♦
I sat at the writers’ table at lunch. Clay introduced me to everyone, told them I was his brother and wanted to see how real writers went about their business and that I’d be joining them for the afternoon session.
They didn’t seem to mind, other than the guy who was the head writer. He was older than the others; for the most part they all seemed young to me. In their thirties, probably. But the head guy, whose name was Barnes Cobb, had a lot of gray in his shaggy hair and lines in his long face. When Clay told them I’d be sitting in, Barnes spoke to him. The fact I could hear him speak across the table didn’t seem to bother him at all.
“Uh, Clay. You know the ideas we kick around are private. Some of what we talk about will end up in future scripts, and that has to remain under the covers.”
I expected Clay to back off on my proposed visit. He didn’t. He was the youngest writer at the table from the looks of things, and I thought he probably would defer to Barnes. But instead, he said, “I’ll vouch for him, Barnes. He had the same upbringing I did. He knows how to keep what he hears here to himself. You trust all of us to keep what’s said in the meetings private. We don’t even tell wives, husbands or girlfriends. You trust me, and you can trust Keith, too.”
This looked to me like a place for a confrontation, for some drama, but what happened was, Barnes smiled, and said, “I’ll take your word for it, Clay.” And that was that. They ate their lunches, joking back and forth, throwing insults around like confetti, and I could tell it was a tight group.
I ate, too, and stayed with Clay when we walked back to their workroom afterwards.
Another thing I had hoped would be true was that I hadn’t wanted them changing the way they worked, the way they spoke to each other, just because a kid was with them. They sure hadn’t. I heard more casual swear words and sexual references and innuendos during both lunch and the afternoon that followed than I’d ever heard before. It was wonderful! There was a lot of teasing directed at the three writers who were gay, too, and they came back with zingers of their own. No one took offense and the teasing and jokes just flowed.
I was ignored. Funny ideas originated from the chatter, so it was work as well as play, and the laughter was pretty nonstop.
I listened and was in heaven. This was what I had wanted to see. And then the unimaginable happened. One of the guys was proposing a storyline that rang a bell with me. It was a great idea, the beginning of one, but he said he wasn’t sure how to end it. They all got quiet for a second, trying to think where the idea could go. Where I got the nerve, I don’t know, but I spoke up. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’d never held back from saying what I thought in my life, and I didn’t see any point in doing so then. What could they do, shoot me?
“Could I, uh, may I say something?” I asked, trying hard not to sound tentative. Trying to make it sound like they’d be rude to say no.
“Sure,” Barnes said.
“Okay, this is way too pretentious, me telling you guys this, but, well, I’ve written a number of stories. Yeah, they’re stories by a kid, so nothing like what you guys do, but, one of the stories I wrote had the same basic plot as Curt just proposed. And I had the same problem; how should I end it? But I figured something out. You guys will certainly do much better, but I could tell you how I ended it if you wanted. Maybe just to evoke more ideas.”
Curt spoke before Barnes did. He was one of the gay writers and one of the funniest. “Tell us, Keith. Don’t sell yourself short. I was writing at your age, too—perhaps a lot of us here were—and some of those story ideas were ones I still think about now. Some great ideas come from people your age. The more you write, the more ideas occur to you, and the better they are. I’ll bet your idea was a good one.”
Wow. I took a breath; was this real? But I told them how I’d ended that storyline. “The basic idea was that a boy, Philip, sees his brother steal money from their mom’s purse. He confronts his brother, and his brother says he’ll tell their mother that Philip stole the money, not him, if Philip tattles. The mother won’t have evidence against either of them; she won’t know who stole the money.
“His mother does see that money has been taken and confronts the boys. They both deny they took it. The mother says it had to be one or both of them, and she’s going to punish both of them till she gets a confession.
“That’s where Curt’s story is right now, and he’s looking for a dramatic, interesting and realistic way to solve it. Right?”
They all smiled and looked at me, and Curt said, “And your story had the same issue and you came up with a good ending?”
“Well,” I said, trying not to sound smug, “I’ll let you decide about good. This is what I did.
