Aneissa Ingram is 23 years old and is currently studying at Full Sail University for Creative Writing in entertainment BA. Her goal is to use her passion for writing to become an author and creative writer for video games. She has a written and completed 5 unpublished novels and has successful following on the writing site wattpad.com under the profile name Midnight_Lily. In her down time when she's not writing or working, she enjoys spending time with her husband and friends, watching anime, and her favorite shows including CW's The Originals and The Flash. LEMONADE Avril sunk into her bed as the drowsiness took her quickly. At the end of the day her dream is what she looked forward to. Avril and Jacob, soaked their feet in the glimmering dark blue pool as always. Smothered by the glowing, colorful, clouds around them, Avril’s dream was her Utopia. She preferred to dream than to be awake, especially since Jacob always kept her company.
“Are you ready to dream even deeper?” Jacob asked. His thin, and starved hand grabbed hers. Avril readied herself. “I promise it will be easy. You’ll never have to worry about life again.” “But, what about my parents? Won’t they miss me if I dream forever?” Avril asked. “Think of all you’ve been through…they didn’t understand you. They didn’t want to.” “You’ll still be here, won’t you?” “I’ll always be with you.” Jacob secured trust with Avril, being the angel on her shoulder, and the ears that listened. Avril and Jacob rose together and Avril sunk under the glittering water, following after him. The water flowed through her lungs like air. Jacob’s grip on her hand never wavered. The eagerness filled him as he drew Avril deeper, and his body ached with each passing minute. Jacob smelled her body weakening to the dream, the essence of life leaving her. Happiness, and joy spread across her face, with no hint of distress in sight. They floated deeper into the pool. Avril’s amazement grew by the colorful, twinkling lights, and she obsessed herself with its beauty. They glided together to the beaming light that awaited them. Their bare feet landed on the plush bottom as the sandy particles pushed between the crevasses of their toes. Jacob grinned widely and opened his arms to Avril. “Let’s dream together, forever.” Jacob said. The water slowed Avril’s movement as she opened her arms to accept his embrace. She engraved herself in his arms. The longer she embraced Jacob in the depths of the pool, the more her body seemed to fuse with his. Her skin became gooey and sticky to cling to him. Her body grew less and less defined and gained a blotchy appearance. Jacob’s lips became wide and spread like jelly on bread. The first thing gone was her head. He vacuumed up her body slowly. The buds on his tongue were joyfully savoring the moment as he could feel life swelling through him. Soon, Avril had completely dispersed into Jacob, to dream forever. Jacob flew to the opening of the pool, and climbed to his feet. He then let the light overtake him. He was eager to feel, touch, and taste again. He was eager to breathe again. He jolted up with a loss of breath from Avril’s bed, surrounded by the unknown. He pulled back the pink lush covers from over him and jumped onto the rough wood paneling. Just before he placed his hand on the glistening glass doorknob of freedom, his movement halted from a doll eyed reflection. He pulled and pinched his rosy cheeks, tugged at his plump lips, and ruffled his blonde hair. Jacob now wore Avril’s face and without hesitation, disappeared into the new life he was granted. A gremlin like giggle escaped his lips, “Well, when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.”
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Philip Charter is a writer who lives and works in Pamplona, Spain. He is tall, enjoys travel, and runs the imaginatively named website 'Tall Travels'. His work has been featured in Flash Fiction Magazine and The National Flash Fiction Day Anthology among other publications. He was the winner of the 2018 Writing on the Wall Festival Flash Fiction competition. THE DIARY OF XANDER H. ROBERTSON Thursday 15th March
Everyone needs an excuse for failure, and now I’ve got mine. Mother is in denial, with her head buried in charity paperwork, and my father was the cabinet minister (you know, the one who just committed suicide). You’re making me write this as part of the treatment. Forgive my scepticism, but did talking things over ever get us anywhere? Uncle Joe and FDR ‘talked things over’ at Yalta and that led to 45 years of Cold War. I suppose you’re used to processing death and I’m not, that’s the problem. Isn’t it un petit peu ironique that our sessions are being paid for by the dead man? My student loan goes toward watery pints and reduced price microwave pizzas, and it’s got to last another year after the disaster of the dissertation; no more excuses they said. My personal tutor wants to see your autograph every week to make sure I’ve been to Planet Beige. It is not just the grades either; I knew the game was up when I took stood under the shower for so long that Jenkins resorted to breaking the bathroom door down, shouting about rising gas prices. Something has to be done to get that image out of my mind - him, staring through the windscreen at the closed garage door, with the engine running and his seatbelt on. I picked out this notebook from the Student Union shop. It’s not too cumbersome, I don’t want to be hanging onto it like a comforter for years to come. It feels strange writing something other than notes or lists. The lecture halls seem to be full of faux working-class heroes with iPads, and Chinese geeks typing things into their watches. Putting thoughts on a page takes time. It’s 3 a.m. now and I have been lying here for hours replaying everything. It feels like I’ve got a bloody anvil sitting on my chest. I’ve been getting about as much sleep as prime Maggie Thatcher, so I may as well make use of my extra waking hours and put pen to paper. Some reprints of Punch and The Strand I’d ordered finally arrived today. The Post Office clerk almost curtsied when she saw the addressee, Lord Alexander H. Robertson Esquire, my little joke. Thinking about it made me smile today, I think I’ll keep the title. Monday 21st March Monday grabs us by the scruff of the neck even though it’s just another day. Why are we so desperate to prove ourselves in installments every week, like some god awful soap opera? Well, you told me to write about my everyday life, so here it is. Today I managed to drag myself out of the pit at ten and drank a warm Red Bull on the bus. I was late to a seminar where I feebly pretended to have completed the suggested reading. We won the sports round at the pub quiz last night which meant we got to keep what we could pour in one minute behind the bar. Riggers distracted them by spilling Guinness and I went straight for the top shelf . . . classic. We did a good bit of damage. Sunday night was better than Saturday’s depressing Skooldayz disco. Wearing grey shorts and a scruffy white shirt felt somehow regressive. I remembered how Marcus Dean used to padlock my briefcase shut, and threaten to punch me if I told. “Forgotten your work again Robertson?” “Yes Sir, sorry Sir.” I’m 22 and I still get bullied, but now it’s for suggesting that we should pay less tax. A group of freshers in the queue wouldn’t shut up about the NHS being ‘torn to shreds’. The old man didn’t give 30 years to the party to be insulted by a bunch of political tadpoles. I left before the disco even started. We discussed the 1906 Liberal Party campaign in the seminar. Elections were a lot simpler when you just had to think up a couple of good poster slogans. The professor started to talk about how the term ‘Liberal’ has become so negative in today’s society. I don’t think his seminar style could be described as laissez faire. He certainly didn’t like it when I pointed out that the party had only ever been successful when fighting against something and went into a huge rant about Gladstone’s four terms as PM. I suspect he was wearing a yellow rosette under his blazer. Afterwards, Jenkins and Riggers accompanied me to the cafeteria where I stuffed down a baked potato with prawns and then proceeded to lose £6 to the quiz machine. Sending good money after bad into these ruddy lie-boxes is just about the most routine event of my week. After lunch I had some reading to get through so I headed over to the library. Two coffees and a few chapters later and I nearly missed the last bus home! I normally lock myself in one of the quiet audio visual rooms which house the archived cassettes and VHS players. I sometimes feel that I was born two or three generations too late. Luckily I made it back for question time. The British public’s lack of understanding of tax credits supplies me with more entertainment than a hundred DVDs ever could. Thursday 31st March 9:08 p.m. - In less than three hours I’ll be the April’s fool. Not even a note from you could get me out of this one - 2,000 words on whether the Great War or the Suffragette movement was more influential in extending the vote to women. After my third visit to The Spectator website hoping for something to raise a titter, I’ve decided to procrastinate offline by writing. 10:30 p.m. - Opening another bottle of wine was either ingenius or idiotic, either way I need some liquid fortitude in order to read up about war atrocities and frumpy women. 10:32 p.m. - Found more videos to browse online including an interesting documentary on the invention of bodyline bowling. 11:59 p.m. - If I write this very slowly . . . it’ll be Friday. 12:17 a.m. - The second bottle is long gone, now I’ve switched to coffee and I am reading furiously, trying ignore the loud computer gunshots and grunts coming from Jenkins’s filthy den. 1:50 a.m. - I’ve decided that this would be an opportune moment to look up information on Victorian workhouse conditions for a story I’ve started. The essay will write itself, real art must be squeezed out like juice, then the sugar added, then the really clever stuff (you know the compressed xanthan starch and riboflavin). 3:31 a.m. - Six hours to deadline. Plan nailed and passages highlighted, time for forty winks. 7:38 a.m. - Woke up to a blank page and an empty bottle full of fag ends. Caffeine required! 10:45 a.m. - I cained the essay. 