“They offered to pay more and then pay for rehab later.”
“Generous.”
“I thought so, too,” she said. “I told them I’d run it by you.”
“Nice of you to look out for me.”
“That’s what an agent’s for.”
“Do they have a title yet?”
“I believe Incoherent Shitty Movie is a contender so far.”
“Nice,” I said. “Seems to capture it.”
“I suggested ‘Slutty’ instead of ‘Shitty’ to add sex appeal,” she said.
“Sounds more like porn appeal.”
“That’s a large audience, too, Bryce.”
“Maybe it could become a weenie whacker classic.”
“It could be called Masturbation Nation. How does that sound, Bryce?”
“As a title, it has good cadence. Who do they like in the lead?”
“The usual,” she said. “You know … Johnny, Tom. The other Tom. And Denzel. Can a black actor work in your story, Bryce?”
“I imagine even a dead one could. And race is no barrier to incoherence.”
“That would certainly save them money. A dead actor,” she explained.
“Which they could lavish on me for rehab.”
“Something to think about, Bryce.”
* * *
The movie people were very understanding, very solicitous. The whole notion of self-exile was “charming” and “inventive,” the producer said on the phone. I wondered whether he could find Kalamazoo on a map. I suspected he missed the whole point of what I was doing, rather preferred to miss the point, or just wasn’t interested, and instead made superficial LA conversation before lunch at Spago. He seemed to instead regard exile as wily self-promotion. After they faxed a contract, which Janis delivered and sent back for me after a lawyer had a look, the movie people dispatched Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to my house to get me going on the project.
I watched the movie people’s courtiers get out of their rental car in front of my house and look around. It was snowing lightly, morning and not particularly cold by my standards, but by theirs I imagined it was arctic, as though they had been parachuted abruptly into Ice Station Zebra. The man was thirtyish, tall and lean and tan with spiky dark hair. The woman, who looked to be the same age, was rather short but attractive, blond—tan, of course—raised her sunglasses momentarily to regard the falling flakes. She wore white gloves. And shiny black boots. Apparently someone had reminded them that they had been banished to the barren provinces between New York and LA in a lingering winter, and so they both wore long dark wool coats but didn’t look comfortable in them. The man had turned up his collar and his hands were thrust deep into pockets. They looked up and down my street at the houses and pointed and gestured. All in all I suspected they were golden people hoping to survive passage through a rather black and white Oz.
The two courtiers knew to knock on my side door. I lingered in the kitchen with Black Kitty a long moment, enjoying the picture of them trying to make sense of the cold and snow.
“We’ll just let them absorb the atmosphere and ambience a little more,” I said to Black Kitty, who swished his tail a few times before trotting out of the room.
I wore jeans, but also a nice navy sweater, and the house, too, was presentable. When I opened the door, smiles popped wide on the courtiers’ faces, like window shutters flying open.
“Please come in,” I said as I headed up the stairs to the kitchen landing. Behind me I heard the man remind the woman—Marci—to stamp her feet on the rug to shake off the snow.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “That makes perfect sense, Dylan.”
I listened to her stamp her feet far longer than a local would have done. I would learn later that the man was originally from Wisconsin and knew what snow really was. The woman was born and raised in LA and knew what sand was. The closest I had to sand was the kitty litter in the box in the basement.
I took their coats, and while I hung them on the kitchen coatrack, they looked around the kitchen, at the pots and pans hanging on hooks by the stove, out the window at the snow-covered backyard, down at the white tile floor, which I had steamed clean.
“How about some tea?” I said. “I have green tea and plenty of honey. Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Whichever is easiest, Mr. Carter,” Dylan said.
“Call me Bryce.”
“Okay … Bryce.”
“I’d love tea and honey,” Marci gushed.
I pointed them to the living room and made tea.
“Such a cute cat,” Marci called after a minute.
“I’ve been hearing that a lot lately,” I called back.
“What’s his—”
“Black Kitty,” I called.
“It suits him,” she called.
“He doesn’t seem to object.”
We sipped our tea silently for a moment and Black Kitty sat at my feet, his tail draped across my shoes.
“Where are you two staying?” I said.
“The Holiday Inn,” Dylan said.
“But it’s very nice,” Marci said apologetically. “I can assure you.”
“I’ve been there,” I said. “The bar is not bad at all. There’s a view of the interstate.”
“Really?” she said. “How nice.”
“And there’s a nice stand of trees on the other side of the highway,” I added.
“I’ll look for them,” she said enthusiastically.
“You must try the local beer,” I said.
“We’d love to try the local beer,” Marci said excitedly.
“I grew up in Madison,” Dylan said. “Sometimes I miss the beer.”
“I don’t drink anymore,” I said, “but I can certainly recommend the local beer.”
“Yes,” Dylan said, “we were told you don’t drink.”
“I guess we can’t invite you for the local beer,” Marci said.
“No, sorry.”
“And you really haven’t been outside since Christmas?” Marci said.
Dylan gently patted her knee.
“That might be getting too personal, Marci.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said, looking horrified.