“I had the same plot. Then I had to take it from where you’ve left it. I had Philip’s mother find that money had been stolen and tell the boys there’ll be no TV for them until she learned who stole the money.
“This is harder for Philip than his brother because Philip’s favorite show is on the next night and it’s like must-watch TV. He and all his classmates watch it religiously and talk about it all the time. So he’s trying to figure out how to be able to get to see it. What he can say to his mother to get her to relent? Then it gets more complicated. His English teacher, knowing the popularity of the show and having overheard discussions about it among the kids, gives the class an assignment: write a paper about the moral issue that will be argued on the show that night and whether the student writing the paper agrees with how the issue was resolved.”
This seemed to be taking forever, but the writers seemed rapt, so I simply continued.
“Philip goes to the teacher and says he can’t do that assignment because he can’t watch the show. Learning it’s a disciplinary issue with Philip’s mother, he refuses to cut Philip any slack, saying he brought this on himself.
“Philip is a straight-A student and is proud of that, and he hates that the teacher, his favorite, might not like him now. Hey, this is important at our age, having teachers like you! Anyway, this is terrible for him; no paper and no A, and no approval from his teacher. He still doesn’t want to tattle; he thinks his mom would believe him, but it goes against the universal kid code that you don’t tattle on anyone. So what’s he going to do?”
I looked around the room. They were all hanging on every word I said! Incredible. I took a breath, letting the pause become pregnant, then finished.
“Philip figures it out: he writes the paper, but he makes it about the situation he’s facing! He explains it all. He even writes in it that he’s following the directions for the assignment because he’s writing about a moral issue and the show is involved.
“The teacher calls the mother and tells her about the paper Philip turned in and that he’s giving Philip an A for his not only for his writing but also his resourcefulness. Philip’s brother ends up getting disciplined for stealing and involving Philip. Philip is proud that he didn’t tattle; all he did was write an assigned school paper. He’d had no idea the teacher would talk to his mom about it.”
Curt shook his head and said, “That’s just perfect. Absolutely. So clever. I bow to your wisdom,” and he stood up and bowed. Everyone laughed. When the room settled, Barnes asked, “You’ve written a few of these?”
“Yeah. I read a lot and started trying to write stories a couple of years ago.”
“Can we see them?”
“Really? You want to see my stories?”
Barnes chuckled. “You obviously have some original ideas. This was great. No doubt you’re clever, and what’s best is, you write from a kid’s perspective. Like with wanting the teacher to like you. I doubt any of us would come up with that. I’m sure what you’ve written shows a kid’s fears and motivations. That’s perfect for us. We may use some of what you’ve done. We’ll probably tweak a bit here and there, but we’ll use your ideas. Yes, we want to see more of these.”
I couldn’t believe it. Maybe some of my ideas could end up being used on that show! I told them I’d get the stories to Clay to show them.
What if my name could be on the list of writers? Me! Wow!
) 0 (
I was still sky high on the ride home with Clay. I’d loved how the day had gone, especially seeing what Clay did, what his job was. I could do that some day! That would be a wonderful way to make a living. It wouldn’t be work; it would be a joy doing that every day. Being part of a team of creative people.
I probably was too effusive, because I noticed Clay wasn’t talking at all but was simply grinning at me as I bloviated.
“Did you learn anything about writing?” he asked when I had to stop to breathe.
I had to think for a moment. “Sure. A lot of things. One thing; something I’d never considered before you told me about it: story arc. Barnes mentioned that each episode should finish by referring back to something at the beginning, making for a satisfying closure. But it was more that just that: he repeated what you’d said, that the season finale should include something that was left unfinished in the beginning of the season and mentioned now and then throughout. This created a story arc from the beginning to the end. I’m going to include that in my stories now. I never thought of that before. But him saying it after I’d just heard it from you. I’ve got it now.”
“Yeah, that’s something we always keep in mind.” Clay paused for a second, then said, “I think it’s one of the reasons the show’s so popular. Each episode is self-contained, but each season is, too.”
