The Island of Ted

by Jason Cunningham

  Just then, I heard a loud thump and looked in my side view mirror. The two men I’d passed previously came up from the rear and one of them kicked my back bumper. They didn’t look too welcoming, to say the least.

  “You get you some hookers someplace else. Leave that girl alone!”

  “I’m not looking for…” was all I got out of my mouth before he dented my door with an icy kick.

  I gave the woman a look that said, “I’m sorry” and hit the gas pedal, speeding out of there with a slushy squeal. I looked back to see the two men shouting obscenities in my direction. It took a few minutes to realize that I could’ve been killed, all over a silly misunderstanding.

  “The world can be a scary place when you misjudge someone’s intentions,” my father used to say.

  I filed that thought away and looked for an interstate sign. I ended up driving all the way through the downtown area again before picking up the interstate on the other side of town. That was a long, one-hour detour that I didn’t need. My eyes were heavy and I had to fight to stay conscious. At least I’ll be able to sleep tonight, I thought to comfort myself. Lately, I’d only been able to sleep after a few glasses of wine, but that kind of self-medication can lead to worse problems than insomnia.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled up to my neighborhood community and watched the gates slowly fold open with a metallic creak to welcome me back. I had only left twelve hours ago but it seemed like a week. My home was a sanctuary from the world of angry bosses and homeless guys wanting to kick my face in. It was the one place I didn’t feel as lonely in the world.

  I pulled into my circular driveway and cut the engine off. I sat there for a moment, just looking at my home. Most people would call it a mansion but it was a mid-sized property in this neighborhood. I sat in a Lexus in front of a 6,000-square-foot house and I had paid for none of it.

  When you’re broke, you can’t catch a break. When you’re rich, people give you everything for free. Both the house and the car were given to me as perks from the studio after my first three films brought in high box office numbers. I was pretty sure they couldn’t take the house and car back now, but I still wondered. Nothing was certain on this hamster wheel of life that I knew. I feared being poor and having to work at McDonalds after tasting the good life - only I wasn’t sure how “good” the good life was any more. Some days I wanted to run away, like a child escaping from an abusive home. I felt trapped. I hated the stress of always having to perform for a tyrannical boss and being stuck in a system that left me sleepless for nights on end. There wasn’t a grain of integrity in this business and the feeling that no one actually cares about you can weigh on a person’s soul.

  I walked inside and smelled vanilla. “Must’ve left a candle burning again,” I thought. I flipped on a light in the restroom and blew out a weak stem. Then I splashed some water on my face and stared at my reflection in the mirror. At 33, I looked young for my age, but I wasn’t exactly handsome. I was skinny from stress, with an average face and bad hair. It took a bucket of gel to keep it all in one place and, even then, it looked like I had just awoken from a nap. It’s a good thing the “messy look” is back.

  Inside the medicine cabinet I found some aspirin, which went down great with a glass of red wine. The evening’s events had left me restless and sleep was evasive once more. I couldn’t find the off switch to my brain, which kept me tossing and turning under silk sheets until I saw sunlight peeking through the blinds. I glanced at my clock and saw that it was five in the morning; I hadn’t slept a wink. My coffee pot was on a timer so the aroma of Starbucks Christmas Blend began to waft into my bedroom. When the smell of coffee fills the house I might as well forget about getting any sleep. So I got up and slammed down two cups with a Pop Tart. Nothing like caffeine and high-fructose corn syrup to get your day started.

  After a quick shower I was once again faced with my sad-looking reflection in the mirror. The lack of sleep was catching up to me. I looked tired. My fingers traced dark circles under my eyes.

  I stood in my wardrobe and straightened a designer tie around my neck. I took one more look into the mirror and felt intensely lonely. During times like this, all I wanted was to turn around and have a supportive woman lovingly look at me and say, “You look marvelous, honey. Like a million bucks!” But I feared I would never be a part of one of those annoying cute couples. Some things were not meant to be. I took a troubled breath and felt a wave of shame and embarrassment pouring over me like a tsunami of failure.

  But it wasn’t the first time.

  CHAPTER

  3

  The first time I fell in love, I was in the fifth grade. Heather was an older woman, at twelve, but she was the first to steal my heart. During lunch break I decided to stand up to a bully in order to earn a few social points, but the encounter resulted in me getting hit with a tray full of corn and body-slammed onto the tile floor in front of my peers. Teachers rushed to break up the ruckus when I looked up and saw Heather wearing a face full of concern. We had never spoken, even once, but at that moment I knew she was the one for me.

  After lunch we had gym class together and I decided to man up and take the seat beside Heather on the bleachers. She was sitting with Stephanie, a solid loaf who hated anything she couldn’t eat, so this was going to be a challenge.

  I opened with my best line, “Dodgeball is so awesome.”

  Heather looked me up and down, and then said, “Um, Ted… you’re sweaty,” at which point Stephanie chimed in with, “Yeah, and you smell like corn.”

  After the two of them chuckled and slapped one another high-five it became clear that my relationship with Heather wasn’t working out. Heartbroken, but still a man of integrity, I decided to let her down gently.

