I take a sip of club soda and promise to take screenwriting under advisement.
He doesn’t believe me. “Seriously, you’ve got one of the best agents in the city. You write a screenplay and I absolutely, positively guarantee he could sell it for half a million bucks. Maybe more.”
As much as I want to dismiss his claim as hyperbolic nonsense, I can’t. I stand to make that much when
J&J
goes through. Inconceivably, the amount I could get for the movie is fifty times more than I got on the advance for the book. That’s lifestyle-changing money. Imagine pulling in that kind of cash for what is essentially a short story.
It’s mind-boggling.
Harry has my attention now and he knows it. “Here, I’ll write down a few titles of books you should read. Or there are courses you can take. UCLA and USC film schools are the obvious ones. Or I could hook you up with some writers if you’re not into the classroom experience. A lot of people find one-on-one to be really helpful. You don’t have to fight for the attention of the instructor with two dozen other hopefuls who have equally brilliant ideas. Trust me, I know. I got my MFA at USC and it was a constant struggle.”
He hands me the napkin, which I glance at thoughtfully. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look at one of the books to find out exactly what is required of screenwriting. After all, I already have one of the best agents in the business working for me. And he described it as writing for nonwriters—isn’t that me?
“I also added my e-mail address,” he says, pointing at the napkin as I tuck it into my purse. Harry looks at his watch and says he should be going. “The
Wallabee Brothers
premiere. There’s supposed to be a fabulous dinner spread and I’m starving.”
He says it so seriously, I can’t help laughing.
Harry winks. “Hey, I’m just an honest freeloader trying to get by.”
After he leaves, the party starts to wind down. I find Elaine by the gift bag table, which is completely empty. With a Gucci wallet, a Tiffany key chain and Stila makeup, the bags were a hot commodity.
“They were gone in the first half hour,” Elaine says. “My mom didn’t even get one.”
“Me neither,” I realize.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got you covered. I figured there’d be a run, so I left two in my room.”
I thank her for her remarkable foresight and sigh. I’m amazed how relieved I am that this is almost over. Being feted is wonderful and amazing, but now all I want to do is get out of these killer heels and eat something. The butterflies that taunted me all day have finally gone away.
Kevin from Maire invites us to the after-party with Lloyd and Moxie, but neither one of us is up for it. Instead, we return to the Marmont and order a feast from room service, everything from seared monkfish to mini-burgers. She tells me about her party (stealing a copy of the book from someone’s gift bag to give to Moxie’s people) and I tell her about mine (Moxie’s complete vapidity).
At twelve she leaves, and although I expect to be up all night reliving recent glories, I’m out the second my head hits the pillow.
Golden rays wake me again at dawn, and for the second morning in a row I watch the sun spill over Los Angeles. The light falls over the city, first the hills, then the houses, then the skyscrapers, with breathtaking splendor. Lying there, my back against a soft feather pillow, my head filled with memories of the night before, I think L.A. is the most beautiful place on earth. I watch the show, feeling a strange sort of peace, a consuming optimism that paints a future more vibrant than anything I’ve ever imagined. Life is a series of opportunities just waiting to present themselves; all I have to do is reach out and grab them.
They don’t call it the dream factory for nothing.
My national television debut consists of a one-second shot of my hands as they close a copy of
Jarndyce and Jarndyce
after signing it for the
Access Hollywood
cameras. The interview itself had lasted ten minutes, and while I wasn’t naïve enough to think they’d actually air the whole thing, my enthusiasm led me to believe they’d use at least part of it.
In fact,
J&J
isn’t mentioned at all in the forty-five second segment. In a voiceover, Shaun Robinson introduces the piece by announcing the stars turned out to celebrate Moxie’s newest project. It cuts immediately to the starlet talking about the role of a second-year law student who interns at a high-powered firm in Manhattan. “It’s a great opportunity for me to transition to older parts.” Then it jumps to Lloyd saying he thought of Moxie the second he read the book. “It’s a smart role and she’s a smart girl. I knew it would be a perfect fit.” Next it shows scenes from the party, flashing from one celebrity to another: Kitty Dunleavy, Pammy Hester (the statuesque blond), Bella Masters and this year’s British Idol winner. Bella broods sultrily for the camera—as an heiress and notorious sex kitten, it’s her only talent—and says she wants to be cast in the film. In her sly announcer voice, Robinson says, “Well, America, you heard it here first,” as the segment closes on the tips of my manicured fingers.
Not all the press coverage is like that.
Us
magazine ran a contest to win the gift bag from the party and included an image of the book. The blurb that ran along side included my name in boldface.
People
mentioned me (roman type) in a full-spread piece about party-hopping with Moxie. After Boodle’s, she dropped by the
Wallabee Brothers
premiere, then the Fenix for a friend’s birthday and the Whiskey for an album release. During the evening, she has two costume changes and by the time she’s rocking to Dave’s Cousin’s Band, she’s wearing a miniscule black skirt and six-inch heels.
