by Lisa Ferrari
“That’s a good point,” I say. “So I guess the first question is if we want this movie to be a tragedy or a triumphant love story. Is it Romeo and Juliet and Terms of Endearment and Leaving Las Vegas and Ghost and Wisdom? Or is it The Princess Bride and Pretty Woman and Say Anything and Sixteen Candles and Better Off Dead?” I try to name movies with happy endings and these are the ones which come to mind. And I resist the urge to say ‘I want my two dollars!’
“Let’s take a vote,” says Sheila.
Calista asks, “Should we get one of those little voting booths with a curtain and we can each go in there one at a time?”
“Let’s just vote,” says Aaron. “A show of hands. All in favor of tragedy, raise your hands.”
Aaron, Rami, and Heather raise their hands.
“Okay,” says Aaron, “that’s three for tragedy. All in favor of love story, raise your hands.”
Kellan, Calista, and Sheila raise their hands.
Everyone looks at me.
Crap.
I don’t like pressure.
Beside me, Kellan has his hand in the air. “It’s okay, baby. Raise your hand. Make your own decision, Claire. In life, you should always make your own decisions. That way, you owe no one for your successes. Nor can you blame others for your failures, because by blaming others you rob yourself of the opportunity to take responsibility for the failure so you can view it as a learning experience, which allows you to take what at first seems like a holy-shit-I’m-totally-FUBAR failure and transform it into a mere temporary setback that positions you for a huge success down the road. Ask any successful person how many times they failed and if they learned more from their successes or from their failures and I will guarantee you they failed at least once and probably several times, and that they learned far more about how to succeed by failing. If they’d never failed, they never would’ve succeeded. And it all started with them making a decision for themselves to try something. Besides, we already know what your vote is going to be.”
Kellan’s pearlescent epiphone aside, that’s true. I raise my hand.
“Okay,” says Aaron, “that’s three for tragedy and four for love story. I guess we’re going with a love story. Everybody open the script to page one, please.”
“Wait!” I say. “Is everyone okay with this?”
Calista says, “Claire, we voted. Majority rules.”
“I know,” I say, “but this is a big deal. A billion-dollar movie. Sheila said we’re all going to be working together for the next two years. I think it’s imperative that we all like each other and enjoy being together. Otherwise it’s going to be arduous and… shitty. And if we’re divided as to what kind of movie we should be making, there’s going to be resentment. Most likely toward me. And everyone will feel it. It will poison the whole project. And if that’s the case, we shouldn’t do it at all. Or I should step down or quit or you guys fire me or whatever and cast someone else. Let Calista have my role and cast someone else as the alien queen and then you guys can make a tragedy and everyone will be in agreement.”
“But then you won’t be in it,” says Aaron. “We want you in it.”
“But a second ago you sounded pissed that it’s going to be a love story instead of a tragedy. Is that what you really want? The credits are going to say ‘A Film by Aaron Abraham’. It needs to be the film you truly want to make. Otherwise you’re lying to yourself as an artist.”
Aaron sighs. “Look, we already voted. It’s fine. It’ll be fine, Claire. But thank you. Okay, page one.”
We all open our scripts, though I’m not sure I’m satisfied that all is well.
Aaron says, “ ‘Interior. Bedroom. Morning. Nisa and Rence Jones are in bed asleep. The home looks very futuristic. Everything is clean and white. A wedding dress and tuxedo are on the floor near the bed, along with shoes and empty champagne bottles.’ Wait, you know what? Claire’s right. It is my name on the movie and I want to do a tragic love story. So since I’m the director, I get two votes and I vote for tragedy.”
“That means we’re tied,” says Calista.
“What about me?” Rami asks. “This is my script. It’s my original screenplay. If Aaron gets two votes, I get two votes. And I vote tragedy. So it’s no longer a tie. It’s now five to four in favor of a tragic love story. A love story nonetheless, but a tragic one.”
“Right,” says Aaron. “See, from the very beginning, when Rami and I decided on this script, we agreed that we wanted this to have a tragic element. Nisa has to lose something on that alien world. It’s about her becoming a woman. It’s about her loss of innocence. It’s about her loss in spite of her triumph and her triumph in spite of her loss.”