  “Heather, I wish you the best in life and hope you find whatever happiness you’re looking for.”

  I stood up with an air of profundity, took two steps, then tumbled down the bleachers and busted my nose on the basketball court. I must’ve lost a pint of blood that day but what’s more, I lost my childhood innocence. It was then I learned a painful life lesson: the world is a cold place and the natural inclination of mankind is bent toward selfishness, envy and getting ahead at the expense of others.

  Yes, I was a deep kid and read too much into things. Even still, my conclusion turned out right.

  I sat in the nurse’s office with gauze spun around my nose. I looked up at a world map on the wall and my eyes were drawn to a long cluster of islands in the South China Sea. I reached out a bony finger and touched the map as the school nurse entered the room behind me.

  She noticed my curiosity and said, “Making some travel plans, are we?”

  She offered me a warm smile and I nodded in response. “Yeah, one day I’m going to disappear to a place where no one can find me.”

  “I see you’ve chosen the Philippines. You know, there’s like seven thousand tiny islands over there. I bet you could still grab one or two of them if you had the money.”

  “I’ll never have that kind of money.”

  She looked at me with curious eyes and said, “I guess you’d better get used to bloody noses then.”

  She offered a gentle smile but I knew she was right. My mother had died the year before and it was times like this when I needed a mom to hug me and tell me the lie every kid wants to hear: it’ll be all right.

  My father did his best in a tough situation but was, despite all efforts, a complete dork – a trait passed on to me without having evolved much. Pops never quite knew what was “cool” but liked to think he was up to speed, even though he was always a couple of years behind the pack. I still remember that Christmas following Mom’s death. It was a sad time for both Pops and me but he was especially excited about a big surprise gift he’d picked out that year. After dropping a few hints, I figured out that he’d gotten me the newly released – and very popular among my peers – Nintendo Entertainment System. It was all the rage and you were not cool in 1985 unless you had
a Nintendo. People at school would trade games and talk about all their codes and tricks to beat difficult levels. I wanted in on that crowd like you wouldn’t believe.

  So when Pops, giddy with excitement, handed me a heavy, poorly wrapped box, I was about to jump out of my skin with excitement! As I started tearing into my present, he suddenly stopped me, ran into the next room to fetch his Polaroid camera, then came back and centered me in the frame before saying, “It’s okay – go ahead and open it now.”

  I tore through the paper to see a sad-looking Atari 5200. This game system had been out for around three years and by 1985 was the laughingstock of the gaming world. I was hurt and angry.

  How could Pops not know how dorky this was? Didn’t he understand that I couldn’t swap games or make new friends with an Atari? Give me a break!

  But then I saw the look on his face, full of enthusiasm and joy, and it softened me.

  I gave him a big, fake hug and said, “Thanks, Dad. You’re the best.”

  As we broke, I saw his eyes begin to water with joy and I felt at that moment I was a terrible son. Pops had done his best and I was an ungrateful brat. Of course, a few years later Dad bought me that Nintendo, but Sega was all the rage by that point. God bless his clueless soul.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I ate my birthday dinner alone at an oversized family table in the den, watching It’s a Wonderful Life while having overcooked salmon and Château Lafite. I fell asleep in the living room around ten-thirty and had a strange dream about my assistant, Teresa. She was a cute girl and a heck of a lot of fun to converse with, but I’d never thought about her in a romantic way. In the dream we were outside in my courtyard, which was modeled after Mr. Miyagi’s back yard in the movie The Karate Kid. It was snowing but didn’t feel cold outside. We sat in the landscaped garden near a koi pond, eating chocolate-dipped strawberries and laughing. The only audible dialogue I remember was when Teresa leaned over and said, “I can’t believe how good this feels.”

  Of course, I woke up severely in love with her. It’s funny how that happens. The only thing I’d ever thought about Teresa prior to the dream was that she happened to be a snappy dresser. I mentioned that to her once so she got into the habit of calling me a metrosexual, a term which terribly offended me until I Googled it and found out it was sort of a compliment. She was 28 years old but might as well have been 15 because I couldn’t understand most of what she said. Teresa liked to stay current and her lingo was hip, quite the contrast to my outdated vocabulary.

  I walked into the kitchen to grab some coffee and saw that I had a missed call. Speak of the devil. It’s not rare to get a call from Teresa since she is my assistant, but the timing made things weird. I fought off the urge to call her back right away but there was a chance she had important news.

  “It was just a dream,” I told myself. “If you were in love with her it would have become obvious during the two years she’s worked for you, and not just after a dream in which she said something cute while we shared strawberries. What was it she said again? I can’t believe how good this feels.

  I let that thought linger a little too long and found myself dialing her number.

  “Hello?” said the love of my life.

  “Um… Teresa, hi, it’s Ted. I saw that you had called.”

  “Ted, hey – you sound weird. You all right?”

  “Weird? What do you mean?”

  “Oh, never mind – it must be the connection. So I just wanted to remind you about the speaking gig at NYU next month. I know how you like to put things off to the last minute so…”

  “Can we cancel that one? Is it too late?”

  “Well, you know Jerry will kill you, right?”

