“Are you late for a meeting?”
“No, I’m going to the office to work on script notes, though. Why?”
“I think I need to fart, but it’s not ready yet. Can I do it in here?”
I lower all of the windows, turn up the fan and the Christmas songs. “Sure, buddy. Let ’er rip.”
One good thing about December 19 is there’s plenty of parking at the studio in the afternoon, so I get a prime space on the lot, right outside my office building. Should there be a dedicated parking space with my name on it? Yes. There should be. But this is not the Golden Age of Hollywood. This is the age of Hollywood where a Best Picture Oscar gets you a seven-figure two-year deal at a major film studio, a feature inLos Angelesmagazine, a decent table at Soho House any day of the week, and absolutely nothing.
Still, I am grateful to have scored this parking space, but I have to leave all four windows cracked open. I pay fifty billion dollars a year for my son to go to the best private school on the westside of LA, and it smells like they’re feeding him salami and hard-boiled eggs for lunch. I text my assistant, asking her to order me leather seat deodorant if that’s a thing, because I don’t think fresh air is going to clear that stench. I’m very glad he didn’t release the Kraken at his friend’s party, but I might have to buy a new car.
Elaine immediately replies, reminding me that she’s at home sick. As if I don’t remember that she has ruined my entire life by falling ill at the worst possible time for me. On top of this, my development executive is on maternity leave, so I am entirely on my own, with no one I can vent to while pacing around my office.
When I get to my production company’s offices on the third floor, there’s an early-twentysomething temp in an oversized suit sitting at Elaine’s desk, talking on his cell phone and staring at the computer monitor. He’s a totally different temp from the one who was sitting there yesterday, and I don’t like his pointy, entitled face. He ends the call he was on without saying goodbye, stands up, offering me his hand to shake. “Mr. Abrams,” he says. “It’s an honor. Welcome.”
Why is he welcoming me to my own office?
“I’m Peter?—”
“I need you to get me Blu-rays of every live-action Christmas movie we have available on the lot, ASAP. Family comedies only. NotIt’s a Wonderful Life.NotLove Actually.No musicals. Nothing starring Ben Affleck. Blu-ray, not DVD.”
“Got it,” he says, rocking back on his heels.
And I cansotell he does not get it.
Before I can make a break for it, he picks up the printed-out script that was on the desk, holds it out to me with both hands, offering it to me like a charcuterie board. “And in case you’re looking for a script about?—”
“I’m not. You need to leave.”
“Excuse me?”
“This isn’t going to work. You need to go home.”
“Do you still want me to order those DVDs for you?”
“I wanted you to order me Blu-rays from the studio library. Do you know how to do that?”
“No, but I can?—”
“No, you can’t. I need you to leave so I can concentrate.”
“Okay, should I leave my script here, or…?”
“Nope.” I’m already calling Elaine before I’ve closed the door to my private office. What kind of monster tries to hand his script to a producer as soon as he walks in? Amateur. If it’s a good script, just leave it in the men’s room and it will find its way into the right hands eventually. These fucking Gen Z temps think they’ve made the ultimate effort just by leaving the house.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve fired another one,” Elaine says as a greeting.
“I need you to get me another temp.”
“That was the seventh one this week. You have to pay an extra fee every time the temp agency sends you a new one.”
“It’s not my fault that not one of them has lasted more than an hour.”
“Elijah. I got an email from Accounting yesterday. You can’t afford to waste the company’s money on temp fees when your deal is almost up.” She lowers her voice, even though she’s at home alone. “Even if you’re hoping to get the job at Streamflix, if you’re being extravagant with your budget it doesn’t look good on paper.”
She’s right.
Dammit, she’s right.
