Dan Wakefield - Selling Out - A Novel

Though this version of the film was almost a half hour shorter than the rough cut, it seemed interminably longer, and instead of producing the aura of power and massive meaning of the Russian novels, as it had before, at this viewing Perry felt his precious story must seem to the outsiders who were sentenced to watch it simply tedious and boring. He shifted in his seat, feeling as if battalions of tiny, invisible ants were skirmishing up and down his legs and under his rump. Suddenly, he realized he needed to take a pee. Why the hell hadn’t he done that before the screening started? He couldn’t go now, or it might seem like his movie couldn’t even hold the attention of its own author, much less a national audience of millions of viewers!

At last, the lights went on.

Perry scrunched down in his seat, not even wanting to look at Amanda, not wanting to go through the agony of trying to read and decipher her expression. But any such apprehension was quickly ended, as Amanda’s voice rang out loud and clear through the room.

“This,” she declared, “is what television should be!”

“I wouldn’t go out and buy a new cabin cruiser yet,” Ned advised.

Jane laughed.

“Thank God there’s a voice of reason around,” she said. “I think Perry was thinking of a somewhat larger purchase—Cape Cod.”

“Now, now,” Perry said, “I only mentioned a house on Cape Cod. I had in mind something modest—like the Kennedy Compound.”

He joined in the laughter, sinking back in the pillows with his goblet of wine, his mood matching the sultanlike surroundings of Akbar, the new “in” Moroccan restaurant where he had taken Ned and Kim to dinner with Jane to celebrate the glowingly enthusiastic reaction of Amanda and the West Coast network people to the screening of “The First Year’s the Hardest.”

“Just keep in mind,” Ned said, continuing his friendly caution, “the East Coast network brass may not necessarily go for ‘what television should be’—they may just like it the way it is.”

“That’s always safest, you know,” Kim added.

Perry shifted a bit uneasily on his cushion.

“Seriously,” he said, “are you guys telling me you think they won’t buy the pilot?”

“I think they’ll probably buy the two-hour film,” Ned said. “It can always go on and stand by itself as a quality made-for-television movie—something that’s bound to get good reviews, and they can brag about.”

Perry sat up now, leaning forward.

“You don’t think they’ll commission the series?”

“I doubt Archer will get them to order thirteen hours, not in these times,” Ned said. “I think six would be more like it. Or maybe they won’t take the gamble at all. There’s no way to know.”

“For heaven sake, Perry,” Jane said, “be glad you have a wonderful movie that’s going to be on television—probably.”

“Hey, I am glad,” Perry said. “And I’m grateful too.”

He raised his goblet toward Ned, and went on.

“I’m grateful I got an executive producer who is so ‘civilized’—”

He paused as they all chortled at Ned’s trademark word, and then continued his salute:

“—he has become not only a trusted colleague, but also, I hope, a friend for life.”

“Thank you,” said Ned, raising his own goblet to Perry. “Not only for your kind words, but for your terrific script!”

“Here, here!” Kim called out, and Jane, beaming, reached across her pillows to hug her talented and happy husband.

Ned took a sip of his wine and then leaned forward saying, “All right— ‘amigo’ —now that the love fest is over, let’s get down to business. How about writing another script I can produce?”

“Don’t you dare tempt him,” said Jane. “He’s promised we’re going back home the end of this month.”

She grabbed Perry’s hand protectively.

“I know you’re pretty far up in the wilds,” Ned said with a wink, “but I thought you had phones and a mailbox. In fact, I thought Perry was going to serve as our story consultant in absentia when you went back—no?”

“Sure, that’s the deal!” Perry enthused. He relished the thought—sitting up in his remote command post, watching his show on the tube and jotting down notes, calling up Ned the next day and hashing it over, getting the latest gossip from the front lines.

“I had presumed you might even scribble in a few sparkling phrases of your own to add a little class to the scripts we ship you?”

“Absolutely,” Perry grinned.

In his own study he would pore over scripts, strike out awkward bits of dialogue, roll a fresh sheet of paper in his typewriter, and knock out a brilliant scene that he would mail off from the post office in town, stopping off afterward at the very diner where he’d gone for coffee after the historic mailing of his book to Archer a million years ago, last fall.

Ned raised his hands, palms up, as if he had demonstrated some point of logic.

“Therefore, it follows,” he said, “that you could also write a new script of your own, working with me on it by mail and phone, and—”

Ned turned to Jane.

“You wouldn’t object to coming out here again for a little visit, would you, while Perry and I molded our latest masterpiece into shape?”

“As long as I can live in my own house, and have my own garden,” Jane said, “I wouldn’t object to anything at all.”

Kim smiled and touched Jane’s arm.

“I’d love to see New England,” Kim said. “Let’s make the men agree to have this be a ‘home and home’ working arrangement—for every time you two come out to L.A., we have to go to Vermont!”

“It so happens Vermont is one of my favorite places in the world,” Ned said. “I’d rather ski Stowe than the Alps.”

“This is perfect,” Jane said, genuinely delighted now. “We’ll have a marvelous time!”

Of course. Perry could picture the very scene he knew Jane had in mind. The four of them sharing a hearty stew. Hot buttered rum by the fire. Surely back East it would be all right to drink something other than wine again. Especially something traditional, not for getting smashed but for observing the rituals of the region. Was it really a fantasy, too picturesquely ideal to be true?

“Uh, Ned,” Perry said, clearing his throat, “were you thinking about this in general, us working on a script when I go back? Or did you have some particular idea in mind?”

Ned smiled and eased back in the pashalike pillows.

“I’d love to see a film of a haunting little story I happen to know and admire called “The Springtime Women.”

It was one of Perry’s, a story he had published in Redbook and used as the title piece of his last collection. It was one of his favorites—two women in their forties leave their families in the Midwest and come to try a new life in Greenwich Village. Like most of Perry’s stories it worked more on atmosphere than plot; an evocation of the Village of the late sixties was its greatest charm.

“That’s a compliment,” Perry said, “but I can’t really see something that soft for television.”

“I wasn’t thinking of television.”

“You mean a play? You want to go back to Broadway?”

“I mean a feature film,” Ned said.

Jane squeezed Perry’s arm.

“What a lovely thought,” she said.

It was quite a tribute to Perry, not just because of Ned’s liking his story, but more importantly of his having confidence in Perry’s ability to write a feature. He had quickly learned out here that writers who worked in television were categorized—and even stigmatized—as being of a lower order of ability than was required for the more lucrative and prestigious realm of features.