Reality boulevard, p.17
Reality Boulevard, page 17
“Ten?” Zev raised an eyebrow.
“Ten, sixteen, twenty-five, who the hell knows the difference? Nothing a good thread facelift won’t fix,” Brett guffawed, slapping Garret so hard on the back that his scotch sloshed over the edge of the glass. “I want you to write it, create it, whatever. Zev’ll draw up a deal memo, but we can get started on a handshake, right? You and me. Back in the drama game again. Where the money is.”
“Nothing I’d like better than to package a drama while I’m head of reality,” Zev said, smiling mischievously. “The scripted guys at the agency will hate me for it. But primetime drama is a dying genre. There’s just as much money in reality. If you’re at the top, that is.”
Hunter, Allison and Dusty joined the post-production staff at the imitation outdoor restaurant. From the other side of the square, cameraman Eric and soundman Vern sauntered over to meet them.
“What do you say, Eric?” Dusty said, offering his hand.
“I’m pretty fucking bummed, that’s what I say,” said Eric. He was several drinks down but his diction remained perfect, becoming clearer and sharper the longer he imbibed. “I’m out of the longest and best paying gig I ever had.”
“His moods are all over the place tonight,” Vern whispered to Hunter. “Just a few minutes ago he was crowing about how glad he was that all this bullshit was ending, how he never imagined he’d still be lugging a camera around the country in his late forties. He was going to be Vilmos Zigmond.”
Another white van arrived, bearing a fresh posse of the newly unemployed, along with Jerry Stone, whose silver hair and tailored sports jacket stood out in vivid contrast to the flock of twenty-somethings in sweatshirts. “I feel like a cover model for AARP magazine,” Jerry thought to himself. He noticed Hunter and Allison, waved, and headed toward them.
“Where’d you get your drinks?”
Hunter pointed to the police cruisers. “It’s all theme all the time around here.”
Jerry looked around at the dour-faced men and women at the tables, and produced his own two invitations from his jacket pocket. “I thought this was supposed to be a party.”
“What the fuck are we celebrating?” Eric spat, clearly unaware he was speaking to an elder statesman of the game show genre. “Unemployment?”
“The end of civilization as we know it?” asked Hunter.
“Like Gone with the Wind,” Allison said, looking off dreamily into the twinkling lights of the bandstand.
As Jerry listened to their conversation, a part of him was cynically unsympathetic. These naïve kids were acting as if they were they first ones on earth to weather a cancelled show. This was just a facet of the business, a reptilian cycle of skin shedding and transformation. Shows, like jobs, came and went with the seasons around here. On the other hand, Lights and Sirens had been an amazingly long-lived and well-run show, and for some of its staff, their first, if not only, job in the industry. He thought back – far, far back – to when he was young and unestablished and remembered what it had been like to be a worker on a production. You formed relationships that evolved into familial patterns, with all the attendant Sturm und Drang. You developed a unique language and culture, a history of memories and sayings, romantic drama, legendary mishaps and disasters, oft-repeated private jokes. Then one day, someone you’d never met declared from on high that it was all done. You’d pack up your boxes from the office and commiserate with your friends at the wrap party. You’d drink yourself silly, cry your heart out and swear undying allegiance to your colleagues, making dates to reunite regularly at the beach or El Coyote or the Hollywood Bowl. Then you’d all drift off to some other far-flung corner of the LA freeways, on to new jobs, new friends, new lovers. One day, that job that had been your entire world was reduced to a single line framed by calendar dates on your resume.
He drifted across the lawn toward the bar, listening to the strains of the quartet and the scattered bursts of laughter from some of the groups of party guests. The free alcohol was beginning to brighten peoples’ moods.
Near the bar, he saw Brett Windsor enthusiastically pointing at him. Brett wasn’t one to wave or say hello if you ran into him on the street or at an industry function; he’d just point at you and wink.
“So he finally did it,” Jerry called out with forced joviality as he approached, trying to boost his own mood now.
“Did what?” Garret asked.
