by John Scalzi
“Well, it’s obvious,” Elliot said. “When he chases the other woman, the other woman shouldn’t look like Helen. It clears up the confusion.”
“If we do that,” Don said, “then it doesn’t make any sense that you’re running down the street, calling her Helen. She would just be another woman.”
“They could still be sisters,” Elliot said.
Don looked pained. “What?” he said.
“Sisters. They could still be sisters. Sisters look a lot alike. They’re related. They could even still be twins, just not the kind that look alike. What are those called?”
“Fraternal,” I said. They both looked at me. I waved, cutely.
“Yeah, fraternal,” Elliot said, turning back to Don. “Personally, I think that makes a lot more sense.”
“Tom,” Don said, “please help me out here.”
“I don’t even know what’s going on,” I said. “Except that it involves sisters.”
“In this episode, a marine biologist named Helen that Elliot’s dating witnesses a mob hit and gets killed,” Don said.
“She’s thrown in with the electric eels,” Elliot said.
“ … Right,” Don said. “So Elliot’s despondent, and then several days later, he sees another woman who looks just like Helen. So of course he’s confused,”—Don whipped the word at Elliot, who took no notice—“since he knows she’s supposed to be dead. It turns out to be her twin sister.”
“Who is of course also seen by the mob killers, so he has to protect her from them, and during the process he falls in love with her as well,” I said.
“How about that, Elliot?” Don said to his star. “Your agent figured out what was going on, and he didn’t even have to read the script. My count shows him two up on you.”
“You don’t find that confusing at all?” Elliot asked me.
“It is confusing,” I admitted. “But it’s a good kind of confusing. It’s the sort of confusing that viewers actually like, especially as I assume it gets explained at some point during the action. I’m right about that, Don?”
“It happens not far past the place where you stopped reading the script, Elliot,” Don said.
“Well, there it is, then,” I said. “It works out well for everyone.”
From the other end of the set there was a wail followed by a crash. One of the buxom Rollerbladers had careened out of control and impacted against a Steadicam operator. The resulting collision managed somehow to dislodge her bikini top. The Rollerblader appeared momentarily flummoxed, deciding whether to cover her nipples or to grab at the rapidly swelling knob on her forehead, where her skull connected with that of the cameraman. Her right arm switched between both locations, dealing with neither very effectively. In the wash of pain and embarrassment, she seemed to have forgotten that she had a whole other arm that she could deploy.
The Steadicam operator lay sprawled on the pavement, out cold. None of the predominately male crew was paying even the slightest bit of attention to him.
“Oh, look,” Don said. “An actual legitimate crisis.” He turned to Elliot. “When I get back, I would really like to shoot this scene. Please try to have all your philosophical problems with it resolved by then.” He sauntered toward the scene of the accident, angling towards the girl rather than the cameraman.
“Exciting day,” I said, to Elliot.
He was gnawing on a thumb, still looking at the script. “Are you sure that this isn’t going to be a problem with this? I’m still sort of lost.”
“It’ll be fine, Elliot. Stop worrying about it. And stop gnawing on your thumbnail. You’re going to make your manicurist miserable. Look, you said you wanted to talk. Here I am.”
“Yeah, okay,” Elliot said. He seemed distracted as we went back to his trailer.
As we entered his trailer, I was greeted by a life-size cutout of Elliot in his “beach volleyball” costume and shades, grinning toothily and holding a bottle of cologne. I had a brief flashback to my earlier conversation with Joshua. “Who’s the handsome guy?” I said.
“Oh, that,” Elliot said. He bent down to get a bottle of water out of his refrigerator. “The production company thinks we ought to branch out into other markets. So we’re making a Pacific Rim cologne.”
“Well, if Baywatch did it, so can you,” I said.
“Ours is different than the Baywatch cologne. It’s made with real human pheromones.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No, man, really.” Elliot reached up into an overhead compartment, grabbed a sample-sized cologne bottle, and handed it to me. “They’re actually my pheromones, too.”