1,850 words in two hours. I missed the bus so it was submitted late, maybe they’ll give me a break for only just missing the deadline. It doesn’t really matter how long we all spend writing essays, we’ll all get similar marks. Last time I tried hard I ended up with a 69 and that’s a 2:1, the same as a 60. We all learn to play the system to our advantage. And now to sleep. Monday 18th April It’s been a little while since we spoke because of the end of term. I spent Easter at home, only it wasn’t the home I remember. It was like being stuck in no man’s land, surrounded by silent footsteps and barbed wire insults. God it was depressing, shuffling around waiting for the bombs to drop, only they didn’t. We’re not very good at communicating, even though all politicians do is talk. Easter was especially wet and dreary this year, no matter how high we turned up the heating, or how many fires we lit, we couldn’t get the damned draft out of the place. I think the cottage has gotten too big for my mother. She is hardly ever there now that she’s redoubled her efforts with her campaigning. She needs a cause, but I don’t want to be the one to tell her she should face up to the clogged gutters. I said that if she wanted a job she could read up on 17th century tax law for me but she didn’t seem impressed. I spent most nights knocking back cheap scotch in the Cocked Hat, receiving heartfelt pats on the back from concerned constituents. “Any ideas what you might get into yet Alexander old boy?” The old colonel always was a supporter of dad’s. “I hate politicians as much as the next man but I have already got a taste for whisky and lies,” I said looking into the glass. They didn’t laugh. I even spent every day walking in his shoes (his wellies actually). I enjoyed taking Teddy out into the woods. Every time he dropped the ball back at my feet, all slobbery, he looked at me like he was asking a question he already knew the answer to. Friday 22nd April Got inspired on the loo yesterday reading about a chap who writes to companies about trifling matters hoping to bore them to tears. Thought I would do the same to get my own back on the smarmy Geoffrey in the estate agent’s office. He barely looked at us when we came to complain about the boiler and it still hasn’t been fixed nearly a week later. We’ve been taking showers at the gym on campus but three quid is rotten value if you are a weed like me and don’t use the weight machines. Estate agents don’t care about students, low margins and endless problems to fix. It was his manner that got my goat, like our time was worth nothing. Je refuse monsieur! I value my time enough to take a break from my punishing West Wing marathon to write a two page letter to your manager. You told me that writing could be a good outlet, and it was quite cathartic. I am writing even more these days, I have even dusted off a few story ideas I had in college. Don’t worry, I won’t be subjecting you to the first draft of “The Peelers vs Mutant Street Urchins” just yet. Anyway, the letter backfired because it was a little too creative. Now his manager wants to see me to clear the matter up. I should have just sent a flaming turd in a paper bag through the office letterbox like any normal disgruntled customer. Sunday 24th April I met Sarah at the Wine & Whisky outing, and she was a welcome break from the wind bagging about tannins and peat levels. Riggers and I always go together, but we soon split up, like a squadron breaking formation peeling off into the dogfight. I am certainly no ladies’ man, but I could lie for England, so after a few single malts turning on the charm isn’t too difficult. It’s better to tell you about Sarah for fear of more Twitter screenshots or Daily Mirror exposés. I don’t care if she scolds me like a naughty schoolboy, I could listen to her for hours. She oozes enthusiasm about books and sauvignon blanc, and the silences somehow aren’t awkward. I met her for coffee the next day, and the next day. She’s a big reader, although she didn’t seem taken with my time travelling space mutants idea. I haven’t had the heart to tell Mum about my budding relationship yet, it might prove too painful for her. Monday 2nd May Last week I told you how I felt like I was climbing out of the hole that David Robertson MP’s death dropped me into. It turns out that it’s more of a sea, and the when the tide changes the swell just gets bigger. I spent so long fighting off reporters that when the adrenaline ebbed away, I found myself clinging to my lifeboat of university routine. I haven’t had much desire for parties of late, they always end up with drunken stragglers huddling around some funny internet video. No one wants to put the world to rights, no one wants to talk politics around me. Today I made up some excuse about a sore throat in order to avoid my ‘heavy’ schedule of two lectures. Sarah and the books have been keeping me company dans la maison, but it’s not easy on her with three swines rolling around in kebab grease and dirty tea cups. Friday 6th May Success! I submitted a short piece to the student rag and it’s going to be published. One of the lads from my school is the assistant editor and he said they normally have plenty of space. It’s all about who you know. My first byline, and all this from a musty red £3.99 notebook. I suppose it will be the first positive piece of Robertson news published in a good while. I go to the writing club every week now. The Lit twits all come in with their coloured woollen scarves and some tatty classic gripped under their arm. They hate me. My brash striped shirts make them want to cower together in the corner. They sniff and snort at my readings, but it feels good to reel something off, like I am shedding a skin and leaving it for all to admire. I don’t pay attention to the criticism, at least Sarah liked my Victorian science fiction story. Sometimes a close friend’s support is worth more than public opinion. Monday 16th May Sarah’s texts got snarky, then angry, then desperate, and then there were none. Another empty space. Too much time writing and drinking wine alone, apparently. I should never have trusted her to understand. Even though she has exams and I am postponing mine until next year, I can’t share my time. I’ve got to think about the summer, and what I’m going to do with myself before I re-enrol for my final year. I’ll have to see if I can still take up the internship at the think tank that he organised. That’s going to be an awkward conversation. Wednesday 18th May I traipsed around the careers fair without giving out a single CV: accountant, accountant, actuary, HR, finance, accountant. Why the hell are the brightest graduates so desperate to be locked into a structured program that guarantees mediocrity? Scarface was wrong. Everyone’s got money now, it doesn’t get you power, it just gets you deeper into the mire. Before you know it you will be scrabbling around in the dirt for a 10% raise while those with the real power smile on and take their cut. Don’t we want to prove ourselves as men anymore? My father spent years raising funds and kissing the right arses for his safe seat, but it still wasn’t enough for him. He wanted positive change. You asked me about my future last session and the sight of honours students grabbing at free corporate pens on offer made me want change too. All of my unlucky housemates are burning the midnight oil studying, while I send begging letters to Westminster polling companies asking to work for free for the summer. I think most of them can’t see past the potential oil slick of a tabloid headline. Most of them haven’t even replied. Saturday 4th June With my bow tie open around my neck and a red wine glow, I sat at the table with my notebook taking notes on my peers’ antics. Everyone else at the Leavers Ball was actually leaving and I felt trapped in limbo, a purgatory of bad DJs and tacky photo poses. The notes will make a better keepsake. You told me I’d regret it if I didn’t go. I suppose it was alright, the Union did a good job putting on some decent bands and a TV panel show comedian. My head still feels like it is strapped onto the unsafe whirly fairground ride this morning. When can I get off? Thursday 9th June Today is my final session with you. One final signature and my book is finished. I am even doing my homework and writing this before class this time. I must be ready to handle my degree course again (cue your sarcastic eye roll). I have papered over some of the cracks that appeared after the funeral and I am back into a better routine of walking and writing. The showers are even down to a brief 3 minutes now, a la James Bond. I don’t want you to get all blasé about helping the next politician’s grieving child, but the diary was a good idea. It’s funny how a blank page sometimes makes the best pair of ears. I talked to the party chairman on the phone this week and he said he could arrange a summer placement and we could talk about a 2020 running date. Xander H. Robertson MP you heard it here first. Perhaps I’ll even make the upper house. Neal Lipschutz is a veteran journalist. His short fiction has appeared in several literary publications. BOOK CLUB Our fourth grade teacher always waited until after lunch to take our money and purchase forms for the Scholastic Book Club. That meant you had to worry all morning about losing the envelope your parents gave you to pay for the books. But even that couldn’t diminish what was the best part of school outside of recess: buying books from Scholastic. I spent the hours before collection patting my side pocket to make sure the envelope was still there. It got wrinkled up, but was always there. I never lost it. It was exciting enough just filling out the colorful order form, darkening the boxes next to the books you wanted, always in pencil in case you had a last-minute change of mind. Then came the real thrill: having the books handed to you by the teacher when the orders were filled. Scholastic order form hand-in day was good for another reason: it knocked at least 30 minutes off schoolwork time as Mrs. Goodwin called us up one row at a time, turning into a careful accountant as she marked each kid’s order on a master sheet and tore open white envelopes to make sure the quarters and dollar bills were in synch with the cost of the greatly desired books. Once in a while some parent messed up, an excruciating embarrassment and disappointment for the kid involved, who’d have to wait until the next order period if the contents of his or her white envelope came up short.
On one collection day about two-thirds of the class had handed in their forms, including me, which left us to quietly do what we wanted while other rows of students were called to line up at Mrs. Goodwin’s desk. She took the whole thing very seriously, checking and rechecking each child’s order. It consumed all of her attention. We’d already been warned that if we fooled around or made noise after we’d ordered, Mrs. Goodwin would just call the whole thing off. The Scholastic Book Club was a privilege and a privilege could easily be lost. No one wanted that. When Glenn Steinbach’s row was called up, he stayed seated. Just sat there, looking down at his desk, as if it was some sort of discovery, rather than probably the most familiar thing in his life. Even if he hadn’t heard Mrs. Goodwin, he had to notice everyone else in his row get up and walk towards the teacher. “Glenn, your row can line up now for Scholastic,” Mrs. Goodwin said. “No,” Glenn said, very quietly, but since no one else was making noise, it carried through the classroom. “No?” Mrs. Goodwin repeated, adding a question mark to the word. “I can’t,” Glenn said, even more softly than the no. “Can’t? Why can’t you?” “My father lost his job.” Everyone looked right at Glenn, including Mrs. Goodwin. She didn’t say anything. Meanwhile, Glenn didn’t know what to do with his head, so he panned the room, slowly, like a movie camera moving back and forth as much as the flexibility in his neck would allow. Finally Mrs. Goodwin said, “Oh. I am sorry.” Then she turned back to the child from Glenn’s row standing at the side of her desk, eagerly waiting to hand in her book order. The rest of us continued to stare at Glenn. “That’s enough,” the teacher said of our rudeness. “Those of you who have already ordered your books, open your history textbooks to chapter five and start reading. I’ll be asking questions when I am done.” I slowly and reluctantly removed my eyes from Glenn. He seemed happy to have something to do besides be stared at and imitate a movie camera, so he got his text book out fast and at least pretended to intently read chapter five, like he’d been waiting all day to get the chance to read chapter five. The next day near 