Sheila says, “But she can still have loss of innocence without the loss of her husband.”
“True,” Aaron says, “she could. But what was the best part of Armageddon? When Bruce Willis took one for the team and Ben Affleck lost it and freaked out. Right? And what made Space Cowboys cool? The fact that Tommy Lee Jones took one for the team and rode the rocket to his death on the moon and the last shot was the earth reflected on the visor of his space helmet and there he is on the moon for eternity and we don’t know if he’s alive or dead in that space suit but when Sinatra starts singing, it’s a powerful moment. When Rence fights Packer and we know he’s going to win easily, but the alien queen double-crosses them and literally stabs Rence in the back and kills him and Nisa is forced to watch, that’s a powerful moment. It’s the moment when she becomes a woman, when she loses everything and becomes something she’s never been before, something she could never be without that tragedy. That’s the powerful moment Rami and I have been in love with since we started this fucking thing two years ago. I want that in the movie.”
Silence.
Because of the passion of Aaron’s speech or because he dropped an F-bomb, I can’t tell.
“Isn’t there some way we can have him die but then be alive?” I ask. “In a way that doesn’t feel cliché or trite or cheesy? What happened to Christian Slater in True Romance? He got shot and we thought he was dead. But then, spoiler alert, mercifully, thankfully, happily, he was okay. They were on the beach with their son and Christian Slater was wearing an eye patch. He got shot but he survived. And what happened in Wisdom? Is there anyone here who hasn’t seen Wisdom? I don’t want to ruin it. Some dumbass on the radio gave away the ending of The Village and ruined it for me, which really pissed me off. Same thing happened with Eagle Eye. So I want to avoid doing the same to you guys. Raise your hand if you haven’t seen Wisdom.”
Everyone raises their hand. Except for Kellan and me.
“No one’s seen it? Wow. It’s one of my favorite movies of all time. Emilio Estevez wrote and directed and starred in it. Demi Moore is awesome in it. Tom Skerritt is in it. You guys need to see it.”
“Christ,” says Aaron, “I’ve never even heard of it. How is it that I paid two hundred thousand dollars to attend the best film school in the world and you’re sitting here lauding a film I’ve not only never seen but never even heard of? I need a drink.”
Aaron tosses his script and pencil on the coffee table. He gets up and goes to the kitchen and starts rooting around in the cupboards.
“What are you looking for?” Sheila calls.
“The Captain Morgan.”
“It’s in the fridge with the Diet Coke. Pour me one, too,” says Sheila. “Lots of ice.”
“Me, too,” says Rami.
“Me, three,” says Heather.
“Calista? Claire? Kellan?” Aaron calls from the kitchen as he starts filling glasses with ice.
“Maybe later,” says Calista.
“Not for me, thanks,” says Kellan.
“Me, either,” I say. “Is this what production meetings are always like? With back-and-forth discussions and arguments like this? And Rum-and-Cokes?”
“Captain-and-Cokes,” says Aaron. “If you don’t use spiced rum, they’re nasty.�
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Aaron distributes the drinks and everyone sits quietly.
“Do actors normally have a say in the script?” I ask.
“No,” says Aaron. “Not unless they’re, like, Bruce Willis or Arnold Schwarzenegger or Dwayne Johnson or Julia Roberts. Somebody big like that who gets to call their shots.”
“So, why are Kellan and Calista and I here?” I ask. “I mean, Calista I can understand. And maybe Kellan, too. But me? I’m nobody.”
“Because you guys are family,” says Sheila. “This is a special case. And this is a special movie. We’re doing something no one has ever done before. So I think it’s a good idea if we do it in a way no one’s ever done it before. As long as we’re not making Cutthroat Island, we’ll be fine. Or Waterworld.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
“Cutthroat Island,” Sheila explains, “was a pirate movie with Gina Davis and Matthew Modine that was so expensive it actually bankrupted the production company Carolco and they went out of business. Waterworld was a huge production. It went way over budget.”
