Mr. Clown was a happy clown.
He loved making children happy.
And they were happy and the parents were happy.
And everyone was happy.
Until Mr. Clown realized he could no longer please children.
They wanted to be transformers and deformers and things with no form whatsoever.
And so then the children were unhappy and the parents were unhappy.
Until Mr. Clown decided to blow himself up into many little pieces and then
the children were happy and the parents were happy and Mr. Clown never had to be sad again.
The End.
THE PUNK ROCK BIBLE: THE BOOK OF JOB aka The Gospel According To Emo
(June 26, 2010)
God runs into Satan at a party. Satan mentions he just came back from God's shoddy creation – ie; earth. God knows what he's getting at, says "not all of it sucks" and points out that "there's this guy Job who's pretty cool"
The devil says "Yeah, but he's loaded, has a rocking business and his family all loves him. If he was broke and alone, then he wouldn't be so cool... He'd probably hate you"
So god makes a sort of bet. Says "Go ahead, trash everything around him, he still won't hate me. We're cool like that..."
So, Satan devalues Job’s stock, kills the staff and sends a hurricane to take out the house party where all of his kids are at. No one survives. Jobs life now sucks
He gets emo but still doesn't blame his creator. Satan comes back and this time it is God who brings up Job again. Taunts him with "Job still thinks I rule, even after you made me mess up his life... See, we're cool like that"
And so Satan says "If we kicked his ass he wouldn't like you anymore"
and God says "Go for it, but keep him alive…"
So Satan gives Job welts from head to toe and needless to say, his wife will no longer let him hit that shit which you'd think would turn Job atheist but instead he says "if we accept goodness from God, we should accept the bad as well"
And this
makes his wife think he is stoopid. Then his friends show up to comfort
him but he looks like shit and so they don't really know what to say, as
"you look like shit" would seem a bit cold given the circumstance
So they just hang out with him silently for seven days and seven nights, which I find rather intriguing, as if a man is being built in silence in the way the world was. The symbolism is intriguing. Or maybe I’m reading into things. Maybe the bus to Jobs place from the other side of town only showed up every seven days, and bros had to make it back. But it could be symbolism as well.
By chapter five the writing gets uber poetic to an impressive degree as Job curses the day he was born. Then a guy shows up with equally uber poetic dialogue and tells Job that life does suck but it’s okay because he can be at one with the animals and the trees. The prehistoric hippie also says that “you’ll live through six shit storms and on the seventh, you’ll come out of it pretty chill.
Then Job replies to the pseudo psychic hippie “God obviously is crushing me on purpose and I’m bummed and just wish that he would kill me.” Job then bitches about not having enough strength, no hope and goes into a 4 page poem about how his brothers suck. It’s the most detailed poem about brothers sucking that you’ve ever heard in your life, to degree that it reminds one of a mid eighties punk or the first violent femmes album. Strangely, for such detailed poem, he left out being pissed at the girl, which is what keeps the book of Job more of an artistic meditation than a factory produced pop song.
Now, in all fairness, he deserves to be as verbose as he wants. This guys life is pretty effed up. He’s lucky he’s not Buddhist, as he’d have so many assumed past life guilt issues going on by this point.
By chapter 7, Job finally asks what he’s done to deserve it, about six and a half chapters after most would have. Then the pseudo psychic hippie guy says “Stay upright and God will give you a whole ultra cool life”. And while that would make most say “I don’t want a new dog, I want my old one back”, he does make sense when he says that those who don’t have God have to try and find their satisfaction in products with poor manufacturing and functionality.
Then Job says “I do believe in God but I’m only human, born to make mistakes…” Then Job goes on to talk about all the cool stuff God makes and does but conveniently leaves out the Platypus and Bush Administration.
And eventually Job gets all worked up and hostile with the hippie – “Is this going to cause you to speak badly of God? To examine him? Imagine if he examined you bro…” Then Job says God is mighty and you don’t want to piss him off.
He then continues with “Even though he trashed my life, I believe in Him. We’re cool like that. If I see him, I’ll plead my case but that’s about it.” Then Job finally addresses God directly and says “I’ll stop hiding from you if you stop kicking the shit out of me. Why are you pissed at me?”
At this point, Job is obviously not completely living on faith as his pleas reveal that he doesn’t exactly believe that all will be good. He then says trees got it easy because when their branches are cut off they grow back but being human sucks because once your limbs are cut off you’re pretty much fucked.
Then another guy says to stop blaming God, unaware of the human version of a poker tournament happening in the sky.
By Chapter 16, all Job is doing is groaning and acting in disbelief over how cruel God can be, ignoring the obvious fact that you get what you expect from this world. When most talk about Job they speak of his patience, loyalty and obedience. I question his lack of faith in the moment. All of his faith statements trout the future. None trout the present. To be honest, I’ve none people who actually have it WORSE than Job, and the still have a glow about them, simply because they know that they can.
It’s a steady stream of groaning for the next several chapters and on 23, he seems to be expecting God to torture him more. At what point will he ask not for mercy but for provision?
Then he talks more about the process of God creating the earth and with it, wisdom. By chapter 29 Job says “I miss how cool God and I were” and it becomes clear that he’s been talking a lot about God but not really to him.
By Chapter 32, Job has painted a picture of himself as perfect and the three friends condemned him for it. Then a fourth gets mad at the friends for finding wrong in Job without reason and then gets mad at Job for justifying himself instead of God.
Now, this guy is way younger so he has to spend a good 3 pages explaining to them that while he is young, God gives him as much wisdom as life has given the Geriatrics and therefore they should listen. He then says “Look, none of you have come up with anything that says that Job ain’t cool. You couldn’t answer his arguments so therefore you condemned him for simply having them. How wack is that? Pretty effin’ wack…”
In Chapter 38 God finally calls up Job and not in that “hey what’s up bro” sort of tone. He says “Look Job, why are you trying to figure it out on your own when you don’t know much about the grander scheme of things?” Then, God points out that Job wasn’t around when he created earth and hasn’t really seen shit in comparison to what he’s seen during the course of it’s development. He then says that Job also hasn’t seen all of God’s special powers, including storage areas for snow and hail that he has ready in case people start fighting each other for one reason or another. It’s possible that he left out his method for creating instant precipitation from rapid water movements spreading at high velocities out of fear that they’d try it at home and end up with the hydrogen bomb.
God then justifies his power by discussing everything that he created, but what is most interesting, is how “created” takes a back seat to the term “gave birth to”. And this is where it becomes clear how this character God, if you were to look at him as a person, feels about what he made. It came from me, he says. You can practically feel the guys anguish from that point on. He’s seen it all, felt it all and he’s in love with it all. And now, he’s pretty pissed about it all. And he knows that job has no idea.
He then goes back into reminding Job that he has special powers and Job doesn’t. He also points out that he figured out how to do cool stuff like make an Ox a loyal servant by nature so bros could get around. By pointing out that this was done on purpose, he intends to make it clear that lots of things were done on purpose so one must have faith in the grander scheme of things.
He then began pointing out a lot of the cool inner workings of the animal kingdom and how they were all designed for the benefit of man and that one should realize that someone had to actually figure out how to make a chicken not give shit when we eat their young and decorate the eggs. I think that what God is saying here, is that that one wasn’t very easy.
He also mentions he created the Leviathan and if any guy ever tried to pick a fight with the Leviathan, the Leviathan could easily beat the shit out of him. And if the Leviathan could kick his ass, then God could really really kick his ass.
Job replies “You’re right. I haven’t seen much of anything. I’m sure the rest of everything is really complex and awesome and I’m sorry if I spoke like I knew everything…” So basically, the two friends made up. God won the bet and still had his bro, a feat comparable to the whole chicken thing.
God then got mad at Job’s friends for giving crappy advice and told them that they need to take a large chunk of the animals that they use to make cash, burn them and leave them on Job’s lawn.
After Job, mind you, covered in welts and broke, not to mention he probably had to clean up burnt Oxen off the front lawn, was still there, praying for his friends, God decided to make him rich again.
His wife let him hit it like never before and cranked out ten new kids and to top it off, his seven daughters were all uber hot which you’d think would make most father’s lives a living hell but Job thought it was cool and because there was no genetically altered lettuce back then he lived another 140 years and by the time he died, if you’d asked him, he’d probably look back and say his life was pretty rad. He lived it all…
SUMMARY OF JOB written by David N. Donihue
Copyright 2010 All rights reserved.
So they just hang out with him silently for seven days and seven nights, which I find rather intriguing, as if a man is being built in silence in the way the world was. The symbolism is intriguing. Or maybe I’m reading into things. Maybe the bus to Jobs place from the other side of town only showed up every seven days, and bros had to make it back. But it could be symbolism as well.
By chapter five the writing gets uber poetic to an impressive degree as Job curses the day he was born. Then a guy shows up with equally uber poetic dialogue and tells Job that life does suck but it’s okay because he can be at one with the animals and the trees. The prehistoric hippie also says that “you’ll live through six shit storms and on the seventh, you’ll come out of it pretty chill.
Then Job replies to the pseudo psychic hippie “God obviously is crushing me on purpose and I’m bummed and just wish that he would kill me.” Job then bitches about not having enough strength, no hope and goes into a 4 page poem about how his brothers suck. It’s the most detailed poem about brothers sucking that you’ve ever heard in your life, to degree that it reminds one of a mid eighties punk or the first violent femmes album. Strangely, for such detailed poem, he left out being pissed at the girl, which is what keeps the book of Job more of an artistic meditation than a factory produced pop song.
Now, in all fairness, he deserves to be as verbose as he wants. This guys life is pretty effed up. He’s lucky he’s not Buddhist, as he’d have so many assumed past life guilt issues going on by this point.