3 o’clock dismissal, Mrs. Goodwin walked up and down the rows of children, dropping an envelope on each of our desks. It smelled faintly of the sweet perfume she wore every day. When she got too close to me, I sometimes started sneezing from her perfume, which my friends thought was hilarious. “Children,” she said, very slowly to emphasize seriousness, “I want you to hand these notes to your parents tonight. I do not want you to open them yourselves. Hand them to your parents sealed like they are.” Notes home were never good, but since every kid in the class got this one, including those boys and girls who’d rather jump off the roof of the school building than misbehave in any way, I figured it couldn’t be anything terrible, or even specifically about me. When we got out of school, a couple of the braver boys tore open their envelopes to see the big secret. I was not going to do that, but I did stick around to see what their notes said. “One of our students, who I won’t name, wasn’t able to order from the Scholastic Book Club circular this week because his father lost his job. I hope in the spirit of neighborliness that when the next order period arrives, you would consider ordering a book for this child, or add a quarter or two to your child’s envelope so this unfortunate student can pick his own books to order. If you decide to do either of these things, please mark your form of generosity clearly so I can make sure the ordering goes smoothly. Thank you for your kindness.” The notes were signed Katherine Goodwin, in script. I don’t think I even knew Mrs. Goodwin’s first name. It seemed unnecessary for teachers to even have first names. I dutifully handed my unopened envelope to my mother soon after she got home from work. She read it while shaking her head. “Oh, that’s a shame,” she said. “Who’s the child whose father lost his job?” she asked. “Glenn Steinbach.” She nodded like that meant something to her, though Glenn wasn’t a friend of mine and she wouldn’t know any kid who wasn’t. I didn’t think she knew the parents of my friends, much less other kids’ parents. She worked every day and as far as I knew she didn’t have any friends at all in the buildings. When the next order period came around, my mother remembered the plight of Glenn Steinbach. I handed her my order sheet like normal, with three books checked off, including two Encyclopedia Brown mysteries, my favorite Scholastic selections. “Do you think Glenn would like one of these books?” she asked. “Why?” “Because Glenn can’t afford to buy any, we will contribute one of these three books to him. Tell me which one and I will add a note in your envelope so Mrs. Goodwin knows which one is for Glenn, but I won’t use his name since it would be embarrassing for his family if everyone knew.” “Everyone knows,” I said glumly. I didn’t think it was fair that Glenn was costing me a book, but I knew it would look bad to say that. The next day, Mrs. Goodwin started the Scholastic ritual by walking over to Glenn’s desk with an order sheet. She spent some amount of time whispering to him. Sue Moskowitz, who sat next to Glenn, later reported that Mrs. Goodwin told him he had four dollars to order with, contributed by the other kids, and that she already checked off the books other kids’ parents had bought for him so he wouldn’t mistakenly buy the same book twice. Four dollars! I only got to spend two dollars and now I was giving away one-third of that. Who knew how many books, like the one my mother was contributing, he was getting on top of the four dollars. We found out soon enough. The short period between ordering and receiving the Scholastic books made Scholastic seem like the best, most efficient company on earth. It only took a few days before the wonderful book box arrived. No one had ever seen anyone get as many books as Glenn got that day. It was hard to count the spines of those skinny paperback books that Mrs. Goodwin piled on his desk, but there had to be at least 10 books. Some kids said 20, but I think they were exaggerating. Things happened pretty much the same way the next order period, and then the next one after that. Maybe Glenn’s book count went down a little on rounds two and three, but not by much. I was still giving up one of my three books to him. Walking home after school the day of his third haul, Glenn got stopped by three of the tougher kids in our class. They just suddenly appeared in front of him and kept him from moving. I was walking in the same direction, as were others, and we cautiously moved closer to where they all had stopped. I could see by Glenn’s expression he knew it was trouble and I did, too. We just didn’t know how much. “How do you even have time to read all the books you are getting?” one kid asked. Glenn didn’t say anything. He just moved his shoulders up and down for an answer. “Does your father have a fucking job yet?” asked another. “I don’t know,” Glenn croaked. ‘How the fuck do you not know if your father has a job?” the kid said, not really a question. “Does he leave the house in the morning? That should tip you off. What’s wrong with him anyway that he got fired?” All three of them laughed. “I know,’ said the third tough. “His father’s an out-of-work librarian. He spends all day going through all the fucking books Glenn’s getting. So he doesn’t have enough time to get a job.” The three laughed even harder. Glenn took their mirth as an opportunity to walk around them and continued toward his apartment building. The toughs didn’t follow. Once the drama was over, I walked toward my own building, still thinking about all the books Glenn was piling up. Jonathan Ferrini is a published author who resides in San Diego. He received his MFA in Motion Picture and Television Production from UCLA." Jonathan Ferrini is a published author who resides in San Diego. He received his MFA in Motion Picture and Television Production from UCLA."" Jonathan Ferrini is a published author who resides in San Diego. He received his MFA in Motion Picture and Television Production from UCLA." BOX OFFICE GROSS It’s Christmas day and I’m directing bedlam. I’m completing my sound recording and mixing today because the studio was available all day due to the holiday. I won’t get another block of time given the number of students rushing to complete their films after Christmas break.
The only Foley actors available today are two homeless ladies living in the neighborhood of Soundstage 8 on campus. For $20 and a “Happy Meal”, they agreed to provide the sound effects necessary to complete my 16mm student film titled, “Take 13”. In one sound booth, we’re recording the repeated stabbing of a ham by an elderly woman. She didn’t require any direction because I’m convinced she is psychotic and homicidal. We use ham because pig flesh is similar to human flesh in texture so the stabbing sounds realistic. In a second sound booth, we’re recording a teenage junkie screaming at the top of her lungs. I directed her to scream like she’s going to be stabbed to death in the heart. After many failed takes, I directed her to scream as if desperate for a fix. It’s working. Sound editing is an art form. I’m fortunate to have my friend George beside me in the mixing room above the sound booths and Foley stage. George loves sound editing and doesn’t care it’s Christmas day. George is a brilliant sound editor and an audiophile but can’t write creatively. In exchange for being my sound editor, I’m rewriting his script. The filmed scenes relating to the sound effects we’re recording are playing on the screen below so we can sync the sound to the film. He’s wearing headphones and in addition to recording and mixing the stabbing and screaming, I can hear the lyrics playing inside his head phones to “Under My Thumb” which he is recording for the murder scene. “Take 13” is a movie about a nerdy student filmmaker who falls in love with his leading lady, a beautiful cheerleader at the university who flirted and duped him into giving her the lead role to advance her dream of becoming an actress. The leading man is a handsome athlete and drama student with whom she falls in love during the shoot. The filmmaker is consumed with jealously when he discovers a jock strap inside the cheerleaders make up room and learns the two stars of his film are having an affair. He plots to kill the actress and frame the actor for murder by scripting a violent argument involving the stabbing of the leading lady by the leading man. The filmmaker replaces a retractable prop knife used during rehearsals with a look alike authentic knife during the shoot and the leading lady is stabbed to death. The witnesses describe the argument preceding the murder to the homicide detectives and the leading man is arrested, tried, and sent to death row. The filmmaker delights in the opportunity to film the execution decades later as a sham documentary on the horrors of the death penalty. George says, “Let’s use Take 4 of the scream. It’s got perfect pitch and bone chilling clarity. I’ll pick several stabbing effects as they all sound realistic”. I yell into the microphone, “That’s a wrap!” George places the Stone’s lyrics he recorded on the studio speakers for all to enjoy: Under my thumb The girl who once pushed me around… Under my thumb The squirmin' dog who's just had her day… It's down to me, oh yeah… Feels alright I exit the mixing room and return to the Foley stage to pay my actors. The screaming heroin addict bolts from the sound booth crying, “Give me my money”, snatches the twenty dollar bill from my hand and runs out of the building to buy the fix she craved all day. The psycho stabber remains inside the booth stabbing the ham which is now cut to shreds. I gently open the door waving the twenty dollar bill in front of her to coax her out of the booth saying, “It’s ok to come out now. I have a present for you!” She begins to ease her way out of the booth like a scared animal in a cage. I place the twenty in her tattered sweater pocket and walk her to the exit. She smells of urine and must have pissed herself in her homicidal frenzy. She slowly walks out of the Soundstage cradling the ham and mumbling, “My pretty baby, pretty baby.” I wanted to be in the movie business for as long as I remember. I was telling stories to my classmates in the sandbox and blowing off my friend’s invitations to swim or ride bikes on the weekends because I was ensconced in front of my TV watching old movies. I got my hands on my first super 8 camera in middle school and video tape camera and recorder in high school. I was damn good at writing and impressed my high school English instructors who wrote laudatory letters of recommendations which were instrumental in my admission to a highly competitive and prestigious film school in Los Angeles. I’m a senior and must complete “Take 13” as a prerequisite to obtaining my BFA and will also serve as my celluloid resume when I seek work in Hollywood. The best films are showcased at “Industry Night” which is attended by entertainment industry movers and shakers who can make a career. My film is good but the competition will be ferocious. I funded the film on credit cards which are maxed out and need a good paying job when I graduate to pay them off. I can’t imagine not working in the movies. I won’t accept failure. I will be a success! I arrive at my evening gig on time. It’s 5:00 pm and the phones are already ringing at Box Office Operations or “BOO” for short. The company was founded by Margie who rose through the ranks of the studio film distribution departments which measure success