The insufferable mr flet.., p.1
The Insufferable Mr. Fletcher, page 1
The Insufferable Mr. Fletcher
Copyright © 2023 by Lindo Forbes
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
EBOOK ISBN: 979-8-2231553-5-5
PAPERBACK ISBN: 978-1-7381463-0-7
Book Cover by Zandra Murray, Zandragon Designs.
First edition 2023
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Author's Note
Junior's Bookshelf
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To those who shake tables against injustice in all it’s forms, remain ungovernable.
Chapter 1
“I need a hard body with a firm hand and light touch to help deliver paradise. Preferably two. Three would be magical.” Junior Sano burst into the construction break room on the set of Elysian, now shooting its fourth season in Toronto. “Any takers?”
Twenty pairs of eyes long used to her antics bounced between Junior and the head carpenter, waiting for the punchline. They’d come to expect nothing less from the 5’10, bronze-skinned, Afro-Latina stunner.
“I’ve involved myself in the big delivery. You’re not going to make me wait for someone to come downstairs when you’re right here, are you?” Junior batted her lashes in comical exaggeration. It wouldn’t be the last time she acted outside her jurisdiction as the design tracker which is why no one wasted their breath pointing it out. “There’s a gourmet coffee cart and pastry table being set up.”
The producers had arranged for a treat to celebrate the successful car stunt. Fans of the popular science-fantasy opera had come to expect one big episode each season and this pulled all the stops. The crew had rehearsed, blocked, and storyboarded for weeks. Yesterday they filmed the hero car escaping through the side of a dilapidated building while the chase car tumbled into a fiery wreck.
Now the treats were here and Junior couldn’t wait to see what bounty would be delivered.
The head carpenter nodded at some of the assembled workers, who followed Junior outside into the warm May sun. Since the warren of trailers and cube vans parked out back, this side of the studio lot was slightly less congested but no less trafficked. Crew members, delivery drivers, and couriers were in and out of this entrance all day.
Their office was located in a five-storey brick building, an abandoned warehouse retrofit for studio space, in the Port Lands. The ground floor had seven cavernous, high ceilinged rooms of various sizes that had been converted to sound stages. A freight elevator separated the row of loading bays used as lock-up storage at the back of the building. There were three floors with the same layout: long hallways with offices on either side converging on the central reception area where the production office operated.
The fourth floor was currently unoccupied and the third floor was home to one of their sister shows, currently between seasons, about a ragtag group of tween misfits getting into hijinks. Elysian, the show Junior worked on, was on the second floor.
Having worked in the building, on the show, for almost five years there wasn’t a stairwell, alcove, or service elevator she didn’t recognize. Her fellow technicians, coming and going from project to project, brought the same transient familiarity she imagined one got from summer camp. And the sheer chaos of trying to put together thirteen episodes of television never failed to excite her.
Junior flashed Leigh a familiar hand gesture as she watched her friend pull into a short-term parking space. Leigh returned the gesture with an indulgent tolerance born over fifteen years of friendship. People were always asking if they were sisters and while Junior refrained from commenting on the laziness of the assumption–being Black was their only ‘resemblance’–she instead announced, to the decade-her-senior Leigh’s amusement, “I’m the eldest!”
Stepping out of her car and giving her glasses a quick polish with the edge of her shirt, Leigh came around the back of her car to the trunk.
“Friends, this is Leigh Bridger, proprietress of Peach’s Books and Bakeshop. And this,” Junior gave a lusty sigh, slumped on Leigh for effect, and indicated the tightly packed pale pink boxes in the flipped open hatchback, “is paradise.”
Leigh shook her head, likely at Junior’s familiar straddling of friendly flirt and femme fatale. Extending her hand as Junior straightened, Leigh gave each person a quick shake. “Hi, nice to meet you.”
Leigh stacked four boxes in each set of arms, and the final two in Junior’s.
“Dios mío, these are heavy!” Junior oophed.
“Mini pound cakes. It’s in the title.” Leigh shut her trunk and wrestled a tote bag from the passenger seat.
Making their way through the maze of long and winding hallways to the atrium outside of Studio B, Leigh quickly spread a tablecloth from her tote on the folding table and gestured for the helpers to unburden themselves. “Thanks for your assistance! I appreciate it.”
“Look at them This isn’t the first time they’ve provided satisfaction by the mouthful,” she teased Leigh under her breath. Junior winked at the woman she knew erupted into furious blushes at the slightest provocation.
“I thought you swore off co-workers?” Leigh asked once the laborers were out of earshot. She laid out the framed business card and matching bronze serving sets from her tote.
Junior had already lifted the lid off one of the boxes and popped a pastry in her gob. Around a mostly chewed butter tart, she confirmed, “A little flirting never hurt nobody.”
