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me, wanting to get those bone-crushing hands on my throat, i could tell.
Definitely. But cooler heads prevailed-Chip Russell's to be exact, who simply
pointed out, "We have Ac makings-right in this room, now-of television
history. So let s make it work."
Ahhh, the magic words. Robin shot me a little smile; I was already beaming.
See, when they say "let's make it work," you've got them. Because what
happened (only you're not supposed to know) is they already SOLD IT to their
bosses-the whole package. They went in and laid their asses on the line-the
concept, the ideal casting, the budget, everything. The head honcho had,
apparently, creamed his Armanis. These two guys were in for a pound. And I was
going to be at least five ounces of it
"I think you're right. Chip," I said, shooting Buddy Wickwire a look. "And I'm
the man who can write the shit out of it. Can't I, honey?" I turned to Robin.
With that, Robin shot me a look of such love that, I swear to you, I almost
got down on my knees right there in that office and thanked God for the day He
delivered my tormented and cheesy soul into her magic.
"We're beginning to look like a hit," said Chip.
I thought I ought to sort of cap the whole thing off with a little brown-nose.
It never hurts. "Who is the Ewho thought the Crusader thing up? I'd like
t'meet him!
Wickwire grinned a real power grin; my heart froze. For just a second, I saw
actual danger in this guy's bonded teeth. "Devon thought it up. He works here,
now."
I almost lost it. Devon Converse was Wickwire's, uhhh, roommate. The same guy
who'd rewritten me on the TV movie. He was supposed to have AIDS, too. "Yeah,"
Chip said brightly, "Devon's heading the team now. He'll be in any minute with
the director! I guess we could talk about writers-look, here they come!"
But in my power seat, I'd already seen Devon Converse and I had to admit it,
the sonofabitch was cool. He looked to be in good health to me although he was
leading a man who looked .old enough he probably should have been in an iron
lung, maybe two.
When they came in, I led everybody in jumping to their feet. Yet, it seemed
like I was the only one in the room who didn't know who the old dude was.
Finally, Devon Converse turned to me and said, "Have you met Reed Savage?"
I thought he was shitting me at, first. Wasn't Reed Savage dead? Or was that
Walter Reed? Or Jessica Savage? Hell, I didn't know, but I covered it okay.
Even though he looked old and stooped over, his ice blue eyes had enough life
for a small town.
The deal was set in stone by the close of business on Friday. The only smoke
that had to disappear up anybody's ass was me as non-replaceable,
non-rewritable, pay-or-play writer for the run of the show. They were thinking
of some hack named Thornton Wilder. Puhleeze. Did you ever scope out that
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wimpola high school play he wrote called Our Town? I mean, get real, Thomie;
all Emily needs is a good horse-fucking.
The weather had been hot and nasty; it never seemed to cool down and the smog
hung pale red in the air, night, and day. But in Hollywood, stuff like that
never matters.
The meetings started as Blondie and Richard, Crusaders in Love went into high
development. The network put half a dozen researchers to work on the old time
period, castles and armor and stuff. They hired a costume guy to do
preliminary drawings, real wild and feathery, especially the dresses that
Robin was going to use. They looked good. The network also sprung for a couple
of drug-crazed comic book artists to create a picture book to sell the
affiliate stations. It was all part of a kit; tee shirts, bumper stickers,
contest suggestions, the whole megillah, and all around the centerpiece, a
three-minute video cassette teaser.
Misty smoke cleared and there was Robin, a close up, set against our living
room wall, which was fake castle-type stone-like, and while this neat
old-timey music played, she read a speech of Blondie's. Mamma-mia, that woman;
can act! I know her, I know the wall, I know the words because I wrote 'em,
and still, when I see that tape, damn if I don't go boo-hoo. It's
semi-embarrassing.
Here's the setup: Blondie has just discovered Richard the Lion-Hearted in this
French jail They've whipped the dog shit out of him. The guard lets her radar
Richard out and then drags her away. He was just teasing her. They throw her
out of the jailhouse and she goes over to her girlfriend's. Blondie s wiped
and she takes a couple of drinks. Who wouldn't, right? Then, she leans back
against the cool stone wall, looks into nothingness, and begins to talk.
"I saw him, and yet, I did not. I heard him, and yet, I did not. I love him,
and yet, I do not. He is cruel-a murderer, a warrior king whose heart belongs
to steel alone. He is a hawk at the well. And, dying of thirst, I would give
my life just to lie by his side one night..."
I told her to go ahead and write her Emmy speech; she told me she couldn't
have done it without the poetry. See how perfect we are for each other? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]