By chapter 7, Job finally asks what he’s done to deserve it, about six and a half chapters after most would have. Then the pseudo psychic hippie guy says “Stay upright and God will give you a whole ultra cool life”. And while that would make most say “I don’t want a new dog, I want my old one back”, he does make sense when he says that those who don’t have God have to try and find their satisfaction in products with poor manufacturing and functionality.
Then Job says “I do believe in God but I’m only human, born to make mistakes…” Then Job goes on to talk about all the cool stuff God makes and does but conveniently leaves out the Platypus and Bush Administration.
And eventually Job gets all worked up and hostile with the hippie – “Is this going to cause you to speak badly of God? To examine him? Imagine if he examined you bro…” Then Job says God is mighty and you don’t want to piss him off.
He then continues with “Even though he trashed my life, I believe in Him. We’re cool like that. If I see him, I’ll plead my case but that’s about it.” Then Job finally addresses God directly and says “I’ll stop hiding from you if you stop kicking the shit out of me. Why are you pissed at me?”
At this point, Job is obviously not completely living on faith as his pleas reveal that he doesn’t exactly believe that all will be good. He then says trees got it easy because when their branches are cut off they grow back but being human sucks because once your limbs are cut off you’re pretty much fucked.
Then another guy says to stop blaming God, unaware of the human version of a poker tournament happening in the sky.
By Chapter 16, all Job is doing is groaning and acting in disbelief over how cruel God can be, ignoring the obvious fact that you get what you expect from this world. When most talk about Job they speak of his patience, loyalty and obedience. I question his lack of faith in the moment. All of his faith statements trout the future. None trout the present. To be honest, I’ve none people who actually have it WORSE than Job, and the still have a glow about them, simply because they know that they can.
It’s a steady stream of groaning for the next several chapters and on 23, he seems to be expecting God to torture him more. At what point will he ask not for mercy but for provision?
Then he talks more about the process of God creating the earth and with it, wisdom. By chapter 29 Job says “I miss how cool God and I were” and it becomes clear that he’s been talking a lot about God but not really to him.
By Chapter 32, Job has painted a picture of himself as perfect and the three friends condemned him for it. Then a fourth gets mad at the friends for finding wrong in Job without reason and then gets mad at Job for justifying himself instead of God.
Now, this guy is way younger so he has to spend a good 3 pages explaining to them that while he is young, God gives him as much wisdom as life has given the Geriatrics and therefore they should listen. He then says “Look, none of you have come up with anything that says that Job ain’t cool. You couldn’t answer his arguments so therefore you condemned him for simply having them. How wack is that? Pretty effin’ wack…”
In Chapter 38 God finally calls up Job and not in that “hey what’s up bro” sort of tone. He says “Look Job, why are you trying to figure it out on your own when you don’t know much about the grander scheme of things?” Then, God points out that Job wasn’t around when he created earth and hasn’t really seen shit in comparison to what he’s seen during the course of it’s development. He then says that Job also hasn’t seen all of God’s special powers, including storage areas for snow and hail that he has ready in case people start fighting each other for one reason or another. It’s possible that he left out his method for creating instant precipitation from rapid water movements spreading at high velocities out of fear that they’d try it at home and end up with the hydrogen bomb.
God then justifies his power by discussing everything that he created, but what is most interesting, is how “created” takes a back seat to the term “gave birth to”. And this is where it becomes clear how this character God, if you were to look at him as a person, feels about what he made. It came from me, he says. You can practically feel the guys anguish from that point on. He’s seen it all, felt it all and he’s in love with it all. And now, he’s pretty pissed about it all. And he knows that job has no idea.
He then goes back into reminding Job that he has special powers and Job doesn’t. He also points out that he figured out how to do cool stuff like make an Ox a loyal servant by nature so bros could get around. By pointing out that this was done on purpose, he intends to make it clear that lots of things were done on purpose so one must have faith in the grander scheme of things.
He then began pointing out a lot of the cool inner workings of the animal kingdom and how they were all designed for the benefit of man and that one should realize that someone had to actually figure out how to make a chicken not give shit when we eat their young and decorate the eggs. I think that what God is saying here, is that that one wasn’t very easy.
He also mentions he created the Leviathan and if any guy ever tried to pick a fight with the Leviathan, the Leviathan could easily beat the shit out of him. And if the Leviathan could kick his ass, then God could really really kick his ass.
Job replies “You’re right. I haven’t seen much of anything. I’m sure the rest of everything is really complex and awesome and I’m sorry if I spoke like I knew everything…” So basically, the two friends made up. God won the bet and still had his bro, a feat comparable to the whole chicken thing.
God then got mad at Job’s friends for giving crappy advice and told them that they need to take a large chunk of the animals that they use to make cash, burn them and leave them on Job’s lawn.
After Job, mind you, covered in welts and broke, not to mention he probably had to clean up burnt Oxen off the front lawn, was still there, praying for his friends, God decided to make him rich again.
His wife let him hit it like never before and cranked out ten new kids and to top it off, his seven daughters were all uber hot which you’d think would make most father’s lives a living hell but Job thought it was cool and because there was no genetically altered lettuce back then he lived another 140 years and by the time he died, if you’d asked him, he’d probably look back and say his life was pretty rad. He lived it all…
SUMMARY OF JOB written by David N. Donihue
Copyright 2010 All rights reserved.
**************
SEVEN DAYS IN L.A. : The true story of a writer, a
church, a gun, an HBO
deal that never existed and a pretty girl with wavering eyes. (2005
Tuesday night. Around 10 p.m.
When he handed me the pistol in a parking lot just off
Hollywood, I wondered how I was going to give out hugs
in the Bible study room without anyone noticing that
there was a forty- five in my pocket. His eyes looked
unsteady. They always do. Sadly, I know where the
guy’s coming from. If things could just slow down, I
could get my bearings. But my life is mine, and never
really slow. Except when around a few solitary
friends.
Justine is one of them. That super cute platonic
friend that you can wrestle with and be made fun of
by, and you both know exactly where everything stands.
No confusion, just straight up love and understanding.
She calls me every day just to check in; I dig that
shit. I’m lucky to know her. We keep each other in
check.
“Take it easy” she said the other night. She reassured
me of my talents and good looks and I talked to her
about her endless crush on my brilliant space case of
a friend Noel, who can’t seem to figure out where he’s
coming from or what to do with her. Matters of the
heart seem to put more panic in us than matters of
guns and finances.
Jumping back to about 8 p.m. I’m at church. Tonight,
as part of the young adult Bible study, we’re tested
on spiritual gifts. This is an odd one. A series of
tests that show what areas you are gifted in and what
areas you suck at. I score high on Prophecy, Wisdom
and Intercession. Low on Speaking In Tongues and
Celibacy. Go figure. Midway through the test, he shows
up. I don’t know him well. His name is Eric. He’s good
looking, charming, and seems like a bit of a loose
cannon. I met him the first time about a month ago.
Justine had told me about him, how his brother had
passed away recently and she knew he was in need of
someone to talk to, but feared spending time with him
as he obviously had a thing for her.
“Don’t worry about it. Have dinner with the guy at a
public place and just listen to him talk. It’ll be
good.”
Well, he had charmed her, and she brought him to my
birthday party, I suspect to make Noel jealous. He
gave me a cigar and told us all about having to trek
across the country to deal with a D.U.I. I wasn’t
shocked. Something about the way he moved seemed
familiar; not so much “from liquor or drugs,” though
that wouldn’t surprise me. More, he seemed to be
shifting in his shoes but playing it off as party star
energy. Masking his depression and anxiety with an
enthusiasm for small talk and sheik brattiness.
Respectable. Sad.
That was also the first time I saw Kara again.
Kara is a beautiful girl. She’s tall and rail thin
with cool loose dark blonde curls and huge amazing
eyes that seem to shift between the sophistication of
an ambitious and confident young woman, and that of a
“wow – holy shit world” 10-year-old kid. I went to her
birthday party not long ago. She looked stunning in a
long black dress. I found myself stumbling for words.
Cute girls never make me stumble for words.
I know very little of her, but what I do impressive.
She’s a flautist. Not always the center of attention,
yet gravitates towards the stage. She holds herself at
a distance as if she’s consistently careful not to
give off any wrong impressions.
She turned her back on the Catholic church as a kid
because they wouldn’t let her be an altar boy anymore.
She must have looked adorable, the outfit, the hair
pulled back.
She’s had started her own summer program for kids.
She’s twenty seven, and a take charge of your own
destiny type. She’s remarkable.
Her eyes constantly dart off into the distance in
thought, and then revert back to pick up wherever the
conversation was headed. But her face and eyes can’t
hide what her mouth often doesn’t say.
“I’ll bet you’re a shitty liar,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m terrible at it.”
She might not always be forthcoming about her
thoughts, but when she is, they are genuine, and I
have nothing but respect for that sort of
self-preservation-honesty mix.
Thursday 9pm. Kara and I sit down for Indian food.
I’ve been a bit whip lashed lately by life, but par
for the course. Money is quickly deteriorating in my
world, as the company I work for still hasn’t paid any
of us writers.
I’ve lived in LA for two and a half years, have been
making my meager living entirely off of my writing,
have seen one film produced, a war-type epic I
co-wrote, and have been struggling along as a
screenwriter for hire, choosing only projects I
believe in.
A producer, Wayne, and Jesper, a creative consultant,
wanted to meet with me in regard to a mini-series on
ancient Rome, knowing my background in writing on
topics of politics, war and religion.
I met them at a Starbucks in Encino. Jesper was from
Denmark. Looked around forty, blonde hair with a touch
of grey. Clean cut. Wayne had a Roman style mustache
and goatee, and was apparently a Roman expert. They
were blue collar fellows, and it made me trust them
more.
In a town like LA, often the real movers and shakers
are in jeans in t-shirts, while bullshit middle men
take the time to manicure, put on silk and drive small
penis automobiles. They were friendly, warm, and spent
a good hour and a half drilling me on how I write and
work with others, and whether or not I can meet their
stringent network deadlines.