“Especially when they built the giant floating city and it accidentally sank and they had to build another one,” Aaron adds.
“Okay, now I’m scared again,” I say.
“Don’t be scared, sweetie,” says Sheila. “It’s fine. Let’s take ten and grab another drink.”
Everyone gets up and tosses their scripts on their seat. They head to the kitchen or the restroom.
Calista leans over to Kellan and me. “You guys want to get some air? Take a walk?”
We head out the door and stroll around the Paramount Pictures lot. Calista points out the different offices and production companies, the mail room, the commissary, the backlot. She knows her way around because the bacon bikini commercial was filmed here. She walks us between the mammoth sound stages. Actors dressed in alien attire are hanging around out front, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from paper cups, waiting for their scenes. They see us and say hello to Calista and Kellan and me. They know who we are. Which is amazing because I haven’t even done anything yet, save for a couple of YouTube videos that went viral.
We stroll through the backlot, which looks like New York in the 50s. It’s like being transported through time. Calista shows us the huge blue sky cloud wall where a lot of scenes are shot when actors are supposed to be flying or skydiving.
We wander back to the office.
No one is seated. They’re scattered here and there. Sheila and Heather are at Heather’s desk, devouring a bar of extremely dark chocolate. Aaron and Rami are at Rami’s desk, huddled around Rami’s computer.
Sheila tells us to go ahead and take off and we’ll do the table read another day. Kellan says we need to go work out anyway. Sheila suggests we hike Runyon Canyon trail. It’s a 3.5-mile loop overlooking L.A. and Hollywood.
Kellan and I drive home (with Uzi in tow in his stealthy black SUV), change into our workout clothes, grab some plates from the gym and throw them in a backpack, and go hike the crapnoodles out of Runyon Canyon. Uzi comes with us, along with one of his associates (who stays with the cars).
Something about the production meeting lit a fire under my butt and I attack the trail with a vengeance. Kellan laughs several times behind me. I ask if he wants me to slow down. He says not to wait for him. He says to pretend we’re on the alien planet and a horde of those ugly alien cannibal creatures are hot on our heels. If we stop, we’re dinner.
Uzi follows along quietly behind us. I feel bad dragging him on a hike but he insists it’s fine. He says when he was in the army they used to hike 20 miles a day carrying fifty-pound rucksacks plus assault rifles and ammunition. After hearing that, I stop worrying.
The view of the canyons and trees and the city in the distance is beautiful. I have a moment when I marvel at the fact that I’m here, hiking, when a year ago I was most likely trudging around the ballroom at work, wearing my crappy white tuxedo shirt and bowtie that always choked me and the black men’s workpants I bought at Walmart, in the men’s department, because I couldn’t find any suitable pants to fit me in the women’s department. I really ought to burn those pants. Literally burn them. I hate those pants. They’re thick and hot and make a weird noise when I walk, and they were made in China and sometimes clothing from China has excess formaldehyde in it; formaldehyde; embalming fluid; blech.
Claire, let it go; that was then, this is now; they’re merely pants.
I know this to be sage advice. I do tend to cling to past hurts; it’s not healthy.
By the time Kellan and I complete the loop and arrive back at the Range Rover, we’re practically crawling. My legs are on fire and feel like jelly at the same time. I’m not going to be able to sit on the toilet tomorrow.
When we get home, we hobble into the house. Uzi checks in with his guy, who says all is clear, and stays out front with his team.
I hobble straight to the pool, strip off my shoes and clothes, and fall in. The water is cold but it feels good.
Kellan prepares a protein shake for us with liquid egg whites and sweet potato powder and dried blueberries all blended with a little ice to chill it.
I chug my shake.
Kellan laughs and does the same. He strips off his clothes and dives into the pool.
Kellan gathers me into his arms and begins kissing me. He says the hike got his fever up and made him horny. We make love on the edge of the pool. Kellan gives it to me doggy style, hard and fast. I stick my butt up in the air for him, pushing back against him. I reach between my legs and caress his scrotum while he pleasures me with his glorious penis. God, I love it. My engagement ring sparkles in the light of the afternoon sun.
