“Makeshift Coriander? That script was on the Black List last year!” The Black List was an unofficial survery of Hollywood readers of the best unproduced screenplays around town. He didn’t need to consult the Internet for this. Cameron Buckley knew his shit.
“Right. It’s an unbelievable script. A female assassin impersonates a world renown chef in order to cook a poisonous meal for the President of the United States. What a hook.”
“I love that the main character is female and that she didn’t have a romantic interest. I feel like Hollywood doesn’t write roles for women like this anymore.”
“Yeah. Every actress over thirty-five is chasing this project down. Wait, how did you know about the no romance part? Did you read the script?”
Cameron cringed. “Yes. It was floating around online, like most of the Black List scripts.”
“Don’t worry, man. I get how the Internet works. Good on you for taking the initiative to read those screenplays.”
Cameron spun like a ballet dancer. “How do you decide to put a movie into production?”
“You need to have a star and director attached. Then you need to make sure the financials work out. Both sound simple but can take years to happen,” Arthur said with a laugh.
“Or they get thrown into turnaround,” Cameron said. He inhaled a breath. This was like a date minus the sexual tension. He never got a chance to talk this kind of inside baseball stuff with his friends. He had just met another person in an exclusive club, and he knew the language. It made him feel better about all those hours watching movies and reading the online trades and breathlessly waiting for the weekend box office to show up online. He wasn’t alone.
“I am seriously impressed, dude. You definitely know more than I did at twenty-two. So you want to be a screenwriter?”
The way Arthur asked the question made Cameron pause. It sounded almost like a trap of some sort. Cameron was familiar with looks he received from family and family friends when he told them he wanted to be a writer. This call had been going like gangbusters, and Cameron didn’t want to ruin the momentum with his strongest link to a career in Hollywood.
“I’m keeping my options open. I definitely want to know more about development and seeing how scripts get shaped for production.”
“Cool. You don’t want to limit yourself too soon. Les Moonves wanted to be an actor before he became President of CBS,” Arthur said. (Cameron knew that.) Cameron breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t sure was necessary. “I’d be happy to pass your resume along to HR. When are you moving out here?”
“September.” Cameron hoped he sounded somewhat calm and collected because inside, he was freaking out.
“Just in time to escape the cold. Shoot me an email if you have any questions in the meantime. We’ll grab a drink once you’re in town.”
“Sounds good. Thank you so much.” And Cameron was up again. Floating around the room. High-fiving the ceiling. But his high came to quick halt when Walker flashed in his mind.
“Cameron?”
And then he was sitting.
“Still here.” Cameron knew he sounded calmer now.
“You remind me a lot of myself. I think you’ll do great.”
CHAPTER Sixteen
Walker
Walker entered familiar territory. He and Cameron strolled down a block of three-flats not far from campus. In Walker’s day, this was where fratty North Campus folk lived as upperclassmen. But now, Cameron’s friend’s boyfriend lived here with his friends. Gentrification had done it again.
“Are you nervous?”
“No.”
But of course he was. He couldn’t deny the ultimate truth that he was a thirty-six-year-old father who was attending an off-campus college party. He prayed not to run into anyone he knew. Not like that would happen. The adults he knew had adult friends and did adult things. Walker did, too, but he couldn’t refuse Cameron.
Cameron couldn’t have run fast enough from his apartment the other morning. They hadn’t spoken since. Walker worried he and Hobie had finally scared him away. Walker felt his whole body light up when Cameron texted him this afternoon about going to a party. He said yes before realizing he’d be the one non-student here.
“It’s just a small gathering. A few drinks with friends,” Cameron assured him as they continued up the block. Walker heard music blaring from two apartments they passed. When he was a freshman and had little social pulse, Walker and his friends would roam this block and crash any parties they heard. Later in the night, when everyone was drunk and coming and going, the notion of “invites” disappeared.
I’m going to a party with a friend.He told himself that story over and over, even though his heart did a somersault whenever Cameron smiled at him. Walker clutched the bottle of wine he brought as a gift. Because that’s what adults did when they were invited over someone’s house. They brought a bottle of wine.
Cameron examined the offering. “You didn’t have to get anything. They’re having a keg, and Nolan’s roommate Jordan has a bunch of top shelf liquor. He’s kind of a snob about it, but at least he shares.”