I read them some samples, and they hired me on the
spot. $3,477 per week for 13 weeks to co-write on a
mini-series for HBO. I would be one of a team of six
writers who would come together with a staff of
researchers to whip out some brilliance, as HBO
apparently had a production called ROME that was
experiencing delays, and they would need a teaser to
quench the audience’s thirst. That’s where we would
come in.
THE REAL ROME, you know kinda like Real Sports or Real
Sex, would be a docu-drama, three episodes, small
budget of 4 mil per. The last few months of my life
were filled with family tragedy, death and the
ever-present holiday inspired lack of work. I was dead
broke, and getting broker. Needless to say, this was
the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
The group consisted of quite the talented mix. Anna, a
brilliant writer and script consultant, who I was
partnered with. She’s fifty, funny, warm, and not
afraid to flip you shit. She has a remarkable list of
work under her belt, doing script consulting for some
major writers and producers. I forgive her hippie
nature on account of her kick ass personality.
Jeff K., a former stage and commercial actor slash
Roman buff from Toronto with a wife and kids. He’s a
straight man who likes Broadway.
Jeff B., an ambitious 23-year-old writer who had moved
here with his wife just after his father-in-law’s
death, to take on this job and crank their lives into
some form of positivity amidst the grief.
Don, an East Coast indie filmmaker with a constant
smile and a real life to him. Husky and fresh faced,
Don is a real sweetheart. He gets excited when the
others pitch stories of Roman castrations and 100,000
people getting impaled.
And there’s Patrick, a talented former sci-fi writer
with short silvering hair, good looks and a zest for
action stories. He has a very fast paced, high energy
personality that could either be brilliance, dementia,
or substance abuse, God bless him.
We got passes to eat lunch at the commissary on the
CBS lot. We started mapping out the series. We were
told Glenn A. Larson, a hot shot TV producer, was
partnering on all of Wayne’s projects and he would be
joining the gang shortly, as would be Jim Caviezel, on
a project with Wayne as well. I had visions of asking
him to turn the bottled water into Merlot, but we
didn’t have any.
Things were moving fast. A man by the name of John was
introduced to us as a producer from HBO, who we told
our pitches to. He seemed impressed, thought he was
quickly out the door to his next order of business.
Bobbi, a costume designer, apparently recommended by
the studio was sent over, along with a director of
photography. We took a tour of Western Costumes and
saw a room already set up, with HBO / THE REAL ROME on
the door and costumes already being made, collected,
and ordered for mass production somewhere in India.
Wayne called a meeting. The order for three episodes
has been pushed to six. We would now be employed for
26 weeks guaranteed. All of us immediately started
making calls, canceling other employment, thanking
former Latin instructors, looking at new cars online,
etc. There’s only one problem. There’s a three week
delay in payroll. Peripheral conversations of
borrowing money from family and friends occur.
Justine keeps calling to ask if I’ve met Jesus yet.
“No, and I don’t think it’s really him, he just played
him on TV…”
The creativity and research goes blasting into high
gear. Wayne continues to feed us scenes from his vast
knowledge of Rome, much of them involving penises.
Wayne is one of those truck driver gay men. The type
who get busted hooking up at Park & Rides and Highway
Rest Stops. Most of his Roman knowledge seems to
center around sexual practice, with the researchers
having yet to confirm any of his tidbits.
Synopses are handed to wardrobe and production
designers. John the producer, continues to be seen
coming and going from Wayne’s office, presumably
checking in on our progress.
Nearly two weeks ago, we were told very suddenly we
were moving offices from CBS to either Sunset Gower or
Universal. That HBO had pulled us from our current
location due to a problem with the lease being too
short-term.
We’ve spent the last two weeks working from home, and
stressing about when we’re going to see a check, as we
are continually told that there is just another glitch
in payroll.
The costume department has been paid, and now as of
Thursday, we’ve been there six weeks and not seen a
dime. By contract, we are all already owed an enormous
amount of money. Last week, the writers started
speaking of going to the guild with this issue. This
would bring our employer under scrutiny by HBO, and
it’s almost certain that when that happens, some
middle management producer from the studio is bound to
step in and “save the project from chaos” by replacing
the staff with all of his friends. This is what Wayne
tells us, in his very calm and gentle nature.
Wayne admits to being new to the producing game.
Online, he has no producer credits, but there are some
legitimate articles from legitimate press on how he’s
donated a million dollars to give fire engines in his
home state of Alabama
I tried to keep the other writers from doing anything
rash.
This job is everything I have been working towards,
and the thought of failure, even if it’s not my fault,
sends shivers down my spine like no other. I’m
embarrassed to even admit the unsteadiness of the
present situation.
My mother keeps floating back to my mind. My
grandfather died a week back, and that – combined with
my brother’s passing in August – has her in one of
those “Was I good mother, was I a good daughter?” sort
of states.
My grandfather is still in a freezer somewhere, as no
one can find his 35-year-old bitch of a wife who
married him several years back, took him for
everything he was worth, and is now impossible to
reach as a signature from her is needed to complete
his request of having his ashes sprinkled along with
my grandmother’s over Mt. Rainier.
So I’m sitting across from Kara, Thursday night, and
all this is on my mind, and I’m trying to stay engaged
in the conversation, not come off to heavy.
Writer’s syndrome. I wonder for a moment if I’ve
forgotten how to speak. If I have fallen so far into
being human that I’ve left the human fold entirely.
The human fold is guarded and jaded and disconnected
from anything that is human. Even those white girl
eastern philosophy bitches who shift their furniture
around to feel more in touch with themselves would
condemn me on accounts of emotional instability.
You see, I have nothing to say that isn’t too heavy or
too light. Everything you say is a product of your
experiences, and if all you are currently seeing is
shit, than your just going to say a bunch of shit that
seems to bring on more shitty experiences that causes
you to say a bunch more of shit.
Everyone that I’ve ever known who has wanted to kill
themselves were motivated by the thought that they had
nothing left to offer that would be positively
received. I find it interesting that some of the
people with the most love to give had the most
self-hatred because no one wanted to receive it. The
purest of emotions can be seen as a threat by those
who are conditioned by this jaded little spectacle we
call life. I can’t believe I just wrote that dumb ass
line. Why does anyone ever pay me for this shit?
Now, obviously, this tangent has drifted away from the
autobiographical. I have more people in my life who
love me and depend on my love and words of support
than I know what to do with. I have a zest for life
and a passion for the minutia of all types of
personalities that borders on habitual. And I rock it
too. I still find massive excuses to laugh and be
irreverent and silly and just enjoy the ridiculousness
of our little ball o’ dirt, but there are some days,
when you can’t force yourself into that mind set.
Something lightens inside of me when I see her shift
from her sophisticated stance to her uncomfortable
moments of weighing things out in her head. I don’t
know why, but I find it really charming. Kara has a
boyfriend who recently cruised to somewhere in the
middle of the country to do something. I forget what.
Work and family I think. She had mentioned possibly
cutting it off.
I know she loves him, so I had resigned to being
nothing more than a friend to her while still being
massively drawn to knowing as much as I possibly could
about who she is as a person. Through my thorough
study and research of the creature that is her, I came
to the scientific conclusion that she fucking rules.
So, whatever the nature of our relationship is, I’m
cool with it. I think I caught her checking me out in
the club lights one night.
For a moment, I showed my hand of cards stretched
across my face when she mentioned she was leaving town
to go see him. The boyfriend.
I managed to utter “How’s that going?” and the moment
became built more on what wasn’t being said than what
was.
“It’s going well. I’ll be there for four days.”
“That’s awesome.”
I was actually genuine when I said that. You see,
Kara’s cool. I have no desire to bring confusion into
her life. I’m just stoked to get to know her.
Monday was her actual birthday, which I am suppose to
spend with her. The weekend is spent going out to see
a show with them, me working and stressing about the
absence of my check and three day pay or vacate notice
I got on my door.
Monday. 7pm. East Hollywood.
The writers were up in arms. My mother calling to ask
if I wanted my dead grandmother’s bedsheets that were
still in the package, the woman still hoarding away
mounds of odds and ends ten years after her death.
That takes talent. And Wayne, who currently owes me an
enormous amount of money, was supposed to at the very
least bring petty cash down to appease a few of my
bills as he had been promising all weekend to throw me
a couple grand until the checks arrived.
Patrick, our beloved hot headed paranoid, allegedly
“coke-addicted” writer had suffered a burst appendix a
few days prior, his fear of ever never getting paid or
the project going bust guiding him through the
operation. Now, back on his feet, he had spent the day
looking for the new offices that we had yet to move
into on Lankershim out of fear he was being fired,
going from building to building trying to find Wayne.
He can’t even get addiction right. He should be just
going into the same building over and over and over.
But, in any case, his deranged idiocy delayed my boss
in meeting with me and giving me any cash. His writing
partner has grown weary of him as well, as Wayne seems
to be trying to find a way to let him go without any
disturbance, continuing to ask us all if we see any
signs of drug use.
Too embarrassed to tell my new friends I am too broke
to go out and realizing once again how this unstable
career can utterly destroy my best of intentions in my
personal life, I am a lame ass. I finally called Kara,
telling her I’m going to be able to make it out at
all.
My phone is still ringing off the hook as I try to
ease everyone’s panic, as I am balancing momentary
thoughts of feeling like a total freaking loser. All I
feel like doing is buying my friend a birthday drink.
Grabbing her some birthday flowers. She had consumed
much of my mind over the weekend, wanting to see her,
but too broke to go out and to proud to admit it.
My mind is racing with fears of failure. I had
recently abandoned those fears. I stopped caring about
where my career was heading right before it started
soaring full speed ahead. Not financially, but things
were falling into place. People were noticing a
particular style, I guess.
