CHAPTER NINE.

That Wednesday afternoon, Mr. Brander and Lewis had arranged a reading of A Cup of Joe in a little theater on Melrose. It was just for the producers and me, to hear how the screenplay sounded out loud.

I'd been nervous about the development meeting the week before, but I wasn't (that) nervous about this, mostly because that first meeting had gone so well. I'd killed then, and I was almost certain I was going to kill again today.

But that was before things started to go wrong.

Traffic was horrible (and the Earth was round, and water was wet), and almost the only street parking for miles around was one or two-hour (which I knew wouldn't be enough), so I was late. When I finally found the theater, I was sweaty and out of breath.

There was a small lobby inside. The air was musty, like the furniture section in a Goodwill store. There was a table by the door covered with stacks of glossy postcards, mostly askew - advertis.e.m.e.nts for other little fringe theaters that probably only survived by casting their shows with lots of actors and then having them guilt their friends into buying tickets.

I heard voices: Mr. Brander and Lewis and Bryce conferring over by the concessions stand (four dollar Pepsis - no doubt the second big source of revenue for a little theater like this). It was strange to think of Mr. Brander being anywhere other than that old house of his. Even in his wheelchair, it felt like an ancient redwood tree had somehow pulled up its roots and wandered out of the forest.

"Yeah, but I told you this at the start," Bryce was saying to Mr. Brander. "I pa.s.sed up another job for this, and I had a very specific set of conditions." He sounded upset.

"Now calm down, my boy," Mr. Brander said. "We can work this out. It was just a small misunderstanding."

What's this? I thought. Some kind of argument?

Lewis intercepted me halfway across the lobby. "You're here," he said.

"Yeah," I said. "Sorry I'm late."

"I should've warned you about the parking. There's a long-term lot, but it's hard to find."

I was looking at Lewis, and nodding, but I was trying to hear what Bryce and Mr. Brander were saying. I couldn't make it out. I did hear Bryce say, "jerking me around," and I also heard Mr. Brander say, "important to trust me."

"Bottled water?" Lewis said, handing me one.

"Uh, sure." I took it. "Everything okay?" I said to Lewis, meaning Bryce and Mr. Brander.

"Yeah, that's nothing," Lewis said, immediately turning toward the thick velvet curtain that covered the door into the theater. "Here, let's have you join everyone else."

Truthfully, I would have preferred to stay and eavesdrop a little longer, but I let him lead me into the theater itself (the curtain was so thick that I could no longer hear Mr. Brander and Bryce).

It was even smaller than I expected, about thirty seats total, on homemade wooden risers on either side of a central aisle. The seats looked down onto the floor of the room, which doubled as the stage. The backdrops were cheap wooden cut-outs painted to look like a living room. They hadn't even bothered to hang real art - they'd just painted pictures and frames onto the wood.

I pa.s.sed Andrea and Justin, sitting in a couple of the seats on one side.

"Oh," I said. "Hey."

"Hey there!" Andrea said, grinning. "Nervous?"

I smiled back. "Not really," I said, except that wasn't quite true anymore. After overhearing Bryce and Mr. Brander in the lobby, I was nervous again. Plus, it occurred to me that I'd never actually heard my screenplay out loud, something that all the screenplay websites say is a huge rookie mistake. I hadn't even read it aloud to myself when I was writing it.

Down on the "stage," Evan and a group of actors were milling around, arranging folding chairs, copies of my screenplay in hand. Lewis had said on the phone that the movie still hadn't been cast or anything - these were just actors who were doing Evan a favor, in hopes that the producers might see them in the role and decide, "Yes! We must have you!" But it's not like any of them were recognizable celebrities or anything.

I was still hot after all that driving and running, so I cracked open the bottled water Lewis had given me and started drinking. I walked closer to the stage. Being actors, they were all pretty attractive, like Otto had said. It was obvious who was playing Joe and Milo, because they were the hottest actors of all. In fact, they were so hot that I was way too intimidated to talk to them. Instead, I walked up to an older women in a long scarf (a requirement, apparently, for female actors), who I a.s.sumed was playing the grandmother.

"Hey there," I said. "I'm Russel, the writer?"

Evan heard me and turned around. "Hey!" He turned to the actors. "Everyone? This is Russel, the screenwriter of A Cup of Joe."

The actors all gathered around to tell me how much they loved my script. This included the actors playing Joe and Milo, who were even more insanely handsome close up (I approached them to shake their hands, but technically they were still unapproachable). Once again I knew all these compliments were mostly insincere hot air, and once again I was reminded how even insincere hot air is still a thousand times better than constant rejection.

After a bit, everyone else sort of turned back to their own little cl.u.s.ters, and the older woman I'd introduced myself to before said, "I'm Kate." It was good comic timing, like I'd talked to her, and she'd had to wait all this time before she could respond.

I laughed. "Thanks for doing this," I said to her. "I really appreciate it."

"Oh, sure. And they're right, you know. It really is a good script. I read so much s.h.i.t. But this is special. I really hope it gets made."

