Wrong City (8 page)

Kelsey’s
eighteenth birthday. Wasn’t that what Toby had been yammering about in a mildly
salacious way at Maryanne’s party? A dark thought crept in, unwanted and
unwarranted: Would he and Troy even still be together in a month, given the
speed at which their relationship had developed?

In any case,
they’d both be working on the show. They’d be spending lots of time together,
one way or another. As Ridpath poured coffee for everyone, Troy caught Vish’s
eye and winked. It was a wink filled with affection and promise, and it helped
quiet the nagging doubts.

J
amie took his resignation well, though she
was clearly disappointed. “
Interstellar Boys
?” she said. “Wow. That’s
really cool, Vish. Congratulations.” She paused. “Did you know Troy Van Ellen
before this? Is that why she hired us to cater her party?”

“No. I met her
for the first time when she stopped by the shop.” Vish thought for a moment,
then gave Jamie a stripped-down version of events. “We ended up talking about
my writing career, and she passed along my book to the executive producer, who
hired me.”

“Well,
fantastic. I’m glad that worked out so well for you,” she said. “We’re going to
miss you, though. Especially since we’re getting into the holiday season.”

“I know. I’m
sorry.”

She waved a
hand. “It’s a great opportunity. Don’t feel guilty.” She smiled. “I’m sure
you’ll be great and they’ll love you, but if things don’t work out on the show,
you and your napkin-folding skills are welcome back any time.”

“Thanks,
Jamie.” It was weird. Vish had been ambivalent about the catering job from the
start; Jamie had been a stellar boss, but he’d come to Los Angeles to write.
This was his first opportunity to get paid for doing just that. So why did he
feel like giving notice to Jamie was a mistake?

Because things
had happened with alarming speed, and because he was resistant to change, and
because he was, at times, a fussbudget who tended to get in his own way.
Writing for
Interstellar Boys
was nothing but a good thing, any way he
looked at it.

He only had to
work with the other writers. Nobody said he had to like them.

Vish included,
there were twelve. Most were also credited as producers, or consulting
producers, or supervising producers, or executive producers. They all huddled
in a big conference room around a long table littered with pizza boxes and
water bottles. A whiteboard on the far wall was covered with scribbled
notations on a crudely-drawn grid. The ink from the markers had dissolved over
time, leaving illegible fragments of words. It was a breakdown of episodes long
past and long forgotten; Vish had spent much of the past hour examining the
board, and he had yet to see anything on there apropos to the current season.

A couple of the
writers looked like they could still be in college. They were all young,
twenties or early thirties, with the exception of Freddie, who sat at the head
of the table. All were male, and Vish was far and away the darkest person in
the room.

“Oh, right,”
one of the writers said when Freddie first introduced him to the group. “You’re
from the diversity program, right? Cool deal.”

“I’m sorry?”

The writer
shrugged. Ken, Vish later learned his name was. He wore a t-shirt and shorts,
and he liked leaning back in his chair, hands behind his neck, and propping his
dirty flip-flops up on the table, smack next to the pizzas. “There’s some kind
of big charity program where they stick minorities on writing staffs. Is that
where you came from?”

“Ah… no,” Vish
said.

“Vish is a
friend of Troy’s,” Freddie said, his tone mild.

Ken shrugged.
“Sorry, dude,” he said. “Just as well. Everyone they’ve sent us from there has
sucked. If you’re black or a girl, it’s eighty times easier to get a job
writing for television than if you’re a white guy. Seriously.”

Seriously? Vish
looked around the table at all the white male faces and remained silent.

“Oh, that one
chick we had. What was her name? She was the worst.” That came from Bob. It was
a toss-up as to whether Vish despised Ken or Bob more. It pretty much depended
upon which was speaking at any given time.

“She wasn’t
from the program,” Ken said. “I don’t know where they found her. Probably
sucked off some bigwig at the network, because she sure as hell couldn’t
write.” He shrugged. “She used to bitch us out about how our show was sexist. I
mean, we’ve got a lady character who’s both a goddamned astrophysicist and a
black belt. That sounds pretty progressive to me, right?”

Vish said
nothing, maintaining an indeterminate half-smile, hoping this was some weird
freshman-writer hazing ritual.