Seneca said “Cease to hope and you will cease to
fear…” There’s some truth in it. The constant string
of jobs and pats on the back brought some hope into
the mix. The other writers and delayed checks brought
the fear.
Monday. 10pm.
I’m pacing back and forth down the street trying to
make sense of all the work chaos, as Anna pep talked
me, strangely. That’s not her style as much.
“I want the career your friend Robert has,” I say, as
I suddenly feel annoyed with my ambitious side taking
precedence over the craft itself.
“He was 38 and ready to call it quits when it finally
clicked. Now he makes millions. It just took a long
time.” She says.
I’m 31 and have written over forty feature scripts and
plays. Part of me feels like an old vet while the
other part of me still fresh faced inexperienced kid.
“You see David, there is a problem with your work.”
Great. She’s about to add insult to injury.
“Your work has a voice. It’s exactly what you think
and feel, which will make it a nightmare at first, but
trust me, there will be rewards because of the way you
do things in the long run...”
Coming from her, the words settled me. My phone beeped
again as I was walking back into my apartment. It was
Kara again. Inviting me over. We partook in small talk
with her roommate and classical guitarist friend whose
masculinity momentarily slipped away when he admitted
to liking Titanic. I didn’t ask him what he thought of
that Celine Dion song, I couldn’t bear to hear the
answer. He’s one of my favorite people I’ve met
recently. He’s from Toronto, and has a strange mix of
East Coast hard edge and northern “I could give a
fuck” passivity. Rather impressive stories to tell as
well.
Which brings us back to Tuesday. And the gun. And
Justine. And Eric. And the spiritual gifts exercise.
Prophecy, Intercession. As I take the quiz, knowing it
would be retarded to put much stake into its answers,
Eric wanders into the room, looking high as a kite.
It’s likely he’s here looking for Justine, who has
been avoiding his calls after his romantic persistence
made her feel uncomfortable. Damn, he really looks
high.
I fucking hate how substances attach themselves to
those who are the most sensitive. I only get around to
a night of real drinking maybe once a month, so
therefore, with my tolerance low but thirst for
nothing more than hydration high, it’s easy to
stupidly consume to much and find yourself speaking in
ways that would have helped me score higher on the
“:speaking in tongues” portion of the test.
Eric stammers around, loudly makes fun of the quiz and
seems to make most in the room both humored and
uncomfortable. I can’t tell if this is a substance or
crippling anxiety-prone depression, but something
doesn’t seem right, as I sit here with the results of
the quiz in fingertips, feeling proud that I scored
low on Celibacy. My mind is flying high with work. My
family. And strangely, amidst it all, a girl.
Yet, as he shifts all over the room, needing to charm
those who seem somewhat concerned about his current
mental state, I feel the need to pull him away and
find out what this guy is all about. I notice the way
his body was working to shut off his mind and heart,
and I really feel for him.
“I’m going for a cigarette. Walk with me,” I say.
He follows. He looks paranoid when a cop drives by,
and tells me he has a gun across the street in his
car, that he had been to the shooting range earlier
and was driving on a suspended license due to a
D.U.I., so if he got pulled over, they would search
and he’d be fucked. I ignore it. And I start hammering
him with questions. You can tell me anything. Nothing
fazes me.
And he lets’ loose. The stories of his fist fights,
heroin and coke addictions of yesteryear, never
admitting to even having so much as a beer in the
present day, are unsurprisingly followed by stories of
an abusive childhood, his brother’s death. And how
just after the night I first met him, just as Justine
had turned him down, he had to catch a flight back
home to see his grandma.
Scared shitless of facing a past that he rarely
connects with, he had stalled just before getting in
his friend’s car to head to the airport. “I left
something upstairs.” He tried to tell them. They
wouldn’t accept that and shoved him in the car.
“I was planning on going back upstairs, pulling the
gun out of my closet, and blowing my brains out.” He
says to me as we sit down on a planter next to
church’s entrance, and I ask if I can pray for him. I
don’t know if it will do much good. I’m no pastor. I’m
no missionary. I’m just a guy who’s seen a bunch of
shit and come out the other side as a generally happy
camper who really loves people. But we pray. For a
long time. Lord, let the sins others have placed on
him not turn him to self-destruction. Let him see how
his gifts of charm and humor can help the world around
him. Let him find a peace through knowing that he
doesn’t have to be a product of his environment, his
environment can be a product of him. Let him realize
that the sick feeling beneath his skin is the result
of others, that he isn’t innately born feeling this
way, and that you can bring him back to the core of
who he is. Lord, this world has really fucked him
over, don’t let him fuck himself over as a result.
Lord, let him forgive the people who have hurt him,
forgive himself for the way he has reacted to it all,
and lift that weight.
We hug hard. I have no idea if I’ve reached him, but
having just lost a friend to suicide months prior, I
was really praying that this would work. I’m sick of
people dying who were dealt a shitty hand, people
thriving who shit all over everyone else, and me
feeling helpless when I get the phone calls after the
fact.
It actually takes a bit of work to ask him for it. “I
don’t think you are in a state where you should have a
gun in your possession.”
He immediately offers it, using reasons of not wanting
to get pulled over with it. Thank God. We walk across
the street to his car. It isn’t loaded. The clip lies
next to it.
“It’s clean,” he says. “Make sure it stays that way.”
If it was clean, he hadn’t been to the shooting range
earlier that day. There was a reason it was in his
car, and fear swept over me for his safety and others.
I put it in my pocket and we walk back into the church
together. The bulge is huge, but luckily, I am wearing
my longer green checkered polyester jacket with my
black Fubu jeans. The jeans have deep pockets. The
jacket covers the majority of the bulge. I suddenly
realized how handy this particular combination would
be to gangs across America. Visions of Crips, Bloods
and L.A. Locos in plaid polyester sweep through my
mind, and I feel happier than I’ve been in the last
two weeks.
I hug a few friends goodbye and start the long trek
home, being careful not to jaywalk and get stopped. I
had lost my I.D. a few days back, and being without
any identification with a forty-five in your pocket
wouldn’t look good to Officer Friendly. It crosses my
mind if Kara would return my calls if she were to
drive by and see me in handcuffs with a forty-five
lying on the front of a cop car. Hey, these things
happen.
I suddenly wonder where the gun has been, and I
immediately dial Justine, to reaffirm that she is not
to answer his calls. I don’t think he’d harm her, he
doesn’t seem to be a danger to others. I think with
some tight friendships, this kid could come out the
other side of it all.
Justine doesn’t answer her phone at first. Ten minutes
pass by as I continue home, suddenly getting really
scared for her. This girl is one of the best friends
you find in this city. We tell each other everything.
I’ve never gotten bored talking to Justine. Never
waiting for her to finish a sentence so I could start
one. She is an example of a nearly perfect, selfless
person. I would never forgive this world if it harmed
her.
I walk up the steps. Finally the phone rings. It’s
Justine. We talk for hours. She needs to know it isn’t
her fault he is this way. She did the best she can. He
needs guy friends. Not a girl. No girl can save a man
from treating himself poopy.
Wednesday Morning.
I woke up early this morning and took a long walk.
I fucking hate guns. I can’t stand the fact that the
no-good piece of scrap metal is buried in the back of
my closet, even though it has no bullets. I have no
intention of giving it back to him anytime soon, and
my friend Mason who leads the Bible study kindly
declined via phone this morning to take it, even
though he loves shooting ranges.
I thought long and hard about Eric. How easy it would
be for anyone to get smacked around by life’s
circumstances and fall into that frame of mind. About
how much he wants to give love right now, and how his
instability makes it impossible for someone to want to
receive it, which makes it impossible for him to get
stable. The viscous circles of life. The fact that he
carried a gun. So tragic, his life circumstances
inspiring such fear. The desperate need for control. I
suddenly feel more tenderness towards Republicans.
As I sit in front of my computer, wondering if work is
going to blow up in my face, if I’m going to lose my
job, not see a check in time, get evicted, and look
like an idiot in front of everyone, all I feel like
doing is typing about a pretty girl with wavering
eyes.
Wednesday 8:55 p.m.
I have no cell minutes left. Kara calls. I tell her
I’d call her back. After nine, cell time is free. It
crosses my mind how many relationships have been
destroyed due to delays in expressing emotions during
anytime minutes.
9 p.m. I call Anna.
“David, I have bad news… As bad as it can get.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t exist. None of it exists. HBO has never
heard of our employer. There is no tie between us and
them. There is no money.”
I went into denial. I hung up and called Kara back.
She told me “I just wanted to thank you for coming out
on Monday night…”
She seemed so formal. So calculated. The
sophistication had morphed into over-diplomacy. I
figured I’d go for broke. Share it all. Let her know
I’m a loser and she’s amazing yet guarded and I’m
honest, yet my world is falling apart.
So, I read her what you just read. No joke. I read it
all to her. I had just found out five minutes prior
that I had lost a $90,000 contract, had not a dime to
my name, was on the verge of eviction, and now
suddenly realizing, that I was destroying a friendship
with someone I was really enamored with.
She hung up the phone within sixty seconds of the
completion of the reading. Obviously, she wasn’t
impressed. My level of honesty isn’t good for anyone.
Once again, too human for the human fold.
The truth sets in. My life is fucked. All of my
connections know about this job. With my reputation
trashed, my crush quite possibly looking into
restraining orders, my career over, and my family once
again destined to see me as a letdown, I thought about
the gun in my closet.
It was as if God took it out of Eric’s hands, and the
devil put it into mine. However, for some reason, I
still didn’t want to die. The seratonin-dopamine fight
or flight phenomena had even failed me a way out.
I got on the phone with Justine. We talked for a long
time as I walked back and forth down Hollywood
Boulevard. It didn’t matter what she said. Just the
sound of her voice. It didn’t just calm me. It made me
feel really good. She made me laugh.
