The Island of Ted

by Jason Cunningham

  “You think cabs are safer?”

  “Are you happy with your life?” I blurted out, already tired of small talk. “I mean… genuinely happy?”

  He paused for a moment to think about it and said, “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “You’re lying. You can’t be happy. Do you even know what goes on in the world?”

  He looked at me with sincere eyes and said, “What is it with you? Why does every conversation turn into some rant against corporate greed or some other unusually heavy topic? Can’t we just be two guys enjoying a meal for once?”

  “I’m in love with Teresa,” I said, getting to the point.

  “No you’re not.”

  “I had a dream about her and I woke up in love. I thought it would go away but it’s been a week and I still feel this weird affection for her.”

  “Ted, listen – don’t ever fall for your assistant. Especially Teresa. You two have nothing in common outside of work. If you want some chicks to party with, say the word.”

  “I know. She’d never go for me anyway,” I thought out loud. “Girls like that are always swooning over some jerk who drives a Harley and gives them a black eye for putting cold soup on the table.”

  “You’re doing the talk next month, right?”

  Jerry kept setting up these speaking engagements for me because they earned him a small commission but he knew how much I hated public speaking. He didn’t care; the guy was a shark. Unfortunately, he was also the only friend I had.

  “Yeah… I’m doing the speech. But this is the last one. You know I hate doing those.”

  Jerry smiled as he turned his attention back to the menu. He always won.

  “Did you know they have clams now?”

  My mind revolted.

  “I don’t eat mollusks, Jerry. You’re aware of the term bottom feeder?”

  He looked at me with pity.

  “What?” I said innocently enough.

  “Ted, you’re going to die of worry one day.”

  The next day I stepped onto the set with a slight cold, glad that we only had a week left until wrap. I’d spent the last nine days outside in the cold, fighting off a runny nose and a strong temptation to murder Cory Maynard. It was a Thursday morning and the wind coming off Lake Michigan was especially chilly. We had to get two major scenes done by two o’clock in order to stay on budget and make our day. If you didn’t get all your shots for the day, it meant paying overtime to the entire crew, as well as the actors – who were already paid too much to begin with. A production assistant walked over to me, blowing warm air into his mitts.

  “Cory won’t come out of his trailer,” was all he said.

  I didn’t even feel like asking. This guy was about to get on my last nerve.

  I stormed over to his trailer and pounded my fist against the door. When he didn’t respond, I kicked the door as hard as I could, almost falling on my ass. Finally, the door swung open and Cory appeared in the doorway with glazed eyes. He was a mess.

  “Call time was seven fifteen!” I shouted. “If we go into overtime today, guess whose paycheck that’s coming out of. That would be YOURS!”

  I was fuming.

  Cory stumbled back, grabbing the wall to steady himself. He then looked at me with sad eyes and began to cry.

  Lord… take me now, I prayed in my head.

  “Cory, what’s going on? What is this about?”

  He used his sleeve to wipe a mixture of tears and snot from his face and looked at me desperately.

  “Ginger left me,” he said, sobbing so heavily that he sounded like a teenage girl after her first break-up.

  For the first time in my life, I actually felt some kind of sympathy for the spoiled brat. I sat down next to him inside the trailer, trying to think of something to say. I began to put my arm around him but decided against it at the last minute. Instead, I looked down at my watch to see that we were quickly losing the day.

  “Cory, look… I know you and Ginger had a special thing going. She was a great girl, especially after she got out of rehab. I’ve been heartbroken more than a few times myself and you know what? The best thing to do is to stay busy.”

  “Really?” he asked, slobbering all over himself.

  “Distraction is a wonderful thing. And besides, you’re a professional, Cory. The best there is! If a no-talent idiot like me can put his personal life aside and get on with his work, how much more can a guy like you?”

  When you deal with Hollywood types and you’re out of resources, you must resort to stroking their egos. It’ll get you more mileage than logic and reason ever will. Cory freshened up and went onto the set a new man. He took command, acted his age, and got us in on schedule. And I couldn’t have been happier.

  CHAPTER

  6

  My time in purgatory was almost up. Roger called me to say thanks for getting Gypsy Girl to the finish line. He admitted that the assignment was a test to see if I still had the goods and was happy to know that I might be ready for the big leagues again. However, Roger wanted to give me one final test, and this was a big one.

  I sat down that evening with the distinguished Richard Crowntree, Chicago native and screenwriter extraordinaire. Being a man of simple tastes and not recognizing a thing on the menu, I ordered a French-sounding dish with a poorly imitated accent. Social situations always bothered me, especially when I had a goal in mind. It made me feel like a salesman and I didn’t like salesmen.

  Richard was a respected man, and for good reason. He’d written thirteen studio films and none of them had lost money. That kind of track record is quite the gem in this industry. Roger Graham had given me one objective for this meeting: make Richard sign a contract to write our next film. There was also a veiled threat about my career hinging on the success of this meeting. It should be mentioned that when Roger fires a person, getting another job in the entertainment business is next to impossible. So you’d better have a back-up plan.

