Rory Spencer was called into Mr. Cadwaller’s office by the man’s secretary. The two men had never warmed to each other but had a decent working relationship, mostly because the executives didn’t interface with those below them in the hierarchy of the industry. Mr. Cadwaller was two rungs up the corporate ladder from Rory.
Mr. Cadwaller was a man in his fifties who looked it. He was short, paunchy and balding and wore an oversized mustache that made him look silly. He came right to the point, not inviting Rory to sit.
“Rory, we’re going through a rough patch at the moment and the front office guys have decided it’s belt-tightening time. We’re making some cutbacks. Must keep costs in line with expenses, you know? Cuts are inevitable, and unnecessary folks are being cut loose. I’m afraid we’re letting you go. We appreciate the fine work you’ve done, and you’ll get a month’s severance check.”
Then he smirked. Rory stared at him for a moment, blank-faced, absorbing. He’d liked the job. He hadn’t been sure he would when he accepted it, but most of the guys he’d worked closely with had been great, especially his direct boss. The man had taken him under his wing and taught him the tricks of a trade he’d never worked in before. Rory had ended up loving all of it.
Rory thought he should just walk out, but instead decided to respond to Mr. Cadwaller, having digested the fact he was now out of work and consequences unlikely. “I thought you were one of the front-office guys. And talk about unnecessary—”
Mr. Cadwaller stared back at him, expressionless, paused—a pause that felt stressed to Rory, as if the man wanted to say something he knew he shouldn’t and was having a difficult time restraining himself—and then said, “Security will help you clean out your desk and escort you out of the studio. Within the hour, please.”
As Rory was walking out, his hand on the office door’s doorknob, he heard Mr. Cadwaller lose his restraint. “And don’t let the door hit you in your ass on the way out.”
He turned to look at Mr. Cadwaller. Mr. Cadwaller stared back, his face paling as he looked into Rory’s eyes, and when Rory took a step in his direction, he seemed to shrink in his chair. He scrambled to pick up his phone. Rory smiled, said, “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” turned and left.
No, the two never had become buddies.
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There is a peculiar feeling when one is intimately involved in something yet is also somewhat separate from it. It has the trappings of a mother giving birth and then letting the baby go for adoption. It’s rather like that, but different, too. Yet some of the emotional aspects are similar.
Rory had been working steadily for the past year at the studio where Mr. Cadwaller was an exec. He’d had several assignments with the studio, and now that the film he’d been on had wrapped, he was working as a screenwriter with a group of other writers, keeping a weekly TV series witty.
Since coming to Hollywood, these had been busy years, profitable years both financially and educationally. He now knew many people, some of them important, some with names that were widely known, and he was well aware how his life had changed from what it had been while he was in his childhood years.
Fired. It took some getting used to.
Rory collected his belongings in a box, the ‘box of shame’ he’d heard it called, being surprised at how few of the things he had to put in it were actually his. His coffee mug. His personal calendar with appointments and meetings and such noted. His own pens and laptop and phone. His philodendron. His dictionary and thesaurus. Even with words and definitions so easy to find on the internet these days, he still liked to use the reference books. They felt familiar, like old friends.
With his odds and ends in his arms, he walked out, passing colleagues, people he’d gotten to know well during the past year, people who now looked away when seeing him with the box, avoiding eye contact. Maybe they were embarrassed on his behalf and didn’t want to add to his. He wasn’t embarrassed, though. He had nothing to be embarrassed about.
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He took his box back to his house and set it down on the table in the hallway by the door, then made his way to the living room, where he sank down on the couch. The couch faced a large picture window. It allowed him to gaze out over the valley below, giving a bird’s-eye view of the Universal Studios lot and Griffith Park, both L.A. landmarks. Rory had one of the small houses in the Hollywood Hills that leaned out over a deep valley; its front portion was built on solid ground, the rear supported by stilts. It looked precarious, out of place, suspended as it was out over a deep canyon. The looks were deceiving; it and its neighbors had stood the test of time. The earthquakes that plagued the L.A. basin had come and gone and the stilted houses had survived longer than Rory had been alive.
