"Wait! Don't go!"
"I c—"
"I love you, too! Don't go!"
But he already has. In her ear there is only black silence.
She sits there with the dead phone to her ear for a minute or more, then breaks the connection. The non-connection. When she opens the line again and gets a perfectly normal dial-tone, she touches star-sixty-nine after all. According to the robot who answers her page, the last incoming call was at nine o'clock that morning. She knows who that one was: her sister Nell, calling from New Mexico. Nell called to tell Annie that her plane had been delayed and she wouldn't be in until tonight. Nell told her to be strong.
All the relatives who live at a distance—James's, Annie's—flew in. Apparently they feel that James used up all the family's Destruction Points, at least for the time being.
There is no record of an incoming call at—she glances at the bedside clock and sees it's now 3:17 PM—at about ten past three, on the third afternoon of her widowhood.
Someone raps briefly on the door and her brother calls, “Anne? Annie?"
"Dressing!” she calls back. Her voice sounds like she's been crying, but unfortunately, no one in this house would find that strange. “Privacy, please!"
"You okay?” he calls through the door. “We thought we heard you talking. And Ellie thought she heard you call out."
"Fine!” she calls, then wipes her face again with the towel. “Down in a few!"
"Okay. Take your time.” Pause. “We're here for you.” Then he clumps away.
"Beep,” she whispers, then covers her mouth to hold in laughter that is some emotion even more complicated than grief trying to find the only way out it has. “Beep, beep. Beep, beep, beep.” She lies back on the bed, laughing, and above her cupped hands her eyes are large and awash with tears that overspill down her cheeks and run all the way to her ears. “Beep-fucking-beepity-beep."
She laughs for quite a while, then dresses and goes downstairs to be with her relatives, who have come to mingle their grief with hers. Only they feel apart from her, because he didn't call any of them. He called her. For better or worse, he called her.
* * * *
During the autumn of that year, with the blackened remains of the apartment building the jet crashed into still closed off from the rest of the world by yellow police tape (although the taggers have been inside, one leaving a spray-painted message reading CRISPY CRITTERS LAND HERE), Annie receives the sort of e-blast computer-addicts like to send to a wide circle of acquaintances. This one comes from Gert Fisher, the town librarian in Tilton, Vermont. When Annie and James summered there, Annie used to volunteer at the library, and although the two women never got on especially well, Gert has included Annie in her quarterly updates ever since. They are usually not very interesting, but halfway through the weddings, funerals, and 4-H winners in this one, Annie comes across a bit of news that makes her catch her breath. Jason McCormack, the son of old Hughie McCormack, was killed in an accident on Labor Day. He fell from the roof of a summer cottage while cleaning the gutters and broke his neck.
"He was only doing a favor for his dad, who as you may remember had a stroke the year before last,” Gert wrote before going on to how it rained on the library's end-of-summer lawn sale, and how disappointed they all were.
Gert doesn't say in her three-page compendium of breaking news, but Annie is quite sure Jason fell from the roof of what used to be their cottage. In fact, she is positive.
* * * *
Five years after the death of her husband (and the death of Jason McCormack not long after), Annie remarries. And although they relocate to Boca Raton, she gets back to the old neighborhood often. Craig, the new husband, is only semi-retired, and his business takes him to New York every three or four months. Annie almost always goes with him, because she still has family in Brooklyn and on Long Island. More than she knows what to do with, it sometimes seems. But she loves them with that exasperated affection that seems to belong, she thinks, only to people in their fifties and sixties. She never forgets how they drew together for her after James's plane went down, and made the best cushion for her that they could. So she wouldn't crash, too.
When she and Craig go back to New York, they fly. About this she never has a qualm, but she stops going to Zoltan's Family Bakery on Sundays when she's home, even though their raisin bagels are, she is sure, served in heaven's waiting room. She goes to Froger's instead. She is actually there, buying doughnuts (the doughnuts are at least passable), when she hears the blast. She hears it clearly even though Zoltan's is eleven blocks away. LP gas explosion. Four killed, including the woman who always passed Annie her bagels with the top of the bag rolled down, saying, “Keep it that way until you get home or you lose the freshness."
