Page 36 of All That Glitters
“I heard,” Veronica said. “Jeff’s still banging his head against walls about it. Congratulations, Tony.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Debbie shot Veronica a frown, promising imminent bodily harm, then turned back to Tony. “So what happens now with the script?”
Tony shrugged. “I guess I wait for someone to read it.”
Chapter fourteen
A Not-So-Bright Idea
“Neil, please,” Eli pleaded. “I’m begging you. On my knees. Metaphorically, of course. These pants are Armani.” He sidestepped mountains of screenplays on the floor as he paced Neil Bergman’s office at the Starving Artists Agency with the desperation of a caged tiger.
Neil Bergman, a calmer, more seasoned agent, watched from the relative safety of his leather chair with a faint, knowing smile. Unlike Eli, who treated his job like a fire drill with seconds to spare, Neil had the patience of a man who had seen everything Hollywood could throw at him.
“The girl’s driving me crazy,” Eli continued, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. My stomach lining is dissolving. My doctor thinks I have an ulcer, but it’s not an ulcer — it’s Carrie Thompson. She’s an ulcer in human form.”
“This is sweet little Carrie we’re talking about?” Neil asked. The sarcasm wasn’t lost on Eli.
“Sweet, my ass,” Eli grumbled, stepping around a pile of rejected screenplays that had grown so large, the assistants called it ‘Mount Failure’. “Try raging bitch monster from hell.”
Just then, a mailboy, completely oblivious to the high-stakes drama, walked in and dumped a fresh new stack of mail and screenplays onto Neil’s already cluttered desk. The addition of the new scripts caused a minor avalanche, sending a stack of old ones tumbling to the floor.
“So what’s she want?” Neil asked, calmly sipping his green tea.
Eli stopped pacing and began ticking items off on his fingers. “Anything that doesn’t have a number in the title. Or the words sorority, cheerleader, sluts, bimbos, planet, killers, babes, hotties, or vixens.”
“So, an actual movie?” Neil said.
Eli nodded. “She wants, and I quote, something that will showcase her depth.”
Neil eyed him curiously. “Can she act?”
Eli thought about it for all of two seconds. “She looks hot in a bikini.”
Neil couldn’t help being amused at Eli’s distress. “But can she act?”
Eli just took a breath and shrugged. “How would I know? Casting directors call looking for a hot blonde, we send them her pic, and boom! She’s cast. It’s always been that simple. But now, she’s decided she actually wants to act. Like, show emotional range and all that nonsense.”
“Sounds like you’ve got a problem,” Neil said.
“Which is why I’m here begging.” Eli leaned over the desk. “Neil, please. I’ll get you tickets. Drugs. Booze. Hookers. You name it. I know a guy who can get us backstage at the Grammy’s. I’ll detail your car. I’ll be your personal assistant for a month. Just find me one script. One decent script for her.”
Neil let out a long, weary sigh. “Alright, Eli,” he said, finally relenting. “I’ll keep an eye out. But no promises.”
A wave of pure relief washed over Eli’s face. “Neil,” he breathed, “if you had boobs, I’d hug you.”
“Lucky for both of us I don’t,” Neil replied dryly. “Now get out of my office before you knock over Mount Failure.”
As Eli backed out of the office, still muttering his thanks, Neil began sorting through the new stack of mail. Most of it was the usual dreck — query letters from writers who thought they were the next Aaron Sorkin, bills that needed paying, invitations to industry events he’d never attend. He paused, his eyes landing on the return address of a thick manila envelope.
“Do you know someone named Tony Harding?” he called out to Eli, who was still in the doorway.
“Tony Harding?” Eli repeated, mentally scrolling through his Rolodex of Hollywood contacts. “Never heard of him.”
“Me neither,” Neil said. He shrugged and, with no more thought than he’d give to a junk mail flyer, tossed the envelope onto Mount Failure.
If Tony thought the hard part was behind him when he finished his script, the daily mail came as a rude wake-up call. It turned out that selling his script — or even getting someone to read it — was proving to be considerably harder.