“Marty – engaged! Did you ever think you’d see the day?” Jerry asked.
“Marty’s told me your opinion of men who marry actresses,” said Zev.
“Careful,” Garret grumbled. “I married an actress. ”
“Jillian was a dancer, and was all too happy to give it up,” Jerry said. “Not the same thing at all. Besides, Jillian’s a sweetheart.”
“Not tonight she’s not,” said Garret.
A drunken Brett nodded, wagging a finger. “Stay away from the actresses,” he said. “I’ve divorced two of them so far.”
Zev laughed. “Okay, Brett. I’ll remember that.”
“I’m against all of this in principle, but I had to be here for Marty. And for all these kids,” Jerry said. “I hear it’s a hell of a time to be out of work right now.”
“There’s always work if you’re the best at what you do,” Zev declared.
Jerry stopped a passing waiter in fireman’s garb to grab a beer off a tray, just as another transpo van pulled into the illuminated town square and stopped in front of the painted façade of “Old World Antiques”. Heads turned and gasps cut the air as Crimson Fennel emerged from the sliding van door. She wore a form-fitting ivory silk sheath slip dress beneath a flowing sheer outer layer, which lifted ever so gently in the evening breeze. Her delicate feet were clad in off-white silk strappy sandals whose three-inch heels made her appear even more statuesque and reedy than usual. With her regal neck, licorice hair ironed flat as paper and obsidian eyes outlined in thick black liner, amateur ornithologist Jerry Stone could only see a great white heron with an exotic black crest. Next to her, Marty beamed proudly in a tailored navy Brooks Brothers jacket and an incongruously bright yellow sweater vest, the preening mate showing off his colorful plumage. Spontaneously, a spattering of party guests began to applaud. Little by little, the rest of the crowd joined in, although many of them half-heartedly, still unsure what the mood of the evening was supposed to be.
Marty signaled to the musicians on the bandstand, who began to play a classical version of the high-energy theme song from the Lights and Sirens opening credits. Dragging Crimson behind him with one hand, he bounded over to the bandstand, waving toward his party guests with the other. When he reached his destination, he grabbed the microphone positioned on a stand at center stage.
“Welcome, friends, and my wonderful Lights and Siren family! Well. So here we are. It’s the end of an era for one of television’s greatest programs, but also the beginning of a new one for its executive producer. No, it’s not a rumor. It’s true. Marty Maltzman is actually engaged.”
A few of the party guests started applauding and whistling. Brett Windsor let out a whistle.
“Somehow, against all possible odds, I managed to convince this exquisite creature to marry me,” Marty continued. “Permit me to introduce my fiancée, Miss Crimson Fennel.”
Smiling demurely, Crimson performed an expert and delicate curtsy on the end of Marty’s outstretched arm. Her beauty and grace caught even some of the more morose partygoers by surprise and they responded with a more enthusiastic round of applause.
“And how about the rock?” Marty grabbed Crimson’s hand and held up the diamond for all to see. It flashed in the artificial light. “Not too shabby for a boy from Alhambra.”
A group from Lights and Sirens post-production, finally unchained from their despondency by the free booze and some cocaine one of the gaffers had smuggled in, whooped and cheered with inappropriate abandon.
“I want to thank each and every one of you, some who’ve been with Lights and Sirens since our pilot. With our brilliant writer-producer Garret Shaw at the helm and a team of the best field producers, directors and editors in this business, we always knew it was going to be great, but we had no idea it would turn into a cultural phenomenon. For ten years straight, we held steady in primetime’s top ten. While our ratings did slip over the last few years, we’ve continued to collect People’s Choice awards and honors from national rescue, police, and fire organizations. You’ve seen for it yourselves, the letters that pour in from all over the country. We’ve changed lives and even saved lives with this show, and despite the fact that it’s all coming to an end, I don’t want anyone here to feel like they’ve failed. We haven’t failed. We’ve succeeded beyond our wildest dreams, and we can go on to our next projects proud to be a part of the Lights and Sirens story, and a part of television history.”