Life & Style, OK, Hello
and
Star
also cover the event, including my name and the book somewhere in their item.
The best moment of all is when
Hollywood Reporter
quotes me. I get in two full sentences about the strangeness of the experience. “It’s beyond real,” I say. “Writers from New York never stand on red carpets while photographers call their name.” It was on the tip of my tongue to say paralegals, but I managed to catch myself at the very last second.
The
Hollywood Reporter
article is the extent of my quotations. I’m happy with it (Lloyd had only one sentence) but disappointed that none of my other finely honed sound bites made it to print. My expectations were high, but it’s not my fault. Six magazines interviewed me about everything from my dress to my favorite Moxie movie. They seemed interested, but now I know they were only being polite. It would have been terrible rude to simply turn away in boredom when the publicist introduced them to the author of the book.
I wish they had.
The fall to earth, precipitated by the
Access Hollywood
piece but aided by sluggish book sales, is hard and brutal. I thought the party would have far-reaching implications in my life but it’s hardly a blip on the radar.
I return home Sunday night, and my life immediately resumes its normal routine. I get up Monday morning at seven, do forty minutes on the elliptical at the gym, make oatmeal for breakfast, watch
Live with Kelly,
check e-mail, talk to Carrie, scavenge for lunch, take a practice LSAT, score it, take another practice LSAT, have frozen pizza for dinner and go to sleep. On Tuesday, I wake up and repeat.
It’s like the party never happened.
When Quentin Tarantino drops out of
The Hanging Judge at Midnight
movie, Carrie e-mails me the clipping under the subject heading of a winking emoticon. She has set her Google alerts to let her know whenever the competing project is mentioned in the press. In recent months, the references have been considerably less frequent, which is a relief to me. I know it’s not a contest and yet I can’t help but feel like I’m locked in a head-to-head struggle with the other book.
The Hanging Judge at Midnight
is
a fictionalized tell-all about a notoriously eccentric supreme court judge by a disgruntled former clerk; it came out two weeks after
J&J.
Although the author swore up and down that the story was pure invention, everyone knew Delacourt Hardscrabble was a thinly veiled Delano Scabbard. The judge’s famous quirks—raw eggs for breakfast, rendering judgments in haiku, his maniacal temper, a beloved Colt 45 called Corky that goes everywhere with him—were all in evidence as well as a few that never got airtime before like the honey-and-oatmeal mask he applies every night to keep his sixty-eight-year-old skin looking young and fresh.
The novel was scathing, revealing more about the depth of author Jonas Woodsmith’s anger at being abused by one of the most prominent men of the twentieth century than about the most prominent man himself. Still, it was an excellent career move for a junior law clerk who barely lasted six months on the job.
The tabloids ate it up, as did the public, who couldn’t wait to read salacious tidbits about the judge who had sent thirty-five men to their death in Dallas. The reviews, universally negative save for an inexplicably fawning one in
EW,
did little to slow sales. People were greedy for every last detail.
Into this feeding frenzy somehow slipped
Jarndyce and Jarndyce,
which was cited as further proof that the slaves were turning on their masters. Taken together, our novels were seen as disturbing proof that young people today are no longer willing to serve their time in the trenches. No, we are all impatient, grasping and ungrateful peons eagerly waiting for a chance to bite the hand that feeds us.
The comparison struck me as grossly inaccurate—I had no access to power and could therefore not betray it—but I gladly rode Woodsmith’s coattails, especially when they carried me to the magazine section of the Sunday
Times.
My novel was a mere footnote to the larger story on Woodsmith but a mention in the
Times
is a mention in the
Times.
I was giddy for a week and only came down from the high when
Variety
announced that Universal bought the rights to
The Hanging Judge
for $700,000. It didn’t seem fair that a book with such terrible reviews could be worth so much money, but notoriety has its own accounting system.
David Fincher immediately signed on to direct. Eight months later, Ron Howard was at the helm. Since then, a series of rotating names has been suggested for the top position. Not a single part has been cast. I, meanwhile, have Moxie.
If filmmaking is a race, then it’s a long hike to the finish line.
The Hanging Judge
just doesn’t seem to have the endurance. What a tremendous coup if
Jarndyce and Jarndyce,
the little book that could, got there first. It’s dizzying to consider.
But of course I tell Carrie it’s something I never think about and ask her to please stop forwarding the articles.
After six weeks of listening to increasingly erratic explanations of why a woman named Esperanza Diaz is answering my phone, Mom calls human resources at Hertzberg, Wright, Silver and Penn and asks to speak to the person in charge. She gets Henry, who completely rats me out. Not only does he admit that I no longer work there, he also explains her that it was my own decision.