“It’s okay,” I said, imagining that the two of them were sleeping together.
“It’s courageous,” Dylan said suddenly.
I studied his handsome face, his Malibu or Santa Monica or Venice Beach tan, his expensive haircut, his pricey Italian shoes and tailored slacks and brand-name shirt.
“How so?” I said.
“Well, it’s admirable,” he said. “It takes discipline, for sure.”
“What do you admire about it, Dylan?” I said.
He shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and took refuge a moment in his tea.
“I just meant that you made a commitment and you stick by it,” Dylan said.
“And so we came to you,” Marci said happily.
“That’s very accommodating,” I said. “So how long have you two been in town … when did you arrive?”
“Last night,” Dylan said. “Our flight from Chicago was delayed.”
“How was Chicago?” I said.
“Oh I love Chicago,” Marci said. “I love shopping on Michigan Avenue.”
“You’ve spent much time there?” I said.
“Last year,” Dylan said, “on a movie.”
“We stayed at The Drake,” Marci said. “Very nice, I can assure you.”
“I’ve stayed at The Drake,” I said.
“Oh,” Marci said. “I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s okay, Marci,” I said. “I haven’t been in exile my whole life.”
“Of course not,” she said. “Who would?”
Dylan gave her a subtle look of reproach.
“Did you eat at Rosebud?” I said. “It’s just down the street from The Drake.”
“We did,” she said. “I love Rosebud. John Cusack took us there. He’s from Chicago, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. He was in the film?”
“He was,” she said. “John’s such a super guy.”
“Maybe we could get him for this one,” I said. “What do you think, Dylan?”
“He’s on the list, for sure. It’s complicated at this stage.”
“Without a script, you mean,” I said.
“Exactly. But that’s why we’re here.”
“And I’m the writer,” I said.
“Exactly.”
“You’re the man with the vision,” Marci chimed in with such a sweet smile.
“How long are you in town?” I said.
“A few days at least,” he said. “Longer, if necessary.”
“We’re here for you,” Marci said.
“How nice,” I said. “You’re here to sort of get me pointed in the right direction, I take it.”
“Guidance,” Dylan said, “but you’re the writer.”
“I read the book,” Marci said abruptly.
“And you still came?” I said.
“Of course, silly,” she said as she reached over and tapped a hand on my knee.
Dylan sniffed softly.
“What did you think of the book?” I said.
“Fascinating,” she said.
“Ambitious,” Dylan said somberly, nodding.
“You both realize it’s crap, right?” I said.
They glanced at each other.
“That’s not our concern,” Dylan said after a pause. “We’re looking at this entirely as a film. We are seeing it all as a film.”
“We’re not literary critics, Bryce,” Marci said solemnly. “We’re movie people.”
“Diplomats, too,” I said.
Dylan smiled, leaned forward.
“Our only concern is translating something to the screen, Bryce. If it’s good enough to wind up on the screen, then of course it has merit. Of course.”
“The critics didn’t agree,” I said.
“Water under the bridge, Bryce,” he said. “Let’s see what movie we can make.”
“That’s right,” Marci said. “It’s all about the movie, now.”
“And I’m the writer,” I said.
“Indeed you are,” she said, patting my knee again.
“When do you want to start?” I said.
“We’re at your service, Bryce,” Marci said.
“Your servants,” Dylan added.
“I’d like a little more time to think of how to get going,” I said. “Would you be okay with coming back tonight, after dinner?”
“Of course,” Dylan said. “That’s no problem at all.”
“No problem at all,” Marci said. “You should definitely have some time to collect your thoughts.”
“To formulate a direction,” I said.
“You’re the writer,” Dylan said.
“I just need a start,” I said.
“It all starts somewhere,” he said.
“It does,” Marci said.
I nodded, and so did they.
“How about around seven, then?” I said.
“Seven is perfect,” she said and Dylan nodded eagerly, glancing at his watch.
I helped them on with their coats and showed them out the side door.
“What will you do until tonight?” I said.
“We have calls to make,” Dylan said.
“Lots of calls,” Marci said with a frown.
“Endless,” Dylan said, shrugging.
“There’s always something,” Marci said. “And before we know it, it’ll be time for dinner.”
“Try the local beer,” I said.
“We will,” she said. “Any special one?”
“They’re all good.”
* * *
The movie people came back a few minutes before seven and we settled into the living room with orange and blue flames licking hungrily at logs in the fireplace. I served them tea. Black Kitty settled into a chair next to me, opposite the movie people clumped on the sofa. Two teams squaring off. Black Kitty’s ears perked up every time the fire popped and cracked. I was happy to have him in the room as an ally.
“What a great fire,” Marci said. She pretended to warm her hands from across the room.
Dylan nodded. “It’s a dandy fire. What wood do you use?”
“Wood from the shed out back,” I said. “Brown wood.”
Dylan nodded again. “Brown wood seems to burn well.”
“I haven’t had any trouble with it yet,” I said.
“Brown wood’s good,” Marci said.
“It comes in just the one color,” I said and she nodded gravely.
