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.
