The Rom-Commers(33)

And everything that had happened since I came to LA? It was the opposite of comfortable. And it was certainly the opposite of fantasy.

Of course I should seize this opportunity. Of course I should be here and do this! Whatever “this” would turn out to be. There wasn’t another reasonable choice. When you finally get your chance, you have to take it.

But it was one thing to live your dreams in theory—and it was absolutely another thing to clumsily, awkwardly, terrifiedly do it for real.





Thirteen

BACK AT CHARLIE’S house, I felt strangely elated.

I didn’t have to do this. I could quit and go home.

Charlie wanted to get started at the table—but one, Logan had said not to do any writing until we had a written contract, and two, I was quitting.

I hadn’t told Charlie that yet, of course.

Charlie sat down at his heavy, faux-farmhouse, designer dining room table, clearly thinking I would follow his lead.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I walked around his living room, examining knickknacks and bookends and decorative ceramic bowls like I had all the time in the world. Which I did.

“Hey,” Charlie said. “Can we focus?”

“This is a really nice house,” I said. “You have great taste.”

“It’s not me. It’s my wife. My ex-wife.” Then a pause. “It wasn’t even her, actually. It was her decorator.”

“Well, then,” I said. “My compliments to your ex-wife’s decorator.”

“Could you…?” Charlie started.

But now I was opening a drawer under his TV console. Empty.

“What are you doing?” Charlie asked.

“I’m exploring my new workplace.” I slid open a second one. Empty.

“Can we just get started over here?” Charlie asked.

But that’s when I opened a third drawer. And this one …

This one …

Was full of Oscars.

I froze. Stared.

So … when Charlie had declared he had a “whole drawer of Oscars” … that wasn’t a figure of speech.

This was a literal whole drawer of Oscars.

And not just Oscars, actually—all kinds of statuettes, jumbled willy-nilly like booty in a pirate’s chest. Like they hadn’t been placed in there, but maybe dumped. Or dropped. Or chucked.

“What’s this?” I asked, in a tone like he was a naughty child and I’d found his box of stolen candy.

“Just … stuff,” Charlie answered—also like he was a naughty child and I’d found his box of stolen candy.

I stared down at the contents of the drawer. Yes, there were actual Oscars—those unmistakable gold figurines. But also: the very recognizable Golden Globe awards that were literally miniature golden globes. Then, after that, a whole mishmash of silver and brass and crystal figurines engraved with words like HOLLYWOOD FOREIGN PRESS, NEW YORK FILM CRITICS CIRCLE, WRITERS GUILD OF AMERICA, HOLLYWOOD FILM FESTIVAL—that was just the top layer. Those were just the ones I could count.

I looked up. Charlie was watching me. “Are these your awards?” I asked.

Charlie nodded.

“Like, from the actual events? These are the awards you walked up onstage in a tuxedo and received from some world-famous actor?”

Charlie nodded again.

“What are they doing in here?”

Charlie shrugged.

“Charlie,” I said, becoming more aghast by the second. “Why are the awards that most screenwriters would sell their organs for just piled in here like it’s a junk drawer?”

“Just…” Charlie said, like he was trying to come up with an answer. “To keep them in one place?”

I shook my head. “In one place? This is the best you could come up with? How about a mantel? Or a bookshelf? Or an antique glass-fronted cabinet? Or a safe? How about anywhere other than shoved like trash into a forgotten credenza drawer?”

Charlie didn’t answer, so I looked back down. Then I pointed. “This Women’s Film Critics Association award has lost her little wing!”

Charlie had the good sense to look cowed. But then he said, “Look—none of this stuff means anything.”

All I could do was blink.

“It’s all just theater,” Charlie said.

“Are you telling me,” I said, “that you don’t care that you got all these awards?”

“I do care,” he said. “I just don’t care enough to display them in a trophy case like a douchebag.”

“So you’re just going to shove them out of sight and break off their wings?”

“You seem to be taking this kind of personally—” Charlie started.

“I do! I do take it personally! Do you have any idea what I would give for even one of these awards? And you’re just treating them all like they’re garbage? Look!” I picked up an Oscar and held it out toward him. It was surprisingly heavy. “Look how scratched this is!”

“It doesn’t matter!” Charlie said.

“It doesn’t matter? It doesn’t matter that you’ve scratched up the statuette of the highest honor in your industry? These things are made of solid brass and plated in twenty-four-carat gold! I watched a whole documentary about it! You don’t even have the tiniest inkling of how lucky you are. I will spend my whole life writing and striving and obsessing over movies and I’ll never even get close to one of these, and you…” I looked back down at the drawer, and words failed me.