Agent to the Stars (11 page)

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Authors: John Scalzi

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“At twenty-three, Eddie Murphy had made
48 Hours, Trading Places,
and
Beverly Hills Cop,
” Barbara said, “and his show was on a
real
network.”
“Not everyone can have Eddie Murphy's career,” I said.
“See,
this
is what I'm worried about,” Barbara said. “
I
think Rashaad can have Eddie's career.
You
think he can't.”
“I didn't say that,” I said. “But now that you mention it, I don't want Rashaad to have Eddie Murphy's career. It includes
Harlem Nights
and
The Adventures of Pluto Nash,
too, you know.”
“But this is all academic, isn't it?” Barbara said. “Because the fact is, Rashaad's not even in film at
all
. All he has for himself is one little show on one little network.”
I started to reply, but there was a rap on the railing. We both turned to see Rashaad, in a hooded sweatshirt, surrounded by his lackeys. Someone had apparently forgotten to tell Rashaad that gangsta went out when Notorious BIG got perforated in Los Angeles.
“Say, yo, ma,” Rashaad said. “The boys and I are going to get something to eat. You want we should, you know, bring you something or something?”
Rashaad finished in the top fifth of his private boarding school, with a verbal SAT of 650. He majored in English at the University of California, Berkeley, before dropping out in his second year to become a standup comedian. Back then, his name was Paul.
“Rashaad, honey, where are your manners?” Barbara said. “Say hello to Tom.”
“Hey, yo, Tom,” Rashaad said. “What's the word?”
“The word is ‘abrogate,' Rashaad.” This was an inside joke between us, my reminder to him that I remembered his GPA. He'd ask me what the word is, and I'd give him the most obscure
one I could think of at the moment. Then he'd give me the definition back in street talk.
Except this time he looked surprised and shot his mother a quick look. Barbara gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head. He turned back to me. “Good to see you, Tom. I'll catch you later.” He and his stooges slunk out, followed enviously by the eyes of the trapped crew. I watched him until he slipped out of the studio.
“So, Barbara,” I said. “Who did you get to replace me?”
“What?” Barbara said.
“After you decided that you were going to can me,” I said. “You must have had someone in mind to get your son's career into high gear. I can't imagine you'd fire me without having someone else already lined up.”
“I didn't say you were fired, Tom,” Barbara said.
“‘Abrogate—to annul, or repeal,'” I said. “Your son knows what it means, of course. That's why he looked so surprised when I used it. It's sort of funny, because I didn't use it to mean anything—it was just the first word that came into my head. But his reaction says to me that you didn't really call me over here to express your concerns about your son's career. You had me come over here to fire me. Right?”
“I'm looking out for the best interests of my son,” Barbara said. “I don't know what it is you're going through at the moment, Tom, but you need to work out those issues, and my son can't wait for you to do that.”
“Really?” I said. “Did you actually
ask
Rashaad if he wanted to drop me? Or did you just tell him after the fact? For that matter, did you ask him if he wanted to wait for the union boss, or if he wanted to just get someone to sweep up with a broom? It
is
his show, after all.”
Barbara bristled. “
I'm
the producer. And I'm his manager. These things are my job—to look after this show and to look after him. I don't make any apologies for that, Tom, not to you or to anybody.”
“One day, you might have to make an apology to
him,
Barbara. But I bet you didn't think about it that way.”
Barbara glared at me but said nothing.
“So,” I said, “who did you get to replace me?”
“David Nolan at ACR.”
“He's not bad,” I said.
“I
know
that, Tom.” Barbara said. She got up and walked back towards the set. She began yelling at the assistant producer before she even got off the bleachers.
I sat there for a few moments, watching her go. One of the crew came over.
“Hi,” he said. “You wouldn't have been talking to her about when we could leave, right?”
“Nope, sorry,” I said. “I just came to get fired.”
“Wow,” he said. “Some guys have all the luck.” He started off.
“Hey,” I said. The guy turned. “Next time, don't miss.”
He grinned, gave me a salute, and went backstage.
 
