwwww!”

  Two hours later, the phone rang again.

  This time, Sharon was too lost in her sleep to hear it.

  She stirred slightly, caught up in the physics of another dream.

  She was uptown on the Major Deegan,
headed somewhere in the direction of her old neighborhood in the Bronx. Her cell phone was ringing. She could see the number of the person who was calling. The call was very important, from someone she’d been waiting to hear from all day.

  As she maneuvered up the highway, she tried desperately to take the call. She was eating a fried perch sandwich from a fish joint on 125th Street. She had one hand on the wheel and the other on the sandwich. She stuffed the sandwich into her mouth as she picked up the cell phone to answer it. She punched a button on the cell phone’s keypad, but it didn’t stop ringing. She punched another button, and another, and another, but the blasted ringing just couldn’t be stopped.

  Frustrated, she beat the phone against the steering wheel, but the ringing continued.

  Glen jumped abruptly when Sharon reached out and beat against his back. He grumbled something, rolled over towards her, and lapsed back into sleep.

  Even he didn’t notice the phone as it rang.

  It was picked up on the twelfth ring. The answering machine, old and erratic, was set to pick up after ten.

  “You have reached the office of Sharon Lane,” the ancient tape sputtered. “I’m either on the phone or away from the office. Please leave an abbreviated message, and I will return your call at my earliest convenience. Oh … don’t forget to wait for the beep!”

  The tape queued itself back up, followed by a strangled, pitiful squall not unlike that of a dying swan.

  There was a pause.

  “Jesus … was that it? Was that the beep I’m supposed to be waiting for? Girl, you really need to fix your shit! I know you’ve got enough money to do it!”

  There was a chuckle, then the voice went on.

  “Look, Sharon, it’s me, Jackson. I know it’s late, but this is important. Two things: I got this mega, mega film I just got a green light for. I’m talking big bucks! Remember my epic Bob Marley flick? The shit was hush-hush because I didn’t wanna jinx it, but now it’s on. I just found out about it today. Yo, shorty, I got a thirty-million-dollar budget. That’s right, say word! You’re my girl, so you know I want you to head up my producers’ unit.”

  In her dream, Sharon still couldn’t answer the cell phone. It had stopped ringing, but no sound was coming out. She beat it against the steering wheel again.

  Sharon struck Glen, who was now facing her, in the chest. As a reflex, he kicked her hard in the shin. She groaned and rolled over, still tangling with her dream.

  Jackson Bennett kept on.

  “Besides this gig, there’s something else coming up. My boy Jet Jonas and I were just talking, and he’s got some serious things jumping off. He’s about to give Magic Johnson some good competition. I just left him an hour ago over at the Sky Bar. We were having drinks, and he started telling me about everything he’s got going on. He asked for my advice, so I kicked your name around. Hope you don’t mind. He said Randall James has been doing the same. That’s your boy, right? Well, I don’t know if Randall’s talked to you about it yet, but they got big plans going on up in their spot.”

  In her dream, Sharon was still driving on the Deegan and the fish sandwich was still in her mouth. She accidentally dropped the cell phone, abruptly hit the brakes, and was immediately rear-ended by a red Ford Expedition. The fish sandwich, in its entirety, flew down her throat. She lunged forward in her sleep, choking and gasping.

  Glen, sensing her moving away, unconsciously reached out and pulled her back.

  “Yo, shorty,” Jackson rambled, “Jonas has money and clout, and you know that’s all it takes in this town. All they need over there is the right people working wit’ ’em, you know what I’m saying, and it’s on. They already got distribution on lock and everything. I told Jet that you were his girl. I think you’d kick ass working with them. They got a hundred million dollars to start. Do you know how many projects you can do with that much dough? I’m not talking blockbuster flicks, but you could make some nice romantic comedies and dramatic pieces with that kinda loot.”

  Sharon, still sleeping, frightened by her dream, wiggled her butt closer to Glen. She nestled deep against him. He held her tightly.

  “So check it … I’m not gonna run the tape out on your raggedy-ass machine.” Jackson laughed heartily at his own words. “But, seriously, on the real, call me first thing in the morning at my office. We gotta get jumping on this film. And we gotta talk about this other business. I’m tryna hook you up, shorty. Sharon, there’s a whole lotto money about to get flung around right now, and two big bushels of it, maybe more, are flying your way. Handle yourself accordingly!”

  There was a click, a dial tone, then the sound of the tape rewinding. Midway through rewind, the tape made a sick warbling sound, then jammed. Streams of backed-up tape spewed out of the machine.

  Sharon sat up.

