Chapter 1 : Part 2

Facets
by Kurt Wenzel

(Page 2 of 2)

"Sorry, buddy," Marshall said, his hand shooting up reflexively. "I don't read other people's scripts." He always felt like a heel saying this, but he remembered those times he had tried to be nice and had regretted it. Hollywood was enjoying its most profitable decade in history, which of course only thickened the city's sheen of desperation. Marshall had had his Pod address hacked countless times and on other occasions had found screenplays taped under his hybrid, planted there like car bombs. One poor soul had even sent a girl up to his room at the Ming. Under her Umbrellas of Cherbourg raincoat she wore nothing but thigh-highs and a copy of her employer's spec script, strapped in between her legs like a fig leaf.

"Here's the deal," she'd announced, unhooking the script and spreading her legs with a flourish. "I sit here and watch you read it. When you finish - and I hear it shouldn't take you more than an hour - you get this . . ."

"Nothing personal, Daniel," he said. "Just my rule."

"No, no, that's not what I meant." The young man laughed softly, shaking his head at the misunderstanding. "I wouldn't do that to you, man, don't worry. I was just going to ask you about . . . you know, your career."

Marshall straightened a bit in his chair. "What about it?"

"Come on, you know." Daniel chewed his lip, courage waning. "What happened?"

Sunglasses hid Marshall's eyes, though his mouth betrayed his irritation. Of course it was common knowledge he hadn't written a feature since Chula Vista. He performed "polishes" now, arguably the most sought-after practitioner of his kind. He also understood that young film geeks, having accomplished absolutely nothing - and therefore still able to harbor pie-in-the-sky notions about "art" and the sanctity of "career" - took a dim view of this. To them the life of Marshall Reed had become a cautionary tale.

Again he gestured for more coffee and was ignored, the waiter continuing on with the digging of his grave.

"Like, we have this group of screenwriters that gets together, for support, you know, and we argue about this sometimes. ?What ever happened to Marshall Reed?' I mean, we realize it's the system. These idiots at the studios, right? Even though you wrote a masterpiece, your stuff's just too smart for mass consumption. It's not financially viable. The system strips - "

"Wrong," declared Marshall with a quiet malevolence. He pushed himself back in his chair, the better to examine the young man in all his clueless glory. "Where do you guys get this stuff from anyway?"

Daniel didn't reply.

"I mean, here you are, a bunch of ambitious young screenwriters, and this is the best you can come up with? Some dreck about a writer and the system?"

Marshall took off his sunglasses, setting them on the table.

"Okay, look, Daniel, let me clear up some things for you before you become all bitter before you even get started. First of all, the people at the studios are not idiots. All right? Don't ever think that. That's boring and a waste of time. The studios are a business, Daniel. Big news flash, I know, but you brought it up. Don't blame them because you and your coffee klatch buddies can't get your mediocre scripts produced. What do you think, a great project crosses a studio exec's desk and he says, No, this is too good, we can't possibly produce this. We're too stupid and evil! It's about money, Daniel. Movies are expensive; they want a good return on their dollar. If you look at the profits, I'd say they're doing a pretty damned good job. Hollywood made more money this year than anytime in its history. That, I'm afraid, is precisely its function. Nothing more, nothing less."

Marshall glanced to see the young Nubian standing to adjust her chaise.

"Now here's a suggestion, Daniel: Go out and make your own film. Seriously. There's no excuses anymore. You can shoot a movie on a cell phone now, for chrissakes. Your script's that good? Go make your own movie and stick it up their ass and stop whining."

Still steaming, Marshall leaned forward and sipped at the dregs of what was apparently going to be the last of his coffee, infuriating him even more. He had gone to bed just past dawn and now believed he was willing to kill for caffeine.

"Now, about my career," he concluded. "I wrote a pretty good movie some years ago, and I've parlayed that success into a steady gig punching up dialogue that affords me a nice living. I eat well, Daniel. I drink the good stuff and only do the best drugs - when I'm feeling so inclined. I live here at the Ming. That's what's happened to my career, since you asked. How you doin'?"

Daniel stood fingering his tray, face absolutely stricken.

The screenwriter stood, flipping closed his Pod. He threw some money on the table and made his way around the pool, passing the elegant breaststroker stretched out on her chaise. Her sorrel skin shone like a mirror in the sunlight, her knees supporting a large glossy magazine.

"You were lovely out there," Marshall whispered to her, slowing as he went by. "You made my morning." He did not look back to see her smile.

Waiting for the elevator, he snuck a last glance toward the café and noticed two men in suits talking to Daniel. One had already taken the tray from him and the other had a hand firmly on his shoulder, ushering him from the premises.

Copyright © 1990 by Barbara Delinsky

About the Author

Kurt Wenzel is the author of Lit Life. He and his wife live in East Hampton, New York, and Manhattan.