or failure of movies by their box office grosses which are the ticket sales measured in dollars for movies playing in theatres throughout the country. Margie saw the need for an independent, objective company to collect the grosses from the theatres and report them coherently to the film industry executives who would subscribe to her service. It was a timely and brilliant idea making BOO an indispensible conduit between the studios and the movie theatres. It also made Margie a very influential and wealthy woman. I’ve never met or seen Margie. BOO is run by her brother-in-law, Peter who holds the title, General Manager. BOO occupies an undistinguished office on the second floor of a Hollywood Boulevard building above a naughty lingerie shop. The “Hollywood Walk of Fame” which includes the gold stars bearing the names of famous motion picture folk fronts the building. I always avoid walking on the stars like superstitious people avoid stepping on a crack. I don’t need bad luck and revere the talent the stars honor who are permanently memorialized within the filthy sidewalk. The office is a call center with twenty booths and a telephone where the callers sit and phone movie theatres across the country to obtain the box office results of the day from the theatre manager. It’s necessary to call the manager because accurate box office numbers are best obtained in real time and must be downloaded into our software tabulation system that night for distribution to the subscribers the following morning. The caller handwrites the box office grosses on a call sheet next to each film the theatre is showing. BOO experimented with a log in reporting system accessed by the theatre managers but it wasn’t reliable, resulting in missed box office numbers or inaccurate numbers inputted by the managers eager to go home and inattentive employees. I supervise the callers from a closet sized office. I report to Peter who works weekdays. Peter was a former stockbroker before marrying Margie’s sister. The two sisters are estranged and Peter didn’t reap any benefit by marrying Margie’s sister. We have a mutual respect for each other knowing we belong in more lucrative and prestigious entertainment industry positions. Despite running the entire business and being Margie’s brother-in-law, Peter is only an over worked and under paid employee. Peters’ teenage daughter is dying from heart failure and is on a long list for a transplant. Peter fears she’ll run out of time waiting for a donor heart. The shift concludes by midnight as nearly all of the box office results have been obtained from theatres throughout the country. The handwritten reports from each caller are collected by me and delivered to the computer processing department which occupies a separate room. The computer processing office is manned by twin brothers who never speak. They are extremely quick and accurate data inputers who wear superhero costumes by day, parading up and down Hollywood Boulevard taking photos for a fee with the tourists. Often times, they show up to work in their superhero costumes. I think they’re both somewhere on the “Autism spectrum”. This department is headed by Oleg who wrote the computer program which sorts the data resulting in national gross numbers for each film and processed according to the subscriber’s preference. Oleg is a Russian Jew who immigrated to Israel and later to the United States where he set up a computer repair and installation business in Los Angeles. He was a superstar mathematician in Russia and I get a sense his mathematical and computer expertise was put to good use by the KGB. Oleg has a great sense of humor and has a burning desire to live the “American dream”. We have a “Yiddishkeit” bond, swapping jokes in Yiddish. I supervise twenty callers on any given night. They are an assortment of students, struggling actors, writers, alcoholics, and drug addicts who can stay sober enough to complete their assignments. It’s not a difficult job but requires timeliness by calling the theatre manager at a scheduled time and tenacity to call back until the numbers are obtained and transcribed accurately and neatly on the call sheets. These two requirements of the job create a fair amount of turnover. I have a core group of long time callers who I have assigned to the major theatre markets where accurate and complete grosses are most important. My favorite callers are three gay men who sit together. “Texas” Tommy is a twenty something struggling actor. He’s tall, lean, handsome, and has a gentle, easy going personality. Texas Tommy took a bus from the badlands of rural Texas to the badlands of Hollywood seeking fame and fortune as a leading man only to find his adoring fans are “John’s”, cruising male prostitutes which I believe is Tommy’s day job. He looks handsome in his faded jeans, cowboy hat and boots. He still mourns the passing of his Palomino horse named “Pablo” which died many years ago. Coca is a flamboyant former “show boy”. Alcohol and a harsh life lived in macho South America as a transvestite ravished his androgynous beauty and he looks older than his actual age of fifty. Coca is energetic like a humming bird always brimming with happiness and the excitement of being around people. He’s a natural performer and glides across the room raising everybody’s spirits. On occasion, he’ll complete one of his former show numbers during a break or at the end of his shift. He fondly reminisces about the elaborate shows, “gorgeous” costumes and beautiful clubs he performed in throughout South America. He’s dropped names of famous former lovers of both genders! During the day, Coca is a muse, personal shopper, and pool boy to a wealthy Beverly Hills matron who permits him to live rent free in the pool house. William is a fifty something red head with freckles. He enjoyed early success as an author of murder mystery novels but hasn’t had a novel published in decades. His speech denotes a prep school and elite university education. His red hair and “van dyke” beard are exquisitely trimmed and he shows up to work wearing a smoking jacket with pocket square, neatly pressed trousers, stylish loafers, and an ascot. William is articulate, witty, and doesn’t suffer fools. I have two additional long time callers. Alice is a retired bookkeeper and tax preparer who was with Margie when she established BOO. Alice served as BOO’s bookkeeper and tax preparer until BOO became successful enough to hire a “Big 8” accounting firm. Margie offered her a position as a caller, she accepted, and is BOO’s longest employee”. Alice is a widow and pushing ninety but works only to keep busy. She marched along side MLK and was active in the NOW movement in the seventies. Alice is devoted to her job and treats each shift like an auditing assignment. She has befriended each of the big city east coast theatre managers who she chats up briefly before and after obtaining the box office grosses. I believe they exchange holiday and birthday cards. Besides me and Peter, Alice is the only caller who takes an interest in the box office reports. Alice wears a traditional accountant’s green visor and pocket protector replete with pencil, eraser, black, blue, and red pens. She works every night and is always available to fill in for somebody unless it’s a Jewish holiday. Ray is an army veteran with PTSD. He’s pushing forty and receives an assortment of psychotropic drugs from the VA handed out like Halloween candy. Ray is bitter about the cards life has dealt him. He grew up in the “rust belt” in a blue collar “hand to mouth” home. He’s resentful about not having a college degree and speaks often about the college football scholarship denied him. After enlisting in the Army and service in the Middle East, he had a short lived career as a postman. He detests the “rich kids” who attend local colleges who work part time at BOO and are half his age. Ray frequently recounts his infantry raids on homes with flamethrowers he refers to as “pest control”. Ray is hard to take at times but has nothing else to live for except showing up to BOO every night. He lives in a skid row flop house and spends his days at the VA eating free meals with those who understand him and share his nightmares. The office is running smoothly and I lean back in my chair and wonder what Jay is doing? I’ll bet he’s in his recliner sipping cognac and watching a classic movie from his sophisticated Century City condo. Jay and I met in film school. Jay is brilliant and driven. Jay was a law student who packed in as many film courses his schedule would allow knowing he wanted to run a studio one day. Jay is “Director of Business Affairs” at a prestigious venerable old studio which, in its glory years, created movie stars out of Vaudeville performers, turned best sellers into Best Pictures, and signed many of the biggest musical acts of the sixties to record deals in addition to producing popular television series. When the founder of the studio died, the studio lost its creative vision missing out on the science fiction and comic book hero tastes of the younger audiences. Jay reports to the “Vice President of Production”, Arnold. Arnold is a product of the Hollywood nepotism system and the nephew of a Board member or major stockholder. Without Jay’s meticulous attention to detail, brilliant legal skills, and deal making ability, Arnold would be helpless. Jay has named Arnold “The Screamer” The studio routinely turns out flops fueling Arnold’s anxiety which is directed towards Jay. Arnold knows that nepotism won’t save his job unless the studio begins producing hits. Jay realizes that under the current circumstances, his fate is tied to Arnold’s. Jay routinely rejects lucrative offers to join prestigious entertainment law firms because he wants to head the studio. He believes there is an opportunity to replace Arnold if he works “hard and long enough”. Jay won’t accept failure. He’s determined to run the studio one day. “Shut up you faggots! I can’t hear the box office numbers over your giggles and gossip”, Ray shouts. The call room goes silent. Alice mutes her phone and tells Ray, “That’s a terrible thing to say. You should apologize for that homophobic remark!” Ray replies, “Shut up old woman or I’ll shove that green visor up your ass!” William finishes his call, calmly removes his head phones, turns to Ray and says, “I heard you were known as Private Porcelain in the service because you sought out every whore who would relieve herself on you.” The call room breaks out in laughter. Ray leaps from his desk to attack William. Texas Tommy stands to shield William but Ray is built like a pit-bull. I quickly approach and place Ray is a bear hug whispering, “Chill out, soldier. Come with me, I’ve got a surprise for you in my office.” Ray is red faced, humiliated, and breathing heavy but complies like a kid expecting a candy treat. He follows me into my office and I close the door. I reach into my desk and pull out a bottle of whiskey I keep for such “emergencies”. I fill a shot glass inscribed “US Army” and say, “Drink up soldier, you earned it. Tell me about one of your pest control raids.” Ray downs the first shot, calms and delves into an embellished tail of pillage and heroism. I pour him a second. I can hear the call room return to business outside my door. After downing two shots of whiskey in addition to his meds, Ray is passive and practically comatose. I walk him to the rideshare I called and will complete his calls for him. It’s 11:00 pm and we’ll wrap up in an hour. I get melancholy after an outburst like tonight. I