“I love a good fire,” Dylan said.
“I can’t tell you when I last sat by a fire,” Marci said.
“Aspen,” Dylan said, patting her knee. “When we were in Aspen two years ago.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Or was it Sun Valley?”
“Definitely Aspen,” he said. “We were never in Sun Valley.”
“Why did I think Sun Valley?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan said. “Have you been there?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said. “I would remember that. I don’t know why I thought Sun Valley.”
“And yet they say it’s very nice in Sun Valley,” I said.
“Have you been there, Bryce?” she said.
“I haven’t,” I said. “Exile has so far prevented that. But we could shoot the film there. It could be shot anywhere, pretty much.”
“That’s a thought,” Dylan said. “Sun Valley.”
“Or Aspen,” Marci said.
“True,” Dylan said. “They’re essentially the same. Interchangeable.”
“And we know Aspen,” Marci said.
“Intimately,” Dylan said.
“I liked Aspen very much,” Marci said.
I waited until it appeared Aspen had trumped Sun Valley, and then slowly and as nonchalantly as I could, I said, “What if we called the film, Jedi Mind Trick?”
Marci and Dylan blinked eyes rapidly, and Marci cleared her throat. Dylan cocked his head to a side momentarily.
“Like from Star Wars?” Marci said quietly.
Dylan looked puzzled, seemed to still be assessing it.
“We couldn’t actually call it Jedi Mind Trick,” Dylan said. “George Lucas would pop a gasket and sue us.”
“Oh, yes,” Marci exclaimed. “George would maximize The Force on us—or whatever that is. But otherwise, he’s such a nice man.”
“But it has a good ring to it, don’t you think?” I said. “Short and sweet. Punchy. And with good cadence.”
“It does offer good cadence,” Marci said. “I like a good cadence.”
“And good name recognition,” Dylan said, nodding. “If we could use it, that is.”
“Everyone knows Star Wars,” I said. “It’s sort of like The Beatles—everyone knows The Beatles. Everyone loves The Beatles.”
“I love The Beatles,” Marci said.
“So do I,” Dylan said, determined not to be outdone.
“What’s your favorite Beatles song?” I said, looking at Marci.
Her smile grew and threatened to engulf her face, which reddened slightly.
“They’re all great,” she said. “I don’t think I can pick just one.”
“I couldn’t pick just one, either,” Dylan said quickly.
After an awkward silence, I said, “I think Jedi Mind Trick works as a title because everyone likes Jedi. But of course, we can’t use it. So, I’ll think of a new one.”
“Jedi are cool,” Marci said. “No doubt about it.”
“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for,” Dylan said, smirking, and even adding the little hand gesture Alec Guinness used in the film.
“That’s the best line in the film,” I said.
“For sure,” Dylan said, and I felt he was sincere.
“It is,” Marci said. “For sure. Are we still talking about Star Wars?”
“Gone with the Wind,” Dylan said and it took Marci a moment to realize he was kidding.
“Gone with the Jedi,” I said and Dylan laughed.
“Okay, you guys,” Marci said. “So, Bryce, how did you come up with that title?”
I shrugged and glanced at Black Kitty, who was napping. Dreaming of The Beatles, perhaps.
“It just came to me, Marci. After you two left today.”
“Just like that?” Marci said. “Wow!”
“Just like that,” I said, snapping my fingers. “That’s the way it was with the book—it just came to me. And it shows.”
“But the film’s a clean slate, Bryce,” Dylan said.
“Indeed it is,” I said, “and I’m the writer.”
“You’re the writer, for sure,” Marci said.
“I’m the one who truly knows the story.”
“Only you know the story,” Dylan said. “It’s your vision.”
“It’s your baby,” Marci said.
“And the book reads like a man having visions while on peyote,” I said.
They maintained their smiles and eye contact.
“So, Bryce,” Dylan finally said, “have you sort of got the whole script mapped out?”
“Not at all,” I said, trying to look very serious.
Marci and Dylan glanced at each other.
“I’m kidding, folks,” I lied.
Their smiles were slow to reappear.
“Just pulling our legs,” Dylan said. “Humor’s important.”
“So important,” Marci said.
“And since you’ve got a … working title, obviously you’ve put some thought into it,” Dylan said.
I had not thought much about it at all, but I nodded enthusiastically and they looked quite relieved.
“I mulled it over all afternoon,” I said, “while you two sampled the local beer out at the Holiday Inn.”
They both laughed.
“We haven’t yet sampled the local beer,” Marci said apologetically. She gazed into the fire.
“Working our way to it, Bryce,” Dylan said. “As a reward for hard work.”
The fire popped loudly and we all gazed into it a moment. It woke Black Kitty up and he climbed into my lap.
“Your buddy,” Marci said, for once making perfect sense.
“Cowriter,” I said. “The title was his idea.”
Marci reached over and rubbed Black Kitty behind the ears.
“And why did he choose that one, Bryce?”
“So that no one remembers the book.”
Exile on Kalamazoo Street Page 10