Built like a modern-day pin-up girl, Junior had a smile that would tempt the holy. Except for the three days a month when her reflection showed a too-wide mouth, weirdly large eyes and a paltry bosom leading to an insurmountable ass on top of thunderous thighs, she wielded it like a weapon.
Junior flipped the lid on another box and popped a mini cupcake straight in her face. “Will they set-up now?” Leigh asked.
“Later. The executive producer wants to give a speech first.” Junior rolled her eyes and as bland and dry as ever added, “Shocking, I know. It’s so unlike our intrepid leader to want to preen and glory hog.”
“Throw a tarp or something on the table until you guys are ready so it’s safe from prying eyes and rogue nibblers.” Leigh swatted Junior’s hand away from another box.
Unaffected, Junior beamed “This is going to be a hit! Thanks for delivering.”
“Thanks for the business!” Leigh handed over an envelope with her invoice.
Junior sent a quick text then linked arms with Leigh and led her back to her car, gossiping the whole way.
Giving her a final squeeze, Junior watched Leigh back out of the parking lot and called out, “I’ll drop your gear off on my way home tonight.”
At Leigh’s wave, Junior made her way back inside to her office, certain the invoices and purchase orders on her desk had mutated in her absence. What was it about a disorganized inbox that inspired people to pile more crap on top?!
“All visitors are supposed to have a pass.” Davis Fletcher appeared out of nowhere. Junior’s head, at constant odds with her hormones, doused the spark of attraction at the sight of the disturbingly good-looking yet profoundly annoying know-it-all.
And what a sight he was: a soft tan sweater over a white button-down shirt pushed up to his forearms with a forest green tie and beautifully fit charcoal slacks indicating he worked out enough to be fit and strong but, thankfully, not all ‘roidy muscles. Junior often wondered what it would take to get him to submit to jeans and a hoodie like everyone else. Even his thick, dark hair was combed meticulously off his forehead as though it too had received the memo about the sins of casual dress.
Every time Junior spoke with Davis, she was reminded of the saying about never meeting your heroes–an expression she vehemently believed should also apply to handsome strangers in the workplace. At the beginning of this season, she’d seen the new guy around but hadn’t had a reason to get close. She’d done enough inconspicuous leering to know he was an assistant, which meant they wouldn’t have much opportunity to cross paths because, though she was a part of accounting she worked primarily with production design and had no business in the executive suites. At first, Junior wasn’t even sure they worked on the same show. It wouldn’t have made a difference because she didn’t need t
She’d noticed he was particularly self-contained for a workplace as boisterous and casual as a production office. His tightly leashed reserve made her wonder if he maintained control in all circumstances or if he might let his freak flag fly given the right motivation. But those were idle musings. He could have a wife and six kids or be a toxic incel nice guy–though why would God make a man that handsome if he wasn’t gonna bone? –and it would all amount to the same harmless work crush. Junior liked knowing he was in the building. The threat of running into him at any time kept her lip gloss fresh.
Unfortunately for Junior, it turned out that Davis Fletcher, the New Guy, was a grade-A dipshit.
Her first exposure to his brand of all-encompassing pedantry came three weeks after she’d first laid eyes on him. He’d been sent to Production as the trusted right hand of studio head Olivia Young, with the nonsense glamour title of associate co-producer. It took exactly one meeting to ruin her perfectly constructed illusion.
“Junior!” Marin, the line producer, had been standing beside him and had called out as Junior headed toward her office. “Have you met Junior Sano, our production design tracker?”
As she’d made her way over, Junior saw the telltale twitch of his brows and took a fortifying breath. Here we go.
“You’re Jaime Sano, Jr.?” His expression warred with his voice to most accurately convey his disbelief. “I’m sorry, I expected Jaime to be a man.”
This train is never late.
Her smile had been bright and welcoming. “Yes, I am a source of much confusion. It’s pronounced Jaime.”
He’d looked at her blankly.
“My name? You said JAY-me – it’s pronounced Hi-may, soft J like jalapeño. It’s a lot, I know. You can call me Junior. Everyone does.”
“Can girls even be Juniors? I mean, strictly speaking?” He’d taken her outstretched hand and shaken it limply before immediately smoothing his tie.
Junior’d caught the motion. Had he wiped off her touch? Strike Two.
“They can. Women, too.” Her smile had dimmed. It wasn’t like Junior hadn’t endured some version of this very inquisition any time she introduced herself. Her father, in a profound but not unprecedented act of egomania, named her after himself despite her very much being a daughter. Her mother, delirious from thirty-six hours of complicated labor, was just happy the baby was out. Healthy, yes, but mainly out. The forms were submitted while Yesenia recovered from the aforementioned torturous labor and the rest was history.
Not that it truly mattered. Aside from the one especially torturous semester in middle school when the mouth breathers tried to make ‘Hymen’ happen, and the few family members who still called her ‘Hammer’, everyone called her Junior.