The day went
downhill from there. Vish wasn’t expected to participate yet—Freddie advised
him just to observe at first—but this was a situation that could go nowhere
good. After a morning spent gamely following along, his brain shut down in
protest, tuning out the overlapping chatter of the writers as they bounced around
ideas. The ideas came in waves of incoherence, each more preposterous and
salacious than the last.

“I think we
need a big arc for Starla,” Freddie said. “Something that’ll really show her
chops. She’s been back-burnered for too much of the season.”

Vish perked up.
Commander Starla was Troy’s character, the astrophysicist with the black belt,
and Freddie’s observation was the only statement in the meeting thus far with
which he wholeheartedly agreed.

“I think she
should get raped,” Ken said. “That would give her something really dramatic,
huh? People would be talking about it.”

“Dudge could do
it,” Bob said. “We set up some sparks between Dudge and Starla way back, didn’t
we? So that would take their relationship to another stage.”

Vish sat up in
his chair. He cleared his throat. “Does that make sense, though?” he asked.
Everyone turned to look at him. “Dudge is one of the good guys. We haven’t seen
him do anything thus far that would suggest he’d turn into rapist.”

“Even good guys
snap,” Ken said. “That’s why this would be a cool storyline. We’d show how the
stress of being in space for so long is really getting to them. Dudge falls
madly in love with Starla and then goes too far, and she feels betrayed and
uncertain.” He kept going, his voice growing louder, building on his theme.
“But she doesn’t tell anyone about it because she’s ashamed, and meanwhile
Dudge keeps stalking her around the ship. Leaving her roses on her pillow, shit
like that.”

“If you make
him a rapist, the audience will turn against his character forever,” Vish said.
He tried to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

“Not if we
handle it correctly,” Freddie said. “Some of the most nuanced characters in
television history have been villains. We’d be giving him layers. Done right,
it’s good character development. And I think there’s a tendency among viewers
to see Starla as too ball-busting and competent, so this could show them her
human side.”

Vish glanced
around the room at the rest of the writing staff. A few looked interested in
the conversation, a few others typed away on their laptops or tablets. Maybe
they were taking notes or jotting down ideas. Maybe they were checking email,
or surfing porn. Maybe he should start bringing his laptop to work.

“Ken, why don’t
you and Bob have a powwow this afternoon and pound out the details? Email me
your treatment for the storyline by the end of the day, and then you can start
on the script.” Freddie continued around the table, assigning bits and pieces
of multiple storylines to individual writers. This, Vish had gleaned, was his
usual method. At the end of the week, the episode would be then cobbled
together, piecemeal-style.

Vish did not
receive an assignment, nor did at least half of the other writers. What were
they expected to do for the rest of the day? Maybe his entire position on the
staff would consist of this, sitting in on endless meetings and eating free
pizza.

The meeting
broke up. He headed to his newly-assigned cubicle, which was bare except for a
computer and a stack of health-plan brochures given to him at the new-employee
orientation he’d attended that morning. The sight cheered him up. He’d receive
a hefty paycheck each week until the show went on summer hiatus in March
(unless he was canned before that, a little voice inside his head reminded
him). This was a job many would envy, perfect for putting some flesh on his
malnourished résumé.

He looked over
at Mark, the writer occupying the cubicle next to him. Mark hadn’t spoken much
during the meeting; when Vish, his attention drifting, had happened to meet his
glance, he’d rolled his eyes in what seemed like commiseration.

Mark smiled at
him. “Enjoy your first creative meeting?”

“Very much,”
Vish said. “It was interesting.” He paused. “Ah… what should I be doing now?”

Mark shrugged.
He had curly hair, already receding though he was probably younger than Vish,
and wire-rimmed glasses. “Check email. Hang out in the break room and watch TV.
Doesn’t really matter. I was going to head over to the set for a bit. Want to
come with?”

“Sure. Thanks.”
He followed Mark across the empty lot to the big white soundstage.

They were
quiet. Finally, Mark spoke. “So. What’d you think?”

Vish
considered. “I think I’m a little unclear as to what I should be doing here,”
he said cautiously.

“Collecting a
paycheck,” Mark said. “As near as I can tell, that’s what I was hired to do.”
He smiled at Vish. “Attend the meetings. Participate in the brainstorming and
bring up your story ideas, by all means, but don’t expect them to go anywhere.
Work on the script whenever Freddie tells you to write something. If you’re one
of his pets, that will be daily. If you’re like me, that won’t be often.” He
gave Vish a sidelong glance. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but at a guess,
you’re not going to be one of his pets.”