Rory looked out the window but didn’t see what was by then the familiar but still stunning view.
He was going to miss working at the studio, but he’d encountered abrupt changes in his life before this. He was out of work but not out of options. This was merely the beginning of a new chapter in his life. It felt that way. He simply had to choose what he wanted to do.
Still, being summarily fired and out of a job was a shock. He needed to relax, to give himself some time. Even though he felt no embarrassment, he was still shaken by the fact his life had just changed dramatically, that someone above him had felt he was disposable. He needed to get a handle on that, let his emotions settle, get used to the idea that quite suddenly his daily routine had been kicked out from under him.
To look at him, no one would have known he had any emotions at all. Even being dismissed so coldly by Mr. Cadwaller, his face had shown nothing. It was a pleasant face—handsome, even. He stood over six feet tall, just, and weighed 176 pounds. He was fit and light on his feet and his most arresting feature was his eyes. They showed what he allowed them to. Mr. Cadwaller had glimpsed that at the end of their brief conversation.
The best way to decompress, he decided, would be talk to someone. Not to sit alone and brood. He was a people person, though a quiet one. He was a good listener. He’d learned early in his life you got in less trouble listening than talking. To be working in a job where he had to speak up as part of a group had been relatively new for him, but after coming to L.A., he’d become accustomed to working in and with a crowd. He’d actually come to enjoy the give and take of a team effort, even if he always remained the quietest in the group.
He’d learned how to meld into a group in the Army, too, but that hadn’t gone well. He’d never assimilated there as he was supposed to. But there were reasons for that.
He took his phone from his pocket and called Harper. She’d been writing for another show and was certainly his closest friend in L.A.
“Dinner tonight?” he asked when she answered.
“I have plans. How about tomorrow?”
A pause, then, “I got fired.”
No pause in return. “I can cancel. Where and when?”
They ate at their favorite place: Max’s. One thing about L.A., there was no shortage of restaurants. Max’s was in Atwater Village, abutting and west of Glendale, east of Griffith Park and where his house was located in Hollywood Hills. Max’s was a small, neighborhood place that had everything the two of them liked: only fifteen tables, dim lighting, tablecloths, no piped music, quiet ambience, very friendly and attentive staff that knew them, mostly an older or middle-aged crowd, and good food. That the food was good was important to them both.
Harper was Rory’s age, early-thirties, and had a job like the one he most recently had. She was a staff writer at a different studio, collaborating on a successful TV drama series that had been running for six seasons; the seventh had already been picked up. She was short, just over five feet tall, and while not a stunning beauty, Rory thought the intelligence in her eyes and her perky, irreverent personality made her more beautiful than the Hollywood starlets that they had both rubbed shoulders with every day.
To be successful in the entertainment industry, one cannot be shy, demure and retiring, especially if one is a woman. Harper was none of those. She could be as determined and forceful presenting herself and her ideas as any of the men she worked with. Though she was short and no one would call her slender, she had charisma, a presence that made people take notice when she spoke. She also was insightful and empathetic and had a cutting sense of humor. That she was also Rory’s best friend in Hollywood was possibly due to the fact that there was no sexual tension between them. They could both enjoy a relationship devoid of that.
Rory had first met her at a meeting of screenwriters. There had been a move in town to unionize the group, and both attended the meeting. Rory had noticed her at the bar trying to figure out how to pick up four glasses at once, and he’d enjoyed watching the expressions crossing her face as she ineffectually struggled. Finally, he’d walked over and asked if she’d like a little help.
She’d agreed to let him carry two of the glasses to a table where three men were sitting and her own empty chair was located. “I could have done this without your help,” she told him, but with a twinkle in her eye that belied the words and was said to express the exasperation she’d felt when she was unable to handle the chore by herself.