“It’s hard to be upset for too long when I’m talking
to you… It doesn’t matter what happens, when I talk to
you…”
It was so true. Somehow, I related to this girl’s love
for others, lack of self-preservation, and irreverent
humor amidst the evils of this world. For a second, I
felt like an asshole for pursuing Kara, who I couldn’t
even talk to, when the person I wanted to share
everything with was right there. There was only one
problem. It’s not that way between her and I. Both of
us, chasing after those we can’t fully talk to. I wish
God had never created bodies, just spirits that choose
what they project.
The phone rings again. “Dave, we found his house.
You’ll never fucking believe it.” Patrick says “We’re
gonna make sure these guys don’t try to go anywhere
tonight. Do you want to come take turns keeping
watch?”
Three of the writers had spent the last couple hours
looking for the producer’s assistant’s car, who was
rumored to be staying with him somewhere near the CBS
lot.
“We’re gonna get these mother fuckers…” Patrick says
to me.
Thursday. 10 am.
We are all gathered at a diner near the CBS lot and my
mind is already racing with ideas on a script I had
put on hold before this all had started. It isn’t
over, but my mind is ready to move on.
At the table is John, the supposed HBO producer, all
the writers, the costume designer, and the art
director that has brought some of the most impressive
designs with him that I have ever seen. Incredible
really, the minds and talents in the room.
The truth comes out. John isn’t from HBO. We were told
he was. He was told that we were. The costume woman
wasn’t recommended by HBO, even though her credentials
were far beyond needing that. She was referred to
Wayne by Western Costume. She hasn’t been paid a dime.
Wayne had convinced John that HBO was slow on a wire
transfer, and John convinced the line producer he
hired to put up about five grand to get things rolling
in the art department. Petty cash.
Jesper is here, having known Wayne off and on for 17
years, looking shell shocked, claiming he lost seventy
grand of his fiancée’s money to the whole thing,
believing Wayne had a deal the whole time fronting the
cash.
John relates his end of the story. He finally calls
HBO. They’d never heard of Light Force Entertainment,
Wayne, or any project called The Real Rome. Why would
anyone do this? You would have to be insane. Fucking
insane! Wayne probably believed that he could string
us along for long enough to get some amazing pages, go
into pre-production, get his deal and become
unstoppable.
Now, all in all, John and his line producer friend are
out the cash. Writers and researchers aren’t going to
see any of the money (none of us having worked
elsewhere for nine weeks and canceling upcoming gigs),
the costume lady is screwed and the art department
just plain baffled.
This all on top of Jeff B’s research, finding out the
fire stations were required to hire new employees in
order to comply with Wayne’s requests, and have yet to
see the million dollar vehicles promised by Light
Force Entertainment. Jeff B. looks at me and says
“Wayne told me his first sexual experience was in a
fire station.”
I had thoughts of Rosebud
I am facing eviction. Have nowhere to go. Jeff B. and
his young bride have nothing and a six month lease,
wishing they could just go back to Ohio. I hear vague
conversations about Bush making it harder to file
bankruptcy in the background.
And Patrick, the paranoid coke head, wasn’t paranoid
or even on coke. He was right all along. It was a
sham..
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I hate to say I told
you so..”
I laughed, holding back my tears. “I’m sorry for you
man. I know this hits hard,” he says. He was so
genuine. He even turned out to be a damn fine writer.
Now, we just had to find Wayne. And our contracts,
w4’s, the researchers’ hundreds of dollars’ worth of
library books, you name it.
We got in the car and trekked over to where Wayne,
Brent and Jesper were staying. Wayne wasn’t there. We
later found out he was in court at the time on
Indecent Exposure / Lewd Conduct charges, filed in
Pasadena, for crying out loud.
When we got there, the true horror set in. They had
been staying in a converted garage out behind a little
old ladies house. Wayne and his assistant in one room,
Jesper in the other. The poor woman had been giving
them free rent, as they had promised she would be
working as a production coordinator on the HBO series.
My gawd, how did he pull it all off?
How did this guy, without any cash to his name, get us
on the CBS lot, a rented bungalow office, a new lease
signed on Lankershim, a costume department employed
and put into high gear, an art director, six writers,
two researchers and two office assistants all working
full-time, and all of this he masterminded out of a
little old ladies garage?
I am impressed, to say the least. I get him on the
phone. We’re all standing in the woman’s front yard,
as she looks traumatized by the news, that this lovely
man could do such a thing. “I was counting on that
job, since I wasn’t getting any money from them for
rent of the back house,” she said, looking as if she
was going to cry.
Patrick is yelling “Fuck you Wayne” over and over,
flipping off the phone that is currently up to my ear.
“Wayne, we know there is no deal between you and HBO,”
I say.
“Well, that’s news to me,” he says.
“Wayne, how could you do this to us? This is sick.”
“So, the writers are going on strike then? Maybe it
would help if we showed HBO some of the pages,” he
says.
“Wayne, HBO has never heard of you. Sam, the woman at
HBO has never heard of you. There is no Light Force
Productions. Wayne, you need help. I’m going to pray
for you brother. You really need help.”
I believe that Wayne actually believed he had a deal.
That to con us, he had conned himself. We were dealing
with what seems to be, a total fucking sociopath. God
bless America.
It’s been ten minutes, and Patrick is still jumping up
and down and cursing the phone in the background, as
the rest of the writers sing “Liar, liar pants on
fire.” I feel like my heads going to explode as I hand
the phone over to someone else, and lament the fact
that I’m sure to be homeless in the matter of days.
The little old lady announces that Wayne won’t be
staying with her anymore, and that I am more than
welcome to the spare room in the garage if I need a
place to stay.
I suddenly realized that for me, the worsening of life
circumstances had only begun.
While this was happening, my phone ran out of minutes.
Shut off. No contact with the outside world. No way to
have known that Justine’s mother was in the hospital
due to an irregular heart beat. No way to check up on
Eric, who I was really worried for, and suddenly felt
as if there was no way I could reach out to him while
dealing with my own dire needs, and a family to whom I
owe money, and have suddenly no way of being
supportive of, as my dead grandfather is still hanging
out in a freezer somewhere outside of Sumner,
Washington.
The ripple affect of this unstable career is showing
its instantaneous power. Plus, I still have yet to
find a way to get rid of that fucking gun, and I know
Eric wants it back.
What’s funny, the biggest lesson from all of this, was
how I felt that night that Justine talked to me on the
phone. The sound of her voice. The way she didn’t
judge my failure. The way she listened and made me
laugh.
I still feel so humiliated.
Life comes bashing away at full speed even without the
help of something as unbelievable as all this. People
die all around you. They kick the shit out of each
other and lie to each other. Desire and depression
mold some into creatures of compassion and humor, like
Justine. Some into bottles of escapism, anxiety and
self-destruction, like Eric. Some into guarded
diplomacy, like Kara, and some into brilliant
sociopaths who run a fraud that leaves over a dozen
workers screwed for hundreds of thousands of dollars
in lost wages, not to mention the humiliation and
feeling of a career headed towards doom.
Even having tested high on Prophecy, I never saw any
of this coming. My test scores on Intercession aren’t
seeming to be of much help either.
But I’m still off to pray. Pray for Justine’s mom.
Pray for my co-workers. Pray for Eric. Pray for
family. Pray for that bitch that is responsible for
the fact that my grandfather is still in need of
thawing. Pray for Wayne. And pray that I can sell this
story overnight and get enough money to keep from
getting evicted, losing my mind, and finding myself
living in a little old ladies garage near the CBS lot,
promising my elderly landlady a job on a project that
only exists in my head.
Written by David N. Donihue. ©opyright 2005.
deal that never existed and a pretty girl with wavering eyes. (2005
Tuesday night. Around 10 p.m.
When he handed me the pistol in a parking lot just off
Hollywood, I wondered how I was going to give out hugs
in the Bible study room without anyone noticing that
there was a forty- five in my pocket. His eyes looked
unsteady. They always do. Sadly, I know where the
guy’s coming from. If things could just slow down, I
could get my bearings. But my life is mine, and never
really slow. Except when around a few solitary
friends.
Justine is one of them. That super cute platonic
friend that you can wrestle with and be made fun of
by, and you both know exactly where everything stands.
No confusion, just straight up love and understanding.
She calls me every day just to check in; I dig that
shit. I’m lucky to know her. We keep each other in
check.
“Take it easy” she said the other night. She reassured
me of my talents and good looks and I talked to her
about her endless crush on my brilliant space case of
a friend Noel, who can’t seem to figure out where he’s
coming from or what to do with her. Matters of the
heart seem to put more panic in us than matters of
guns and finances.
Jumping back to about 8 p.m. I’m at church. Tonight,
as part of the young adult Bible study, we’re tested
on spiritual gifts. This is an odd one. A series of
tests that show what areas you are gifted in and what
areas you suck at. I score high on Prophecy, Wisdom
and Intercession. Low on Speaking In Tongues and
Celibacy. Go figure. Midway through the test, he shows
up. I don’t know him well. His name is Eric. He’s good
looking, charming, and seems like a bit of a loose
cannon. I met him the first time about a month ago.
Justine had told me about him, how his brother had
passed away recently and she knew he was in need of
someone to talk to, but feared spending time with him
as he obviously had a thing for her.
“Don’t worry about it. Have dinner with the guy at a
public place and just listen to him talk. It’ll be
good.”
Well, he had charmed her, and she brought him to my
birthday party, I suspect to make Noel jealous. He
gave me a cigar and told us all about having to trek
across the country to deal with a D.U.I. I wasn’t
shocked. Something about the way he moved seemed
familiar; not so much “from liquor or drugs,” though
that wouldn’t surprise me. More, he seemed to be
shifting in his shoes but playing it off as party star
energy. Masking his depression and anxiety with an
enthusiasm for small talk and sheik brattiness.
Respectable. Sad.
That was also the first time I saw Kara again.