I unscrewed the top and took a whiff . It smelled like I expected Joshua would smell if he were left out in the sun too long. “Powerful,” I said. “How did they get your pheromones, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“They put me on a treadmill and then collected my sweat,” Elliot said.
“Sounds delightful,” I said.
Elliot shrugged. “It wasn’t so bad. They let me watch movies while I exercised. Listen, I think we should see other people.”
“What?” I said.
“I think we should see other people,” Elliot said.
“Elliot, we’re not going steady,” I said, putting the top on the cologne and placing it on the near table. “Shucks, we’ve never even dated.”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about my future recently, and I sort of want to explore my options. See what else is out there. Tom, you know there’s a lot of wild rumors going around about you at the moment.”
“Great,” I said, flopping into a chair. “The one week everyone reads The Biz is the week I’m on the cover.”
“The Biz?” Elliot said.
“Yes, Elliot,” I said. “You remember, the place where you read all those wild rumors.”
“I didn’t read anything about it,” Elliot said. “I heard about most of it from Ben.”
I sat up. “Who?”
“Ben,” Elliot said.
“Ben Fleck?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Elliot said. “You know him?”
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “I’ve been cherry-picked by Ben Fleck.”
“He said that you’ve cracked up lately,” Elliot said. “That you’ve been handing all your clients to other agents because of the stress. So I figured, if you’re doing that anyway, might as well at least stay in the same company, where they know me.”
“Elliot,” I said. “I’m not cracking up. I’m fine. And I still want to be your agent. Look where you are now, Elliot. You’re doing pretty well for yourself. Which means that I did pretty well for you. You don’t just chuck that away because Ben Fleck calls you up and tells you I’m cracking up. You don’t even know Ben, Elliot. He’s an incompetent agent. Trust me on this one.”
“Yeah,” Elliot shrugged again. “Well, he says that he can get me into film, that I’m ready for the big film roles.”
“Of course he would say that, Elliot. He knows that’s what you want. That’s what everybody wants.”
“Well, what do you think? You think I’m ready for film roles?”
“Sure, some,” I said, conveniently ignoring my previous plan to keep him strictly on television for the next season. “But you still need to build your base. You remember what I told you about David Caruso. Jumped out of TV too soon. He had two flops and then it was ten years before CSI Miami.”
“Uh-huh,” Elliot said. “Look, Tom. I know you don’t think I’m a rocket scientist, but I’m not totally dumb. I’m thirty-two years old. I’m only making $50,000 an episode. I’ve got another four seasons on my contract. Where does that leave me?”
“With five million dollars?” I said.
“I can make that off of one movie, man,” Elliot said. “Thirty-two is prime time in the movie business. I’ve got to strike now. Ben’s ready to back me up on this, and I think I ought to take him up on that. You’re right, it is what I want. I’m sorry, T
om.”
There was a knock on the door. “We’re ready, Elliot,” Don said, through the door. “Put down that Mensa test and get on the set.”
“Elliot,” I said. “Think about this, all right? Don’t decide anything right now.”
“I got to go,” Elliot said. “No hard feelings, Tom? It’s just business.”
It was my turn to shrug. I could see where this was going. “Sure, Elliot. No problem.”
“Great,” he said, and opened the door. “You know, you can keep that bottle of cologne.”
“Thanks,” I said. He smiled, closed the door behind him. I picked up the bottle of cologne and stared at it for a minute before I threw it against the far wall of the trailer. It shattered quite nicely.
Ben’s administrative assistant, Monica, beamed at me prettily as I strode up.
“Hi, Monica,” I said. “Ben wouldn’t happen to be in at the moment, would he?”
“He is, but he’s with a prospective client.”
“Really,” I said. “Anyone I know?”
“Do you know any Playmates on a personal basis?” Monica asked.
“Afraid not,” I said.
“Then you don’t know her,” Monica said.
