Dan Wakefield - Selling Out - A Novel

With all these practical matters in mind, Perry read the script that night, as he gulped down some wine. Given the basic idea, it did not seem all that bad. He called Kling the next morning and asked him what he thought was missing from it.

“The magic, the magic, the magic!”. the intense producer exclaimed.

Perry promised to think about it further.

What was to think about?

A man who had $4,000 in cash and a $3,000-plus a month mortgage that was part of a monthly nut of $10,000 (which meant you had to make twice that to have it after taxes) was being offered an opportunity to make $100,000 without breaking the law, and in the process, advance his career.

So what was the problem?

Perry stoked up his pipe and settled back on the couch to face his decision honestly. He admitted to himself what was bothering him about this seemingly golden opportunity. Oh, of course he had known it all along but it was too worrisome, too confusing—and at the same time too childishly simple—to deal with head-on, and so he had kept pushing it back.

The truth was that a year ago—hell, even a week ago, before he knew he was broke—he would have laughed scornfully at any suggestion that he might even remotely consider doing a rewrite of a script about a family whose dog possessed psychic powers.

Are you serious?

Yet here was the virtuous writer himself, thinking over the offer, for no other reason than desperately needing the money.

There was a term for that.

It was called “selling out.”

It was against all the values and dreams that Perry had grown up with, a mockery of the lofty ideals of his literary heroes.

Hey—can you picture Henry James being in the same room with Larman Kling, much less considering doing a rewrite for him? Surely not even Scott Fitzgerald, in the depths of his own dark night of the soul in Hollywood, took on assignments whose plots revolved around psychic pets!

On the other hand times had not just changed, time itself had seemingly been put on fast forward, like the speeded-up tapes on a video cassette recorder. Henry James was not just a tintype now, he was more like some ancient God, as remote as Zeus. Fitzgerald was a figure of legend, and the games and wars that meant so much to him now seemed closer to the life of Troy than of today’s Los Angeles.

Maybe that’s the sort of thing the Vees had in mind when they said the term “selling out” (which they hadn’t even heard for ages) seemed “quaint” to them, a relic of the nineteen-fifties, like hula hoops and Ike buttons, a problem for that now primordial creature of the post-war American world, the Man in the Gray Flannel Suit.

Perhaps they were right, perhaps Perry was needlessly flailing his conscience and letting outmoded cultural guilt get him down simply because he was trying to apply the standards of the past to the realities of the present. When he thought of it that way, he saw that there were damn good reasons for his taking on this assignment besides the money involved!

By doing this rewrite he could learn more about the craft of filmmaking, a craft he wanted to master. He’d be working with a successful producer—OK, so he wasn’t the most intellectual or sophisticated of the new breed of movie moguls, but the bottom line was (remember?) he got pictures made . Besides, the reason Kling wanted him to take on this assignment was to bring some class to the project. Perry was getting the opportunity for the very reason that he was regarded as a quality writer. He could write quality dialogue—hell, that’s what he was being hired to do! If Kling had wanted Harry the Hack he could easily have found hundreds of such eager robots, but no, he had purposely sought out a writer of quality. And he wanted the very best that Perry could deliver.

Despite this impressive accumulation of evidence, Perry felt a sudden yearning to talk it over with Jane. Maybe just because he was so used to doing that during the past five years. She seemed to have a knack for pointing out angles he hadn’t observed, for alerting him to possible pitfalls he hadn’t been aware of, and even for showing him positive aspects his own deliberations had overlooked. He even went and sat in front of the phone for a minute or so. Then he sighed, trying to imagine explaining to Jane the advantages of doing a rewrite job and the need for quality dialogue in a script about a psychic dog.

No.

She was too far away from the realities of the business, too far out of the picture. Maybe if she had stuck it out, had stayed here until he got it all together, she could have advised him as intelligently and sensitively about this as she had about so many other things. Of course, if he had been a little more intelligent and sensitive about her own feelings out here, had thought just a little about her own welfare instead of devoting total attention to his own, maybe she would be here now, beside him.

Damn. It was too late for that kind of thinking. Besides, it was just a cop-out. The fact was, Jane was simply too far away to be of help now. From clear across the country, in a farmhouse in Vermont, this whole thing would sound crazy. He was the one who was here, it was his own ass that was on the line, and he damn well better deal with it. Perry told himself it was time to stand on his own two feet and think for himself, anyway. He stood up and went to the refrigerator, throwing his shoulders back as he walked. He got out another beer and opened it, beginning to feel cheerful and confident.

The outdoor terrace of the Polo Lounge was the perfect place to celebrate. The colors of the clothes of the beautiful people (not just socially, they really looked physically beautiful, too, tan and sleek and perfectly proportioned) blended with the tropical blooms of the flowers, the stately green palms and the pink hotel, everything softly illumined by the warm sun.

Perry was back on his Perrier, the drink of success. The drink of people who were so together and confident they didn’t need a drink. At least not at lunch. It made him feel crisp, clearheaded, concise.

“You look a lot better than last time,” Pru Vardeman said, no longer scrunched beneath her silk shawl but expansively throwing back her shoulders and tilting up her chin as she smiled on Perry and, at the same time, nodded acknowledgments and blew occasional kisses to actors, producers, directors and agents of note who were also having the pleasure of lunching here this lovely day. Vaughan, sticking to his personal style in Ivy League jacket and tie, raised his own Perrier to toast his pal.

“We’ve all come a long way from Harvard Square, Moss-back,” he said with a satisfied grin.

Perry laughed.

“From Mr. Bartley’s Burger Cottage to the Polo Lounge!” he said.

Pru laughed too.

It was like old times.

At last.

The Vees were delighted at Perry’s landing the job with Larman Kling, who they assured him had moved beyond his earlier horror flick and sci-fi stuff and gained high regard as an artist with the success of Schtick ; but more important, was hot right now. This was not only good news for Perry but for the Vees too; if Perry had a feature credit under his belt it would make it much easier for Vaughan to eventually make “The Springtime Women.” Instead of being a handicap to a project Perry would be an important element once he had the feature credit in his cap.

“Oh, and I almost forgot,” Vaughan said. “I read that treatment you gave me. Not for me, but I think it might be just what Phil Clausen’s been looking for. I hope you don’t mind I sent it to him.”

“Huh? Hey, no, thanks, but he already passed on it.”

“Well, he mentioned that, but he thought he’d like to take a fresh look at it. Anyway, it can’t hurt.”