We got home when it was still mid afternoon. Evidently, they didn’t put in eight hours of work and then call it a day. They bounced ideas around and came up with some key points they agreed upon, then went home and each wrote a script; those would be compared and discussed the next day. They weren’t concerned with time on the job, only with the resulting product produced. What a wonderful concept!
I was still too jazzed when we got home to just sit in my room or even join Clay and Julia in the living room where they were cocktailing. I needed to be doing something active. I still wanted to explore my new landscape; I’d seen almost nothing of it on my walk. But as I knew I wouldn’t be going into work with Clay much—well, maybe a little when I had my stories to show them—I’d mostly be here. I needed to continue looking around, getting the lay of the land. Maybe there’d be kids I could hang with.
I hadn’t done much investigating outside the house. But then, I hadn’t back home, either. Twelve years old, and I’d had few friends my age. No best friends, like I’d read about most kids having. Now I had a new beginning; I needed to go exploring!
I changed out of my new fancier clothes into more casual ones. I’d worn long pants and a good polo shirt to the studio. Now I put on my new shorts and a new tee shirt: light-tan shorts, dark-green tee. The new stuff I’d bought with Julia was all I had to change into. I went into the living room looking like a boy model in a clothes catalog and told them I was going for a walk.
“No one walks in L.A.,” Julia said. “Too hot much of the time, and everything’s too far apart. But you don’t need to walk. We have a bike in the garage. You can use it.”
“A bike?” Why would they have a bike? I asked her that. Clay explained.
“There was a kid on a bike on an episode of Outfit. He was an older teen, a guest star, and the character was very uptight, self-contained, no humor in him at all. He was a big guy, and we put him on a small bike that made him look foolish. He’s this over-six-foot guy on a 24” bike and wobbling around. Our vision was to make him realize that if people laughed at him, all he had to do was laugh at himself, too, rather than holding his feelings inside and being resentful. Other people would accept him when they saw that and he’d get along better that way.
“As usual, a bicycle company donated their top-of-the-line bike for us to use. Free advertising. The shot on the bike in the episode was only about ten seconds long, and it only took one take. Then the production company had that bike on their hands, and they didn’t want it. I solved that problem for them. I stole the bike.
He laughed. “Actually, stole is way too strong a word. It wasn’t as if they cared what happened to it. It being gone was one fewer problem for them, one less item for their overstuffed storage area should they decide to keep it. I wanted it for Julia; I figured she could use it for exercise; she tends to run a bit pudgy from just sitting around so much.”
“Hey! I don’t sit around. You do at work! I get way more exercise than you do! You’re the one who should be riding it. But do you? Hell, no!”
Julia was acting pissed, but I knew her well enough now, and him, too, that it was apparent their fight was play-acting. But I was excited now; that bike sounded good to me. When I’d gone out before, I hadn’t gone very far; the area was quite large, way too large to see much of it walking.
I was already on my way to the garage, ignoring their antics, but I said as I was leaving, “So I can ride it?”.
“Sure,” Clay responded. “In fact, it’s now yours.”
“And don’t forget the helmet that’s hanging on the handlebars,” Julia added. “It’s the law here; anyone under 16 must wear a helmet.”
The bike was dope! A 21-speed, thin-tire bike any kid would give his left arm for. Practically brand new and beautiful. I didn’t even have to adjust the seat. The studio had it all the way down, probably for the effect they were creating with the tall kid, and it was just where I wanted it.
I checked the helmet for cooties and decided it was safe, that it had only been worn for ten seconds, so I put it on. Perfect. The kid wearing it must have had a small head.
I rode out into the neighborhood and decided to head in the direction where I’d thought I’d heard kids’ voices. I quickly learned that this area wasn’t set in a checkerboard grid layout. There didn’t seem to be a straight street anywhere. They all curved, and there were many cul-de-sacs off the longer streets. The cul-de-sacs seemed to be where many of the more private swimming pools were located. They appeared to be for use by only the people living around them. Made me wonder . . .