  I looked at him and said, “Richard, I’d like you to write our next picture. Mr. Graham is ready to offer seven figures up front with a completion bonus, first re-write clause and points on the back end.”

  I finished my pitch, short and sweet, and waited for his reaction. Richard was busy folding a knot into his napkin.

  “You ever wonder what makes people tick, Ted?”

  As a film producer, I’d grown accustomed to comments coming out of left field when trying to close a deal. But I really needed a solid “yes” here and I wasn’t willing to follow Richard Crowntree down the rabbit trail.

  “I certainly do. It’s my business to know how people tick; otherwise I’d never get them to fill theater seats.”

  “I think about it a lot,” he said. “As a writer I have to confront that issue head on, day in and day out and I must do so with great honesty and introspection.”

  I had to defuse this slumber party quickly.

  “And that’s what makes you so special, Richard. You really understand human nature and that totally comes through in your work. Audiences get that about you. Did I mention the first re-write clause?”

  Richard swirled red wine around his glass and took a sip. I needed him to stay with me but his eyes were increasingly distant.

  “You know,” he said in a soft tone. “I saw a news report last week where a man broke into his ex-girlfriend’s house, shot her daughter to death and then lit the woman on fire. Afterward there was a police shoot-out and an officer was killed.”

  “Yeah, I saw that too,” was all I could muster.

  “It got me thinking, you know… if human beings can do such horrible things to each other, how decent would a person have to be in order to shift the scales back to zero?”

  I was not exactly following Richard’s train of thought but he obviously wanted to get something off his chest, so I fell silent.

  “I don’t see how people like us can sit back and make movies while the world implodes. Some say there’s benefit to entertaining the masses, to keep the
ir spirits up and whatnot. But I wonder… I really wonder how much good it does. I doubt the wife of that police officer who was killed last week will be comforted by any of the schlock I, or anyone else, has written. I am seriously at my wits’ end here. Turn on the news… all you see is violence and anger and hatred – it never ends. I’m sitting here drinking wine, about to eat a seventy-five dollar steak, and there’s a widow at home on the East Side of Chicago with three kids and a stack of bills, all because some idiot lost his temper and started spraying bullets at people who took an oath to protect the innocent and serve their community. How is that fair, Ted? How can we look at ourselves in the mirror?”

  He let the question linger but I wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

  I began slowly, “Richard, we all have these thoughts and to be honest, it gets to me too. I sometimes feel like even my most inspiring work is like giving a band-aid to a cancer patient. I feel where you’re coming from. Yes, people do terrible things, but there’s also good in the world. A positive film can remind people of that… give them perspective, give them hope. That widow on the East Side of Chicago… maybe we tell her story. We show the world what true bravery is and perhaps inspire some kind of healing. You write that story, Richard, and let me cast it. She’ll get a nice paycheck to satisfy her pile of bills and we’ll both be doing something that matters. No, it won’t rid the world of evil, but things will be a little bit better because of us… because of your decision to say ‘yes’ and sign this contract.”

  I couldn’t believe what was coming out of my mouth – a movie about a slain police officer and his widow? That was probably not the kind of blockbuster Roger Graham had in mind. In fact, it was tantamount to box office suicide. Hopefully my words rang empty with Richard and he’d go on about his seventy-five dollar steak. Much to my dismay, his eyes perked up.

  Uh oh, he was genuinely interested.

  Richard straightened in his seat. “Ted, that’s brilliant! This is my swan song. I’ll write the film that will change lives and I don’t care if it makes money or not!”

  “Whoa there, let’s not get too excited,” I cautioned. “I have to run this past Roger, of course.”

  I was no longer in the room as far as Richard Crowntree was concerned. I was a vanishing muse, not worthy of eye contact. He looked out into some distant realm as a smile stretched across his face. A few moments later Richard borrowed a pen from the waiter and put his signature on the dotted line. I was both happy and grieved, wondering how Roger would take the news:

  Congratulations, we got Richard Crowntree to write our next movie but it’s the kind of story that won’t sell five tickets!

  This was all starting to look grim. When I got home that night, I stretched out on my leather sofa and began to contemplate what had transpired over dinner. Was my advice to make this film actually sound? Could it work? And even if the film resulted in a commercial flop and my career was ruined, at least that poor widow would be able to pay off her mortgage from the story rights. I was beginning to feel like it was the right decision. To help a family that genuinely deserved it made me feel warm inside, and that was not a common occurrence.

  CHAPTER

  7

  The flight from Chicago to LA only takes four hours but it seemed like an eternity because I was flying in for a closed-door meeting with Roger Graham, the kind of meeting they’d likely tell stories about after scraping my body off of some random sidewalk. I spent the whole time thinking about how I was going to convince him to greenlight the project Richard and I came up with in our moment of exuberance. The deck was stacked against me but, like in Vegas, there’s always a chance. I would start by talking to Roger about what got us into the movie business in the first place, our passion for great storytelling. That will soften him up a bit and I’ll then slide in with the current news stories and how we might be able to use our craft for the good of mankind. I even heard thunderous applause in my head. By the time we landed at LAX, I had already convinced myself that I could get him to make this film. And that was just the momentum I needed.

