My phone vibrates in my pocket. I slow so I can pop it open. A text from Ryan asks: “Did Thomas steal his phone back, yet? Though I guess I should just text you to ask that?”
I hear the ding of E.’s phone behind me—a result of Ryan’s copy and paste.
“Can you wait a second, please?” E. asks me.
I hurry to the bottom of the stairs.
“I want to make it up to you. I can make you something to eat, then we’ll call your mom and I’ll tell her the truth.”
Her plea to set the record straight jostles something free in my brain, and it occurs to me that what E.’s done could be a positive. If Mom’s health spirals, she’ll continue to believe I’m not alone, that Sarah isn’t just rumor.
“Or I can just call her,” she says.
I stop so fast I nearly trip. “Don’t,” I say, afraid she might anyway. So I give her a hard stare. “What you’ve done, stays done.”
“Okay,” she says, as I reach my rental car. “Okay.”
I check the time before I get in. Shit. The next pitch meeting is in twenty-five minutes. And I’m at least twenty minutes away.
“Fuck,” I say.
“What?” she asks behind me, arms crossed, a guarded position.
“Ask Ryan,” I say, a show of contempt for her clear and obvious trespass.
Eight
On my way to my second meeting, after I take my third wrong turn, a check of the clock makes it official: I’m late. As I stuff my car into a tight space on a nearby side street, the car’s air-conditioning loses out to my stress. Salty blossoms open on my forehead and beads of tickling sweat run down my back. I exit the car feeling wet.
•••
I hustle into a bland lobby, race up two flights of concrete stairs, then pass through the glass doors to Anarchy Productions. The entrance is bright, a wood-floored office with battered leather couches pressed against white walls that are lined with posters of movies they’ve made. Movies I’ve seen, and liked. Or think I’ve seen. At least heard of?
“Can I help you?” The receptionist for Anarchy is a blot of color that sits at an all-white desk, against a backdrop of exposed brick. Lime-colored, rectangular glasses are perched on her nose. Her mauve-colored collar spreads over the lapels of a gray wool jacket. Behind her is Anarchy’s logo: an ironically neat “A” cased in black, interrupted by a wild, spray-painted yellow slash, which holds the word “Films.”
“I’m Thomas,” I say, out of breath, mouth dry.
“Thomas?”
“I have a one thirty appointment with Sam Gerrard and Figgy Becht.” The way I pronounce Becht is Besht.
“And your last name?” she asks, maybe annoyed.
“Oh, sorry. Mullen.”
She looks into her schedule book. “And Ryan Ahearn,” she says as she checks something off.
Fuck. I should have called. Or Ryan? Though, really, wasn’t that Peter’s job?
“He’s not feeling well,” I say. But the unrehearsed tone of my excuse sounds pale, like Ryan didn’t feel like it.
“They’re running a bit late, if you’d like to have a seat.”
Relieved that I’ll have a chance to refresh, I ask, “Is there a restroom close?”
She points at the door I came through. “On the left.” As I turn to go she tells me, “And it’s pronounced Bekt.”
“Oh,” I say, and an all-new heat hits my body.
•••
In the bathroom, I’m anxious they’ll be ready to meet before I’m back, so I hurry things along: flush while I’m still urinating, button my fly one-handed while blowing my nose into a wad of toilet paper, and fix my hair while I wash my free hand.
I hustle back into Anarchy’s office, but a light nod from the receptionist tells me the only urgency is mine. I sit, sink deep into one of the leather couches and fiddle with the button on my jacket sleeve, and try to relax. I mentally prep by telling myself that if they’re willing to listen, I’m going to nail this. I have to nail this. For one, I have to counter Ryan’s rising doubt that I should have come at all. And two, for the last three months, I’ve turned down every single opportunity for contract work. After I pay off rent and expenses in two weeks, I’ll be on fiscal fumes. And all this with the added stress of Mom and Dad pushing to get me home.
But for all my concerns, if these people are dicks like CollabCorp, then fuck them. What Ryan and I created? It’s good. I’m proud of it. So I’m not going to let them shit on it. And if they act blasé, then maybe I stand and tell them, Thanks, but we’re going to go another direction. Because what’s the harm? We alienate a production company that wants nothing to do with us?