People stand on the sidewalks, looking east toward the sound of the explosion and the rising smoke, shading their eyes with their hands. Annie hurries past them, not looking. She doesn't want to see a plume of rising smoke after a big bang; she thinks of James enough as it is, especially on the nights when she can't sleep. When she gets home she can hear the phone ringing inside. Either everyone has gone down the block to where the local school is having a sidewalk art sale, or no one can hear that ringing phone. Except for her, that is. And by the time she gets her key turned in the lock, the ringing has stopped.
Sarah, the only one of her sisters who never married, is there, it turns out, but there is no need to ask her why she didn't answer the phone; Sarah Bernicke, the one-time disco queen, is in the kitchen with the Village People turned up, dancing around with the O-Cedar in one hand, looking like a chick in a TV ad. She missed the bakery explosion, too, although their building is even closer to Zoltan's than Froger's.
Annie checks the answering machine, but there's a big red zero in the messages waiting window. That means nothing in itself, lots of people call without leaving a message, but—
Star-sixty-nine reports the last call at eight-forty last night. Annie dials it anyway, hoping against hope that somewhere outside the big room that looks like a Grand Central Station movie set he found a place to re-charge his phone. To him it might seem he last spoke to her yesterday. Or only minutes ago. Time is funny here, he said. She has dreamed of that call so many times it now almost seems like a dream itself, but she has never told anyone about it. Not Craig, not even her own mother, now almost ninety but alert and with a firmly held belief in the afterlife.
In the kitchen, the Village People advise that there is no need to feel down. There isn't, and she doesn't. She nevertheless holds the phone very tightly as the number she has star-sixty-nined rings once, then twice. Annie stands in the living room with the phone to her ear and her free hand touching the brooch above her left breast, as if touching the brooch could still the pounding heart beneath it. Then the ringing stops and a recorded voice offers to sell her The New York Times at special bargain rates that will not be repeated.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Short Story: Dazzle Joins the Screenwriter's Guild by Scott Bradfield
In the checkered course of his writing career, Scott Bradfield has done a lot to support his habit of writing short stories ... and that includes some work in Hollywood. Companies like Sony, Universal, Working Title, and even Roger Corman's Concorde Films have benefited from his scripts (both original and rewrites). Mr. Bradfield says that none of those experiences are reflected in this new story, not in the least bit. Uh uh.
Mr. Bradfield's most recent books include the novel Good Girl Wants It Bad and the story collection Hot Animal Love (which includes two other stories about Dazzle). His recent stories and articles have appeared in Bookforum, thefanzine.com, and The New York Ghost. He also says he recently got a dog, but he hates story notes that tell the readership all about the author's pets.
He did, however, assure us that his new pet is not named Dazzle.
Dazzle found his first script conference a lot less painful than he expected.
"I see a dog with severe person
ality disorders,” envisioned Syd Fleishman of Sony Tristar, seated in his overstuffed leather armchair with a plastic liter of Evian propped between his knees. “I see a dog with closeness issues, and issues about his dad. I see a dog with lots to say about the terrible problems facing mankind—such as the destruction of the ozone layer and the rainforests, and the tragedy of Native Americans and all that. But I also see a dog that, well. If he spots a human being in trouble? That dog comes running. An all-faithful sort of dog, but an all-faithful sort of dog with attitude. You gotta earn the respect of a dog like that. But once you earn that respect, he's your buddy for life."
Syd was flanked by the Head of Creative Development and the Vice-Head of Corporate Production. Dazzle couldn't remember the names of either of these high-flying, barely post-graduate executives, but throughout the entire forty-five-minute conference nobody let him forget for one second that the CEO's name was Syd.
"It's a bold new animal movie for a bold new millennium, Syd,” piped up the Head of Creative Development.
"It's got heart, Syd. It's got action. And what's more,” interjected the Vice Head of Corporate Production, “it's got abstract topicality. Abstract topicality, see, is this term I kind of invented."
Dazzle was leafing through a telephone-book-sized legal contract. The redacted passages alone were terrifying in their opaqueness.