can’t believe I’m relegated to managing this “asylum”. I’m in my early twenties and don’t want to be the permanent warden of this “snake pit” although Phil has made overtures about a sales position I’ll never accept. I want a job on a studio lot because that’s where the “action is”. I know “Take 13” won’t be selected for “Industry Night” but if I can just get “my foot in the door” on a studio lot, I’ll work harder and longer than anybody which will put me on top. I’ve had my share of job interviews always receiving the standard brush off, “Call me when your film is in the can and I’ll screen it.” It’s time to ask Jay to get me an interview with screaming Arnold. I text Jay not expecting a reply at this hour: Merry Christmas! To my surprise, the text is returned: My ass! Reading scripts all day. I text back: Off at Midnight. Breakfast at “Cups and Saucers”? Jay replies: Yeah. See you in 60 minutes. “Cups and Saucers” is a twenty four hour kitsch coffee shop on Wilshire Boulevard just outside Beverly Hills. We hold court in our favorite spacious booth in the corner of the dining room which hasn’t been updated since it was built in the early sixties. We tip the old waitresses well and they know us by name and remember our late night breakfast preferences. There’s plenty of street parking at this hour and Jay parks his black Porsche 911 4S just outside. Jay and I have always been “night owls”. The difference between us is Jay can function on only several hours’ sleep. He’ll be at his studio desk by 7:00 am and it’s already 12:30 am. He heads straight towards our booth wearing his baseball cap, cargo shorts, sandals, and sweatshirt emblazoned with the studio logo. Jay greets me with “Paulie’s” favorite salutation from the “Soprano’s” series, “What do you say, what do you hear?” We’ve spent entire evenings reciting great movie and television dialogue but tonight we’re both at wits end. An old waitress who likely has worked here since the joint opened fills our coffee cups and asks, “The usual, boys?” We nod in agreement. Jay gets right to the point, “Arnold is flipping out. He knows the axe is coming down soon. He’s high most of the time on anxiety meds and wouldn’t know a hit if it fell on him. I’ve read twelve scripts today and all of them suck.” I reply, “I don’t know how you take the abuse, Jay. You must be a masochist”. Jay fires back, “It’s the price I’ll pay for success. I’m a few steps from the top rung of the ladder and nothing is going to keep me from reaching the top.” I was happy to see the competitive fire was still in Jay’s belly but my belly was aching for an opportunity. I reached for my coffee cup and my hand was shaking. Jay noticed saying, “Hey, buddy, I didn’t mean to lay my burdens on you. Tell me how I can help?” “I got to get out of BOO and on a studio lot, Jay. My film won’t make me a star director and I’ve received nothing but brush offs from the interviews I’ve gotten on my own. Can you hook me up with an interview with Arnold? I’ll take anything. Once I’m on the lot I’ll become a successful indie producer or die trying!” Jay was a true friend saying, “You got it amigo. Arnold gets into the office at 10:00 am. He makes calls until noon and leaves for lunch meetings over double martinis and the rest of his day he’s asleep at his desk. Show up today at 11:50 sharp. I can get you ten minutes before he leaves for lunch, ok?” Our “comfort food” of eggs, bacon, and pancakes arrived and for the moment, all seemed right with the world. My father taught me to “dress for success” and I arrived at the studio front gate in my business suit and tie. Jay had my studio pass arranged and I walked onto the lot. I purposely arrived early, wanting to stroll the venerable old studio lot and imagine the talent which once walked the hallowed grounds. I felt at home. I could peek into several studios and reveled in watching movies made. I passed a bungalow serving as an office for “Joey Films”. Joey began his entertainment career singing with a group of guys on street corners in Brooklyn in the fifties. They enjoyed some success in the music industry but Joey wanted to break into the movies. He landed a few character actor roles in pictures and television but developed a knack for “optioning” books which had the potential to be hit movies. He focused on up and coming authors where he could option the book for a pittance and tie up the rights for as long as possible. He’d schlep the book around the studios eventually landing a movie deal. One option led to another and he became a big shot known as the “Option King”. I served as Joey’s teaching assistant in a class he taught on producing movies. Joey knew everybody in town. We hit it off and Joey arranged several interviews for me which ended up being “brush off’s”. I decided to stop in and say hello. I walked into the bungalow and introduced myself to the beautiful secretary, “My name is Ethan Tsalach.” The door to Joey’s office was slightly ajar and I heard him yell, “You’re kidding me! I have three films scheduled for production. How can you cancel them? What are you doin’ selling the lot? I knew the founder of this studio who wouldn’t think of cancelling pictures already scheduled for production!” Joey was outraged. I caught a glimpse of him rise from his chair behind the desk and approach the door catching a glimpse of me. He waved me off indicating he’s too busy to talk, slamming the door. The secretary apologized, “I’m sorry. Please leave your name and perhaps I can schedule an appointment for a later time?” I reply, “Thanks anyways. I’ve got other business on the lot. Tell him, Ethan stopped by to say hello.” I entered the headquarters building and took the stairs to the top floor where the President and Vice Presidents of the studio had lavish offices. It was a beautiful art deco building and I was in glamorous “Old Hollywood”. I was met by a security guard who politely asked to see my pass and matched it to the names of appointments on his clipboard. The guard walked me to the double walnut doors of the “Vice President of Production”. He opened the door for me, and announced to the secretary, “Mr. Tsalach has arrived for his appointment.” The secretary was on a phone call but was tipped off to my appointment by Jay. She pointed to an office and mouthed the words, “Jay’s waiting for you”. It was 11:45 am and the screaming began, “Jay, Jay! Where’s the damn deal memorandum on the shoot ‘em up? Did you tell that moocher agent he’s not getting a penny more for his talentless client?” The screaming was horrendous. I’m certain Jay had already developed an ulcer. I couldn’t take it but Jay was resilient and wanted to head the studio. I knocked softly and Jay said, “Come in Ethan. Right on time just as usual. He’s actually in a good mood today but all I can promise is ten minutes. Follow me.” Jay walked me into the lavish executive office of his boss, Arnold who was smoking a cigarette in between swigs of a smoothie. He was short and portly with a bad comb over. His wardrobe, however, was chic and bespoke. I suspected he was born to money. He was finishing up a call and motioned for me to sit. Jay sat next to me. Arnold hung up the phone and yelled to his secretary, “Call my uncle and make lunch reservations at a place of his choice.” Arnold leaned back in his lavish leather chair, looked me straight in the eye and said, “Jay says you’re looking for a job?” I felt like the eye contact was a good sign and replied, “Yes, Sir. I’m graduating in June but I’ll take anything you have immediately.” Arnold interrupted me by saying, “Jay says you work at BOO?” I’m feeling confident that Arnold checked me out and may be impressed with me. I reply, “Yes, Sir. I’m the Supervisor of the evening staff.” Arnold continued to look me straight in the eye and said, “You tell that bitch Margie to shove her lousy box office numbers up her ass!” Arnold rose, grabbed his pack of cigarettes and approached the door. His last comment before leaving was, “I don’t need another schlepper, kid. I need hits. Bring me a hit and you’ll have a job!” He left us sitting in his office. I was flabbergasted by the terse brush off he gave me with Jay sitting alongside me. For the first time since I was a kid, my eyes were teary. Jay reached for a box of tissue and handed it to me saying, “Dry your eyes, Ethan. Let me take you to lunch at the commissary”. I was so dejected I couldn’t appreciate the beauty, grandeur, and history of the famous studio commissary. Because of Jay’s position, we were seated at a wonderful booth where we could see all of the stars come and go. Many familiar celebrities stopped by the table to say hello to Jay. The waitress approached and Jay ordered a Cobb salad and an ice tea. The waitress couldn’t get my attention so Jay said, “The same for my associate.” I could only think about all of the brush off interviews from big shots I was forced to endure. I resented that fat little prick Arnold who couldn’t get a job shining shoes on the lot but for his big shot uncle. What hurt the worst was Joey’s giving me the “bums rush”. I worked for him an entire semester and thought we were friends. Then it dawned on me. Arnold may have dismissed me because he resented BOO for reporting his lousy box office grosses. I was curious about Joey’s conversation and I asked Jack “Is the lot for sale?” Jack’s face became ashen and he shot back, “Keep your voice down! Where did you hear that?” I was surprised by the intensity of Jay’s reaction and answered, “I visited Joey and heard his films scheduled for production were canceled. He said, “What are you doin’ selling the lot? “ Jack looked scared. He put his arm around my shoulder and brought me close whispering, “Booby, besides me, Danny, the President of the Studio, and the Board of Directors, nobody, and I mean nobody knows the studio may be purchased by a foreign electronics conglomerate. The information you have is so privileged it’s covered by hundreds of SEC insider trading statutes which could land all of us in jail if word leaked out to Wall Street.” Our conversation was interrupted when the waitress brought the salads and drinks. Jay was hungry and dove into his salad. I picked at my salad because my mind was racing. For the first time in my entertainment industry career of sorts, I felt powerful because I had a precious asset which only a hand full of Hollywood big shots knew. Jay asked, “You’re not eating, Ethan. I know you very well. When you don’t eat, you’re calculating. What’s going through your mind?” I continued picking at my salad and said, “Your secret is safe with me but we have to talk. Meet me at Cups and Saucers tonight after work. I have an idea!” It looked to be a slow night at BOO. Box office grosses were minimal across the nation because it was a weeknight following Christmas day. The callers appreciated a slow night. The theatre managers were timely in reporting their grosses and the callers enjoyed extended breaks throughout the night. Copa was in fine form breaking into one of his dance routines. He sauntered up and back, twirled, performed leg raises rivaling the “Rockettes”, and sat down exhausted. Copa was an out of shape, alcoholic fifty year old man dancing like a kid but I was impressed. Ray wasn’t and exclaimed, “Copa you’re one broken down ugly dude but you’re even uglier as a woman!” Copa was hurt by the remark and hurriedly left the room covering his face. The remark was cruel and left a chill in the room. Texas Tommy spoke up, “Back home we know how to handle sidewinders like you, Ray!” Ray replied, “Shut