So I’ll do my part. I’ll start as clean as I can at the top, then pitch them fast to get to the good stuff. I’ll give them every reason to believe. And if they don’t like it or it’s not for them, fine. But if they’re disrespectful? Two can play at that game.
So now I’m mad. In hyperdrive. Agitated and spinning. To get myself back on a calmer track, I use an age-old trick my mother taught me: ask a stranger a question.
“Do you like Elvis?” I ask the receptionist.
She looks up, surprised. “Presley, Costello, or Mitchell?”
“Mitchell?”
“The film critic. He’s very good.”
“I mean The King,” I say in a way that indicates the other two don’t count.
“I like when he wiggles.”
I laugh and look down, calmer now. The receptionist goes back to whatever’s on her iMac screen, and I spend the next minutes trying to position myself so I come off as somewhat cool when Sam and Figgy come out to get me. I sit with my hands crossed on my lap, then uncross my legs and study my palms. I keep adjusting, but only slightly, so the receptionist won’t notice. I glance over to see if she’s noticed, but now she’s head-down, silently reading a magazine. So I watch the clock.
Then in walks a guy my age. Which means…shit. They’re hearing other pitches! Which, of course they are. But I don’t want to know that. My breath goes short, my heart bangs hard in my chest. An anxiety spiral that makes me tell myself: No, no, no. You’re fine, you’re fine, you’re fine.
He’s wide-shouldered with a confident gait, and when he’s midway to the receptionist he says his full name—Nicholas Leary—scoring what I perceive to be instant points. He says he’s here for a pitch meeting with Sam Gerrard and Figgy Becht (he correctly pronounces Becht as Bekt), and says he’s sorry he’s so early. She tells him it’s no problem, but they are running a little behind if he wants to come back in half an hour.
“Happy to wait, if that’s all right,” he says confidently. She smiles up at him in a way that she didn’t smile up at me—the same way I bet she’d have smiled at Ryan because he has an IMDB page. Then Nicholas sits on the couch across from me and says, “Hey.”
I nod. Knowing I’ve lost.
That I don’t belong here without Ryan.
That our idea is a joke that’s progressed too far.
That after being alone for too long, I let the euphoria of collaboration outweigh the common sense of real work.
I should go. Claim a flu bug. Fake-receive a call and say it’s an emergency. Just get up and leave.
I open my mouth to tell the receptionist, “Excuse me…” but don’t get past the open-mouthed bark of the E. when her desk buzzer sounds. “Mimi?” a voice asks.
Mimi picks up her phone. “Yes?” A beat. “I sure can.”
Mimi sets down the phone and lifts off of her seat.
“Thomas?”
“Yes?” I ask, surprised.
“You can go on in. Second door on the left.”
“Cool,” I say in a way that’s most definitely uncool. Then I give Nicholas a look of, Here we go.
“Good luck,” he says.
Which throws me. Be
cause isn’t this competition? Aren’t we head-to-head? Though, maybe not. Not exactly. Anarchy makes ten films a year. Everyone into the pool, right?
I get up slow and remind myself to be defiant in the face of even mild contempt, to be fierce.
As I make my way in, Nicholas says with confident cheer, “Mimi? Really? That’s my mother’s name.”
I pause at Mimi’s desk.
“My mom’s name is Rosemary,” I tell her quietly.
“Oh,” Mimi says, looking at me, surprised.
“Huh,” Nicholas says behind me. “Cool.”
I turn and look at him, then back at Mimi. An awkward moment I let last too long before I nod and head in, heart once again racing, toward the second door on the left.
Nine
The second door on the left leads me into a room with decoration-free exposed brick walls, and along those walls there are stacks of different movie posters that come hip high, and a mound of tote bags with the Anarchy brand mark. Figgy and Sam, the British minds behind Anarchy, sit in high-backed chairs behind a wide, nicked-to-shit wooden table made of a dozen battered-then-glazed 4x4s. Behind them, high, arching windows see across to another building with smaller, less-arching windows.