"Kind of like Capra or Spielberg,” continued the Vice Head, even though everybody had already stopped listening. “You know, like stuff that seems to be about current affairs? But once you look closely, it's not about anything at all."
This particular lull wasn't on the morning agenda.
"Any questions?” Syd asked, getting to his feet. It was the only appointment that Syd was never late for: lunch.
Dazzle took this opportunity to gesture at the as-yet unsigned contract with a flaky forepaw.
"Look, Syd. I've been reading through this rancid sack of worms, and if you don't mind my asking, I'm still hazy on a couple details."
Syd, frozen in an attitude of benign departure, smiled stiffly.
"What a cute little doggy,” whispered the Head of Creative Development. She looked about nineteen years old. “He wants to discuss his contract. He wants to be part of the legal process, too."
Three sets of executive eyes, Dazzle thought. And once they start exchanging ironic, bemused glances, it's impossible to tell them apart.
"As I understand it,” Dazzle went on, “you guys aren't trying to produce a major motion picture based on my life. Rather you're buying the rights, and I quote, ‘to develop a long-running, multi-format entertainment entity based on the [possibly fictive] events and characters inspired by the legally recognized intellectual-commodity-unit known as Dazzle.’ Which leaves me wondering, guys—why so much trouble and expense? Why not just make up your own character and call him, oh, like Harry the dog, or Bozo the cat or something. Then you could ‘develop’ any damn thing you pleased, and you wouldn't have to pay me anything, or negotiate so many clause-belaboring details with my annoying agent. I may be a dog, guys, but that doesn't make me stupid. All I'm asking is what could I possibly possess that you guys can't invent for yourselves? Give it to me straight, Syd. I really want to know."
Syd was smiling at the memory of something he had once said, or a person he used to be. It was a self-enclosed, inviolate sort of smile. He didn't have to share it with anybody.
"That's simple, Daz. You got the only thing money can't buy in this town."
Dazzle waited. So did everybody else.
"Authenticity,” Syd said.
And left the building.
* * * *
According to The Who's Who Hollywood Guide to Selling Your First Screenplay, Fred Prescott had won an Oscar during the Eisenhower administration for his collaborative work on some long-forgotten skirt-and-sandal biopic, and his consequent A-list status had kept him going through lean years and fat. But his work habits were rudimentary; he lacked even the crudest of social graces; and most mornings, his biggest achievement seemed to be dragging his sorry butt out of bed for black coffee and a cinnamon bagel.
"You can't make a whore of Lady Inspiration,” Fred often said. “You can only leave the front door open and hope she stops by for a while. Never sweat art, Daz-baby. That's rule numero uno at the House of Fred."
Dazzle, who had never stared into the eyes of a looming contract deadline before, couldn't quite adopt Fred's free and easy manner. He knew it made him sound pro-establishment; he just couldn't help himself.
"I'm not saying we should make a whore of Lady Inspiration, Fred,” Dazzle explained in his most laid-back, diplomatic manner. “I'm just saying it's been three weeks, and we don't have a title, or a two sentence plot summary. Just that rather vague opening scene in the garbage dump with two topless teenagers, which you say is modeled on Italian what?"
"Post-war existential nouvelle-vague,” Fred said sharply, giving Dazzle a slow once over, like a school guard scanning for concealed weaponry. “Are you saying you've never heard of Antonioni, pooch? What sort of writing partner did they saddle me with, anyway?"
The funniest thing about movie people, Dazzle thought, was that no matter how laid back they pretended to be, their fuses were always incredibly short. It was as if Dazzle had to apologize constantly for all the things they thought he said.
"I'm not saying I don't like the garbage dump scene, Fred. In fact, I probably like the garbage dump scene a lot. I just don't think it's enough material to deliver to Sony after six weeks’ work. It might need, you know. A little embellishment."
It was like prodding an open wound.
"So you want to embellish our natural-birth baby, is that it? Like wrap it up in pretty bows and whatnot and shoot fireworks out its ass? Why don't you, a first-timer who struck it lucky, explain the business to me, the Oscar winning sole-credited story-designer of Solon the Magnificent, War Bond Baby, and the recently rediscovered ‘AMC forgotten comedy-classic,’ I Can't Stop Dancing! Maybe I need an introductory scriptwriting lesson from a dickless wonder like yourself."