“I’ll learn to get past the disappointment,” I said.
“That’s the spirit,” Monica said. “You want me to tell him you dropped by?”
“That’s all right,” I said. “This will just take a minute.” I stepped past her desk and walked into Ben’s office.
Ben was sitting at his desk with the aforementioned Playmate in the guest chair. He smiled expansively at me. “Tom,” he said. “What a surprise. Have you met Leigh? She’s a Playmate.”
“Not yet,” Leigh piped. “Not until November.”
“Something for us boys to look forward too, then,” Ben said.
“Hello, Leigh,” I said, shaking her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Excuse me for just one second, please.” I turned, leaned over the desk, and sucker-punched Ben in the nose. I turned back to Leigh, who sat, stunned, watching as Ben yodeled in pain at his desk, holding his bleeding nose in his splayed fingers. I sat on the edge of Ben’s desk and smiled winningly.
“So,” I said. “Found an agent?”
Leigh ran screaming from the room. I turned back to Ben. He had fingers jammed into his nostrils to staunch the bleeding.
“You fucker,” he said. “You broke my fucking nose!”
“You cherry-picked Elliot Young from me, Ben. I don’t appreciate that very much. I also don’t appreciate what you said about me in The Biz. Those were hurtful words. I was bothered. Since you don’t have any clients I want, and I’m not planning to talk to the press, I had to do something to even up our ledgers. I think we’re about even now, don’t you?”
“You’re totally fucking insane,” Ben said. “Enjoy your last day as an agent, you asshole.”
“Ben, let me make this clear to you,” I said. “If you ever stick your nose in my business again, I’m going to work you over with a sledgehammer. I don’t mean that figuratively. I literally mean that I will walk into this office, lock the door behind me, pull out a sledgehammer and work on you until your bones resemble gravel. Are we clear?”
“You’re out of your fucking mind, Tom,” Ben said.
“Ben, are we clear?”
“Yes,” Ben glared at me through the beginnings of bruises. “Yes, we’re fucking clear, already. Get out of my fucking office, Tom. Just get out.”
I walked to the door. A crowd was waiting on the other side. I stared at them.
“Congratulate Ben,” I said. “He’s the proud father of a bouncing baby nosebleed.”
Ben started screaming for Monica. I walked the short distance to my office.
Miranda followed me in. “Are you okay?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “I am in so much pain. I think I broke a finger.”
Miranda slipped her notepad under her arm. “Let me see,” she said. She reached over. I gave her my hand. She palpated my middle finger.
“Ouch,” I said.
“It’s not broken,” Miranda said. “It’s not even sprained. But you clearly don’t know how to throw a punch.”
“I’ll do better next time,” I said.
Miranda pinched down hard on my finger. I screamed.
“Don’t you ever do something like that again,” she said, “or I’ll kill you myself. I like my job, and I’m not going to have you risk it just because you’re my boss. Got it?”
“Yes!” I said. “Let go.” She did.
“Now,” she said, pulling her notepad back out. “Messages. Jim Van Doren called.”
“The hell you say,” I said.
“No lie,” she said. “He says he’s working on another story and wanted to see if you wanted to comment this time.”
“I can’t comment,” I said. “I already promised you I wouldn’t punch anyone else.”
“That’s my boss,” Miranda said. “Amanda called. She says she wanted you to know she made Tea ‘grovel like the she-dog she is’ for the part in the Will Ferrell film. Says that she and Tea have come to an understanding and that she doesn’t expect too many more problems.”
“And here you thought you were going to have to do a lot of hand-holding,” I said.
“No kidding,” Miranda said. “I think we created a monster. Carl called. He wants to know if you’re available for lunch tomorrow.”
“This is a question?” I asked.
“That’s what I thought you might say,” Miranda said, “so I told him you’d be free at 12:30. Meet him at his office.”
“Got it,” I said.
