The Island of Ted

by Jason Cunningham

  All rights reserved.

  P H A N T O M

  First Edition: December 2010

  Text copyright © 2010 by Jason Cunningham

  ISBN (Print Edition): 978-0-615-42458-3

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Well-known public names mentioned in this book are used solely for parody and have no other purpose.

  Editor: Tom Safford

  Graphic Design/Artwork: Georgianna Daily

  Publisher: Phantom Fiction (a division of Tville Books)

  Author Website: www.jasonthewriter.com

  The Island of Ted

  •••

  a novel by

  Jason Cunningham

  For Melanie, with love.

  No man is an Island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main; if a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were; any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

  John Donne, Meditation XVII

  English clergyman & poet (1572 - 1631)

  Part One

  “Hollywood is a place where they’ll pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul.”

  -Marilyn Monroe

  CHAPTER

  1

  If I were a practical man, I would’ve been scared to death. My days were spent navigating the screens on a Blackberry while pretending to pay attention to whomever had the misfortune of sitting in front of me at lunch or dinner. I spent two-thirds of my existence in airports and hotels, and the other third in meetings with people for whom I had little respect. Yet we all bowed to the same god, and his color was green. In the span of seven years, I had become enslaved to a system that grips its victims without mercy, squeezing the life from their souls, down to the last drop. And worst of all, I had sold myself into slavery.

  The stress of work and the frantic pace of life I’d grown accustomed to were slowly killing me. Some nights I was good to get four hours of sleep; other nights I was lucky to sleep at all. Every moment of potential relaxation was interrupted by the relentless chime of my phone, which I was expected to always answer. I spent four hours a day swimming through e-mails and returning calls from the previous day. To stay in shape, I’d do push ups and air squats while reading screenplays and expense reports. No time for going to the gym. I’d often find myself at parties, where celebrities snorted lines of coke right out in the open as underage groupies traipsed the dance floor wearing dental-floss halter tops. The lifestyle was excessive, and so were the egos. Nothing about my job felt real, except, ironically, being on set. Watching lights being moved into position, sound guys prepping their gear, actors getting into character, the director biting his nails while anxiously awaiting the first shot of the day - being in that atmosphere made me feel like a kid again. And that’s what I was missing most these days: childlike wonder.

  I often considered if being a movie producer was worth it, but I didn’t have many options. I had a liberal arts degree and the only people I knew were also in the business. My best, and only, friend was my manager and I had no romantic prospects upon which to build any hope at all. This was life in my world, and always would be: stress, airports, hotels, e-mail, and no sleep.

  But it wasn’t just work that bothered me. Everything was bothering me these days. I’m talking about the clerk at the grocery store who moves like he’s in quicksand, the woman in front of me in traffic who fails to yield because she’s applying lipstick, the skaters who side-swipe me while I’m jogging in the park, the inept employees who make doing my job impossible, the late-night TV ads that try to sell me junk I don’t need, the hippies at Whole Foods, the gangster rap I can hear thundering from an El Camino ten blocks away.

  The desire to jump off a bridge and just end it all came to me as I sat in a dark and damp screening room at the AMC River East theater in downtown Chicago. My heart fluttered uncontrollably at the thought of failure, even though it seemed inevitable. I felt a tinge of panic when the booming sound dropped to a whisper and I heard shifting weight in the seats – the international sign of boredom.

  There were thirteen people in the room but only three of them mattered. I was in the fourth row, my usual spot for such an occasion, while the editor and director sat just below me. The higher you are in the seating arrangement, the more responsibility you carry. I knew the game well after a decade in the business, but it was still a scary time and never got any easier. You see, all of us mid-tier movie producers remember the almost mythical story of Jackie Warner like it had happened yesterday.

  Jackie was this producer in the late seventies who was turning out hit after hit. Then he got a bit cocky and started doing his own thing, taking on riskier material. At that point Roger Graham, the head of the studio and the guy I now work for, had a meeting with Jackie behind closed doors. No one knows exactly what was said in that meeting but Jackie came out of the room looking like he’d seen a ghost. That night he jumped off a nine-story balcony and did a face-plant onto Sunset Boulevard, or so the story goes.

  As my film came to an end, I breathed for the first time in ninety minutes. Dead silence followed. I decided not to draw it out so I twisted in my seat toward the back row where Roger Graham sat, somewhere in the darkness. It was his decision whether the film would go into three thousand theaters or the bargain bin at Wal-Mart. Adding to my dilemma was the fact that I had no desire to have my brains spilled all over Sunset Boulevard if he were so displeased as to give me a shove.

  There was an uncomfortable silence and then I saw Roger lean forward, puffing on a thick cigar. He dangled a glass of whiskey loosely in his hand. He was an old, hard-nosed curmudgeon who used words like dame and referred to movies as pictures. I saw Roger as a vestige of Old Hollywood. In an age in which big telecom companies owned most of the movie studios, Roger refused all their offers to insist on getting his own way. And he always did. He was the Godfather of the industry, and no less dangerous.