Kara is a beautiful girl. She’s tall and rail thin
with cool loose dark blonde curls and huge amazing
eyes that seem to shift between the sophistication of
an ambitious and confident young woman, and that of a
“wow – holy shit world” 10-year-old kid. I went to her
birthday party not long ago. She looked stunning in a
long black dress. I found myself stumbling for words.
Cute girls never make me stumble for words.
I know very little of her, but what I do impressive.
She’s a flautist. Not always the center of attention,
yet gravitates towards the stage. She holds herself at
a distance as if she’s consistently careful not to
give off any wrong impressions.
She turned her back on the Catholic church as a kid
because they wouldn’t let her be an altar boy anymore.
She must have looked adorable, the outfit, the hair
pulled back.
She’s had started her own summer program for kids.
She’s twenty seven, and a take charge of your own
destiny type. She’s remarkable.
Her eyes constantly dart off into the distance in
thought, and then revert back to pick up wherever the
conversation was headed. But her face and eyes can’t
hide what her mouth often doesn’t say.
“I’ll bet you’re a shitty liar,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m terrible at it.”
She might not always be forthcoming about her
thoughts, but when she is, they are genuine, and I
have nothing but respect for that sort of
self-preservation-honesty mix.
Thursday 9pm. Kara and I sit down for Indian food.
I’ve been a bit whip lashed lately by life, but par
for the course. Money is quickly deteriorating in my
world, as the company I work for still hasn’t paid any
of us writers.
I’ve lived in LA for two and a half years, have been
making my meager living entirely off of my writing,
have seen one film produced, a war-type epic I
co-wrote, and have been struggling along as a
screenwriter for hire, choosing only projects I
believe in.
A producer, Wayne, and Jesper, a creative consultant,
wanted to meet with me in regard to a mini-series on
ancient Rome, knowing my background in writing on
topics of politics, war and religion.
I met them at a Starbucks in Encino. Jesper was from
Denmark. Looked around forty, blonde hair with a touch
of grey. Clean cut. Wayne had a Roman style mustache
and goatee, and was apparently a Roman expert. They
were blue collar fellows, and it made me trust them
more.
In a town like LA, often the real movers and shakers
are in jeans in t-shirts, while bullshit middle men
take the time to manicure, put on silk and drive small
penis automobiles. They were friendly, warm, and spent
a good hour and a half drilling me on how I write and
work with others, and whether or not I can meet their
stringent network deadlines.
I read them some samples, and they hired me on the
spot. $3,477 per week for 13 weeks to co-write on a
mini-series for HBO. I would be one of a team of six
writers who would come together with a staff of
researchers to whip out some brilliance, as HBO
apparently had a production called ROME that was
experiencing delays, and they would need a teaser to
quench the audience’s thirst. That’s where we would
come in.
THE REAL ROME, you know kinda like Real Sports or Real
Sex, would be a docu-drama, three episodes, small
budget of 4 mil per. The last few months of my life
were filled with family tragedy, death and the
ever-present holiday inspired lack of work. I was dead
broke, and getting broker. Needless to say, this was
the light at the end of a very dark tunnel.
The group consisted of quite the talented mix. Anna, a
brilliant writer and script consultant, who I was
partnered with. She’s fifty, funny, warm, and not
afraid to flip you shit. She has a remarkable list of
work under her belt, doing script consulting for some
major writers and producers. I forgive her hippie
nature on account of her kick ass personality.
Jeff K., a former stage and commercial actor slash
Roman buff from Toronto with a wife and kids. He’s a
straight man who likes Broadway.
Jeff B., an ambitious 23-year-old writer who had moved
here with his wife just after his father-in-law’s
death, to take on this job and crank their lives into
some form of positivity amidst the grief.
Don, an East Coast indie filmmaker with a constant
smile and a real life to him. Husky and fresh faced,
Don is a real sweetheart. He gets excited when the
others pitch stories of Roman castrations and 100,000
people getting impaled.
And there’s Patrick, a talented former sci-fi writer
with short silvering hair, good looks and a zest for
action stories. He has a very fast paced, high energy
personality that could either be brilliance, dementia,
or substance abuse, God bless him.
We got passes to eat lunch at the commissary on the
CBS lot. We started mapping out the series. We were
told Glenn A. Larson, a hot shot TV producer, was
partnering on all of Wayne’s projects and he would be
joining the gang shortly, as would be Jim Caviezel, on
a project with Wayne as well. I had visions of asking
him to turn the bottled water into Merlot, but we
didn’t have any.
Things were moving fast. A man by the name of John was
introduced to us as a producer from HBO, who we told
our pitches to. He seemed impressed, thought he was
quickly out the door to his next order of business.
Bobbi, a costume designer, apparently recommended by
the studio was sent over, along with a director of
photography. We took a tour of Western Costumes and
saw a room already set up, with HBO / THE REAL ROME on
the door and costumes already being made, collected,
and ordered for mass production somewhere in India.
Wayne called a meeting. The order for three episodes
has been pushed to six. We would now be employed for
26 weeks guaranteed. All of us immediately started
making calls, canceling other employment, thanking
former Latin instructors, looking at new cars online,
etc. There’s only one problem. There’s a three week
delay in payroll. Peripheral conversations of
borrowing money from family and friends occur.
Justine keeps calling to ask if I’ve met Jesus yet.
“No, and I don’t think it’s really him, he just played
him on TV…”
The creativity and research goes blasting into high
gear. Wayne continues to feed us scenes from his vast
knowledge of Rome, much of them involving penises.
Wayne is one of those truck driver gay men. The type
who get busted hooking up at Park & Rides and Highway
Rest Stops. Most of his Roman knowledge seems to
center around sexual practice, with the researchers
having yet to confirm any of his tidbits.
Synopses are handed to wardrobe and production
designers. John the producer, continues to be seen
coming and going from Wayne’s office, presumably
checking in on our progress.
Nearly two weeks ago, we were told very suddenly we
were moving offices from CBS to either Sunset Gower or
Universal. That HBO had pulled us from our current
location due to a problem with the lease being too
short-term.
We’ve spent the last two weeks working from home, and
stressing about when we’re going to see a check, as we
are continually told that there is just another glitch
in payroll.
The costume department has been paid, and now as of
Thursday, we’ve been there six weeks and not seen a
dime. By contract, we are all already owed an enormous
amount of money. Last week, the writers started
speaking of going to the guild with this issue. This
would bring our employer under scrutiny by HBO, and
it’s almost certain that when that happens, some
middle management producer from the studio is bound to
step in and “save the project from chaos” by replacing
the staff with all of his friends. This is what Wayne
tells us, in his very calm and gentle nature.
Wayne admits to being new to the producing game.
Online, he has no producer credits, but there are some
legitimate articles from legitimate press on how he’s
donated a million dollars to give fire engines in his
home state of Alabama
I tried to keep the other writers from doing anything
rash.
This job is everything I have been working towards,
and the thought of failure, even if it’s not my fault,
sends shivers down my spine like no other. I’m
embarrassed to even admit the unsteadiness of the
present situation.
My mother keeps floating back to my mind. My
grandfather died a week back, and that – combined with
my brother’s passing in August – has her in one of
those “Was I good mother, was I a good daughter?” sort
of states.
My grandfather is still in a freezer somewhere, as no
one can find his 35-year-old bitch of a wife who
married him several years back, took him for
everything he was worth, and is now impossible to
reach as a signature from her is needed to complete
his request of having his ashes sprinkled along with
my grandmother’s over Mt. Rainier.
So I’m sitting across from Kara, Thursday night, and
all this is on my mind, and I’m trying to stay engaged
in the conversation, not come off to heavy.
Writer’s syndrome. I wonder for a moment if I’ve
forgotten how to speak. If I have fallen so far into
being human that I’ve left the human fold entirely.
The human fold is guarded and jaded and disconnected
from anything that is human. Even those white girl
eastern philosophy bitches who shift their furniture
around to feel more in touch with themselves would
condemn me on accounts of emotional instability.
You see, I have nothing to say that isn’t too heavy or
too light. Everything you say is a product of your
experiences, and if all you are currently seeing is
shit, than your just going to say a bunch of shit that
seems to bring on more shitty experiences that causes
you to say a bunch more of shit.
Everyone that I’ve ever known who has wanted to kill
themselves were motivated by the thought that they had
nothing left to offer that would be positively
received. I find it interesting that some of the
people with the most love to give had the most
self-hatred because no one wanted to receive it. The
purest of emotions can be seen as a threat by those
who are conditioned by this jaded little spectacle we
call life. I can’t believe I just wrote that dumb ass
line. Why does anyone ever pay me for this shit?
Now, obviously, this tangent has drifted away from the
autobiographical. I have more people in my life who
love me and depend on my love and words of support
than I know what to do with. I have a zest for life
and a passion for the minutia of all types of
personalities that borders on habitual. And I rock it
too. I still find massive excuses to laugh and be
irreverent and silly and just enjoy the ridiculousness
of our little ball o’ dirt, but there are some days,
when you can’t force yourself into that mind set.
Something lightens inside of me when I see her shift
from her sophisticated stance to her uncomfortable
moments of weighing things out in her head. I don’t
know why, but I find it really charming. Kara has a
boyfriend who recently cruised to somewhere in the
middle of the country to do something. I forget what.
Work and family I think. She had mentioned possibly
cutting it off.
I know she loves him, so I had resigned to being
nothing more than a friend to her while still being
massively drawn to knowing as much as I possibly could
about who she is as a person. Through my thorough
study and research of the creature that is her, I came
to the scientific conclusion that she fucking rules.
So, whatever the nature of our relationship is, I’m
cool with it. I think I caught her checking me out in
the club lights one night.
For a moment, I showed my hand of cards stretched
across my face when she mentioned she was leaving town
to go see him. The boyfriend.
I managed to utter “How’s that going?” and the moment
became built more on what wasn’t being said than what
was.