By this point, the remains of Fred's cinnamon bagel were starting to look pretty tempting, causing Dazzle's tail to thump impatiently at the polished hardwood floor. But then, so did the long blue beach extending beyond the smudgy picture window, and the endless California summer filled with leathery-skinned, once-attractive people playing volleyball and frisbee golf.
In his long and shaggy life, Dazzle had never actually explored Zuma.
But maybe it was high time he did.
* * * *
Dazzle was returning from his second or third walk of the morning when it came time to pay that morning's piper.
"Hi, Daz. Got Syd, Steve, and Becky on the line. Put ‘em through?"
Dazzle wished he had never learned how to work the speaker phone in Fred's cluttered office. He could feel his heart sinking when he replied, “Sure, I guess.” Then counted to three, four.
"Daz, honey!"
"Dazzy-sweetheart!"
"How's it hanging, hot stuff! You got our through-line yet? You ready to pitch this mother to the assholes upstairs?"
It was always more enthusiasm—and coming at him from more directions—than Dazzle could handle. Especially since Dazzle had never been what you might call an optimistic or forward-yearning sort of dog.
"It's, well, yeah,” Dazzle said slowly, as if he were trying to lick a burr from his coat. “We're, you know. Really making progress and all that."
At which point, Dazzle permitted himself a hasty glance out the buggy window at Fred, who was sleeping off his third breakfast Margarita in the patio hammock.
"We're working out a few kinks, and developing the, what-do-you-call-it, the plot or something. And of course the central character—that is, me—he's getting more interesting by the minute. Hell, even I'm beginning to like him."
A long corporate hush emerged from the telephone receiver like a voice from beyond the grave.
"Wow,”
it breathed.
"Cool."
"'Bitchin’ ‘—I mean, that is, if you don't mind me using the word ‘bitchin'.’ Is that okay with you, Dazzle-babe?"
There was so little you had to do to please these people, Dazzle thought.
"Absolutely fine,” Dazzle said. “In fact, under these circumstances? ‘Bitchin''s like the most perfect word there is."
* * * *
"The only freedom you ever really enjoy in this business,” Fred liked to remind Dazzle, “is during the always-blissful period when nobody knows what you're doing. And the longer they don't know, the more freedom you've got. So here's how I interpret this contractual ‘delivery calendar’ you're so worked up about, Daz, and it goes like this. Sign the contract, get the bucks, and enjoy freedom freedom freedom, birdies singing, tra-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaah. Then deliver the pages, receive your delivery check, and it goes like this—hassle hassle hassle, mega-hassle mega-hassle, mini-hassles ad infinitum, talk talk talk, hassle hassle hassle. From the moment you give them what they say they want—which is the goddamn script they don't know what to do with—they'll be climbing up and down it like they've found themselves a new asshole. They'll turn it upside down and every which way. They'll schedule conference calls and studio meets, and before you know it, you'll have execs calling you from fucking Afghanistan and Tamaleland and places you never even knew existed, and they'll all be telling you what to do and how to do it. So stop worrying, my obedient little doggy. Chill out, enjoy the sea-breeze, and share some of these canned martinis. They're better than they look."
It was very annoying of Fred, Dazzle thought, to act as if he were some sort of “obedient” little doggy, when all he wanted to do was get the studio execs off his back. It was especially irksome that Fred did it with such eloquence and conviction.
"I'm not trying to sound like Mr. Obedient,” Dazzle countered wearily. “I'm just trying to do the right thing. These jokers paid us a bundle, Fred. And we did agree to start delivering pages by, well, last month or something. I know they're jokers, and you know they're jokers, and believe me, I'm hip to the whole ‘stop and smell the roses’ philosophy. But you're not the guy who answers the phone around here. In case you forgot, these people are incredibly persistent. And to be fair, shouldn't we at least have a title by now? Or some minimal idea of the whaddayoucallit? The narrative arc?"
FSF, October-November 2008 Page 12
