A Solo Flight

I’ve never seen glass windows so tall, nor an infinity pool so pristine. The city of angels rises unbroken from its edge, clear water trickling to a vanish. The furniture’s imported – from everywhere: Madrid, Bogotá, Reykjavík. Imperialism via acquisition. It’s outrageous stuff: folk chairs carved from repurposed Nordic longboats. Glass iron tables from the war room of an overthrown dictator. Vessels sold private from prestigious art museum collections, the rumored sums enough to make you gag. A grand piano sparkles in the center of the immense living room, the lid propped open, the intricate workings of the exposed soundboard enough to stir even non-musicians. An older gentleman’s been hired to play; he wears a handsome chore coat and smiles while his fingertips float effortlessly over the keys.

Not bad for a kid who grew up working agriculture in the blast furnace of the Central Valley. Everything you can imagine: tree nut and fruit orchards. Row crops. And livestock, of course; mostly dairy, because my mother believed CAFO’s and beef operations were responsible for everyone’s cancer. Didn’t stop her from eating it. Didn’t stop her from getting it, either. She’s still alive, telling me what to do.

They were brutal conditions – Summer field temperatures could soar to a hundred and eighteen. I was transported once for severe dehydration brought on by excess water consumption. Yeah – I dehydrated myself drinking. You have to regulate volume over short periods; too much and you’ll vomit. I drank three quarters of a gallon before I felt my stomach turn. Next thing I know, I’m retching on all fours, the sun striping my neck, twin scorpions scurrying at the blurry edge of my periphery. In the distance, the red and blue lights of an ambulance peeled from the highway and tore, screaming, in my direction, kicking up dirt like a mini-sandstorm.

“Gringo débil,” Manny muttered, an ancient man, fanning me with his hat and pulling tequila from a leather flask.

Anyway. The circumstances have changed.

I was working at a coffee shop in Santa Monica at the time. “That’s Sam Drayers,” my coworker Sarah whispered, nudging me while she poured espressos.

He stood in line wearing dark sunglasses and a bomber jacket fastened with brass snaps, a flip of silver hair behaving, barely. One hand held the opposite wrist.

“Who?” I had no idea. I was new in the city, still getting lost.

“He’s a writer,” she clarified. “Film, mostly. You ever see Lonely Rocket?”

No.

“Tame Wild?”

“Sounds familiar.”

Machine vibrations. Lively dialogue of the overly caffeinated. “You should talk to him,” she encouraged, pulling levers, steam rushing from the chrome Marzocco. “About your scripts.”

I’d been moonlighting as a writer since my arrival. Really, I’d been sunlighting as a barista, so that I could afford a shitty studio in Culver City. I came to L.A. with the sole purpose of being paid for my words. I was driven in that goal. Still, I resisted. “I don’t think so,” I replied, drizzling a latte with honey and calling the name written on the cup. Xander or Xane – something with an ‘x’. “He probably gets harassed in public nonstop. He wouldn’t appreciate it.”

“Nobody appreciates anything,” she responded, bluntly. “You can’t be afraid to take shots, Owen. You’re gonna get a thousand ‘no’s before you get your first ‘maybe’.” She looked up from the machine and smiled gently. “Seriously. It’d make you sick the number of auditions I’ve gone on the last four years. Know what I’ve got to show for it? This job and dead-end character work at Disneyland, sweating my tits off in the sun.”

Sam ordered. The ticket filled and I made his drink— an americano, straight. He was nibbling a muffin when I called his name. He sipped at the counter while I started the next order. I turned to grab a shaker, and when I did, he was still standing there.

“You’re a writer,” he said, plainly. I paused for a moment and peeked over at Sarah; she’d just about blown over.

“Are you talking to me?”

He looked teasingly right and left. “Yeah. Who else?”

I fumbled around, embarrassed. “Oh, I just. How did you – ”

“Because I’ve been doing it forever, kid,” he answered, before I could finish. “You got any samples?”

“We don’t do samples,” I replied, like an idiot. “I mean, I can probably let you try something, but – ”

“Writing samples,” he clarified, amazed. “Writers that get work are the ones that have it on them. That’s a rule.”

“Got it,” I replied, my face red.

