Monday, May 5, 2014

Excerpt from Chapter 13, The Writing Gig from 'God Loathes You'

He shook his head and his mop of brown hair flew back and he snapped his fingers and his posse followed him to the opposite side of the room. I waved at them as they sat down before the long wooden table. They pretended not to see me but I know I was pissing them off. Better pissed off than pissed on I always said. As I sat down and started to leaf through the notes I had made for the screenplay whose writer was going to have a meet and greet with me. Said writer and the big wig that had made the decision for us to meet walked into the room.

The writer was tall and lanky and had neatly combed black mop of hair that rested on his head like a cat perched on top of your sofa like it belonged there. His eyes were dull and lacked any real life in them. Still he was young and good looking and I’m sure he’d had his share of ladies to choose from. Right out the gate I liked the guy. I just hoped that after I gave him my notes he’d see me in the same light. After all, us writers had to stand together against the producers and their fat wallets and their many minions who did their bidding without questioning what it was they’d been ordered to do. Then again this was my first time giving notes to a fellow writer, and to be honest it made me feel a tad uncomfortable.

“You must be, James Adler,” he said extending his right hand.

I took his hand with my right and we shook hands. “Yes, I am be James Adler, and you must be the writer,” I concurred his assessment of who I am and asked for the same in return.

He smirked realizing that my question was in jest. 

“Right, that is me. My name is Mark Wiles, and I hear you got some notes for me?” he inquired.

“That I do,” I said in response casting my gaze on the fat cat in the suit.

“Splendid, you two seem to be getting along. That’s good. Now, Mark, I’ll leave you two to discuss James’ notes and you guys choose what works and what doesn’t. I have a meeting, if you’d excuse me,” the fat cat in his dry cleaner pressed suit said making his egress.

Neither Mark nor I said anything to him and instead we sat there in awkward silence. I rubbed my hands together and recalled having a dooby in my pack of smokes. I took out the pack of smokes and removed the joint. His eyes grew large and I could tell he wanted to partake. So, I nodded and he nodded back in understanding. When in doubt break out the joint was my way of breaking the ice. If Mary Jane couldn’t win someone over and make the awkwardness go away nothing could. And I knew the perfect place to smoke up.

 I led him to the back lot where they had just turned down a set for this TV show that bombed. As such almost no one walked through him making it the ideal place to get wasted. In place of the awkwardness we had felt earlier was anticipation of being stoned and seeing how the other would react. I know that pot made me more likable and that was a good thing but I had no idea how the young writer, Mark, would respond to the weed.

“So, here it goes,” I said as I lit the joint.

And right away that pungent yet splendiferous skunk smell. It filled my nostrils as I took my second puff and passed it over to him.  He took the joint and wasted little time putting it in his mouth. He took a couple of hits and held the smoke in his longs both times then expelled it.

I could tell from the sudden relaxation in his face that he was chilling out. I too felt that twang of awkwardness fade away and in its place a sudden wave of comfort and silliness washed over me.

“This is some good shit,” he said amidst laughter a few hits later. Then he started coughing.

“Yeah, this is the best shit, broheim,” I responded in agreement also coughing my head off.

We smoked the rest of the joint in silence save for long raggedy coughing spells and laughter. What was so funny that we laughed like a couple of schoolgirls was beyond me. Nevertheless, the ice was shattered and that meant that my notes would go over well.
“I guess we should get back to the writer’s room and go over those notes you got for me,” he declared allowing for a little seriousness to creep back into his voice.

By the time we made it back to the writer’s room it was empty. And I looked up at the clock on the far side of the wall and it was eleven o’clock and that meant they had gone to lunch. We must’ve been gone longer than we had thought. Ah well, we made use of the empty room and silence to go over my notes without botheration from the hacks and wannabes.

An hour later we had gone over just about all of the notes and he hadn’t said anything. Although from his facial expression I could tell he had some mixed feelings but he seemed to take my words in stride. I on the other hand was the nervous one and drowned my nervousness in tobacco and a sip from a small bottle of whiskey I had smuggled in. He took a couple of sips and this seemed to relax him.

“Okay, so, you like the dialogue but you’d like me to brush up on the descriptive narrative?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yeah, that’s right and before you go having a hissy fit and tell me it’s all about the dialogue. I know this but it is good to describe the setting however briefly with some detail,” I countered.

“Duly noted,” was his brief response.

“Good, then, want to partake of the weed once more?” I asked
 already knowing what his answer would be.


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