Mom freaks. She packs a bag, bakes a ham-and-cheese casserole and shows up on my doorsteps with seven books on how to find a job, including
Careers for Dummies.
Agitated, confused and angry, she sits on my couch and announces she’s not leaving until I am gainfully employed.
I try not to take offense.
There are no two words in the English language more reviled by my parents than
I quit.
Carstones never quit. Not because we’re stubborn, persistent or focused but because we’re terrified of change. “Hang on and be miserable” is the family motto. Someone should translate it to Latin and stick it on a crest with lions.
“It’s going to be fine,” I say, showing her the half-finished book of practice LSATs. After two and a half weeks of plowing through one test after another, however, I’m not so sure. It’s not that I can’t figure out the logic problems if I apply myself; it’s simply that they’re so incredibly boring I don’t want to. Standing next to a copier for three hours is more engaging. “I needed the time to study for the LSAT. The firm kept me too busy.”
It’s truth retrofitted to meet the circumstance but truth all the same.
Mom flips through the book of practice questions and notes my scores. She nods slowly. “Yes, you do need to study. You can’t get into Harvard with anything less than a 175.”
I’m surprised by her ambition. When I was applying to undergrad, my parents were sensible and frugal. They said we had go to a state school unless we were willing to take out loans to cover half the tuition ourselves. But now that it’s graduate school, the expense of which will be shouldered one hundred percent by me, she’s all over the pricey private institutions.
Just thinking about it gives me a stomachache. I’m not sure I can handle getting a hundred thousand dollars in debt for something I don’t love.
“What you need is test prep,” Mom says. “Mrs. Heller’s son took a course at the Y and got into Princeton. He had an excellent tutor for the logic section. Let me call and find out his name.”
As Mom whips out her phone, I move her suitcase into my bedroom and quickly straighten up. Except for the Dior dress, which is hanging on the closet door, I haven’t unpacked from L.A. I shove my luggage and dirty laundry into the closet and sketchily make my bed. The room is still a mess, but it’s the neatest it’s been in three months.
I’d let her sleep on the couch, but that would constitute parental abuse. The foldout’s all springs and metal bars. It was a gift from my grandparents when I started college. Even new, it was a torture device.
Mom is putting down the phone as I reenter the living room. “There, that’s all settled. Mrs. Heller’s son’s instructor is going to give you private lessons Mondays, Wednesday and Thursdays at four-thirty. Here’s his address.”
The tutor in question lives in Sunnyside, Queens, an hour away from here. There are plenty of prep services in Manhattan, some down the block, but I don’t say anything. I just take the slip of paper and thank my mother.
I look at the time—it’s a little after five—and wonder when my father will show up. Mom can’t handle a crisis of this caliber alone.
As if on cue, the buzzer sounds.
A few minutes later, Dad steps into my apartment and gives me a bone-crushing hug. “We’ll get through this together,” he says gruffly.
I nod solemnly.
“Part-time work, Carl,” my mom says by way of greeting as she walks over to my desk and turns on the computer.
Dad nods. “A morning shift from nine to one.”
Mom smiles. “Then afternoon study from two to six.”
At first I have no idea what they’re talking about, but as soon as Mom starts updating my résumé I put it together. Dad stands at her shoulder, helping with adjectives and verbs. Suddenly my dull paralegal career starts to take on the glamour and adventure of spy work. Now I leverage top-secret documents and coordinate covert meetings. By the time they’re done, I’ve practically overthrown Castro on my own.
When I point out the gross inaccuracies, Dad pats me on the head and says everyone pads their résumé.
Mom begins work on the cover letter, a two-page manifesto on the importance of a good paralegal. Seen through her prism, history is a series of clerical errors that could have been avoided with the right support staff.
The phone rings. I assume it’s Carrie calling to say she’ll be late for dinner—the smell of ham-and-cheese casserole is already wafting through my tiny kitchen—but it’s Lester Dedlock with the news that Tipston and Field have finally signed.
“Arcadia is cutting the set-up-bonus check right now,” he says. “You should have it by the end of next week.”
I thank him, put down the phone and lean against the wall. Suddenly I have twenty-five thousand dollars. Twenty-five thousand dollars to save or to spend or to waste or to invest. It’s my money—not a legacy from my grandparents to be used responsibly with parental oversight—and I can do anything in the world I want with it. My heart rate kicks up. Twenty-five thousand dollars.
In the living room, Mom asks my father the dates of the Holy Roman Empire.
For years, I’ve been waiting for something to change my life. First I thought it would be the book, then the movie, then the party. But the only thing that will ever change it is me.
While Dad Googles Julius Caesar and Mom looks up how to spell
Byzantine
in Webster’s Eleventh, I run into the bedroom, pull my suitcase out, open the top drawer of my dresser and start packing my bag.
I’m moving to L.A.