“Want to know another rule?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck the rules, kid.”

All my scripts were at home. The opening chapters of my novel, too. I gave him the only thing I had – a silly short story that I’d written daydreaming on the bus. He took it and left. Someone on the street called his name. He neither acknowledged nor broke stride.

“That was so rad!” Sarah gushed when he disappeared. “You think he’ll like it?”

I twisted the cap on a gallon of milk. “I doubt it,” I replied.

“Why?”

“Because it’s about a monkey that goes parasailing on an umbrella.”

She studied me to see if I was serious. She had to stifle a giggle when she saw that I was. “That’s what you gave him?”

“It’s all I had.”

“Well, I guess that’s a lesson. Tough one.”

“Yeah, tough one.”

She wiped the steam wands and tossed the used rag in a bin. “Is it a kid’s story?”

“No.”

“Then, what?”

It didn’t seem worth explaining. I tried anyway. “Well, the monkey’s been getting rained on. Torrentially, for days. His fur’s wet. He’s cold. Every time the sun peeks, the clouds thicken and he’s back to getting clobbered. He’s had it.”

“He should move to SoCal.”

“Rent’s too high.” We laughed. The monkeys are us.

“Anyway. He decides to do something about it.”

“What?”

“He spots a couple of tourists at cliff’s edge with an umbrella. They’re busy taking selfies. So he sneaks behind them and snags it.”

“What a little thief!”

“Yeah! But just as he does, there’s a huge gust of wind. It’s so strong that it blows him over the railing and pushes him out to sea.”

“I’ve never seen a flying monkey before. That’d be rad.”

“The Wizard of Oz,” I said.

“What?”

“There are flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz. You’ve never seen it?”

“Okay, I forgot about the fucking Wizard of Oz; thank you, Owen. So what happens next?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. He just floats away.”

Her face blank. “Uh huh.”

“I mean, the crux of it is that there’s an island offshore. And basically he has to decide if he’s gonna crash land or hold on and continue into the unknown.”

“What’s he choose?”

I smile. “I’ll print you a copy. Think he’ll like it?”

She put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “I’d say, be glad your first ‘no’ is from someone famous enough to make it a good story.”

He called a week later. Sarah answered, and after a little shock and a brief back-and-forth, she handed me the phone. “Someone’s asking for you,” she said, giddy.

“For me?”

“For the guy who wrote the monkey story.” She stuck her tongue out and listened over my shoulder.

“Hello?”

“Hey! This is Sam Drayers. I don’t know if you remember; I got coffee at your spot a few days ago. You’re the one who gave me the story?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Great – listen, I loved it. A few broken windows, but really strong work. It made me think of a passage that I’d read once, right before I sold my first script. I dug it out of an old drawer. Can I read it to you?”

“What’s he want?” Sarah whispered.

I rotated, holding the receiver. “He wants to read me something.”

“Let him!”

“Go for it.”

He read: As near as Clayton could recall, they had been talking about God when he mentioned the spider, no larger than an infant’s thumbnail, that lives in mid-air at altitudes as high as twelve thousand feet. This particular spider, in spite of the extreme cold and buffeting of air currents, is able to stride in the thin atmosphere like a pond insect using the water’s surface tension, and even weaves webs, using water droplets or crystals of ice as anchors for the mooring threads. These free-floating webs, wet with woven rain or white with frost, have been known to dance across the windshields of airplanes, like handkerchiefs dropped by flirtatious angels.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Well?” Sarah, clinging to my shoulder.

“He wants to know what I think.”

“Tell him you love it.”

“It’s pretty good,” I said.

“You know what I like about it?” he asked.

“What?”

“Fascinating things in unexpected places,” he answered.

“I suppose.”

“You’re not from here, are you, kid?”

“Fresno,” I told him.

“You worked farms?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sarah strained. “My whole life.”

“What brought you to L.A?”

I thought before answering. “I grabbed the first umbrella I could.”

The line quiet a moment. “Yeah. I thought so.”

A customer frowned at the register. “Listen, thanks for calling, but I gotta get back –”

“You want a job, kid?”

I wasn’t sure I’d heard him right. “A job?”