  • • •

  Roger didn’t even look up from his copy of Variety when I walked in.

  “Don’t sit down; this won’t take long,” he said as he sipped his coffee. His office always smelled like cigar smoke and musk, with a dash of fear.

  He continued, “We had the legal department dissolve Robert Crowntree’s contract yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on… a sappy drama? There’s no way we’d make a return on such drivel. You did a great job in getting him to sign, Teddy, but we’re going to use Craig Fleishman instead. He’s going to write an end-of-the-world epic with aliens.”

  I paused briefly, choking on my own saliva, and spoke up. “Roger, why don’t we do them both? Surely we can get Robert’s drama greenlit too.”

  “What’s wrong with you? The money people are scared: only big franchise films from now on. Let Miramax make that garbage. We already had this talk if you don’t remember.”

  I was desperate, and already walking a thin line.

  “Robert’s film will get you that Oscar you’ve been swooning over. Think about it. This alien picture, that’ll put money in the bank but you and I are both wealthy men. What we don’t have is an Oscar.”

  “Hey, idiot. Hey… LOOK AT ME!”

  My heart started to race.

  “I’M TIRED OF EXPLAINING THIS TO YOU ALL THE TIME! WHAT DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND?”

  My pulse was hitting a thousand beats a minute. Roger had never yelled at me before like this. I took a few quick breaths.

  “You’re right,” I said. “I’m sorry. I just thought…”

  “That we could change things?” he said, finishing my sentence. “Right, Teddy? That’s what you want – change? I can certainly make some changes around here if that’s what you want. There’s a million people who would kill to have your job.”

  The word kill made me nervous but I’d never forgive myself if I turned into a coward at this moment. I owed it to Richard Crowntree. I owed it to that police officer’s wife.

  “I can take losing my job, Roger. But I can’t take losing my soul. We should do the right thing.”

  “What?” he said in a mocking tone. “Is there a hidden camera in here? Is this a joke?”

  “It’ll make money. Trust me. I believe in this project. Richard has never written a flop.”

  “If you want to make a picture about some ghetto bitch in the slums then be my guest. But you won’t be doing it with our money.”

  I was actually shocked by his callous tone.

  “Why did you get into this business, Roger? I thought you wanted to…”

  “Look, Ted, I’m not taking this stroll down memory lane with you. I’m a pragmatic guy. I do what works. I suggest you follow suit unless you want to be begging for change out on the sidewalk in a month.”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” I said in a trembling voice that proved I was.

  “Ted, you’re lucky that you’re more valuable to me alive than dead.”

  “We should make this movie, Roger.”

  He shook his head and did something I never would have expected: he smiled. It was subtle but it was definitely a smile.

  He looked up and said, “You got guts, Teddy. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t respect you for it. You talk a good game.”

  I started to loosen up.

  “But the answer is no. End of discussion.”

  At that moment I knew it wasn’t going to happen. There was nothing I could’ve said to change his mind. And it made me sick. The only thing I could see was that poor woman, her fatherless children and a stack of unpaid bills. Oh, and seventy-five dollar steak.

  I excused myself into the hallway, where I began to dry heave while racing toward the restroom. I somehow managed to lock the door before turning around and blasting the room with projectile vomit. After lying on the cold tile for what seemed like twenty minutes, and ignoring mu
ltiple knocks on the door, I was able to pry myself up using the sink for balance. I stood in front of the mirror, looking at a splendidly dressed man in a fifteen-hundred-dollar suit and five-hundred-dollar shoes, covered in guilt-induced puke. What a bizarre and ironic sight.

  • • •

  The next day I flew back to Chicago. My car pulled into the neighborhood around nightfall and the gates opened more slowly than usual. Even they were tired. After freshening up with a shower and change of clothes, I broke open the laptop and spent nearly an hour on Google, looking for an address. I’m quite savvy with the search engines and even then I had to progress down a number of dead ends before hitting the jackpot.

  I rolled up in front of Delores Jackson’s home around seven fifteen. It was a charming but aged brownstone on the East Side. As I stepped out of the car, the smell of cardboard and burning wood suddenly congested my nostrils. Tinsel and cheap Christmas lights dangled from metal railing. There were two men drinking out of paper sacks at the end of the street, both of whom were eyeballing me with great curiosity. They must’ve pegged me as a landlord, what with the car and all. I smiled and waved but was met with blank stares.

  I heard the sound of children crying as I walked up the steps and knocked on the heavy door, held in place by a dilapidated frame and, probably, cobwebs. I heard Delores trying to quiet her kids, maybe a gesture of respect, before swinging the door open.

  “Delores Jackson, I presume?”

  She was a pretty, slender African-American woman in her early thirties or late twenties. She immediately wiped her hair to the side, which I assumed was a panicked attempt to freshen up for company. It was charming.

  “Yes, sir. Can I help you?

  “I… kind of heard about your situation,” was the first thing I could muster.

  I’ve never been good at the opening line. There was a long pause and she looked at me with glimmering eyes, filled with youth and questions.

  I said, “May I come in?”

  “Of course, forgive me.”