“Of course,” Davis had amended. “I didn’t mean - uh ... It’s nice to meet you, Junior. I’m Davis Fletcher.”
“Junior holds all of Design together expertly,” Marin had praised. “I don’t know how you manage it, Junior, I’m just glad you do.”
“I see the cheques are still clearing,” Junior had joked to Marin. Turning to Davis she’d said, “And you’re Olivia’s assistant, right? Welcome to the circus!”
“Actually, I’m more like her eyes and ears.” He’d somehow managed to simultaneously sneer down his nose and avoid eye contact with her. Strike three, Dickface.
“Eyes and Ears. Got it,” Junior had said, all attempts at warmth vanished.
After that first encounter, her initial attraction to the tall, medium-built man with dark hair, dark eyes, and cheekbones sharp enough to sculpt marble was relegated to the crawlspace of her mind. It joined hot yoga, learning Russian, and palazzo pants as things she’d attempted and quickly abandoned, never to be spoken of again.
If she’d worried that she’d drawn the wrong conclusions, seeing him in action with their colleagues had reinforced her position. He was exactly the type of man who dropped you mid-conversation if someone ‘more important’ crossed his eye line and had, on multiple occasions, inserted himself in a group only to steer the conversation to himself. He also unironically Actually’d anyone about any subject at all.
Life was too short to deal with that type of fuckery.
Since she didn’t frequent the schmoozy executive suites dominated by the pack of Fratty HetBros that included their executive producer, Junior was blessedly spared the pleasure of Davis’ direct attention. She answered the rare work-related questions he asked and otherwise gave him a wide berth.
Shaking off the memory, she smoothed her features into a serene blankness. “She isn’t a visitor, Eyes and Ears, she’s a vendor.” Junior waved the envelope for emphasis.
“Most people don’t embrace the vendors,” he pressed.
“I’m not most people.” Junior refused to answer the question she knew he was asking. “Besides, she brought cake. That type of contribution should be rewarded.”
Davis kept pace with her to the stairwell leading up to the production office. “And that’s all it took for you to lead her arm-in-arm through the stages? Snacks?” His whole body seemed to be frowning.
“Yup! Haven’t you heard? I am surprisingly easy!” Without giving him a backward glance Junior hustled up the steps, leaving him alone with his stern reproval.
Chapter 2
Davis exited the executive producer’s office, pulled the door closed behind him, and took a moment to recalibrate. He’d expected Eli to be more malleable after the successful car stunt and yesterday’s grandstanding at the elaborate pastry table but, instead, the executive producer was giving him the same old runaround. Davis closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.
“Oh, Lord. What now?” Davis opened his eyes to see the showrunner making her way toward him.
Davis exhaled. “Same as always. Eli’s making me dance for his entertainment. You going in there?”
“Nope, I was looking for you.” Quinn was quick-witted, easy with a smile and, now, Davis’ partner and champion in this potentially new phase of his career.
Quinn Nelson and Olivia had a close working relationship at Fifty-Four Media and, because of Davis’ position as Olivia’s right hand, they’d got to know each other fairly well. It didn’t take long for Davis to realize the 48-year-old, auburn-haired white woman’s brilliant mind worked at a higher frequency than most mere mortals.
There wasn’t a story idea she couldn’t improve or a plot hole she couldn’t fill. At the end of the first season, when their lead actor checked into court-mandated rehab, Quinn had the sorceress separate the character’s soul from his body–thereby freeing production to recast the role. Season two had their hero desperately searching for her true love whose soul was trapped in the body of the sorceress who’d doomed them in the beginning. In season three, the hero fought her attraction to the man she loved while he wore the face of her mortal enemy, creating a fan frenzy. Suddenly the intense but reliable hetero pairing became a pansexual allegory that saw the fan base double.
And now, the final episode of season four, she’d helped Davis workshop his seedling idea into a solid enough concept to launch a spin-off series. Everything rested on this episode which made Eli’s current power play harder to swallow.
“We’ll be starting prep on Block 7 next week. Are you ready?” Her smile held a bolstering undertone of encouragement.
“I gave Eli a budget outline weeks ago and I’m still waiting for his notes. Not to mention he hasn’t given me any guidance on what I’m supposed to do in the cost report meeting for this episode. I’m not ornamental–this is my episode!” Noting Quinn’s smirk, he amended, “Our episode.” They’d arrived at his office and Quinn plopped herself on the couch.
“No, it’s yours,” She reassured him, “But you’re getting worked up prematurely. First of all, this episode’s costs won’t reflect on you. Second, our controller and her team are–” Quinn put her fingers to her lips and made a loud kiss.
Olivia had made her intention clear. Davis was to use this opportunity to learn all the nuances of creating episodic television. “But what if it gets picked up? I’m going to have to know this stuff and I don’t even know what I don’t know! Eli is supposed to be showing me, but he’s been dicking me around…”