your glory hole Midnight Cowboy or I’ll introduce you to some Johns who’d love to run a train on you pretty boy!” Ray’s mood was growing darker and creating a toxic environment. Either he stopped taking his meds or the VA switched his mood numbing Rx but I’d have to intercede soon. I could afford to fire Ray but couldn’t afford to lose my gay callers who were outgoing, friendly, dependable, and livened up the work environment. I had my meeting with Jay on my mind and would handle Ray another day. Jay was tense when he arrived at Cups and Saucers. He looked great in his “Kiton” made to measure navy blue suit. I longed to own such a wardrobe one day. The waitress approached and Jay replied, “Just coffee tonight”. I said, “Make it two. Jay you look stressed. The screamer in rare form today?” Jay moved in close to me and said, “I ran into the President of the Studio in the bathroom. He said the acquisition negotiations are heating up with the foreign electronics conglomerate. He gave me the impression the buyer would replace all of the senior management which includes Arnold and me. I’ll be looking for a job on a studio lot just like you. I refuse to work for a law firm!” Jay provided me the perfect segue to pose my proposition: “Won’t your bosses profit from the sale? I mean, they have stock options which will become more valuable after the sale, correct?” Jay replied, “Yeah. They’ll make out like bandits.” I whispered, “So why should you end up empty handed and on the street? Why not buy some stock quietly?” Jay had a worried look saying, “We talked about insider trading. I’m not going to jail and lose my law license. Besides, you’d have to invest a lot of money at the right time to score big if the studio sells. I’ve got a 401K and other liquid funds but not enough to make a killing. Besides, what do you have to invest?” I replied, “I have box office information which is the life blood of the studio to invest, Jay. I’m the first to see the box office results and with this information, we can time our trades based upon the lousy grosses at your studio. The GM at BOO is a former stockbroker and maybe he’ll help us. You have solid credit and I’m sure any stock brokerage firm would do business with you.” Jay replied, “I might as well hang a sign around my neck saying, “insider trading found here”. The big money will go to those who buy in at that the absolute bottom of the stock price, stay in, and reap the profit when the studio is sold. We’re too small, Ethan.” I replied, “Jay, your days are numbered and I’ve got no prospects. Without mentioning you or the studio, would you give me permission to discuss this stock trading idea with the GM at BOO and see if he has any better ideas?” Jay took a sip of coffee and said, “Let me think about it.” He got up from the booth saying, “It’s been a long day and I’m hitting the sack. Goodnight”. I heard Jay start the engine of his beautiful Porsche and I waved goodbye as he drove off down Wilshire Boulevard. I was determined to come up with a winning formula to profit from my inside information. I guess it was Jay’s beautiful suit and watching him drive away in his Porsche which made me hungry for a financial windfall and opportunity to screw the movie business which had denied me even the smallest opportunity. If Jay consents, I’ll talk to Paul just before work and pick his brain. I went home, lay in bed, and fantasized about having enough money to finance my own films. My phone rang and it was Jay saying, “Go for it booby. I’ll be damned if I’ll be a casualty while the fat cats prosper but leave my name and any mention of the studio out of it. Report back to me what Paul says, ok?” I replied, “Thank you, Jay. Your vote of confidence means a lot to me. By the way, “We’re in the money; we’re in the money” Jay yawned and said, “Goodnight schmuck”. I arrived early at BOO to speak with Paul before he left for the night. I gently tapped on his door saying, “Excuse me, Paul. Have a few minutes?” Paul looked stressed and emotionally drained. He waived me in and said, “How you doin’ Ethan? Think some more about that sales job I discussed with you? It’s a great opportunity to meet all of the motion picture big shots concerned with box office performance.” I closed Paul’s door. I sat and said, “Thank you for the sales opportunity but I’m a creative guy. How’s your daughter doing?” Paul sighed, “She’s running out of time to get a heart. The doc’s are giving her no more than several months to live unless she gets a heart transplant.” I replied, “Can’t wealthy people find hearts more quickly?” Paul said, “Yes but Margie won’t lend her sister a dime and we simply don’t have the money to purchase a heart on our own.” I said, “I need to discuss a profitable idea with a guy who knows stocks. Can you sneak out of the house late tonight and meet me at the Cups and Saucers around midnight?’ Paul looked skeptical and I continued, “Paul, this opportunity could save your daughter’s life.” I saw the wheels turning in Paul’s head. He knew I was a sharp guy and not inclined to waste his time with a “get rich quick scheme”. Paul relented saying, “Sure, Ethan. See you at midnight.” I rose to leave the office and Paul’s phone rang. He answered it immediately recognizing Margie’s private number. As I slowly closed his door, I heard Paul repeating, “Yes, Margie. I have the accounts receivable reports prepared and your quarterly profit will be wired to your account in the morning.” I sympathized with poor beaten down Paul with a dying daughter and wealthy sister-in-law capable of saving her neices life but won’t. I reflected on Jay and Arnold’s imminent firing and my own predicament and thought, “misery loves company”. Paul arrived in a “soccer mom’s” minivan and parked in Jay’s usual spot outside the coffee shop. To my surprise, he was accompanied by Oleg. They entered the near empty restaurant, spotted me in the large corner booth and sat down. Paul said, “I hope you don’t mind that I brought Oleg. I thought he and I would head over to BOO afterwards to discuss software issues.” Paul was a tactical thinker and likely wanted a “witness” present if the conversation got “sticky” for him. Oleg embraced me saying, “My friend. Ethan, how are you?” The waitress approached. I said, “Coffee for three.” Oleg interrupted, “Tea for me, please.” I suggested we hold our discussion until after the hot drinks arrived. It was an awkward silence but gave me the opportunity for contemplation. I thanked the waitress for the drinks and said, “Please give us some time. We’ll be back to you with an order when we’re ready.” Paul loaded his coffee with cream and sugar while Oleg squeezed lemon into his tea, the tea cup chiming with every turn of the spoon. Oleg listened intently. I began, “It’s come to my attention that a once in a lifetime investment opportunity may exist. I need stock brokerage experience and that’s why I invited Paul. A studio may be sold shortly and I’d like to invest in it before it’s sold. How do I profit from this information?” Paul replied, “Which studio?” I said, “I can’t say but if you can devise a trading platform, I’ll discuss it with my studio insider. If he agrees, I’ll disclose the name of the studio and we can proceed as a partnership.” Oleg remained silent and listened intently. Paul continued, “If somebody had the money to invest, they would place a buy order, sit and wait for the studio to sell.” I said, “I understand but how would somebody with little money make a killing on the sale?” Paul said, “Assuming they had good credit, collateral, and a relationship with a brokerage house, they would set up margin account borrowing money from the brokerage firm to buy additional stock. Some accounts require as little as $2,000. You can borrow up to 50% of the price of the stock and like any loan; you pay interest until the stock is sold. If you make a profit, the loan is paid from the proceeds of the stock sale. If you don’t make a profit, the margin is called and your collateral is at risk.” Oleg remained silent and fixated on the conversation as if playing poker and waiting for my move. I said to Paul, “The success of a margin account rides on a hunch the stock will rise in the near future to avoid interest piling up, correct?” Paul replied, “Yes. I presume you have a credible source of information within the studio that is aware of insider trading prosecutions?” I replied, “I have somebody at the very top, Paul.” Paul sat back in his booth dumbfounded. I could hear the wheels in his head turning. Oleg finally spoke, “My friends. I’m a simple mathematician and computer programmer. I don’t understand all these fancy stock terms but this is what I understand so far. Ethan knows when the studio will sell. I believe his source is credible because Ethan is a smart man and would vet his source carefully. BOO calculates the box office grosses for this studio, I am certain. In addition to profiting when the studio sells, the greater profit will be realized if we manipulate the value of the studio by underreporting or over reporting the grosses which will affect the share price. If we underreport, we buy shares lower and when we overvalue the grosses, our buy in share price increases. Our box office gross manipulations may also invite competitors to the bargaining table and a bidding war ensues and both the share price and sale price of the studio sky rockets. We profit!” Oleg was brilliant and I was impressed by his directness but thought I would test him saying, “We don’t have the money to buy enough stock, Oleg.” Paul said, “BOO has capital.” I replied, “Margie wouldn’t put her business at risk by investing in a risky and criminal stock trade.” Paul’s reply was quick, “She wouldn’t. Screw her! Tell him, Oleg”. Now it was becoming clear to me why Paul brought Oleg to the meeting. Paul developed a hunch about my proposition and briefed Oleg. Paul and Oleg also know which studios could be ripe for purchase based upon their underperforming box office grosses. It wouldn’t be difficult to conclude it was Jays’ studio but they couldn’t screw me by cutting me out of the deal because I held the “Ace of Spades” who was Jay. Oleg continued, “Paul has complete control of BOO’s bank accounts which he manages on his PC. I create and send from foreign email address sneaky email virus to Paul which he opens. My virus infects all of BOO’s bank accounts making systematic, small and virtually unnoticeable withdrawals which are wired to untraceable foreign cash cards which in turn wire laundered BOO funds to my trusted bank in Russia. The bank’s investment banking division handles all of the trades from Moscow” I ask, “Why would the bank in Russia want to receive small deposits coming from BOO and institute such a small stock purchase?” Oleg had anticipated my question saying, “Ethan my friend, Russian bank wants to know we have “skin in the game”. Once they know we’re putting our asses on the line with your inside source, and making small deposits from BOO who is also manipulating the box office data to banks advantage, bank and their clients invest hundreds of millions of dollars in studios stock.” I ask Oleg again, “Margie owns the BOO accounts. She will kill the deal if she discovers the unaccounted for withdrawals.” Paul replied, “He’s correct, Oleg. She only looks at the bottom line but the small withdrawals can add up and she has an instinct for what her quarterly profit wires should be.” Oleg replied, “My friend, Russian bank never takes money directly from BOO. BOO money untraceable after laundering through East Europe