I needed to be careful not to get lost. It was mid-afternoon, and unlike where I’d been before, there was no one outside, no kids, no adults, not even any yard maintenance workers. It felt funny, like I was in an eerie, deserted world, a strange new universe. Maybe you had to be my age to get that feeling.
But then I saw someone. It looked like a kid, too, a boy. I wasn’t close enough yet to see him clearly enough to know it was a boy, and the fact he was sitting with his head bowed and his face in his hands made figuring out his gender more difficult. But I guessed male, and I was pleased to see him, no matter how old he was. It proved I hadn’t fallen into that alternate uninhabited universe. I rode till I came up to where he was sitting on the curb. A bike was lying beside him in the grass.
He looked up as I stopped near him. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Keith. Just moved here. Problem with your bike?” That was just a guess, but it made for a handy conversation starter.
When he looked up at me, I could finally see his face. Yeah, he was my age. He also had a very peculiar face. His eyes were hazel, but one was bluish, the other greenish. It was an angular face, more up and down than round with a sharp chin and narrow nose. His hair was light brown and all over the place, kinda like mine; I guess it had been weeks since its last fight with a comb. Even then, it was likely that the hair had won.
But I didn’t find its uniqueness distracting or off-putting. That face somehow spoke to me. Maybe some wouldn’t call it attractive, but it looked fine to me. I think it was principally his eyes. They were full of intelligence, but mischief as well. They made the face interesting rather than simply unusual, and they did something more. I felt the tingle I’d been feeling for over a year now when I met a boy whose looks had for some reason turned me on. This boy had that effect on me.
I expected him to answer me, speak in response like any normal human would. Rather than that, he cast his eyes over me without saying a word, and his demeanor became quizzical, then even judgmental. He was evaluating me! Seemed to me there wasn’t much to evaluate, but that’s what he was doing. It quickly became apparent that was what he was doing.
I was waiting to hear his name, but he took his time, then said, “No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
He shook his head, looking bemused. “Keith is too . . . well, it’s a happy-go-lucky, fun-loving, high-spirited name. No, your name to me should be, forever will be, Dexter.”
Okay, I’m not the sharpest knife in the kitchen drawer but not the dullest, either. He was playing with me! No way was he going to decide to call me Dexter and get away with it. He knew that. I did, too. Yet he didn’t know me at all, and this was how he was meeting me? I now knew something about him: he had the confidence of an All-Pro quarterback. Of a . . . well, I was stuck for another simile, but, I was no lightweight myself, confidence-wise, and he had me beat by a mile.
But I knew he was playing with me, and I decided two could play his game. “Dexter? I’ve never even met a Dexter. What’s a Dexter got to do with anything? What is a Dexter, anyway? And why that name?”
“You‘ve seen that show, haven’t you?” His voice was much like mine, unbroken, still a light alto. I liked it. “It’s on TV. This guy runs around killing people he thinks the world would be better off without? Doing perfect crimes because that’s how he is: all up tight and a perfectionist. His name is Dexter. You’re him! Look at your beige shorts with sharp creases on the front and an entirely clean, unrumpled tee shirt that looks as if it’s right out of the package. Your hair is combed so well every hair is in place, and that’s not even to mention your eye-blinding, new white sneakers. And the bicycle looks as fresh as you do. What, you wash it every time you ride it? No one keeps their bike so perfect. Or their clothes. Well, one guy must have when he was a kid: Dexter.”
He could have said all that derogatorily, derisively, with a superior air, but he didn’t. I could have taken offense, and I didn’t. No, he somehow made it clear this was all just us getting to know each other, sparring a little, and it was what I should expect from him.
I nodded, pursed my lips, then gave him the same look over. I took my time, too. If he’d made it clear what he was doing, I was going to be just as clear that I was doing the same. I spoke to him with the exact same tone of voice, slightly scathing, highly judgmental, but doing so while fighting a smile. “And I guess your name is to be forever secret. I know you can’t say it, but I got you pegged. You’re in the witness-protection program, and you think I’m a criminal operative sent by the mob to ferret you out. Well, it won’t work. We have our ways of getting you to say who you are, your real name. Horrid, unusual, aberrant ways. So I’ll try again before getting out the pliers and blow torches: I’m Keith. And you are . . .”