“I’m writing a new picture,” he explained. “It’s moving, but there’s a ton of dead weight in my writer’s room. I’m wondering if you’d help me out.”

“You want me to work on your script?” Sarah’s jaw hit the floor.

“Yeah, if you’d agree. Are you interested?”

“Um, I – ”

“Great. Listen, grab a pen – I’m gonna give you my assistant’s number. Her name’s Amber, she’ll give you the where and when and how much. Seeya, kid.”

Click.

Back in Sam’s mansion, the banquet begins. China plates and fancy wares laid out on a long table, the cloth cream linen. A buffet of elevated dishes: burrata with stone fruit jam. Braised short-rib and herb-roasted salmon. An heirloom tomato platter and jalapeño bacon mac ‘n cheese baked with aged gouda and Mexican chilis. The food goes. The wine and liquor flow. Playful banter and back-handed compliments. Vicious gossip whispered in small circles. Words absorbed that will become dialogue in future works of fiction.

Why wouldn’t it be lively? Our script sold at a huge price.

Sam clinks his champagne flute with a caviar knife to signal a speech. We hush and gather round. He begins: “I want to thank you all for your hard work.”

It didn’t start well. The team wore it on their faces when I arrived; shock mixed with apprehension. I could hear the questions firing in their heads:

Where are you from?

What school’d you go to?

What have you had published?

Nothing? Nothing at all?

This is your first job?

Who let you in?

I could hear the insults too:

Inexperienced. Unqualified. Doesn’t belong.

I hung back to read the room. It was a free-for-all – they shot each other down like enemy aircraft. That won’t work. That’s stupid. It’s Friday; this is Tuesday dialogue, Paul. Come prepared or shut the fuck up. The pacing’s screwed. The plot’s wandering. If we don’t get our shit together, this thing’s on the chopping block. No flashback. Yes flashback. Just make it FUCKING WORK.

My head spun. Sam was right – dead weight despite all the talent. The script stalled. And I flamed.

I struggled to speak up. Then I struggled getting anyone to listen. They treated me with subtle disdain, their boss responsible for a hire they didn’t understand. He must be doing someone a favor. When we storyboarded, Allen wrote everyone’s ideas on post-its and stuck them to the wall, categorized or connected with arrows to related ideas. The post-its were soft yellow. All my ideas went up on stickies that were mud brown. Like shit. Got it.

Farm boy with a dream.

Is it true you gave Sam a story about a monkey on an umbrella

That’s adorable! My daughter wrote something similar.

Hold old is she, Lane?

Six.

The sun tumbles through the windows and makes Sam’s hair shine. Bubbles shoot in his champagne. Hot air shoots from his mouth. We all listen to him crow. “Now, I know things weren’t always easy…”

Weren’t easy. That’s generous – we were flailing. Nobody had an ending. Costs ran and we were at each other’s throats. Sam flew in on a Friday to focus us, touching down on the private lawn in a Bell heli, the whirling blades sending wind shivers through the trees.

To focus us. Again, generous.

“YOU ARE FAILING!” Gone, the pleasant man nibbling muffins and reading passages about mythic spiders. Present, the rampaging egomaniac, feeling the studio executive’s boot heel pressed to his jugular. “I GAVE YOU A VISION. MATERIAL. RESOURCES. His voice thundered. The paper tigers all blown over. “I’M NOT LEAVING WITHOUT AN ENDING. THAT MEANS IDEAS. NOW.” He paced furiously. His wild eyes landed on me.

“You.” His voice lowered.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Where is your talent, kid?”

“I – ”

“Where’s your drive?”

“I – ”

Screaming again. “I DIDN’T BRING YOU HERE TO AGREE WITH THESE HACKS!” He eyed Mia, seething. “NOT MS. MY-DADDY-RUNS-A-STUDIO-SO-I-GET-TO-PLAY-WRITER!” She withered. “NOT MR. I-WROTE-A-TELLURIDE-WINNER-AND-SPENT-EVERY-DAY-SINCE-BLOWING-COCAINE, EITHER!” James bit his lip, blood beading on soft tissue. The room tense as a torsion spring. Don’t touch it – it’ll snap and kill you. “I BROUGHT YOU HERE TO THINK DIFFERENTLY. SO TELL ME: WHAT’S THE ENDING?”