  “What’s wrong, baby?” Glen grumbled sleepily.

  “I don’t know,” she answered, her throat thick. “I thought I heard something.”

  The room was quiet.

  Glen rubbed her back.

  “Lie down. It was probably a dream.”

  “Yeah,” she croaked, her eyes barely open. “I guess.”

  She leaned back and cozied up inside his arms. She felt a throbbing sensation in her shin.

  “Did you kick me?” she asked.

  He chuckled groggily.

  “Girl, just shut up and go back to sleep.”

  MIDLOGUE #1

  “Whatever happened to my mama?”

  The little girl had just run into the house, her breath coming quick. She stopped inside the living room.

  They sighed and glanced at each other, unsure of what to say to the precocious eight-year-old. The man was standing next to a box.

  “What do you think about this new Easy Bake oven?” he said. “It was supposed to be a surprise, but I guess you caught us.”

  The little girl ran up and stood before them, examining the gift.

  “Can I cook with it for real?” she asked excitedly.

  “Well, Alicia, that’s the whole point,” the woman sharply replied.

  Her patience had grown thin with time. Whereas she used to be able to entertain hours of empty, innocent questions, her answers had now become clipped and curt. The man cut his eyes at her. His patience, over the years, had remained securely intact.

  He knelt down beside the little girl.

  “How would you like me to teach you a thing or two about cake baking?” he whispered.

  He stroked Alicia’s dark curly hair, which hung thickly in two plaits. Alicia grinned.

  “Men don’t bake cakes!” she giggled.

  “Well, this man does!” he replied, tickling her middle.

  She laughed harder, scooting away from him. He scooped her up in his arms and kissed her squarely on the forehead.

  Alicia threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  “You think if I learn how to bake a cake, it’ll make my mama come back?” she asked.

  The woman sighed again and walked over to the sofa.

  “Why do we even bother?” she muttered absently. “Year after year. This is such a thankless job.”

  He glanced back at her, his eyes pained.

  “It’s not a job,” he returned. “This is a person. A beautiful person. And, with or without your help, I’m going to do my best to positively shape her life.”

  “When have I ever not helped?” she snapped.

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “I can’t really say. It seems that somewhere along the line, though, you just stopped trying.”

  Little Alicia was planting a series of kisses all across his forehead. He squeezed her tightly.

  “Well?” Alicia asked. “If I bake her a cake, do you think she’ll come back?”

  “Sweetie,” he said in a soft voice, “why all the questions about your mother all of a sudden?”

  “Because,” Alicia replied, her tone upbeat, “Jenny said that I didn’t have a mama, and I told her nuh-uh, my mama’s coming back
for me, just wait and see!”

  Her face was very close to his. She moved it even closer, peering into his eyes for an affirmative answer.

  “Your mama had to go away, honey,” he said. “We told you that a long time ago. But we love you. We really do. And we’re going to do the best we can to make sure that you have everything you need. Haven’t we done that so far?”

  The little girl ignored his response and continued to stare into his eyes, as if searching for something clearer, like the word yes, or no.

  “So … is she coming back?” she asked.

  The woman on the sofa sighed heavily in annoyance.

  The man put Alicia down.

  …I tell you what, “ he said happily, …why don’t we break into this box, you and I, and let’s see if we can make us a cake for dessert tonight!”

  Little Alicia stood before him, waiting for her answer.

  The man knelt down again and began to open the box, pulling apart the top flaps and reaching inside to pull out the contents.

  The woman watched Alicia. She’d seen her get this way before. It seemed to happen in cycles, every two or three years, as the little girl’s circle of friends began to grow. Children probed, asked questions, taunted and teased. Alicia always came back with the same old question. They were usually able to divert her to other things. When it happened of late, there was no getting the child off the subject.

  The man sat the oven on the floor.

  “Ooooh,” he cooed. “Alicia, baby, we’re gonna have lots of fun with this!”

  Little Alicia stamped her foot.

  “Is she coming back?” she whined.

  The man pulled out a tiny pair of aluminum baking pans.

  “Well, would you look at these!” he exclaimed. “Aren’t they the cutest little things you ever did see? Almost as cute as my little button right here …”

  He reached out to touch Alicia’s nose.

  Her eyes were red and misted over. She backed away.

  “Is she coming back?” the little girl whimpered.

  The man glanced over at the woman, helpless. She offered no sympathy. He looked again at little Alicia. Tears were now beginning to streak the full swell of her cheeks.

  He reached out for her, his arms open wide. Alicia looked at him, her lips trembling. As his hands touched her small arms in an attempt to pull her in, she shrieked.