“It’s going well. I’ll be there for four days.”
“That’s awesome.”
I was actually genuine when I said that. You see,
Kara’s cool. I have no desire to bring confusion into
her life. I’m just stoked to get to know her.
Monday was her actual birthday, which I am suppose to
spend with her. The weekend is spent going out to see
a show with them, me working and stressing about the
absence of my check and three day pay or vacate notice
I got on my door.
Monday. 7pm. East Hollywood.
The writers were up in arms. My mother calling to ask
if I wanted my dead grandmother’s bedsheets that were
still in the package, the woman still hoarding away
mounds of odds and ends ten years after her death.
That takes talent. And Wayne, who currently owes me an
enormous amount of money, was supposed to at the very
least bring petty cash down to appease a few of my
bills as he had been promising all weekend to throw me
a couple grand until the checks arrived.
Patrick, our beloved hot headed paranoid, allegedly
“coke-addicted” writer had suffered a burst appendix a
few days prior, his fear of ever never getting paid or
the project going bust guiding him through the
operation. Now, back on his feet, he had spent the day
looking for the new offices that we had yet to move
into on Lankershim out of fear he was being fired,
going from building to building trying to find Wayne.
He can’t even get addiction right. He should be just
going into the same building over and over and over.
But, in any case, his deranged idiocy delayed my boss
in meeting with me and giving me any cash. His writing
partner has grown weary of him as well, as Wayne seems
to be trying to find a way to let him go without any
disturbance, continuing to ask us all if we see any
signs of drug use.
Too embarrassed to tell my new friends I am too broke
to go out and realizing once again how this unstable
career can utterly destroy my best of intentions in my
personal life, I am a lame ass. I finally called Kara,
telling her I’m going to be able to make it out at
all.
My phone is still ringing off the hook as I try to
ease everyone’s panic, as I am balancing momentary
thoughts of feeling like a total freaking loser. All I
feel like doing is buying my friend a birthday drink.
Grabbing her some birthday flowers. She had consumed
much of my mind over the weekend, wanting to see her,
but too broke to go out and to proud to admit it.
My mind is racing with fears of failure. I had
recently abandoned those fears. I stopped caring about
where my career was heading right before it started
soaring full speed ahead. Not financially, but things
were falling into place. People were noticing a
particular style, I guess.
Seneca said “Cease to hope and you will cease to
fear…” There’s some truth in it. The constant string
of jobs and pats on the back brought some hope into
the mix. The other writers and delayed checks brought
the fear.
Monday. 10pm.
I’m pacing back and forth down the street trying to
make sense of all the work chaos, as Anna pep talked
me, strangely. That’s not her style as much.
“I want the career your friend Robert has,” I say, as
I suddenly feel annoyed with my ambitious side taking
precedence over the craft itself.
“He was 38 and ready to call it quits when it finally
clicked. Now he makes millions. It just took a long
time.” She says.
I’m 31 and have written over forty feature scripts and
plays. Part of me feels like an old vet while the
other part of me still fresh faced inexperienced kid.
“You see David, there is a problem with your work.”
Great. She’s about to add insult to injury.
“Your work has a voice. It’s exactly what you think
and feel, which will make it a nightmare at first, but
trust me, there will be rewards because of the way you
do things in the long run...”
Coming from her, the words settled me. My phone beeped
again as I was walking back into my apartment. It was
Kara again. Inviting me over. We partook in small talk
with her roommate and classical guitarist friend whose
masculinity momentarily slipped away when he admitted
to liking Titanic. I didn’t ask him what he thought of
that Celine Dion song, I couldn’t bear to hear the
answer. He’s one of my favorite people I’ve met
recently. He’s from Toronto, and has a strange mix of
East Coast hard edge and northern “I could give a
fuck” passivity. Rather impressive stories to tell as
well.
Which brings us back to Tuesday. And the gun. And
Justine. And Eric. And the spiritual gifts exercise.
Prophecy, Intercession. As I take the quiz, knowing it
would be retarded to put much stake into its answers,
Eric wanders into the room, looking high as a kite.
It’s likely he’s here looking for Justine, who has
been avoiding his calls after his romantic persistence
made her feel uncomfortable. Damn, he really looks
high.
I fucking hate how substances attach themselves to
those who are the most sensitive. I only get around to
a night of real drinking maybe once a month, so
therefore, with my tolerance low but thirst for
nothing more than hydration high, it’s easy to
stupidly consume to much and find yourself speaking in
ways that would have helped me score higher on the
“:speaking in tongues” portion of the test.
Eric stammers around, loudly makes fun of the quiz and
seems to make most in the room both humored and
uncomfortable. I can’t tell if this is a substance or
crippling anxiety-prone depression, but something
doesn’t seem right, as I sit here with the results of
the quiz in fingertips, feeling proud that I scored
low on Celibacy. My mind is flying high with work. My
family. And strangely, amidst it all, a girl.
Yet, as he shifts all over the room, needing to charm
those who seem somewhat concerned about his current
mental state, I feel the need to pull him away and
find out what this guy is all about. I notice the way
his body was working to shut off his mind and heart,
and I really feel for him.
“I’m going for a cigarette. Walk with me,” I say.
He follows. He looks paranoid when a cop drives by,
and tells me he has a gun across the street in his
car, that he had been to the shooting range earlier
and was driving on a suspended license due to a
D.U.I., so if he got pulled over, they would search
and he’d be fucked. I ignore it. And I start hammering
him with questions. You can tell me anything. Nothing
fazes me.
And he lets’ loose. The stories of his fist fights,
heroin and coke addictions of yesteryear, never
admitting to even having so much as a beer in the
present day, are unsurprisingly followed by stories of
an abusive childhood, his brother’s death. And how
just after the night I first met him, just as Justine
had turned him down, he had to catch a flight back
home to see his grandma.
Scared shitless of facing a past that he rarely
connects with, he had stalled just before getting in
his friend’s car to head to the airport. “I left
something upstairs.” He tried to tell them. They
wouldn’t accept that and shoved him in the car.
“I was planning on going back upstairs, pulling the
gun out of my closet, and blowing my brains out.” He
says to me as we sit down on a planter next to
church’s entrance, and I ask if I can pray for him. I
don’t know if it will do much good. I’m no pastor. I’m
no missionary. I’m just a guy who’s seen a bunch of
shit and come out the other side as a generally happy
camper who really loves people. But we pray. For a
long time. Lord, let the sins others have placed on
him not turn him to self-destruction. Let him see how
his gifts of charm and humor can help the world around
him. Let him find a peace through knowing that he
doesn’t have to be a product of his environment, his
environment can be a product of him. Let him realize
that the sick feeling beneath his skin is the result
of others, that he isn’t innately born feeling this
way, and that you can bring him back to the core of
who he is. Lord, this world has really fucked him
over, don’t let him fuck himself over as a result.
Lord, let him forgive the people who have hurt him,
forgive himself for the way he has reacted to it all,
and lift that weight.
We hug hard. I have no idea if I’ve reached him, but
having just lost a friend to suicide months prior, I
was really praying that this would work. I’m sick of
people dying who were dealt a shitty hand, people
thriving who shit all over everyone else, and me
feeling helpless when I get the phone calls after the
fact.
It actually takes a bit of work to ask him for it. “I
don’t think you are in a state where you should have a
gun in your possession.”
He immediately offers it, using reasons of not wanting
to get pulled over with it. Thank God. We walk across
the street to his car. It isn’t loaded. The clip lies
next to it.
“It’s clean,” he says. “Make sure it stays that way.”
If it was clean, he hadn’t been to the shooting range
earlier that day. There was a reason it was in his
car, and fear swept over me for his safety and others.
I put it in my pocket and we walk back into the church
together. The bulge is huge, but luckily, I am wearing
my longer green checkered polyester jacket with my
black Fubu jeans. The jeans have deep pockets. The
jacket covers the majority of the bulge. I suddenly
realized how handy this particular combination would
be to gangs across America. Visions of Crips, Bloods
and L.A. Locos in plaid polyester sweep through my
mind, and I feel happier than I’ve been in the last
two weeks.
I hug a few friends goodbye and start the long trek
home, being careful not to jaywalk and get stopped. I
had lost my I.D. a few days back, and being without
any identification with a forty-five in your pocket
wouldn’t look good to Officer Friendly. It crosses my
mind if Kara would return my calls if she were to
drive by and see me in handcuffs with a forty-five
lying on the front of a cop car. Hey, these things
happen.
I suddenly wonder where the gun has been, and I
immediately dial Justine, to reaffirm that she is not
to answer his calls. I don’t think he’d harm her, he
doesn’t seem to be a danger to others. I think with
some tight friendships, this kid could come out the
other side of it all.
Justine doesn’t answer her phone at first. Ten minutes
pass by as I continue home, suddenly getting really
scared for her. This girl is one of the best friends
you find in this city. We tell each other everything.
I’ve never gotten bored talking to Justine. Never
waiting for her to finish a sentence so I could start
one. She is an example of a nearly perfect, selfless
person. I would never forgive this world if it harmed
her.
I walk up the steps. Finally the phone rings. It’s
Justine. We talk for hours. She needs to know it isn’t
her fault he is this way. She did the best she can. He
needs guy friends. Not a girl. No girl can save a man
from treating himself poopy.
Wednesday Morning.
I woke up early this morning and took a long walk.
I fucking hate guns. I can’t stand the fact that the
no-good piece of scrap metal is buried in the back of
my closet, even though it has no bullets. I have no
intention of giving it back to him anytime soon, and
my friend Mason who leads the Bible study kindly
declined via phone this morning to take it, even
though he loves shooting ranges.
I thought long and hard about Eric. How easy it would
be for anyone to get smacked around by life’s
circumstances and fall into that frame of mind. About
how much he wants to give love right now, and how his
instability makes it impossible for someone to want to
receive it, which makes it impossible for him to get
stable. The viscous circles of life. The fact that he
carried a gun. So tragic, his life circumstances
inspiring such fear. The desperate need for control. I
suddenly feel more tenderness towards Republicans.