“Thomas!” Sam and Figgy say in unison when I walk in, raising their hands as a welcome. Their reaction and their age—they’re both in their late thirties—relax me immediately.
“Hey, guys, thanks so much for taking the time to meet. Ryan’s not feeling well, so…”
“No wukking furries, mate—Mimi sent a note on,” Figgy says in a soft British accent I can easily understand.
I walk toward the table and they both rise to shake my hand. I shake Figgy’s first; underneath his right eye is a scar the length of my pinky. Then I shake Sam’s—catching half a handful of sleeve from his oversized, clover-green sweat suit top that says C E L T I C.
“Have a seat, mate,” Figgy says, so I do.
I sit, and I’m about to start when I see Figgy’s pressing his lips together so hard they’ve gone white and Sam’s face warps into a forced frown. Before I can ask what’s going on, Figgy bursts out laughing, then Sam follows suit—a dangle of white spittle attaches to the shaggy clumps of facial hair that make up his beard. These two men are seriously losing their shit, their pale complexions both bright red with laughter, and since I don’t get the joke, I do the only thing I can and offer a wide-eyed look of pleasantness and a forced smile to show what a great sport I am.
Figgy sees I’m lost and holds up his hand as an apology, then pulls his T-shirt over his nose and mouth.
“Sorry, mate. Sorry,” Sam says. His rich accent and hurried, open-mouthed delivery borders on cockney.
The joke is still lost on me.
Then it hits me: the smell. I wince. Figgy and Sam see my reaction and belt out whoops of new laughter. Figgy pulls his T-shirt away from his face and coughs into his hand.
“This one’s got a bit of an exploding bum,” Figgy says.
“That’s my last go with soyrizo.”
I nod, relieved to know what all the laughter’s about. I put my hand over my face and pinch my nose to show that I am now, officially, in on the joke.
“Now that’s outta the way…” Figgy says, and folds his hands.
Sam wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve, disintegrating the string of spittle. “All right. Let’s have it, then,” Figgy says, and their faces take on an immediate, serious look. “Whatcha got?”
I zip through the start of my pitch so quick that Sam interrupts me midsentence. “I ain’t mutton, but you’re nearly fucking inaudible,” he says.
“He’s all in a rush for fear you’ll deliver another trouser trumpet,” Figgy says.
“Fair play,” Sam says. “You start over and slow down and I promise to keep a clamp on my colon.” He pronounces it co-LON.
Figgy and Sam smile at me. I nod and smile back.
“Okay,” I say, realizing I’ve overreacted to the odd hell of the CollabCorp pitch. “Sorry about that.”
“Right. Now, tell us what your movie’s about.”
Heart racing, I start over. I tell them as clear and calm as I can, “Lucas Ramsdell is a thirty-three-year-old divorced mechanic who doesn’t pay child support for his daughter.”
Figgy’s eyebrows raise, a momentary frown. “Real stand-up geezer,” Figgy jokes.
“Exactly,” I say, and his immediate feedback relaxes me. My heart slows. I sit up straighter. “So, after drifting to Memphis, Lucas does his usual dismissing of his life’s core responsibilities and hops a tour bus to Graceland, Elvis Presley’s modern-day mansion.”
Figgy leans forward. I take it as an encouraging sign.
“The gates to Graceland open, the tour bus goes through, and right when the gates close—bang! Martians swarm the bus. They’re classic-issue aliens—big teardrop-shaped eyes, huge foreheads, tiny Japanimation mouths—except for one major twist: they’re all dressed as Elvis impersonators. Jet black, pomaded pompadours like Vaseline cathedrals. Bushy sideburns. They’re wearing satin jumpsuits, jackets with upturned collars, and fluffs of chest hair. It’s clear, based on the way they’re dressed, that Elvis is their religion.”
“Nice one,” Sam says, scratching at his beard as he leans way back in his chair.
“Lucas sneaks from the back of the bus, ditching everyone else, and makes a run for it. He races to an ivy-covered wall that’s low enough for him to climb over when poof! Elvis’s ghost appears. The King himself, drawn in stardust. He tells Lucas…” here I dip into my best Elvis-speak, one meager skill I have over Ryan—“‘You can’t go nowhere, mahn. Come on. Mahn, ya gotta save Graceland.’”