At this, even the wettest blankets in the crowd – including Garret himself – couldn’t help but applaud wildly. “Gotta hand it to Marty,” Garret mumbled to no one in particular through crunching ice cubes. There was no one else in the business who could inspire more genuine loyalty. Only Marty Maltzman could throw himself a freebie engagement party and end up becoming that much more beloved because of it.
Marty slipped the microphone back into its holder and led Crimson down the steps and toward the catering ambulance. The same sweet smile was affixed to her face, Garret noted, though upon closer examination, any keen observer would recognize a primal appeasement grimace.
Crimson was not a happy camper. Here she was being shown off like a new car to a group of people who could do nothing for her. She looked around the square. She could see no one of real significance– no stars, no producers, no network executives - only the anonymous expendable workers who crafted the outdated show that had made her fiancé rich and passably famous.
Crimson was also still stewing about the way she’d found out about Lights and Sirens’ cancellation. A full day after Marty had received the news and alerted his staff, she’d been at her hairdresser’s on Camden Drive in Beverly Hills, showing off her ring to her stylist, Lance. A woman with her hair in foil wrappers had been seated under heat lamps in the chair next to her, scanning her Blackberry. Suddenly she had blurted out, “Nikki Finke says Lights and Sirens is going off the air!” Lance had dropped the bowl of single process color he’d been mixing and, throwing his hands in the air, waved a trembling finger at the ring.
“O-M-G, Crimson! He won’t make you give it back, will he?”
The entire salon had turned around to stare at a stricken Crimson, who made an immediate excuse to cut her session short. Rushing down Camden with her hair still wet, she dialed Marty on her cell.
“Is it true?” she’d asked.
The silence on the other end of the line told her everything.
That same night, she had remained cold and distant as they dined at the Ivy. Marty was expectant at first, as if awaiting some tender consolation and encouragement from the woman who would become his wife. Realizing that none was forthcoming, he became the one to apologize.
“I couldn’t bring myself to tell you yesterday,” he admitted. “It was just such a shock. I got the news the morning after we got engaged. I didn’t want to spoil the joy.”
Crimson eyed him warily. “This isn’t a promising start to our life together, is it? If you keep secrets like this from me, what else might you be hiding?”
“I wasn’t trying to keep it from you. I just needed a little time to absorb it myself.”
She’d shrugged her shoulders and eaten the rest of her dinner in silence. Stricken by her behavior, he let his food get cold while enumerating to her all the reasons Lights and Sirens’ cancellation could only be a good thing for him. For one, he’d be receiving monies from the show and its ancillaries, probably until the end of time. For another, there was his penalty cancellation clause, thanks to Zev. There was also the good faith gesture that Sophie Warner had made: rolling L&S’s budget into a new series for him; that is, if he could find the right one.
“What are the chances of that?” Crimson asked him.
“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “But Crimson, I’ve been in this business since I was twenty years old and I’ve never once been out of work. I’ve had a single trajectory my entire career and it’s been up. That’s not about to change now.”
She took a sip of her wine and blinked at him. Her eyes were black and hard, revealing nothing.
“No matter what happens, I’m going to be out there with a new show on the air before my old offices are cleaned out. I need you to believe in me,“ he pleaded. “Especially you.”
Tonight, the fact that Marty had rolled his show’s farewell party into her engagement celebration was also wearing on Crimson. Her idea of such an event was a glittering red carpet fête at a Beverly Hills Club, filled with stars and dignitaries. One in which she and only she would be the center of attention. Tonight’s affair was just a few hundred nameless production people.
“I wish you’d invited some more important people,” she complained, as they made their way across the lawn toward the police cruiser bar. “I thought you were going to introduce me to your world tonight.”
“This is my world. These are the loyal people who’ve worked for me all these years. Some of the execs from Prime Network should be coming by later. I’ll introduce you to them.” He looked at her, smiling fondly. “I also invited everyone - the producers, the writing staff, and the entire cast - from The Cul de Sac. Only a couple of them even RSVP’d, and that was to say they couldn’t make it.”