Before leaving the bar with him, each with two full glasses, she’d looked at him fully and said, surprise in her voice, “Hey! You’re Rory Spencer!”
He’d smiled, a bit shocked at being recognized, and said, “Guilty. But how in the world could you recognize me? I’m one of the invisible hoi polloi working in Hollywood.”
She’d shaken her head. “Uh, best-selling author? Finalist for a screenwriting Oscar? Rich and famous?”
“Hardly,” he’d scoffed. “Up for an Oscar but no win, no cigar, or statuette in this case. And who’d ever claim an Oscar for ‘Best Adaptation of a Play or Book for Film’ was the award presentation everyone is sitting on the edge of their seats awaiting? In fact, that award was part of the group that was considered unnecessary for inclusion in the TV show.”
“Yeah, but I was in the audience for the awards, and I did get to see you in your tux at the podium. You didn’t even look nervous. Nor, when the winner came up to get the Oscar wearing that dress that didn’t need a wardrobe malfunction to show clearly that she needed a D-cup bra if she ever wore one, did you even look at her assets. Impressed the hell out of me. But then someone told me you were gay, and it made more sense.”
“Pretty hard to keep much of anything private in this town,” Rory had said, “and especially your sexuality. Yeah, gay, and also very single. Not that there aren’t plenty of opportunities here. How about you? You gay, also?”
He’d asked that more to change the subject than to continue answering questions about himself. Asking her to talk about herself was sure to accomplish that. Rory didn’t like talking about himself.
“Me? No way. I’m single and very much part of the scene here. So many pretty men, so little time. This is a great town when you’re young and single and sexually adventuresome. Hey, I know quite a few gay men our age. Some of them are outrageously cute. Want to be set up?”
So much for changing the subject away from him, Rory thought. “Nah, that’s okay. I’ve never been into setups, or one-night stands, or playing the field. And I’ve found in this town that the super-cute are usually super-narcissistic. They come with an attitude and expectations and everything’s always about them. I’m more into substance than veneer. You go for the glitter, I guess.”
She’d smiled, and Rory had the impression she knew just what he’d been trying to do. This conversation, changing the focus from one to the other, was like swordplay, and she was an expert duelist. There was a pause, and then she said, “Let’s deliver these drinks. I was chatting with those guys, but I can break away. You’re much more interesting than they are, and I want to hear about your book.”
That was the beginning. They’d bonded quickly. Rory had found he often liked women better than men. Sex wasn’t on the table after he told them he was gay, and there was no competitive vibe that always seemed alive with men. But for friendship, it had to be the right kind of woman. Rory valued genuineness. He disliked games and artifice. Liked intelligence. Disliked insipidity. Harper turned out to be a match for him in all ways. Excepting in the bedroom, of course. He’d just have to imagine how good she was there. And vice versa.
They met often after that first encounter. She was curious about his past. Hers had been rather mundane: straight A’s in high school, honors at a small, private, liberal arts college in the San Fernando Valley. She’d been hired on as an apprentice at a minor studio, then worked her way up to staff writer at a major studio. She loved the job and the people she was working with. The money wasn’t bad, either.
After several times when they’d been together and he’d avoided talking about himself, she’d braced him. “You keep avoiding the issue, Rory. How did you come to write that book?”
“Uh, I was just out of the Army. At loose ends with lots on my mind. I had the time and desire, and I wrote it. Why does anyone write anything?”
She ignored the question, on a roll. “It was at the top of the NY Times best-seller list for what, 21 weeks? Did you expect that?”
“Of course not. I was just seeing if I could write a book.”
“And then the film rights were bought by Paramount after a bidding war with Disney that resulted in you adding to the millions you’d made from the book sales.”
“Hey, I know all this. Why are you busting my chops here?”