  “How are you feeling, Ted?” he asked in a low, ominous voice that told me to lie.

  “Good. I feel pretty good.”

  There was some discussion at the back of the room but I couldn’t hear what was being said.

  Roger stood up and gave me a hand signal. He wanted me to follow him. I popped to my feet and took the long walk up the carpeted floor as every eye in the room fell on me. I looked back over my shoulder and made a joke to lighten the mood.

  “Off to the principal’s office again.”

  No one laughed.

  I walked into the empty lobby and saw Roger extinguish his cigar on a metal trash can lid. You’re not supposed to smoke inside a theater, even one you’ve rented out, but Roger did as he pleased and people who questioned him had a strange habit of ending up in the E.R. We were the only two around. Roger took a deep breath and his squinty eyes engaged mine.

  “I pulled a lot of strings to get the studio to make this picture. And I put you in charge of it because you’re safe; you don’t take chances.”

  “I had to change the ending, Roger. Nihilism is on its way out,” I said in a confident tone.

  “The game is evolving, Ted. You’re not. That was an amateur move.”

  I was glad that he wasn’t yelling, but my neck was still wedged halfway into the guillotine and I smelled blood.

  “Here’s the thing: we’re going in a new direction now. The banks only want to fund our proven money-makers with the economy the way it is. That means romantic comedies and epic action. Everything el
se is a liability.”

  It should be mentioned that I had just spent a year of my life producing a heartfelt and profound feature film that was now in danger of never going public due to the cost of advertising, which Roger and I were currently debating – only, it wasn’t much of a debate.

  “This film can appeal to audiences, Roger. It’s about hope. Trust me, people want hope these days. We live in a dark world. We need little reminders like this... reminders that life is still worth living.”

  “Ted, this isn’t open mic at the Poetry Corner. Save your spiel for those who actually enjoy sap. I let you run with this picture because the story was good. But that’s not enough anymore. The landscape has changed.”

  Roger ran his meaty hand across his face and lowered his eyes.

  “Are we even getting a release?”

  “I don’t know, Ted. But it doesn’t look good.”

  My anger flared. I debated in my head whether or not I wanted to push the issue with a guy you’d rather not piss off, but there was a momentary loss of communication between my brain and tongue.

  “I put everything into this, Roger! How could we not get a release? It’s the first movie I’m not ashamed to put my name on.”

  “Listen,” he said. “It’s a fine picture. There should be some comfort in knowing that. It’s just not commercial enough.”

  “Roger, it’s just that…” I stumbled, searching for the words. “I thought we could change the way things are done in Hollywood, you know?”

  Roger stared at me for so long without talking that I thought about taking a step backward.

  “Tell me,” he said. “How long have you worked underneath my large and generous wing?”

  “Since grad school, sir. Ten years.”

  “And you’ve been wanting to change the world since I met you.” He took a dramatic pause, then continued, “Maybe this business isn’t right for that.”

  Was he firing me? I was too afraid to ask.

  “You going to be all right, kid?”

  “Yeah, of course. It’s just one of those things, you know,” I lied through my teeth.

  Roger gave me a pat on the shoulder and said he had to catch a flight back to LA, as if I didn’t know he was a busy man. Roger was right about one thing though: I had always dreamed of changing the world. Who wants to flip on the news every night and see all the creative ways people can be horrible to one another? At the same time, I was losing hope that I could ever do a thing about it. After all, I wasn’t much of a hero.

  CHAPTER

  2

  I stepped outside the theater and onto the street, where an icy wind punched me in the face. It was December in Chicago and that meant dealing with the elements. Northern winters look great on film, but safely negotiating snow-capped streets is hard work.

  While my car was warming up, I stood under an old gas-lamp streetlight and watched drifting snow kiss wet pavement. A street saxophonist shared the corner with me, belting out Van Morrison’s “There Will be Days Like This.” The fragrant aroma of roasting peanuts and boiled hot dogs filled my senses as one of those ubiquitous urban food carts crossed the street to where I was standing. I looked around and saw couples holding hands and being cute together. Snow-covered pedestrians were laughing with their friends and strolling about, happy as punch. It made me angry to see them so happy and carefree. Was I the only guy in the city whose dreams were collapsing around him? Was I the only one this… lonely?

  A chilly wind pinched my bare skin, so I stepped over the sidewalk grates and let warm gutter steam blow up through the bottom of my pant-legs to reduce the numbness. I tried to spend as much time here as possible. Chicago, I mean – not standing over sidewalk vents. This is where I grew up and went to college. It had roots, and I was glad to be back for a while - maybe a long while. Most of my time was spent commuting to LA for meetings, which is a huge chore, but I couldn’t stand the three years I lived out there. Andy Warhol once said, “I love Hollywood… everybody’s plastic, but I love plastic.”