Crimson frowned for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders, pulled away from him, and glided toward the bar. There, she was met by Brett Windsor, who threw himself in her way with arms outstretched.
“Marty’s beautiful fiancée, at last!” he said, a slight spittle forming at his mouth. “Let me be the first…” Brett grabbed Crimson and planted a full-on, long-lasting, open-mouthed kiss on her lips.
At first, Crimson was shocked by Brett’s assault, but after he set her loose and she wiped her mouth, she actually felt a bit better. At least Brett Windsor was a name – a very big name, in fact - and now she could see Marty’s agent, the powerful Zev Colsen, standing to the side, watching them. The grown-ups’ table at last. Before she could reach the bar, a waitress in a nurse’s uniform offered her a glass of champagne from a tray, which she gladly accepted. Marty caught up with her, possessively taking her hand back while asking the traveling nurse to bring him an orange juice.
“Zev, you know my fiancée. Jerry, meet Crimson. And Brett, you certainly know her now.”
“Congratulations, my dear,” said Zev, kissing Crimson on the cheek. “I can honestly say you have captured the heart of one of the few real stand-up guys left in this business.”
“Gorgeous,” Brett slurred, nodding approvingly to Marty. “Just gorgeous.”
“And this is Garret Shaw, who ran Lights and Sirens for most of its sixteen seasons,” Marty added.
Crimson looked at Garret. He was chunky – overweight, really – with a round, red face, reddish eyebrows that were lighter than his skin tone, and a thinning mop of grayish red curly hair that looked as if it hadn’t been combed or washed in a week. His short, scruffy goatee and mustache were also flecked with gray, masking a heavily-jowled chin. There was something mournful in his bloodshot eyes. She nodded politely at him.
“Garret’s an Obie-Award winning playwright,” Brett added. “He and I are developing a new drama series together.”
“A drama series?” Crimson asked, instantly perking up. “What about?”
Garret shrugged. “It’s your series, Brett.”
“You know, a crime show. About a detective a lot like a guy I used to play – probably before your time...”
“Oh, I remember Sterling Silver,” Crimson cooed. “I mean, I saw all the reruns. As a very, very young girl.”
“In the new series, I’ll play this guy. He’s a lot like Sterling Silver but deeper, you know – a more nuanced character. He’s gotten older, retired, gotten out of the game. He’s lost the love of his life or something. You’ll work all those little details out, won’t you, Gare? So he’s bitter, a recluse. But there’s this one case that only he can solve that brings him back into it all, and that’ll be the pilot episode.”
“And a leading actress? He’s got to have a new, young love interest, right?” Crimson asked.
“I see where you’re going,” Brett said, nodding his head and eyeing Crimson like a hungry leopard. “And I like it. I like it…”
Jerry Stone rolled his eyes and looked at Marty, who pretended not to notice him. He surveyed Crimson from French manicured talons to sleek black Crest. She certainly was magnificent. But his radar was already flashing. This scene was playing out like a tired movie plot Jerry had seen far too many times before, except the same audience kept coming back for more, buying the same fraying tickets and the same cold, stale popcorn, hoping for a different ending.
Chapter 10: Always Take the Meeting
Barron-Cobb International Media, the rapidly expanding conglomerate behind the hit cable channels GIRLZ!, Adventure, Flashback, 4Real and Smash, had its Los Angeles corporate headquarters in a lushly landscaped office park on the industrial corridor of Western Santa Monica Boulevard. The Monday after his 16-year-old series was consigned to history, Marty Maltzman and his agent squirmed in tiny, hard, lime green plastic chairs (it was either that or the low to the floor, neon-orange patent leather sectional) in the self-consciously retro-style lobby. During Sophie Warner’s long tenure there, first as General Manager of GIRLZ!, then as the helmer of all the Barron-Cobb properties, these practically forgotten cable filler channels had metamorphosed into some of the most highly rated – and advertiser and stockholder friendly - destinations on the dial.