She smiled at him and continued. “I’m making a point here. You leveraged a book into a movie into a screenwriting consultancy into the principal credit for the script for the film into an assistant film directorship. All this when you were just entering your thirties. I’m jealous. And I want you to admit that you’re a genius.”
“I’m no such thing!” He then had told her about the book, about why he’d decided to make it an autobiographical novel: a story based on his own life but with fictive elements to heighten drama and add excitement. And with a thought to keep from being sued. All the characters’ names were made up, including his own. Most of the events had happened, but not necessarily with the same outcomes.
He’d told her how he’d always thought about writing when still a teenager, how he’d kept a journal which had helped him remember people and events and attitudes and emotions when writing the book. When he’d finally had time, he decided to go for it and began writing what ended up being his book.
Harper had felt the same urges to write he’d had. After college she’d taken an intern position on a writing staff for a soap opera. That had led eventually to her current job. Both had started out uncertain and hopeful, and both had found success. They also had many other similarities in their histories.
They ended up liking each other immediately and that turned into spending a lot of time together. It was natural for him to think of her that afternoon when he was suddenly jobless.
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“So Cadwaller finally had his way.”
Rory took a sip of his Beefeater on the rocks with a twist and nodded. “I think he didn’t like me because I was never sycophantic, and he expects that from anyone under him on the payroll. Most people play the game. I never did.”
“I met him once. I don’t think he understands creative people. From what I saw, he doesn’t have a creative bone in his body. My guess is he dislikes those that do. Their very existence undermines his ego. But jettisoning you? That’s his loss. That movie script you were hired to consult on and then ended up writing yourself showed how good you were, and the TV show you’ve been part of developing—the rest of that team is going to miss you. The show will, too.”
“Ehh, maybe; maybe not. I was enjoying working on it, but also starting to get antsy as well. I needed a break, and this’ll give me one. The last couple of years have been a whirlwind. Just not sure what I want to do now, though. I have a blank page in front of me, and you know how intimidating that can be for a writer.”
“Well, let’s see. You’re thirty-one years old, a little over six feet tall with gorgeous dark-brown hair, deep-set dark eyes—bedroom eyes, really—a slight Cary Grant dimple in your chin, so handsome the starlets all want to sleep with you and moan when you play the gay card. You began as an extra writer on the film of your book and ended up the main writer. The movie was a major hit, making you a name and an attractive quantity in the business. Also, you worked with the film’s director, so you have experience both in writing and directing a moneymaking film. You’ve written the third largest selling book of the year. You’ve got more money than God and rarely spend any of it. You live a simple, single life. You work out and run and weigh under 180 pounds; you’re fit and healthy. Yet, with all that going for you, you drive a six-year-old Hyundai, you dress like you shop at Target, and you aren’t out and about at all the clubs. You don’t date. You turn down TV talk shows and magazine interviews. To put it succinctly, the world’s your oyster, yet you just sit back and surround yourself with the shells.”
Rory looked down at the tablecloth, moved his salad fork so it was parallel to his dinner fork, and remained silent. It was a common reaction he had to Harper when she was on a roll.
Undaunted, she continued. “Rory, you’re in the prime of your life: rich,
handsome and smart. You don’t know what you should do now? My advice? Go down to St.
Thomas or Aruba or Jamaica or even one of the less-inhabited Caribbean islands. Rent a house.
Or buy one if you want to; you can afford it. Relax for a month or two. It’ll come to you
when you’re bored what you want to do. But getting away is the best thing you can do
right now. A change of scenery.”
He raised his eye to meet hers. “You want to come with me?”
“Sure. Love to. But I can’t. I’m a working girl. We’re developing next season’s storyline, outlining episodes already. I’m needed, and I’m not a member of the idle rich like you.”
“I’ve never been idle in my life!”
At that point, their waiter came by again. Harper ordered another drink. The waiter, a young man who often waited on them when they came to Max’s, looked at Rory and smiled. He smiled at Rory a lot. Rory shook his head. The waiter sighed audibly and walked away.