I knew she was probably sucking up to me too. Who knows? When it came to casting, maybe even the lowly screenwriter's opinion could tip the scales. But Kate's compliment did feel more sincere.

"Thanks," I said. Overhearing that argument in the lobby had made me anxious, but talking to Kate had made me feel better again. "So what about you? What are you working on?"

"Hmmm, I'm about to play Joseph Gordon-Levitt's mother," she said. "And I'm up for the queen in Disney's new live-action Little Mermaid."

The Bulls.h.i.t Factor, I thought. So what did that really mean? She'd merely auditioned for the Gordon-Levitt film, and The Little Mermaid wasn't a feature, but something for the Disney Channel? But I couldn't hold it against her. Otto had said everyone did it, that it was expected.

From behind us in the theater, I heard Mr. Brander say, "Okay, everyone, let's get started, shall we?"

He and Lewis had entered, but Bryce was right behind him, his fists clenched. "I'll walk!" he said to Mr. Brander. "I'm serious! This is bulls.h.i.t and you know it. I'll walk out of this theater right now, and I won't be back."

With a spine as straight as the redwood tree I mentioned earlier, Mr. Brander stared straight ahead. "By all means, do what you have to do."

As Bryce stood there staring daggers down at Mr. Brander's wheelchair, an awkward silence descended on the room. I saw Andrea and Justin glance at each other, the way people do when they're quietly mortified by right-wing grandparents. Lewis looked at his shoes.

Not in front of the actors, I thought, as if they were children.

Finally, Bryce laughed. "You're crazy," he said. "You're a crazy old man! This is such bulls.h.i.t. Okay, I'm gone!"

It took more than one try for Bryce to find the actual opening in the velvet curtain behind him, but then he fumbled his way through and disappeared.

Mr. Brander rolled forward down the aisle. Out in the lobby, the door slammed loud enough to be heard even through the curtain.

What in the world was that about? I thought. Was Bryce gone for good, and if so, what did it mean for our movie? But I wasn't about to ask. I didn't even move a muscle for fear that Mr. Brander would notice me and make a big deal about my presence like he usually did. Instead, he started to direct the actors on who should sit where.

"Okay, where's Joe?" Mr. Brander said.

"Ross?" Evan said, and one of the actors stepped forward.

"What?" Mr. Brander said.

"I'm Joe," the actor said.

"Who's Ross?" Mr. Brander said.

"I am," the actor said. "I'm playing Joe."

"Oh! Right." He pointed to a chair. "You're there. And Milo?"

"Nicholas?" Evan said, nodding to another actor. "And Marcy is Megan."

Mr. Brander hesitated, clearly confused by all the different names. He looked at Evan. "Why don't we stick to character names for now, okay?"

"Okay," Evan said. "Sorry."

And so Mr. Brander went down the line arranging the actors, but I could tell that Evan, Andrea, and Justin were a little concerned by how easily Mr. Brander had become confused. Plus, everyone was probably still wondering about what had happened with Bryce. Meanwhile, Lewis busied himself by pa.s.sing out more bottled waters. Basically, there were whole layers of subtext to this room that Mr. Brander seemed completely unaware of, or was maybe choosing to ignore.

He's probably still fl.u.s.tered by his argument with Bryce, I thought. I would be.

"Okay," Mr. Brander said to the group. "I realize none of you have read the script."

From one side, Evan spoke up. "They've read the script."

Mr. Brander looked at him, confused again.

"They've read the script," he repeated. "Most of them anyway. They haven't had any rehearsal, but they read the script. And I'll be reading the scene descriptions."

Mr. Brander still looked a little befuddled. "That's fine," he said quietly.

To the actors, Evan said, "We're not looking for perfection. We just want to go all the way through, out loud, so all of us, and Russel here, can hear how it sounds."

At the sound of my name, Mr. Brander finally perked up again. He searched for me in the seats. "Russel! How are you, my boy?" Now he sounded like he always did, completely confident, owning the room.

I squeezed out a smile. "I'm good. Thanks, Mr. Brander."

After that, the actors started in on the script. I was still a bit freaked out by everything that had happened, plus I was sitting in a theater where my words were being performed in front of me for the very first time in my life.

So basically, I didn't hear a single word that the actors said.

Then ten minutes into the reading, something even worse happened: I realized I had to pee. It had been a long drive over, and also a long time searching for parking, then I'd quickly guzzled down that whole bottled water that Lewis had given me. Stupidly, it hadn't occurred to me to go to the bathroom before the reading. By the time we were twenty minutes into the script, I really had to go. I was also realizing there probably wouldn't be an intermission (after all, it was the script of a movie, not a play, with no natural stopping point).

At least I was on the aisle. I was pretty sure I could slip out without being too disruptive. Granted, this was a reading of my screenplay, and a big part of why we were here was so I could hear the d.a.m.n thing out loud, but I wasn't listening anyway. Yes, everyone in the theater would definitely see me leave, but what alternative did I have?

Then I thought back to that little lobby behind me. I didn't remember there being any doors to restrooms - and it was small enough that if there had been doors, I would've seen them. The only other door in the whole theater other than the entrance seemed to be the door in the stage itself, to backstage.