The
next day, on the way to the
Pacific Rim
set, I got a phone call on my cellular. It was Joshua.
“Ralph and I are going on a hike,” he said. “Ralph smells something interesting out back of your house, and I'm worried about him if he goes alone. He's pretty old.”
“Joshua,” I said, “think about what you're saying, here. If Ralph has a little doggie stroke, it's not like you're going to be able to rush to the nearest street and flag down a passing motorist.
Why don't you guys wait until I get home? Then we can all go together.”
“Because I'm bored, and so is Ralph, and you're no fun anymore,” Joshua said. “Ever since that article came out. It's like living with a cardboard cutout of a formerly interesting person. Remember the good old days, when we'd have fun? It was just three days ago. Boy, those were times. Let me tell you.”
“I'm sorry, Joshua,” I said. “But I need these guys.”
“Tom, I respect and admire you greatly, but I think you may have your priorities slightly out of order,” Joshua said. “You're representing an entire alien culture. I think you shouldn't sweat the occasional television actor.”
I pulled into the set and waved at the security guard, who let me through. “Thanks for the tip, Joshua. But I'm already here. Might as well go for the save.”
“All right, fine,” Joshua said. “We'll try to be back before you get home, then.”
“Joshua, don't go. It'll only be a couple of hours. Really.”
“La la la la la la la,” Joshua said. “I'm not listening. Bye.”
“At least take a phone,” I yelled, but he had already hung up. Which was just as well. I didn't know how he would carry a phone, anyway. Probably the battery would leak into his insides. I parked, got out, headed towards the set.
Pacific Rim
was nominally supposed to take place in Venice Beach, but the majority of it was filmed in Culver City. One day a week, the cast and crew decamped to Venice Beach for location shots. Today was one of those days. It made for an interesting set, if only because the vast majority of extras were in bikinis and Rollerblades. On one end of the set, a blocked-off section of the Venice boardwalk, an assistant director was blocking a shot
with a pair of buxom Rollerbladers—apparently Rollerblading was harder than it looked. On the other end, Elliot Young had his script out and was conferring with the director, Don Bolling. Their conversation became more intelligible, as it were, the closer I got.
“I don't understand what I'm doing here,” Elliot was pointing to a page in the script. “See, look. I'm running after the girl, screaming, ‘Helen! Helen!', right? But Helen's dead. She was killed in the aquarium scene on page five. Isn't that a continuity problem?”
“Elliot,” Don said, “I
know
that Helen gets killed on page five. The reason you're running after this woman, screaming Helen's name, is because you think she's her. And, as it happens, it's not Helen, but it
is
her identical twin sister. Which you would know, if you ever bothered to read the script before we shot it.”
“But don't you think that's confusing?” Elliot said. “You know, this identical twin sister thing.”
Don let out an audible sigh. “Yes, I do. That's the point, Elliot. It's called a plot twist.”
“Well, that's just it,” Elliot said. “It's a plot twist, but now
I'm
having a hard time following the plot at all. I want people to be able to follow what I'm doing on the show when I'm doing it.”
“All right, Elliot,” Don said, “what do you suggest?”
“Well, it's obvious,” Elliot said. “When he chases the other woman, the other woman shouldn't look like Helen. It clears up the confusion.”
“If we do that,” Don said, “then it doesn't make any sense that you're running down the street, calling her Helen. She would just be another woman.”
“They could still be sisters,” Elliot said.
Don looked pained. “What?” he said.
“Sisters. They could still be sisters. Sisters look a lot alike. They're related. They could even still be twins, just not the kind that look alike. What are those called?”
“Fraternal,” I said. They both looked at me. I waved, cutely.
“Yeah, fraternal,” Elliot said, turning back to Don. “Personally, I think that makes a lot more sense.”
“Tom,” Don said, “please help me out here.”
“I don't even know what's going on,” I said. “Except that it involves sisters.”
“In this episode, a marine biologist named Helen that Elliot's dating witnesses a mob hit and gets killed,” Don said.
“She's thrown in with the electric eels,” Elliot said.
“ … Right,” Don said. “So Elliot's despondent, and then several days later, he sees another woman who looks just like Helen. So of course he's
confused
,”—Don whipped the word at Elliot, who took no notice—“since he knows she's supposed to be dead. It turns out to be her twin sister.”
“Who is of course also seen by the mob killers, so he has to protect her from them, and during the process he falls in love with her as well,” I said.
“How about that, Elliot?” Don said to his star. “Your agent figured out what was going on, and he didn't even have to read the script. My count shows him two up on you.”
“You don't find that confusing at all?” Elliot asked me.
“It
is
confusing,” I admitted. “But it's a good kind of confusing. It's the sort of confusing that viewers actually like, especially as I assume it gets explained at some point during the action. I'm right about that, Don?”
“It happens not far past the place where you stopped reading the script, Elliot,” Don said.
“Well, there it is, then,” I said. “It works out well for everyone.”
From the other end of the set there was a wail followed by a crash. One of the buxom Rollerbladers had careened out of control and impacted against a Steadicam operator. The resulting collision managed somehow to dislodge her bikini top. The Rollerblader appeared momentarily flummoxed, deciding whether to cover her nipples or to grab at the rapidly swelling knob on her forehead, where her skull connected with that of the cameraman. Her right arm switched between both locations, dealing with neither very effectively. In the wash of pain and embarrassment, she seemed to have forgotten that she had a whole other arm that she could deploy.
The Steadicam operator lay sprawled on the pavement, out cold. None of the predominately male crew was paying even the slightest bit of attention to him.
“Oh, look,” Don said. “An actual legitimate crisis.” He turned to Elliot. “When I get back, I would really like to shoot this scene. Please try to have all your philosophical problems with it resolved by then.” He sauntered toward the scene of the accident, angling towards the girl rather than the cameraman.
“Exciting day,” I said, to Elliot.
He was gnawing on a thumb, still looking at the script. “Are you sure that this isn't going to be a problem with this? I'm still sort of lost.”
“It'll be fine, Elliot. Stop worrying about it. And stop gnawing on your thumbnail. You're going to make your manicurist miserable. Look, you said you wanted to talk. Here I am.”
“Yeah, okay,” Elliot said. He seemed distracted as we went back to his trailer.
As we entered his trailer, I was greeted by a life-size cutout of Elliot in his “beach volleyball” costume and shades, grinning toothily and holding a bottle of cologne. I had a brief flashback to my earlier conversation with Joshua. “Who's the handsome guy?” I said.
“Oh, that,” Elliot said. He bent down to get a bottle of water out of his refrigerator. “The production company thinks we ought to branch out into other markets. So we're making a
Pacific Rim
cologne.”

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