LATER THAT NIGHT, Kellan and I are relaxing on the sofa with our laptops when my phone rings.
It’s late, after midnight, and I’m kind of surprised my phone is actually ringing. I usually receive only texts. I’ve been keeping Denise and Beth up to date on what we’ve been doing. Chris has a million questions for Kellan about cars and working out and nutrition; Kellan is happy to oblige. Just one of the many reasons I love him.
It’s Jeremee who’s calling me. “Did you guys make a sex tape?” she asks.
“What?”
“Did you…and Kellan…make a sex tape?”
“No, we did not make a sex tape. Why are you asking me that?”
Kellan sits up. “What’s going on?”
I put Jeremee on speaker. She says, “There is a video online of you two having sex by the pool.”
“Send me the link,” Kellan says. The link arrives in an email and he opens it. A YouTube video pops up. It is indeed our yard, our pool, and there are two people having sex doggy style on the deck beside it.
“Yep, that’s us,” Kellan says.
“So you are confirming that it’s you?” Jeremee sounds… not pissed, exactly, but… different.
“That depends,” Kellan says. “If it is us, does that affect our future involvement in the project?”
“It most certainly could,” says Jeremee.
“Then we categorically deny that that is us performing a sex act on camera. That’s on the record, Jeremee. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jeremee says.
“Now,” Kellan says, “off the fucking record, and this is just between us and if anything I’m about to say ever, ever, ever gets back to me or to Claire we’re going to deny it up and down, but off the record, that certainly looks a lot like our yard. I must say, however, that it is very far away, the quality is shit, it’s very grainy and thank God for that. Furthermore, I can tell you that the people in that video not only do not know they are being recorded, they did not and would not ever, ever, ever consent to being recorded doing that. So whoever is in that video had their privacy violated in a big way.”
It disturbs me to think that while I was savoring having Kellan inside me and having a mind-blowing orgasm as he ejaculated inside me, some asshole was spying on us.
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“So what the fuck am I looking at?” Jeremee asks.
Kellan sighs. “It looks like some asshole flying a drone and making an illegal video of two people in their back yard. Which constitutes a violation of privacy, by the way. Big time. If that son of a bitch were looking over a fence or in a window, he’d be a peeping tom. But since he’s sitting in his car parked down the hill or up the street or where the fuck ever, things are different.”
Kellan reads the video description: “ ‘Claire Valentine and Kellan Kearns have sex by the pool.’ Well, there’s no way to completely scrub this. But let’s see what we can do.”
Kellan picks up his phone and dials.
“Who are you calling?” I ask.
“Our lawyer. Hi, Bret. Yeah, it’s late, I know, but this is serious. There’s a sex tape allegedly of me and Claire on YouTube. I need you to get it taken down. Do whatever you have to do. I know. I know. I know it’s late. Yes… Yes… Yes, tell them we’ll bring the fucking house if they don’t comply. Sure, the usual fee plus twenty percent is fine with me. Bye.”
Kellan hangs up. “Brett is going to get on it, pronto. It’s the middle of the night so hopefully not too many people have seen it. But it’s not going to be possible to contain it completely. All we can do now is damage control.”
“But if we say it isn’t us,” I ask, “why does it need to be taken down?”
“Good point,” Kellan says. “What do you think, Jeremee?”
“I think denial is probably the way to go. You guys are just getting started and we don’t need anything jeopardizing your careers. So, we’ll put out a statement in the morning denying the whole thing while also condemning whoever did this, as well as insisting that YouTube take the video down and or have your names removed from it, given that you say it’s not you and there’s no way to prove it one way or another.”
We conclude the call.
Kellan goes online and finds a website on which you can set up a no-fly zone over your house. It creates a geographic area based on GPS coordinates that get fed back to the manufacturer and pushed out to all their drones. Kellan calls Uzi and tells him what happened. He asks Uzi if he saw anyone flying a drone or walking a dog or jogging near the house.