This time his smile was incandescent. “I’m Lucas.” He bowed his head slightly.
“Okay. You saved yourself a world of hurt. So, you go by Luke?” I spoke into my wristwatch, softly. “Stand down, stand down, the perp is cooperating.”
He laughed, then said, “No. Lucas. I hate Luke. Sounds like a biblical figure in long robes and longer hair or a thug with large biceps and small brain.”
Then I changed my tone of voice from sinister baddie to 12-year-old friendly boy. I was good at that one. “Hey, I’ve got a name like that, too.”
“Why? Keith’s a great name. When I’m imagining names I’d rather have been called, I never include Keith, but that’s just ’cause I never think of it. I’m adding that to my list right now. But what’re you called that you hate?”
“It isn’t that I don’t like Keith. It’s fine. It’s the nickname I never tell anyone. No boy wants a nickname like mine, especially at our age. Better you don’t know it; that way you can’t forget and give it away, and I won’t have to murder you.”
“Come on! You know mine. This is a I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you’ll-show-me-yours moment. Except I already showed you. Your turn. Whip it out.”
Damn, I liked this kid already. “You have a compelling argument there. But look, if I tell you, this name has to remain just between the two of us. Okay?”
He nodded.
“It’s Kiki. All the people in my house used it as I was growing up, so I’m used to it, but if boys my age know it, I’d never be called anything else, and probably be beat up twice a week just to prove a point.”
“I like that name! I really do! Can I use it when we’re alone? If I make sure no one can overhear? Kiki. That fits you.”
I looked in his eyes. He was being sincere. “Okay, I guess. I’m used to being called that by people close to me. Maybe that’ll make us closer.”
“I’d like that,” he said, smiling. I was getting to really like his smile.
I needed to keep talking to shield myself from the feelings I was having. “But about my clothes and this Dexter business. I’m new here; just arrived. My dad said he was taking me to L.A., that we were leaving immediately—he does things like that—and I didn’t even have time to pack. So when we got here, I had to go shopping. Yeah, everything’s new. Big deal. Get over it.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, raising both hands in submission. “Just teasing.”
“Yeah, I figured that out. So, what’s with your bike and you sitting here with your face in your hands, hands covered with grease, some of that on your face, too?”
“Damn bike!” I could see it was one similar to mine. “The chain came off and I’m not having much luck getting it back on the sprocket. I have to push the derailleur forward to get enough slack in the chain to hang it on the front sprocket, but the derailleur isn’t moving as easily as it should—probably the reason the chain came off—and I have to get my body in position to push it hard, and then I can’t reach far enough to reattach the chain. It’s really a two-man job and I’m only one.”
Then his face brightened. “Now we’re two!”
I managed a frown. “Yeah, but look at all that grease, and then at my clean clothes. And you haven’t said how much I’ll get paid for arduous labor.” I shook my head.
He wasn’t flustered at all. “Easy to fix that and earn money at the same time. Strip.”
“Strip! First, it’s show-me-yours, now it’s strip! What’s going on here? You some sort of pervert?”
“You know darn well what’s going on. I’m horny all the time. Just feeling you out. You do have a sense of humor, don’t you? I just like playing with words. I don’t mean anything by it.”
“Actually, I like it. It’s just that I’ve never known anyone like you before. You take some getting used to. You let it all hang out, don’t you?”
“No, I’d get grease all over it.”
I grinned. Couldn’t help it. This kid was going to be fun.
I dismounted, laid my bike down, then found a spot on the derailleur that was grease-free and pushed it forward. Lucas had no problem hanging the loose chain on the sprocket, I allowed the derailleur to take up the slack, and Lucas’s bike was back in working order.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Damn right, thanks,” I retorted. “Now, in return, you have to show me around.”
“Was planning to anyway,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows seductively—what he obviously thought was seductively—and we both mounted up.
♦
Posted 11 February 2026