  “Yes, I know he’ll throw a hissy. Then he’ll get over it like he always does.”

  “Why don’t I give you a few days to think it over?” she said.

  The fact that she knew me so well made her all the more adorable.

  “Anything from Roger?” I asked, fearing the answer already.

  “Yep, that’s actually the reason I called…”

  Then she paused; I knew something was up.

  “Do you want me to do this over the phone?” she asked.

  “Just give it to me straight. What’s the word?”

  What’s the word? Who was I, The Fonz?

  She paused again and said, “He wants you to supervise the Maynard film. They’re having some issues.”

  This was worse than getting fired. It was like being sent to purgatory. I forgot to respond.

  “You okay?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

  “No, yeah – I’m fine.”

  “He said it was because you’re the only man for the job. And also because they’re shooting in Grant Park and you’re already in town.”

  “I got it. No biggie, right? At least we still have a paycheck.”

  “That’s the spirit!” she enthused.

  “Okay, then – well, thanks for giving me the news.”

  “That’s why I’m here, TL.”

  “Thanks, Teresa. I love…”

  Oh, crap.

  “What’s that? Ted… are you still there? I think our connection is jacked.”

  My brain was reeling. Think fast!

  “I mean, tell Roger I’d love to work on the project and thank him for giving me something close to home.”

  “Coolio. Hit me back if you need me for anything.”

  “I will. Bye now.”

  “Lates,” she said in a perky voice.

  My assignment was to supervise a train wreck of a film called Gypsy Girl. Two years ago my name was inked in the trades, an amalgamation that refers to The Hollywood Reporter and Variety magazines, for producing the two biggest hits that summer. Now Roger was sending me out here to salvage a crumbling production with a hothead director and a team that couldn’t manage a lemonade stand. They were two million over budget and the director threatened to quit every other day. Frankly, I wished that he would.

  • • •

  The next day I showed up on set bright and early, hoping for the best. We were already an hour behind schedule when the generator went down. By the time we got a replacement up and running our camera operator had managed to crack a seventy-five thousand dollar Panavision lens, resulting in a very fun phone conversation with the insurance company. It wasn’t even lunchtime and I was already sweating bullets.

  As I went to snatch a quick coffee, the lead actress approached me in a huff and said, “I can’t work with that guy. He’s totally an idiot.”

  She pointed a finger at the director, who was watching from a safe distance behind a row of production monitors. He returned the finger, his middle one, and then grabbed his crotch.

  Wonderful.

  “He’s an eccentric guy. You just have to warm up to him a little.”

  “I’m calling my agent. Screw this.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa – that’s not even necessary. Let me go have a chat with him.”

  Cory Maynard was the source of my frustration. He was a UCLA film grad who’d won an MTV movie award for his last flick, a thought-provoking piece about a monkey who took a hit of acid and was subsequently transformed into a genius, endearing him to the masses until he became the first chimp President of the United States. If you’re wondering if the chimp President demanded to be paid in bananas, the answer is yes. Yes he did. And female monkeys.

  I feel nauseous.

  To put it mildly, Cory was not an easy guy to work with. Roger picked him because he was called “the next big thing” by a major film publication and the press loved him since he gave them plenty of material about which to write. I approached Cory with a diplomatic producer’s grin. I mean, total cheese.

  “Cory, my man. What do you say we don’t make the lead actress quit three weeks into production and lose forty million dollars?”

  “Ted, you know exactly nothing. That chick is a spoiled brat.”

  “Oh, the irony,” I thoug
ht.

  “Cory, we can’t replace her this late into the schedule. Roger will murder both of us. And that’s not a figure of speech.”

  Roger’s name sobered him up fast. He fell silent and looked at the floor. Sometimes I felt like producing a movie was very much akin to babysitting four-year-olds.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “Cut the crap and apologize and I’ll put some points into your contract.”

  “How many?”

  “More than the zero you have now. Can you keep the peace on my set?”

  Cory sighed into my face so hard I felt his breath on my forehead.

  “Fine,” he said with a note of reluctance.

  He then gave a model’s turn as if rounding the catwalk, and returned to his post. One more fire had been extinguished, but I knew it would not be the last.

  CHAPTER

  5

  I met Jerry, my manager, at our usual spot for dinner. He was a short, impatient man in his early fifties who liked to smoke weed and party with girls half his age. Jerry wore thousand dollar suits and always smelled like he’d just had a bath in after-shave. He might have been a creep but he always got me a fair salary from Roger, so I kept him around.

  There was some chatter in the room as I scanned the menu for new items. Jerry was busy squeezing lemon into his water, which he insisted on stirring with his index finger. I always found his mannerisms disgusting. My mood was especially sour since I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to get Gypsy Girl back on track. Roger Graham didn’t appreciate failure so my neck was on the line in a big way.

  Teresa entered my mind again. I wondered what kinds of things bothered her. Did anything bother her? She was always so upbeat and positive. Back in reality, I noticed Jerry looking at me funny. We had hardly spoken since we sat down so I decided to engage.

  “Negotiating traffic in this town is bordering on suicide. I’m going back to cabs.”