Part 8 (1/2)

Except for casting director, I didn't know what any of those t.i.tles meant.

Part of me was relieved. Like I said, I was worried it was going to be just Mr. Brander, Lewis, and me. Either that or it would be a bunch of old people - all the people Mr. Brander had worked with before, away from the retirement home for the day. I had a really hard time imagining that anyone would take this film project seriously if it was being put together by a bunch of people with walkers and cataracts.

These people all looked like the real thing, ready to get moving. Evan and Justin had iPads, and Andrea clutched a pen and clipboard.

”Can I get you something to drink?” Lewis asked me. There were already drinks set on stone coasters all around the room.

”Evian?” I said, a little pleased with myself that I already sounded slightly less pathetic than before.

”Sure thing,” Lewis said, and he left to go get it.

I took a seat. Now it was just me and the other producers, and there was this sort of awkward moment when everyone was staring at me. Which I guess made sense: I'd written the screenplay that was the reason why everyone had gathered there.

It seemed like it was up to me to say something, so I said the kind of thing you say at a party: ”How do you guys know Mr. Brander?”

There was another awkward moment.

”I just met him last week!” Andrea said.

”Me too,” Bryce said.

”Friend of a friend of a friend,” Justin said.

”I mean, I'd heard of him,” Evan said. ”But yeah.”

Silence descended yet again. So I said, ”An old house? None of us have met before, and none of us know the host? Sounds like we've all been invited by an eccentric billionaire to spend the night in a haunted mansion.”

Everyone laughed - really laughed - and I felt great. I was totally killing this ”development meeting” thing.

Making it in Hollywood? I thought. This isn't so hard!

Everyone was still looking at me, smiling, so I went on to say, ”In the end, of course, we'll discover we were all somehow responsible for the death of Mr. Brander's daughter five years ago.”

No one laughed this time, and I realized I'd killed the joke.

Okay, so maybe this isn't so easy. At least I could still fall back on the Screenwriter Loophole. If people expected the screenwriter to be a total loser, maybe I wasn't doing that bad.

”But what a list of credits, huh?” I said, forging onward. ”I mean, who hasn't Mr. Brander worked with?”

”He told me how he worked with Jack Lemmon,” Evan said.

”Ha!” Andrea said. ”He told me about working with Debbie Reynolds.”

”Sean Connery,” Stuart said.

”Bette Davis,” Justin said.

So now I knew how Mr. Brander got people to work with him: he name-dropped. Mr. Brander had done the same thing with me, with Tennessee Williams and also Bette Davis. (I couldn't help but think: Justin is gay too? I mean, Bette Davis, come on.) Before long, people started talking about their own projects.

”I was working with Lisa Kudrow and Dan Bucatinsky on this project,” Bryce said, ”and Don Roos, of course.”

”Of course,” someone said as if it was obvious.

Why is that obvious? I thought.

”I really like Web Therapy!” Andrea said.

”Do you?” Evan said. ”Because I feel like it doesn't always come together. I mean, I'd watch Lily Tomlin read the phone book. But that's sort of what it feels like sometimes, Lily Tomlin reading the phone book.”

Everyone grunted in agreement, and I did too, even though I'd never seen Web Therapy.

”I've been involved with this thing with Tim Burton and Jake Gyllenhaal over at Searchlight,” Andrea said.

Everyone murmured their approval.

”I've been working with Jonah Hill on this screenplay he wrote,” Justin said.

”Pure Imagination at Sony?” Evan said.

”No,” Justin said. ”That one's finally truly dead, even though Jonah won't admit it. This is something else. I know actors always think they can write, and they can't, but this guy really can.”

Listening to all this, I was totally impressed. Then I remembered what Otto had said about the Bulls.h.i.+t Factor, how everyone supposedly exaggerated their credits and accomplishments by a factor of three in order to make themselves sound better. Did that mean Bryce wasn't really working with Lisa Kudrow, and Andrea hadn't set anything up at Searchlight, and Justin didn't even know Jonah Hill? If they'd done all those things, knew all those people, why were they working with someone like Mr. Brander, someone who hadn't made a movie in more than twenty years? But if everyone in this town was always bulls.h.i.+tting about everything (even their shoes), how could you tell anything about anyone? I had to remember to ask Otto that.

At some point, Lewis returned with my Evian and a gla.s.s of ice. I barely had a chance to thank him before he disappeared again.

”What about you?” someone asked me.

”What?” I said.

”What are you working on?” It was Evan. He looked genuinely interested, not like he was trying to put me on the spot.

Everyone was looking at me again.

I could have told the truth and said, ”This is the first thing I've ever done with anyone.” But then I thought: No. If everyone bulls.h.i.+ts in Hollywood, then I need to bulls.h.i.+t too.

So I said, ”You guys know a writer named Vernie Rose? She was nominated for an Oscar a few years back. Anyway, she and I were working on this project together, but then Isaac called me about this.”

This wasn't entirely a lie. I actually did know a screenwriter named Vernie Rose (my mentor back in Seattle), and she had been nominated for an Oscar. But it had been back in the 1970s, in Short Film not Feature, and Vernie was retired now. She'd read all of my screenplays so far, and given me great notes - she was the one who'd suggested the high school flashbacks in A Cup of Joe in the first place - but she and I hadn't ever even talked about working together.

Everyone kept looking at me, and I totally expected someone to say something like, ”Vernie Rose? You liar! She's not still writing screenplays! Besides, that Oscar nomination was only for Short Film!”

But no one did. People just nodded and smiled and grunted, as if I'd impressed them.

This really isn't so hard! I thought. I can totally do this! I hadn't even needed to rely on the Screenwriter Loophole.

Even so, I didn't want to spend the whole afternoon telling lies, so I decided to change the subject.

”This is a great old house,” I said. ”I love that fireplace.”