Good as Dead(4)

Decisions, decisions . . . I cranked my neck out the window. It was cruelly hot for May, with relentless sun and not even a hint of a breeze. On the other side of the freeway guardrail, a row of towering palms loomed like prison bars, mocking me with their dogged uniformity. Once upon a time, palm trees conjured images of mai tais and tropical beaches, but now, in their maddening stillness, they just pissed me off.

I contemplated my phone. I thought about calling to say I was going to be late, but then if by some miracle I got there on time, I’d look like a nervous Nellie and just annoy them. But if I didn’t call, or called at the last minute, they’d think I was rude. Ugh, why didn’t I just leave earlier?

I dialed my agent’s office. The assistant picked up. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” I started, “but I think I’m going to be late.” There was a beat of silence, like he couldn’t believe it either.

“You want me to call them?” he asked, not even trying to hide his incredulity.

“Wait!” I said, my iron grip on the wheel giving way to hope. “I’m moving again!” I eased my foot onto the accelerator. “Don’t call them, I think I might make it, sorry! Thanks!”

I said a silent prayer to the gods of traffic (please keep moving, please keep moving!) as my car shifted into second gear, then third. If I continue at this pace, I might just get there on time. As long as there isn’t a wait at the gate, and the walk from the parking structure isn’t too far. Studio lots can span ten city blocks. If the parking wasn’t close, I was sunk.

I pulled up to the guard gate with four minutes to spare. There was no line to get on the lot (halle-fucking-lujah!), but the parking situation sucked. There were six soundstages between the structure and the executive bungalows, and I cursed myself for not wearing sneakers. I parked illegally, in a spot reserved for “Vanpool Only,” willing to risk that I might get towed. And then I ran.

I arrived at the meeting pink-skinned as a pig, with blisters already budding on my big toes and heels. The assistant to the assistant offered me “Something to drink? Sparkling water, cappuccino?” but after my full-out sprint, I didn’t trust my stomach.

“Just water, thank you,” I said, hoping she didn’t notice the sweat beading on my hairline. My agent worked really hard to get me this meeting. I don’t want to name-drop, but this guy I was seeing was a huge deal—what in Hollywood we called a triple threat: actor, producer, and even sometimes director. He didn’t meet with many screenwriters, but he apparently liked that script I wrote for Clooney, and if the meet and greet went well, I could be his guy for his next big thing.

There was a plexiglass barrier walling off the reception area from the inner sanctum. Inside the brightly lit terrarium, shiny millennials sat at cubicles, staring into computer screens or otherwise trying to look busy. Just beyond them was the boss’s office. I knew it was his office because I could see him, silhouetted against a big bay window overlooking the lot. I don’t know why this gave me a thrill, it’s not like I didn’t know he worked there. But seeing him in his element, knowing in a matter of minutes I’d be sitting across from him, breathing the same air, made my new blisters momentarily stop throbbing.

“Here you go.” The assistant to the assistant handed me a glass of water. Nobody gave out bottles anymore, for fear of being perceived as an environmental terrorist. She also handed me a napkin, which, once she turned her back to me, I used to mop my brow.

I limped across the cowhide rug to wait on a dimpled leather settee the color of money. I gazed at the wall of movie posters (five of them, all huge hits!), feeling silent exhilaration that the legendary multihyphenate who could put both my kids through college with a nod of his head was right on the other side. And he wanted to work with me! All I had to do was not be an asshole for the fifteen minutes he allotted me, my agent had said—easy enough, even for an asshole.

Ten minutes passed, then ten minutes more. I had only been three minutes late—a miracle!—certainly that wasn’t enough to make him change his mind about meeting me? Another five minutes passed. I was about to take out my phone to call my agent when the assistant’s assistant approached. Her expression was pained. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Something’s suddenly come up. This meeting is not going to happen today.” And my exhilaration popped like a birthday balloon.

I glanced toward the big boss’s office as I was escorted through the reception area, but he had closed the blinds, so I couldn’t see who he had chosen to meet with instead of me. Not that it mattered. I was still getting tossed out on my ass.

My phone lit up as I walked back to my car. It was Laura, my agent. Wanting to know how it went, no doubt. I pressed “Ignore.” A moment later the phone buzzed again. This time it was Libby, my wife. I needed this job. We needed this job. I let the call go to voice mail.

Walking across the lot, between the soundstages and star trailers, I recalled an episode of The Brady Bunch, my favorite show when I was a kid. One of the “bunch” wanted to wiggle out of a date without hurting the boy’s feelings—must have been Marcia, because Cindy was an infant and nobody wanted a date with Jan. After spending act one agonizing about how to let him down easy, Marcia said the exact same thing about something suddenly coming up. It was the first and only time I ever heard that phrase—until ten minutes ago. Marcia’s date knew, as anyone with half a brain would, what it really meant: I’m not into you. I don’t remember how the episode ended, just that I felt really bad for the guy, and ashamed of Marcia, who was the nicest of the three sisters and should have known better.