“Ah,” Vish said.
“And Ken would be?”

“Ken and Bob,
mainly. A few of the others, too. Sure. Ken and Bob were Freddie’s assistants
on the first season, before they got promoted. They’re simpatico with him.”
Mark shrugged. “It’s how Freddie wants to run things, and he’s the boss. Hard
to get work these days, especially in entertainment, and I’m getting paid a lot
of money to sit in on some meetings. Not a bad deal, really.”

No, it wasn’t,
not when it was laid out like that. Vish felt better. There’d been something
hostile and acrid in the meeting room, but now that feeling was dissipating in
the balmy air. The lot was studded with neat rows of palm trees, spindly stalks
that rose up above the stages until they exploded like fireworks into mad
bursts of spiky fronds. An iconic symbol of Los Angeles, all promise and
potential and fresh starts.

A red light
flashed above the closed door to the soundstage. Mark and Vish waited until it
went out, signifying a break in filming, then slipped inside.

The main set,
the spaceship bridge, was drenched in bright studio lights. Costumed actors
huddled in consultation with the episode’s director, a gaunt man in a baseball
cap and jeans. Vish looked around, but didn’t see Troy.

Mark gestured
with his head to the end of the stage where the craft services table was set
up. Great platters of sandwiches with cold cuts and cheese spilling out of
crusty Kaiser rolls. An assortment of salads: something with feta and
multicolored olives, cold tortellini with pesto and crabmeat, chunks of fresh
fruit and berries. Coffee, sodas, baskets of Frisbee-sized cookies and
brownies.

Mark picked up
a plate and began grazing. Vish had filled up on pizza in the writers’ room.
Too bad. He’d have to remember to save room next time. He looked up and saw
Freddie heading over to them.

“Hey, Mark.
Vish.” Freddie nodded at them both. “How’s it going here?”

“Really well,
Freddie. Scene looks great,” Mark said. Mark must be precognitive, since the
cameras hadn’t rolled since they’d entered the stage.

“What’d you
think of the meeting?” Freddie asked Vish.

“Very
interesting. I enjoyed it,” Vish said. “It was my first experience with
anything like that. They seem like a good group.” He sounded chipper. Good.

“They are, they
really are. Smart bunch of guys. Some of the best writers in the business,”
Freddie said. He paused. “One thing that I really try my best to reiterate,
everyone needs to feel totally comfortable expressing an opinion. Even if it’s
not necessarily the most diplomatic, or the most ‘correct’”—and here, Freddie
used finger quotes to make his point—“it’s all part of the creative process,
and it’s all valuable to us. Right?”

“Sure,” Vish
said. “Of course. I get that.”

“Good. Good.”
Freddie cleared his throat. “You didn’t sound too enthusiastic about the idea
for Dudge’s plotline.”

“I’d have to
see how it was executed,” Vish said. He picked his next words with care. “From
my viewpoint, it seems as though it might be a mistake to turn a regular
character—a character who’s been pretty sympathetic thus far—into a rapist.
Just speaking as a fan, I don’t think I’ve seen any indication that this would
be a logical path for Dudge.”

“But it’s like
I said. Characters change and grow, sometimes in ways the audience doesn’t
necessarily approve of. I think if you’d learn to open your mind a little more,
you’d see how this could really be an interesting development for Dudge and
Troy—and for the show. Okay?”

“Sure. No
problem.”

“Good.” Freddie
gave him another smile and a quick pat on the arm, then shuffled over toward
the action on the set.

Vish exhaled,
short and violent. He turned to Mark. “Was I out of line in the meeting?”

“By objecting
to having Dudge rape Starla?” Mark rolled his eyes. “I wish I could tell you
that was the most objectionable idea that’s been raised in that room.”

Mark picked his
way through the salads on his plate with his fingers and popped a purple olive
into his mouth. “My advice? Don’t waste energy arguing. If Freddie thinks
something’s a good idea, it’s going to make its way into the script.”

Vish nodded,
digesting this. He wished he had the sort of personality that could enable him
to take charge of meetings, to suggest powerful and evocative plotlines that
would win back viewer acclaim and reverse the downward trajectory the show had
been on for the past two seasons, but that wasn’t in his nature. Which was
probably why he had no money, no car, and no noteworthy accomplishments to his
name.