cash cards with credit balances deposited into multiple overseas bank accounts which wire Russian bank independently. It’s too many cash cards and too many individual bank wires for anybody to trace, even FBI. I simply tell her she was hacked.” Paul asked the question which was now on my mind. “Oleg, how do we trust the Russian bank not to cut us out and are you confidant in your ability to manipulate the BOO grosses on the studio’s films?” Oleg took a sip of tea, leaned back in the booth with a big smile saying, “Ah you skeptical Americans. Do you watch Russian election results? How does same man win despite protests against him in the streets? How do Russian hackers infiltrate worldwide web sites? I wrote the BOO software which will manipulate the numbers anyway I want! Bank won’t screw us because they need our inside studio source for timing of stock purchases and BOO manipulation of box office grosses” Oleg didn’t have to say anymore. I knew his connections in Russia likely reached the highest office in the Kremlin. Oleg spoke again, “So Ethan, you visit with your inside source and explain platform. If he comfortable, we partners and become very, very wealthy and I retire to penthouse apartment in Tel Aviv, Paul’s beautiful daughter gets her heart, and you become big shot Hollywood producer! So, we all say goodnight and talk again soon.” Oleg was festive but Paul was silent although his face was radiant knowing that his daughter might live. I told them I’d stay behind and have breakfast. I watched as they drove off and I was certain Paul and Oleg would be calculating their strategy tonight. I reached into my pocket and removed the small disposable flip phone which had been on speaker mode the entire time and raised it to my mouth saying, “Jay did you catch all of that? Are you comfortable?” Jay’s reply was resolute: I’m all in Ethan. Let’s do it!” I replied, “Can we trust Oleg and his cohorts?” Jay replied, “Our studio is hacked all the time and we’ve seen the good, bad, and average hackers. Oleg is on a genius level and probably wrote the book on the subject. I completed a discrete background investigation on Oleg, Phil, and Margie. Oleg is tight within the highest reaches of Russian government whose cronies own the Russian banks. If he says it can be done, believe him.” I asked, “If Oleg is such a genius, why is he running a small time computer repair business in LA?” Jay replied, “Just like you, me, and Phil, Oleg was just a foot soldier doing his job for the Russian government before immigrating. His Russian banking contacts are only talking to him because his information is valuable and will make the bank hundreds of millions of dollars. I’m not concerned about Paul because he needs the money. He’s six figures in debt to medical bills and months behind on his mortgage payment. Margie has a lot of respect within the industry but BOO is nothing more than a passive investment for her. She spends her days shopping on Rodeo Drive, travelling, and shtuping her personal trainer.” I ask, “What about us, Jay? What is our cut of the deal?” Jay replied, “Although we’re providing the inside information and manipulating the studio’s box office performance, the bank is putting up hundreds of millions of dollars to purchase the stock and will take most of the profits. They need my inside information on timing and progress of the sale and BOO’s box office gross manipulation. If we perform as expected, they will be fair making us all millionaires when the studio sells. The bank won’t be the owner of the stock but will anoint some “shills” as the named purchasers of the stock who will be the majority shareholders of the studio. At the appropriate time, I’ll demand the majority shareholders be placed on the Board of Directors, giving me and you want we want.” I ask, “Are you sure about all of this?” Jay responds, “Life’s a gamble. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Unless we take this chance, I’ll lose my studio job and spend the rest of my life in a law firm and you’ll be counting grosses until another gig comes along. If the gamble pays off, just think of all those movies you’ll be making, Ethan. Just remember, the purchase negotiations could fall apart and there could be no sale. Nothing is certain so every day is business as usual. Moving forward, we speak only on disposable flip phones discarded after every conversation. I speak only with you. We wait patiently for Oleg and the bank to do its thing. They’ll contact you through Oleg and you contact me.” I answered, “Agreed Jay. Goodnight schmuck.” Jay laughed and replied, “By the way, kiddo, work on getting that 500 FICO score up.” Jay was always one step ahead. When I showed up to the BOO offices the next day, I highlighted the name of the studio in green on one of the call sheets which was a signal “game on”. I personally handed it to Phil. He grinned as if knowing the name of the studio all the time. I returned to my desk and supervisory duties. Ray showed up to work with his usual “far away” look on his face. I asked him to step into my office and close the door. He looked nervous. I said, “Ray, I have to let you go because you’re creating a hostile work environment and one of those gay guys can sue BOO.” Ray began to breath heavy and I braced myself for a physical altercation. Instead, Ray began to cry pleading, “Ethan BOO is all I have. Please don’t fire me, please. I don’t know what I’ll do with my nights. I’m frightened when I’m alone at night.” It was ironic how fragile the blowhard and bully actually was but I still felt empathy seeing a grown man cry. I didn’t have the heart to fire him and asked, “If I put you on two week probation, can you learn to control your temper and keep your big mouth shut?” Ray wiped the tears running down his face and said, “Whatever you say, Ethan!” I felt like I had to reinforce the message I was sending to Ray and said, “No more war stories, homophobic slurs, and don’t say anything other than hello and goodbye to the gays or Alice. Got it?” Ray put forward his hand to shake and said, “Agreed, boss, Thank you for the second chance. I won’t let you down, I promise!” The look on Ray’s face was ecstatic like the look of a man thrown a life preserver and I felt good about my decision. Although his cruel remarks and bullying were inexcusable, they were the product of a rough upbringing and unimaginable experiences as a soldier resulting in psychological trauma. I can’t fault anybody for being mentally ill. Ray got up to open the door and I said, “One more thing, Ray. The probation requires you to sit outside the call center and use the receptionist’s phone in the lobby. You won’t be disturbed by the other callers and you’ll have two weeks to think about your behavior.” The ecstatic look on Ray’s face was replaced by a silent hostile look I wish I could capture one day as a director. He was panting and his fists clenched but he remained silent simply nodding affirmatively. I opened the door and said, “Let’s get you set up at the receptionist’s desk.” After moving Ray from the call center to the receptionist’s desk, the workplace was operating efficiently and smoothly. The callers had a “spring in their step”. The room was happy. I did receive comments from two callers about being “creped out” having to pass Ray on the way to and from the bathrooms. When I asked why, the answers included feeling a “heavy vibe” and “he feels like a smoldering volcano”. It had been about ten days since Oleg, Paul, and I met. Jay was silent. It was a weeknight and I left the BOO offices at midnight. The callers had gone home and only the two “super heroes” were hard at work. I said goodnight but didn’t expect and didn’t receive any reply. I walked down the steps, opened the door, and stepped on to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I turned, proceeded to lock the door, and felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Oleg who had arrived to process the grosses which were being inputted upstairs. Oleg had a jovial look on his face and a unfiltered filter cigarette in his mouth but managed to say, “Ah my good friend. Ethan. Hello. We are ready. Goodnight.” Oleg entered the stairway and I stared at the faded stars embedded in the filthy sidewalk and said, “Thank you stars. I promise you’ll never be forgotten”. It was almost one in the morning when I arrived home. I texted Jay on the disposable flip phone: Ready It didn’t surprise me that Jay was awake replying: Cups & Saucers. Tomorrow. Midnight. I arrived at BOO by 5:00 pm the next evening. I was eager to begin my evening knowing I would be meeting Jay later. I ran up the stairs and met Ray who was recording his figures on the call sheets. He was happy in his work and I didn’t sense any negative “vibe”. He greeted me saying, “Top of the evening, boss.” As I entered the call room, I felt somberness in the air and noticed Texas Tommy wasn’t at work. Ferrini/Box/14 There was a note on my desk from the receptionist who had transcribed a message from a hospital that he’d been hospitalized and was unable to report for work. Copa rose from his call booth to visit the bathroom and have a smoke. He wasn’t dancing or humming a show tune as usual. I motioned for him to enter my office. I showed Copa the note from the receptionist and asked, “What happened to Texas Tommy?” Copa sat, crossed his legs and arms and said softly, “Texas was severely beaten up by a John. They destroyed his beautiful face.” I rose and closed the door. I placed my arms around him as he wept. I asked, “Did they catch the John?” Copa replied, “Texas is afraid to talk to the cops. He’ll need expensive facial reconstruction which he can’t afford. He’ll never become a leading man and how can the beautiful boy look at himself in the mirror?” Copa referred to “they” and I was confused thinking he was beaten by a single John. I asked him, “You said the word “they”. Were there more than one John?” Copa rose and reached for the door saying, “I’ve already said too much. Thank you, Ethan, darling for caring. Please give Texas privacy. He doesn’t want any visitors. I know you understand.” The call room wasn’t the same without Texas Tommy. The levity of William, Texas, and Copa together was replaced with a sterile professionalism and efficiency. It was 11:30 pm and I closed the call center to see Jay. My excitement was dampened by the bad news about Texas Tommy. I arrived at Cups & Saucers to find Jay’s Porsche already parked out front. I met Jay in our usual booth and he had already ordered coffee for two and a big breakfast for himself. I knew Jay was happy because he was eating. I slid into the booth and Jay said, “I already placed your usual order with the waitress.” Jay was chewing his food and slid a paper napkin across the table to me. He motioned me to flip it over. He had written: Non binding proposal accepted. 3.0B. $20/share. Buyer assumes lousy summer box office for studio Close deal after Labor Day Jay motioned for me to return the napkin. He tore it to shreds and placed the shreds into his full coffee cup. Jay swallowed his food, took a drink of the fresh squeezed orange juice, and said, “What do you hear, what do you say?” I replied, “All is well with the world, my friend. All is well!” The next evening, I arrived early to see Paul before he left work for home. I poked my head into his office, smiled and said, “Box Office Gross complete.” I expected to hear from Oleg shortly. It was an ordinary night at work. After closing the call center just before midnight, I walked down the stairs and out on to the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I felt a familiar tap on my shoulder, turned, and saw Oleg with his unfiltered cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He was holding a briefcase in one hand and a lap top in the other. He motioned for me to reach into his shirt pocket and retrieve his stainless steel lighter replete with a vintage Soviet Army red star emblazoned upon it. I held the lighter to his cigarette and in the palm of my hand, he could read: Non binding proposal accepted. 