“You have to kill her.” It just comes out.

The air evaporated. Even Sam was floored.

“What?”

“You have to kill her,” I repeated. No backtracking – that’d be weakness. And people sink their fangs when they perceive weakness.

His eyes raced. He sat. “Why?”

“It’s not a great story,” I answered, unflinching. His eyes narrowed, offended. It was his story. Who do you think you are, kid? Do you know who I am? “Not as great as your others. But it is a great character. And the audience will want her to prevail. Need her to, actually. But that’s not the story.”

“What is the story?” His eyes lasers.

“Loss. That’s the truth. She gives all of herself but there’s too much to overcome. Too much misery. Too much heartbreak. The audience knows – they’ll beg for us to save her.” Sam’s brow furrowed, his mouth in a cupped palm. “But we can’t save her. And we can’t save them. We have to be cruel. If we’re not, it’s not honest.”

Silence. Finally, Sam spoke. “Are you sure?

“I’m sure. Be honest and you’ll achieve something. Don’t and you’ve got nothing.”

“Sam –” Paul started to appeal.

“Do it,” Sam said, standing. “I want three avenues to that end by Thursday.” He looked at me. Then he got in his chopper and left.

He goes on: “…but what matters is that we pulled it together in the end.” Performative applause. James downs his champagne. Mia lights a cigarette. “I’m proud to have worked with you. I’m ecstatic it’s over…”

Nervous laughter.

“I want to mention a few of you, specifically:”

My mind alternates between the words I hear and those I remember.

“James, thank you for your penetrating insight and doggedness.”

It’s dogshit! Where’s the wonderkid that won Telluride?

“Paul, for your cutting, bleeding dialogue.”

I don’t believe a single word – fix it. And give it some fucking heart.

“Mia, for your diverse talent and invaluable contributions.”

If your father didn’t write hundred million dollar checks, you’d be making Cosmopolitans in West Hollywood, scribbling in notebooks.

And there’s one more I’d like to thank.” He raises his flute in my direction. “Owen, for your boldness and bravery. For finding brilliance in oppressive truth. We owe the ending…”

“…all to you.” In his house, two weeks prior. The piano silent, just he and I smoking cigars and sipping scotch, neat. The bidding war over, the sales price enormous. I put twelve months down on a condo near Ocean Park.

“Thank you for the opportunity.” I sip from the tumbler. Sierra Nevada’s carved at the bottom of the glass.

“You saved us, Owen.” His hand moves to my thigh. Gone, the egomaniac. Present, the despicable user. “A fascinating thing in an unexpected place.” He leans in to kiss me. His hand grips tight.

“Stop.” I pull away, hard.

He wipes his lip with a thumb. “I can make it happen for you, Owen. I can connect you to the publishing houses and get you more jobs writing for features. We’ll get your novel published. Your name will be constant in the credits.”

“Is that why you asked for my story?” All my restraint exercised.

“You told me you grabbed the first umbrella you could.”

“It was a metaphor, Sam.”

“You’ve got courage, Owen. And talent. But an umbrella only gets you so far. I can give you what you want.” He sips and tables his glass. “But I get what I want, too.”

Applause from the party. Familiar buffet smells and the returning twinkle of piano keys.

“So come on up, kid – I want you to cut the first slice.”

Everyone brought expensive party favors. Paul brought fucking watches. I insisted on bringing a sheet cake from a recent bakery discovery not yet reviewed. I walk to the table and shake Sam’s hand. It’s dry for a slippery tentacle.

“Say something!” Paul cheers, drunk. “To farm boy! For saving our asses!”

More nervous laughter.

“Why don’t I read the cake?” I propose.

Yeah!

Sam smiles. “Please.”

I open the box and read:

“Dear Sam…”

His eyes glowing. He loves to be showered in admiration.

“…and every other rich Hollywood prick that feels entitled to their employees bodies: ”

Mia gasps. James howls. Paul falls over.

“get fucked. I’m my own umbrella.”

I raise my glass and down the champagne. It slips to the floor and shatters. I don’t bother glancing back. They want you orderly, in a straight line. Fuck that. I swerve.