As I sit in front of my computer, wondering if work is
going to blow up in my face, if I’m going to lose my
job, not see a check in time, get evicted, and look
like an idiot in front of everyone, all I feel like
doing is typing about a pretty girl with wavering
eyes.
Wednesday 8:55 p.m.
I have no cell minutes left. Kara calls. I tell her
I’d call her back. After nine, cell time is free. It
crosses my mind how many relationships have been
destroyed due to delays in expressing emotions during
anytime minutes.
9 p.m. I call Anna.
“David, I have bad news… As bad as it can get.”
“What?”
“It doesn’t exist. None of it exists. HBO has never
heard of our employer. There is no tie between us and
them. There is no money.”
I went into denial. I hung up and called Kara back.
She told me “I just wanted to thank you for coming out
on Monday night…”
She seemed so formal. So calculated. The
sophistication had morphed into over-diplomacy. I
figured I’d go for broke. Share it all. Let her know
I’m a loser and she’s amazing yet guarded and I’m
honest, yet my world is falling apart.
So, I read her what you just read. No joke. I read it
all to her. I had just found out five minutes prior
that I had lost a $90,000 contract, had not a dime to
my name, was on the verge of eviction, and now
suddenly realizing, that I was destroying a friendship
with someone I was really enamored with.
She hung up the phone within sixty seconds of the
completion of the reading. Obviously, she wasn’t
impressed. My level of honesty isn’t good for anyone.
Once again, too human for the human fold.
The truth sets in. My life is fucked. All of my
connections know about this job. With my reputation
trashed, my crush quite possibly looking into
restraining orders, my career over, and my family once
again destined to see me as a letdown, I thought about
the gun in my closet.
It was as if God took it out of Eric’s hands, and the
devil put it into mine. However, for some reason, I
still didn’t want to die. The seratonin-dopamine fight
or flight phenomena had even failed me a way out.
I got on the phone with Justine. We talked for a long
time as I walked back and forth down Hollywood
Boulevard. It didn’t matter what she said. Just the
sound of her voice. It didn’t just calm me. It made me
feel really good. She made me laugh.
“It’s hard to be upset for too long when I’m talking
to you… It doesn’t matter what happens, when I talk to
you…”
It was so true. Somehow, I related to this girl’s love
for others, lack of self-preservation, and irreverent
humor amidst the evils of this world. For a second, I
felt like an asshole for pursuing Kara, who I couldn’t
even talk to, when the person I wanted to share
everything with was right there. There was only one
problem. It’s not that way between her and I. Both of
us, chasing after those we can’t fully talk to. I wish
God had never created bodies, just spirits that choose
what they project.
The phone rings again. “Dave, we found his house.
You’ll never fucking believe it.” Patrick says “We’re
gonna make sure these guys don’t try to go anywhere
tonight. Do you want to come take turns keeping
watch?”
Three of the writers had spent the last couple hours
looking for the producer’s assistant’s car, who was
rumored to be staying with him somewhere near the CBS
lot.
“We’re gonna get these mother fuckers…” Patrick says
to me.
Thursday. 10 am.
We are all gathered at a diner near the CBS lot and my
mind is already racing with ideas on a script I had
put on hold before this all had started. It isn’t
over, but my mind is ready to move on.
At the table is John, the supposed HBO producer, all
the writers, the costume designer, and the art
director that has brought some of the most impressive
designs with him that I have ever seen. Incredible
really, the minds and talents in the room.
The truth comes out. John isn’t from HBO. We were told
he was. He was told that we were. The costume woman
wasn’t recommended by HBO, even though her credentials
were far beyond needing that. She was referred to
Wayne by Western Costume. She hasn’t been paid a dime.
Wayne had convinced John that HBO was slow on a wire
transfer, and John convinced the line producer he
hired to put up about five grand to get things rolling
in the art department. Petty cash.
Jesper is here, having known Wayne off and on for 17
years, looking shell shocked, claiming he lost seventy
grand of his fiancée’s money to the whole thing,
believing Wayne had a deal the whole time fronting the
cash.
John relates his end of the story. He finally calls
HBO. They’d never heard of Light Force Entertainment,
Wayne, or any project called The Real Rome. Why would
anyone do this? You would have to be insane. Fucking
insane! Wayne probably believed that he could string
us along for long enough to get some amazing pages, go
into pre-production, get his deal and become
unstoppable.
Now, all in all, John and his line producer friend are
out the cash. Writers and researchers aren’t going to
see any of the money (none of us having worked
elsewhere for nine weeks and canceling upcoming gigs),
the costume lady is screwed and the art department
just plain baffled.
This all on top of Jeff B’s research, finding out the
fire stations were required to hire new employees in
order to comply with Wayne’s requests, and have yet to
see the million dollar vehicles promised by Light
Force Entertainment. Jeff B. looks at me and says
“Wayne told me his first sexual experience was in a
fire station.”
I had thoughts of Rosebud
I am facing eviction. Have nowhere to go. Jeff B. and
his young bride have nothing and a six month lease,
wishing they could just go back to Ohio. I hear vague
conversations about Bush making it harder to file
bankruptcy in the background.
And Patrick, the paranoid coke head, wasn’t paranoid
or even on coke. He was right all along. It was a
sham..
He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I hate to say I told
you so..”
I laughed, holding back my tears. “I’m sorry for you
man. I know this hits hard,” he says. He was so
genuine. He even turned out to be a damn fine writer.
Now, we just had to find Wayne. And our contracts,
w4’s, the researchers’ hundreds of dollars’ worth of
library books, you name it.
We got in the car and trekked over to where Wayne,
Brent and Jesper were staying. Wayne wasn’t there. We
later found out he was in court at the time on
Indecent Exposure / Lewd Conduct charges, filed in
Pasadena, for crying out loud.
When we got there, the true horror set in. They had
been staying in a converted garage out behind a little
old ladies house. Wayne and his assistant in one room,
Jesper in the other. The poor woman had been giving
them free rent, as they had promised she would be
working as a production coordinator on the HBO series.
My gawd, how did he pull it all off?
How did this guy, without any cash to his name, get us
on the CBS lot, a rented bungalow office, a new lease
signed on Lankershim, a costume department employed
and put into high gear, an art director, six writers,
two researchers and two office assistants all working
full-time, and all of this he masterminded out of a
little old ladies garage?
I am impressed, to say the least. I get him on the
phone. We’re all standing in the woman’s front yard,
as she looks traumatized by the news, that this lovely
man could do such a thing. “I was counting on that
job, since I wasn’t getting any money from them for
rent of the back house,” she said, looking as if she
was going to cry.
Patrick is yelling “Fuck you Wayne” over and over,
flipping off the phone that is currently up to my ear.
“Wayne, we know there is no deal between you and HBO,”
I say.
“Well, that’s news to me,” he says.
“Wayne, how could you do this to us? This is sick.”
“So, the writers are going on strike then? Maybe it
would help if we showed HBO some of the pages,” he
says.
“Wayne, HBO has never heard of you. Sam, the woman at
HBO has never heard of you. There is no Light Force
Productions. Wayne, you need help. I’m going to pray
for you brother. You really need help.”
I believe that Wayne actually believed he had a deal.
That to con us, he had conned himself. We were dealing
with what seems to be, a total fucking sociopath. God
bless America.
It’s been ten minutes, and Patrick is still jumping up
and down and cursing the phone in the background, as
the rest of the writers sing “Liar, liar pants on
fire.” I feel like my heads going to explode as I hand
the phone over to someone else, and lament the fact
that I’m sure to be homeless in the matter of days.
The little old lady announces that Wayne won’t be
staying with her anymore, and that I am more than
welcome to the spare room in the garage if I need a
place to stay.
I suddenly realized that for me, the worsening of life
circumstances had only begun.
While this was happening, my phone ran out of minutes.
Shut off. No contact with the outside world. No way to
have known that Justine’s mother was in the hospital
due to an irregular heart beat. No way to check up on
Eric, who I was really worried for, and suddenly felt
as if there was no way I could reach out to him while
dealing with my own dire needs, and a family to whom I
owe money, and have suddenly no way of being
supportive of, as my dead grandfather is still hanging
out in a freezer somewhere outside of Sumner,
Washington.
The ripple affect of this unstable career is showing
its instantaneous power. Plus, I still have yet to
find a way to get rid of that fucking gun, and I know
Eric wants it back.
What’s funny, the biggest lesson from all of this, was
how I felt that night that Justine talked to me on the
phone. The sound of her voice. The way she didn’t
judge my failure. The way she listened and made me
laugh.
I still feel so humiliated.
Life comes bashing away at full speed even without the
help of something as unbelievable as all this. People
die all around you. They kick the shit out of each
other and lie to each other. Desire and depression
mold some into creatures of compassion and humor, like
Justine. Some into bottles of escapism, anxiety and
self-destruction, like Eric. Some into guarded
diplomacy, like Kara, and some into brilliant
sociopaths who run a fraud that leaves over a dozen
workers screwed for hundreds of thousands of dollars
in lost wages, not to mention the humiliation and
feeling of a career headed towards doom.
Even having tested high on Prophecy, I never saw any
of this coming. My test scores on Intercession aren’t
seeming to be of much help either.
But I’m still off to pray. Pray for Justine’s mom.
Pray for my co-workers. Pray for Eric. Pray for
family. Pray for that bitch that is responsible for
the fact that my grandfather is still in need of
thawing. Pray for Wayne. And pray that I can sell this
story overnight and get enough money to keep from
getting evicted, losing my mind, and finding myself
living in a little old ladies garage near the CBS lot,
promising my elderly landlady a job on a project that
only exists in my head.
Written by David N. Donihue. ©opyright 2005.
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