Figgy claps and laughs. He looks over at Sam who’s all smiles.
“Can’t go nowhere, mahn,” Sam parrots in a brutal Elvis impersonation that makes him sound like a high-pitched Texan.
Delighted by the shoddy effort, Figgy gives it a go with a version of Elvis that sounds like he never got west of Leeds, let alone near Memphis. “Yuh gotta save Gracelan’.”
They both clap and laugh.
“Fucking contagious that,” Sam says, leaning forward, his forearms on the table now. Then gestures for me to go on.
I’m smiling. This is fun. And because of that, I enter a sort of flow.
“Lucas tells him, ‘Screw you, Elvis, I’m a Pat Boone man!’ and there’s no way he’s risking mutilation by alien Elvis’s to save a mansion he doesn’t give two diddles about. So Ghost Elvis gets real. He says, ‘Lucas, ya been wastin’ yer days, mahn. Now, I ain’t sayin’ it’s the influence of Pat Boone’s lesser euphonics, but yer whole life’s been one big fat joke. You ain’t nothin’ but a nobody refusin’ his destiny. This is yer one chance to mean sumthin’.” I look at Figgy then Sam. “This still making sense?”
“Marvelously,” Figgy says.
Marvelously!
“Thank god,” I say with a laugh, and let loose a sharp exhale before I go on. “Now, because Elvis distracted Lucas from hightailing it over the wall, a crew of Jailhouse Rock extraterrestrials are right on his heels. He can’t make it over the wall in time, but he sees a clear path to Graceland. So he hauls ass toward the mansion to save himself, which means it’s now Lucas Ramsdell, reluctant antihero, against a band of Elvis-impersonating aliens.”
Sam and Figgy look at one another with crossed arms and nod.
“Lucas stays alive by defending himself with Elvis memorabilia from those awful-but-lovable movies. He uses boxing gloves from Kid Galahad as his first line of defense, then an oar from Fun in Acapulco to beat the aliens back. At one point he gets overrun, with only the ukulele from Blue Hawaii to defend himself. That’s when the spirit of Elvis enters into Lucas’s body so he can play Can’t Help Falling in Love, which hypnotizes the aliens, allowing Lucas to get away.”
I pause to gauge intere
st. Figgy gestures with his index finger, a rolling motion, to go on. So I go on.
“While Lucas awaits rescue, he discovers two things. One, the aliens hijacked the bus for hostages, meaning the Memphis PD and the military can’t easily intervene. And two is the biggie. After enlisting the help of another escapee—a girl from the tour bus who can’t stand him; and she accounts for the love interest/B story—Lucas learns that the aliens are building a huge rocket onto the side of the mansion with the intention of kidnapping Graceland right off the face of the earth. It’s a race against the clock and if Lucas loses, the rocket will take off with Graceland in tow—along with all of the other captives, Lucas included, inside of it. But if Lucas pulls through, he’ll confuse the girl into thinking he’s a hero, and win Elvis’s undying loyalty.”
“Which he doesn’t really want,” Figgy says.
“Which he doesn’t give a shit about,” Sam says.
“He’s a Pat Boone man,” Figgy says.
“Exactly!”
Finished, I let out a big exhale and lean back. I can feel my heart beating in my neck.
“So that’s the lot?” Sam asks.
“That’s the lot.”
Figgy turns to Sam and says, “No one will watch it.”
I watch close for some indication that he’s joking.
“Plus, it being all but unmakeable,” Sam says back to Figgy.
My heart sinks.
“Licensing fees alone,” Figgy says back.
So, no go. But what did I expect? What good do I deserve? With Mom so ill, begging me to come home. Where I should have gone a year ago! More than a year ago. But instead, I’m here, playing make-believe with production companies. Out of my element. Out of my mind. What the fuck?
“And this idea? It’s outline-only, so far?” Figgy asks as he and Sam sit identically. Their hands folded in front of them, leaned forward on their elbows.
“Outline and treatment,” I say.
“No script?”
“No script,” I say, defeated.
Sam scratches at his beard. Then his hands go back, folded before him.
Collision Theory Page 3