“Last message,” Miranda said. “Someone I’ve never heard of, but says he knows you. Didn’t leave his last name.”
“Joshua?”
“That’s him,” Miranda said. “Sort of cryptic message. Said you’d understand.”
“What is it?”
“He said, ‘Something happened. I’ll be late.’”
CHAPTER Nine
Carl leaned on the railing of the Santa Monica Pier, happily munching on a corn dog. I had a corn dog of my own, but I was somewhat more somber. I was figuring out how I was going to tell my boss that the alien he had entrusted to my care had mysteriously disappeared into the Angeles National Forest.
The good news was that Joshua did take one of the cell phones with him; it was from that phone that he had called my office and left the message. The bad news was that after leaving the message he wasn’t answering the phone. As soon as I got his message, I began calling his phone at five-minute intervals until I got home. There was no answer.
When I got home, I changed into sweats, a T-shirt, and my long-neglected hiking boots, and hauled my carcass out of the backyard. Between a fifteen-year-old dog and pile of goo, I figured the chances were slim that the two of them had gotten very far. I picked the direction that I figured they might go in and went thataway.
When I was thirteen, I knew every tree, every slope, every large rock in the woods out back of my house. Every once in a while, I’d drop a book, several candy bars, and a couple of Cokes in a backpack, leave a note for the parents, and head into the hills. I’d come back several hours later in pitch darkness, unconcerned that I might get lost or misdirected. This was Los Angeles, after all; just point yourself in the direction of the lights, and ten minutes later you’re on one suburban street or another. More to the point, however, was the fact that I knew my way around—it was as unthinkable for me to get lost in those woods as it was for me to get lost in my own backyard.
In the fifteen years between my thirteen-year-old self and my current one, someone went into the woods and switched the trees and rocks around. Five minutes in, I was utterly lost.
Three hours later, scratched, bruised, and limping from where I jammed my foot into a rabbit hole, twisting my ankle, I resurfaced from the Angeles National Forest miles from where I had entered. I would have been completely disoriented if I hadn’t had t
he luck to emerge from the brush two hundred yards from my high school; as it was it took me nearly another hour to get home because of my ankle.
Later, as I soaked in the tub, I formulated a plan: when Joshua came home, I would discover if it were possible to strangle protoplasm. It was a good plan, and I congratulated myself for coming up with it on my own.
Joshua, however, stayed one step ahead. He simply didn’t reappear.
At 2 a.m., I gave up and headed to bed. The rational portion of my mind figured that a creature that had crossed trillions of miles of hard vacuum would be able to keep himself alive for a night in the suburban woods above Los Angeles. The crazy little man in my head, however, was convinced that Joshua had already been eaten by the coyotes. I briefly considered trying to get my cellular company to triangulate the phone’s position, but I suspected that the phone had to be receiving for that. There was the other small matter of Joshua being an extraterrestrial; it would be hard to explain to search teams what my phone was doing immersed in a puddle of sentient mucus. The best I could do was leave the patio door unlocked and hope Joshua and Ralph made it home.
I got to sleep at six. Neither Joshua nor Ralph had made an appearance. When I finally left the house at eleven for my lunch with Carl, the two of them were still missing.
The one space alien on the entire planet, and I had managed to lose him. I was fired for sure.
“God,” Carl said, holding his half-eaten corn dog in front of him. “I love corn dogs. Who would have thought that hog snouts could taste so good if you just rolled them into a tube, shot them up with nitrates and breaded them in corn paste? But there it is. How old are you, Tom?”
“I’m twenty-eight,” I said.
“When I was in my twenties, Tom, I’d come out here with Susan, my first wife, and we’d get a couple of corn dogs and then we’d walk to the end of the pier and watch the sunset. This was in the late seventies, when the smog was so bad breathing the air constituted a health hazard.”
“I remember the bad smog,” I said. “I got out of a lot of P.E. classes that way. We had to stay inside and watch filmstrips. I learned all about the California missions that way.”