The only restrooms in this theater are backstage? I thought. What was I going to do, get up, walk through the actors on stage, then wander around back there looking for the bathroom?

Oh, blimey, I thought. I'd never used, or even thought, the words "Oh, blimey" in my life, but I thought them right then.

This was too embarra.s.sing, even for me. It didn't seem like I could possibly hold it for another sixty minutes. On the other hand, disrupting the reading would have been completely mortifying, so I didn't have any choice.

I like to think the stuff I write reads at a relatively brisk pace, that I include conflict in every scene and never forget my narrative arcs.

But sitting in that theater with my bladder threatening to burst like an appendix, my screenplay dragged something crazy. If people in Los Angeles wore jackets, I would have seriously considered putting mine over my lap and trying to pee into the empty water bottle.

Finally - FINALLY! - my endless, wildly-over-written, hopelessly meandering screenplay came to an end.

"Thanks so much," Evan was saying to the actors. "You were all just great."

Andrea turned around to me in the seats. "You okay with us sharing our notes now?"

"Absolutely," I said, standing, pretending to stretch. "But how about a five-minute break? Not that the screenwriter desperately needs to pee or anything!"

This got a laugh from everyone who heard me, including Mr. Brander, and I was back to thinking: I can do this! I can be funny and charming when I need to be.

By the time I got back from the restroom, the actors had all left, and the producers had moved into the seats along the front of the stage. Mr. Brander's wheelchair was in the aisle, so I settled into one of the folding chairs on stage, with me in the hot seat. Now we were just waiting on Lewis who had been using the restroom after me.

n.o.body was saying anything. I'd sat down into the middle of an awkward silence. Evan, Justin, and Andrea all eyed each other, unsettled.

Now what? In a way, it had been a good thing I desperately had to use the bathroom all through the reading, because it meant I was too preoccupied to obsess about everything that had happened before - Bryce storming out and the general obtuseness of Mr. Brander. But I was funny and charming, right? Somehow I'd figure out a way to make this right, to make everyone feel okay about the movie project again.

Sitting his wheelchair, Mr. Brander began to snore. It was very quiet, but impossible to ignore, since n.o.body else was saying anything. At some point in the last few minutes, he'd fallen asleep. That's what was causing the awkwardness. So much for his being a n.o.ble old redwood tree.

Lewis appeared at last, coming up next to Mr. Brander's wheelchair and tapping him on the shoulder.

"Mr. Brander?" he said, and the old man jerked awake.

But the damage was long since done. I could see it on Andrew, Justin, and Evan's faces - a cross between laughing at Mr. Brander and freaking out as they realized what kind of pathetic geriatric they'd partnered with on this film. Basically, there was more subtext on the stage right then than in any play that little theater had probably ever put on.

Are they going to leave? I thought. Throw down their scripts and storm out of the theater like Bryce? Well, why not? If Mr. Brander was a joke, what was the point of staying? I guess Kevin had been right that night in Santa Monica when he said the movie deal would fall apart. If I had any self-respect, I'd leave too. The problem was, I didn't have anywhere else to go. No other producers wanted me.

"Well, that was just great!" I said to the group. "The reading was just so, so helpful to me." Who knows? If I hadn't been so distracted, maybe it really would've been.

"Hmm?" Mr. Brander said, still groggy from his afternoon nap.

"But mostly I want to hear what you folks thought," I said, quickly moving on, ignoring Mr. Brander and concentrating on Evan, Andrea, and Justin. "What do you guys think didn't work about the script? Of course" - at this I cleared my throat mock-modestly - "you can also tell me what you thought worked."

Everyone laughed. The ominous subtext from before was gone, for the moment at least. I could see that in their eyes too.

They did tell me what they liked about A Cup of Joe (he said modestly). They also told me what they thought was wrong. Scenes that dragged and needed to be tightened, lines that didn't work or were confusing, stuff like that.

I agreed with some of it and thought some of it was stupid, but I nodded and wrote it all down on my iPad. Mostly I was just glad that the discussion was keeping the other producers distracted from Mr. Brander.

"The problem is the present-day storyline."

Mr. Brander had spoken at last.

The other producers and I all turned to look at him, sitting tall and straight in his wheelchair again. The fog had lifted from his eyes.

"We all agree that the flashbacks are terrific," he went on, suddenly as confident and solid as, well, a redwood tree. "Smart and funny and brisk and surprising. In fact, they're so good they disguise the fact that nothing happens in the present-day storyline. Joe and Milo meet, and they have a series of conversations, some of which are quite witty. But what happens? Yes, Milo has a new boyfriend, but they're clearly not in love. So where are the obstacles to him and Joe getting together? All the real action is in the past, so it's really just a question of the two of them realizing they should be together, that they never should have broken up in the first place. But where's the dramatic tension in that? It's almost entirely internal. If this was a novel, we might be able to get away with that, but it's not, it's a movie. So we need more. Let's make this cup of joe much, much hotter. Scalding!"