  Even as a young man, I knew that money wouldn’t buy happiness but figured it would at least buy peace of mind. But now, just a bit wiser, I saw that money solved some problems while inventing new ones. I no longer had to worry about paying my bills, only to forgo the luxury of knowing if a girl was interested in me or my Lexus. With money and prestige comes a lack of trust. I trusted no one and that’s the price you pay for success: loneliness. That’s probably why I found myself giving that cute couple a dirty look. It’s become a habit.

  The drive home was a somber affair. It was just a few weeks until Christmas so holiday lights and tinsel were strewn across every streetlight and storefront window. It should have been a festive time of year, but not for me. The way things were turning out, I was quickly becoming a Scrooge.

  It was around 9 pm when the snow flurries started to pick up, so I pulled over and ducked into a hole-in-the-wall Chinese restaurant to settle a stomach that was still in knots from the screening. I ordered a plate of fried noodles with sesame chicken and sat down in a booth by the window, wondering if such items exist on any menu in China. The owners of this particular establishment aren’t big on running the heat, even in the dead of winter, so I was glad to have brought a scarf with me. I began to miss LA’s mild weather as I saw my breath form clouds between bites.

  I heard the door jingle and I looked up to see a young couple, probably in their twenties, bundled up and blowing into their hands to stay warm. They ordered some cashew chicken to go and then sat down at the table beside my booth while it was being prepared. They were another adorable couple, so naturally I had to choke back the rising vomit in my throat. After ten touch-and-go seconds, I was able to regain control of my diaphragm.

  There’s something I like to do when I’m in public, even though it's not entirely honest. I like to pretend I’m renting a movie and then ask people what they think of one that I’ve produced. It’s one of the few ways to get my finger on the pulse of an audience and since they don’t have a clue who I am, the answers tend to be honest.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the guy. “I don’t mean to bother you but my girlfriend sent me out to rent a movie and I’m not sure what to get. Have you guys seen Dancing in the Meadows?”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen it.”

  “What about Danger Lives Here?”

  The girl turned toward me.

  “Oh, I saw that one – isn’t that where the gardener kills some woman’s son and…”

  “Daughter,” I said, interrupting her with too much information. My cover was blown.

  She gave me a funny look.

  “I mean, I saw the trailer and I think it was the daughter,” I mumbled.

  “Oh,” she replied. “Well, save your money. It sucks big time.”

  I nodded politely. At least, I think I did. After stuffing my belly and starving my ego, I jumped back into the car and let the wipers knock an inch of dust off the windshield. I fired up the engine and headed onto the street. I was still thinking about the screening and what Roger had said to me. My thoughts were so jumbled that I missed my exit and ended up looping around to the south. In order to regain some equilibrium I just took the first exit I saw and merged into a sea of taillights.

  Fantastic!

  The only thing worse than getting lost is getting lost and stuck in construction traffic. It was a two-lane road so I looked over to my right to see if I could get over. There was a small opening and I tried to merge, only to be blocked by a teenage girl chatting it up on her cell phone. I was never one to honk the horn so I began motioning to her with my arm and mouthing the words, Can I get over? She never even saw me. I knew that if I could make a right turn by the next light I would be able to loop back onto the interstate and if not, I’d be in for a long night.

  I saw another opening and started to go. Just then, the car behind me sped up and jumped in to take the opening. Now I couldn’t make the turn; I was sure of it. My car phone started to buzz so I hit TALK.


  “Are you satisfied with your male performance?” said a semi-human voice.

  I hit the END button and nearly slammed into the back of the car in front of me. The guy gave me an I’m going to kill you if you do that again kind of glare. I guess breaks don’t work as well when there’s snow on the ground and you’re distracted by telemarketing calls about your male performance.

  “Be careful, old boy – watch the road,” I said to myself while dreaming of a life without traffic jams and road rage.

  I ended up missing the turn so I kept driving straight and eventually passed the bulk of construction traffic. I was now, however, hopelessly lost and the neighborhoods were looking less and less friendly.

  “Why do I have to be in a nice car?” I thought to myself while passing some homeless men burning newspapers in a trash can. I looked at my watch. It was a little after 10 pm.

  Suddenly I slammed on my brakes and came to a sliding halt. A woman in a heavy coat was pushing a rusty shopping cart full of her possessions across the street and didn’t seem to notice me.

  “How can we live in a society where a person has to live that way?” I thought with a bit of shame on my conscience. It was bone-chilling cold outside and this woman had no place to rest her head. I pulled alongside her, not knowing what to say.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” I said out the window. Even rolling down the window sent chills all over my body on such a cold night.

  The woman stopped and turned toward me, although her eyes looked past mine. I thought that perhaps she was blind.

  “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

  She shook her head “no.”

  I wasn’t even sure why I’d asked such an obvious question or what I planned on doing about it. I thought about maybe giving her a ride, but to where? I thought about taking her back to my house and letting her sleep in a warm place for a change. My eyes went down to her shopping cart, filled with the useless junk she called her only possessions.