Harper still had the floor. “And now you can be idle with no regrets. Go down there, find a great beach where you can romp naked and snorkel and lay out. Hire a housekeeper to cook and tend to the house. Hire her teenage son to look after you. Take advantage of the money you’ve earned, the life you’ve made possible for yourself. Do it.”
Rory had been slowly sipping while Harper had been talking. Now he set down his empty glass. “I don’t know. I think I’d be bored by the second day. I need to be doing things. I’m not ready for what you’re describing, certainly not alone. Now if I had a boyfriend . . .”
“Well, maybe that’s job one. You have the time. Go get one.”
“Hah! Like it was easy. I liked the guys I was working with. I even liked some of the movie stars I’ve met. Not many, but some. Many of these guys are gay. But they’re all Hollywood types. I’m from the Midwest. My values are different. I don’t like the limelight. I want a regular sort of man. One who could love me back for me, not for what I have. Maybe I should go back home, spend some time there.”
“Yeah, you’re a gadzillionaire with more coming in every month, and you’re going to go back to a town where the average yearly income is probably $60-grand or less. Think you’ll fit right in? Ain’t going to happen, man! Ain’t going to happen. You’ve priced yourself out of that market.”
Rory could see the logic in what she was saying. “Well, you might be right. But, gee, I don’t know. I would like to find someone. It’s kind of like I was back in high school. Then I was trying to find another gay kid, but not one just because he was gay. I wanted one I liked just because of the person he was, and as an added benefit, because he happened to be gay.”
“You had that when you were 13. I read about it in your book.”
“That was kid stuff. Yeah, it was great, but very quick in the scheme of things, and nothing like what I’m looking for now.”
Harper was still thinking of the book and ignored what Rory had just said. “I loved reading about how your first time having sex with another boy went. How your eyes danced with Aaron for a whole month before either of you had the balls to talk to each other. The blushing. The shy acknowledgements. How your first fumblings in your bedroom went. That was the funniest and most erotic scene I’ve ever read. I think those pages alone kept you on the Best Sellers list for months.”
“That sort of excitement is what you get at that age. I don’t think it’s possible now. At an older age, I think your heart would explode, beating as fast as it did back then. But that’s fine: I’m not the innocent, inexperienced kid I was then, and it’s that innocence that makes those first times so special. Anyway, that’s not what I’m looking for. I want love but with compatibility. Maturity. Shared views. Shared intelligence and maybe experiences. You might be right. I might not find that in Ripley’s Creek.”
“Do you know what’s happened with Aaron, and Deion?”
“You know these aren’t their real names? Anyway, Aaron, well, he grew up. We lost touch. He got a crush on a girl and decided he was straight. I became an embarrassment to him, so he just stopped having anything to do with me. I still write to Deion, though, and we talk on the phone. His real name is Bobby. I’d love to meet up with him if he happens to be around. He lives in Seattle now but does go back to visit his mom and dad when he can. You know, going back there isn’t a bad idea. Not to find someone for me, but just to touch base. Get my feet on the ground. Clear up some things with my family. Get closure. That might just be something I’d like to do while unemployed.”
“And maybe meet up with Deion, uh, Bobby? You know, you could tell me his last name. It’s not like I’d tell anyone.”
“Yeah, but, well . . . He doesn’t need what I wrote about him being made public information. He’s someone with national name recognition now. I don’t know what my chances would be of finding him back there. But it would be good to see him again.”
“And your father?”
Rory didn’t answer.
Harper gave him a moment, but she was used to him going silent. She could see he wasn’t going to respond. “Okay. Well, my job’s done here. Ready to go?” She pushed her chair back, preparing to stand.
Rory laughed. “No. We haven’t eaten yet.” He looked up and smiled at their waiter, who hurried across the room to their table.
Harper shoved herself back to the table. “In that case, I’ll have another scotch rocks.”