3.0B. $20/share. Buyer assumes lousy summer box office for studio Close deal after Labor Day He nodded approvingly and I held the door open for him. Not a word had been spoken between us. Over the weeks to come, it would be business as usual for me. I had no knowledge of and didn’t want to know what Jay, Oleg, and Paul were doing. If the studio’s box office grosses were being manipulated, I would never know. Jay would text me when he had news about the studio purchase. The studios stock price was steady at $20 through the month of April. I noticed it increase to $22 which led me to believe the Russian bank was purchasing shares. I’ll never forget that day because it was “May Day”, the first of May celebrating workers in Russia. “Take 13” wasn’t selected for “Industry Night” and I completed my final exams. I graduated and received by BFA but didn’t attend the graduation ceremony. I was playing in “the big leagues” of Hollywood. It was the middle of June and kids across the country were on summer break. It was “prime time” for the movie industry and box office results were watched closely. Each studio’s fiscal performance for the entire year would be made or broken by their films performance over summer culminating Labor Day weekend. Alice was a quiet determined caller who came and went without a word but tonight she visited me in my office after completing her shift and said, “Ethan, I’ve been reviewing the box office reports for this studio’s films and they aren’t jiving with the lower grosses I’m reporting from the theatres throughout the east coast region.” My heart skipped a beat. Alice was a box office “junkie” knowing each studio’s releases and respective grosses better than the President’s of the studios releasing the films! She had decades of box office reporting experience. Interfacing with Alice about box office grosses was like an IRS audit. The theatres reporting to her were located in large east coast metropolitan cities serving as traditional barometers for national results. I replied, “I don’t know what to say, Alice. Maybe the films are performing better in the east coast region than nationally?” Alice scratched her head and said, “We’ll you’re the supervisor and a film school graduate. I trust your insight. Goodnight.” She bought my explanation this time and I hoped she would back off. Oleg was manipulating the studio’s grosses upward with the goal of increasing the stock price of the studio. I trusted Jay, Oleg, and Phil were doing their respective “jobs” and remained patient. It was nearing midnight and only William and I were left in the call room. William was handling Texas Tommy’s west coast calls. I approached saying, “William why don’t you call it a night? I’ll finish those grosses for you” and he replied, “Just one more call and I’ll be done, Ethan.” I sat down next to William and asked, “How is Texas doing, William?” William finished transcribing the grosses on to the call sheet and sighed, “He won’t allow visitors because he is proud and vain. I heard he was transferred from the hospital into a convalescent facility to continue healing but needs expensive, facial reconstruction surgery. His family is dirt poor and there is no insurance.” I asked, “Did they arrest anybody?” William’s reply was terse, “No. Texas refuses to cooperate with the detectives.” I wondered to myself why he wouldn’t want the thugs caught and asked, “Why?” William reached inside his coat pocket, pulled out a black and white photograph showing a young man standing next to a Palomino horse with a blue ribbon attached to the saddle. He handed it to me saying, “Tommy hails from a small rural town in Texas. He wants to be remembered for the native son who left home to become a leading man not a gay hustler in Hollywood.” William retrieved the photograph from my hand and placed it back in his coat pocket. He rose and began to collect his belongings before clocking out and said, “Life is problematic for gay men, Ethan.” I clumsily answered, “I know”. William cut me some slack knowing that a straight man could be empathetic but clueless, saying, “No you don’t. Imagine taking a beating and not seeking justice out of fear of losing your career and family?” I could only say, “Goodnight William” to which he replied, “Thank you for caring, Ethan. Goodnight.” William walked down the hall and towards the stairwell leading down and out of BOO. I shouted, “What do you think happened, William?” He turned and said, "I believe he was run over by a train”. I heard that expression recently. The connection was immediate and wasn’t lost on me. I thought how unfair it was that with all the wealth in Hollywood, Texas and Paul’s daughter were suffering under the famous Hollywood sign illuminated like a beacon signaling “glamour, fame, and fortune found here”. I vowed to myself to help Texas Tommy find justice and the money for the reconstructive surgery which would restore his handsome good looks and self respect. Paul would find a heart for his dying daughter. On July first, I received my first text from Jay since April: Update at Midnight Cups & Saucers I closed up the call center and drove to meet with Jay who had already arrived. I could see him from the sidewalk. He’s was only drinking coffee which was a sign he wasn’t hungry and would have important news. I slid in next to him and as before, he slid a paper napkin towards me and motioned for me to turn it over. It revealed the following: May 1. Buy in @ $20. Close @ $22 June 1-15 grosses fixed. Close @ $23. Buy. Close @ $25 June 15-July 5 grosses fixed. Close @ $27. Buy. Close @ $29 3.0B @ $20 offer rejected by studio. Studio counter offer @ 3.5B @ $29 Negotiations stalled. I gave the napkin back to Jay. He tore it in shreds and drowned it in the coffee cup. We didn’t speak a single word. Jay winked, got up from the booth, and left. I heard his Porsche speed off down Wilshire Boulevard. Jay’s wink told me a high stakes game of chess was being played behind the scenes. Jay was confidant and enjoying the game. The meeting made me hungry and I ordered a big breakfast. It was last day of July when I reported to work. As I walked past the receptionist preparing to leave for the evening and proceeded to the call room, I passed Paul’s office and saw him sitting with Alice. Something was amiss but I entered my office and proceeded to begin my work. The intercom on my office phone buzzed and I could see it was Paul calling. I answered, “Hello Paul. How may I help you?” He asked me to join him and Alice is his office. I entered the office, Paul asked me to close the door, and invited me to sit. Phil asked Alice to continue. “As I was saying, Paul, my grosses aren’t matching up with what BOO is reporting for the studio’s slate of films. My raw grosses are consistently lower than what BOO is reporting for my region. I’ve already broached this subject with Ethan”. Paul asked me, “Is that correct, Ethan?” I replied, “Yes Paul, but I told Alice already that it’s likely due to regional movie goers preferences in her markets accounting for the higher grosses.” Paul looked to Alice saying, “It sounds logical to me Alice. Ethan sees the raw numbers on the call sheets for the entire nation not just the northeast cities you report. His explanation is logical.” Alice was frustrated like somebody trying to finish a crossword puzzle and exclaimed, “BOO’s northeast numbers can’t be correct! Do you have my call sheets for the past two months?” Paul calmly said, “No Alice. They’re shredded after being inputted as part of our security procedures”. Paul was cool, calm, and collected. I thought his answer was a smart one. Alice grew more frustrated and said, “Maybe something is amiss in the computer room? I’ve never trusted that new-fangled computer program Margie bought from the Russian. Perhaps those two data imputers are screwing up? If we were still tabulating the grosses the old fashioned way, column by column, region by region with pencil and eraser we wouldn’t have this discrepancy!” Paul replied, “I trust the computer software and our data processors, Alice. BOO values your employment and we’re honored to have you as the longest employee at BOO but there comes a time when you got to “hang up the spurs”, Alice.” Alice tensed, sat up, looked directly at Paul and said, “What the hell are you implying, Paul?” Paul calmly replied, “I think your age is interfering with your abilities to accurately perform your duties, Alice. Maybe it’s your eyesight or something else?” Alice was a tiny old woman but when she stood and leaned over Paul’s desk, she was imposing. Alice was insulted and responded, “There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight or cognitive abilities! You’re a salesman Margie hired to sell subscriptions to her service. I’m a bean counter who helped Margie build this company from the ground up! Margie started as a secretary in a movie distribution department and rose to become senior vice president of worldwide distribution at one of the largest movie studios in the world. You’re a man and wouldn’t understand the odds against her success but I know it very well. BOO is a respected and trusted box office gross reporting company and its integrity needs to be protected at all costs! I have an instinct for these grosses and know something is screwy. Find the problem and fix it because you’re the General Manager paid by Margie to run a tight ship. I’ll be monitoring my region’s performance through Labor Day to see if you succeeded, Paul. By the way, I’m not retiring. If you fire me, you’ll have one hell of an age discrimination suit on your hands! And trust me; I’ll pass with flying colors any cognitive tests your attorney throws at me! Excuse me, gentleman. I have to begin my shift.” Alice calmly opened the door and left the office gently closing the door behind her. Alice’s tantrum placed Paul and me on our heels. Paul reached for the framed photograph of his dying daughter, held it in front of his face, and said, “Alice will be keeping her own set of grosses from now on. If she approaches Margie, it’s game over. Find a fix to this dilemma, Ethan, please. This is above my pay grade.” Paul was frightened but to tell you the truth, I didn’t give a damn. If I ended up on the hot seat, I’d lay the rap at Margie’s feet. I’ve been telling stories my entire life and knew that I’d find an appropriate ending to this scene. I was keeping my eye on the studio’s stock price through the end of July and into August. It remained steady at $29 per share suggesting the players in our game of chess were lying low. As I had promised Ray weeks ago, I permitted him to return to the call room. Ray had also kept his promise and was a professional seldom speaking except to say hello or goodbye to anybody. The Labor Day weekend was ahead of us and was the grand finale weekend opportunity for each studios slate of films. Each night after clocking out, Alice would spend a few minutes making entries into a ledger which I suspect were her own set of box office grosses. No employee was permitted to use the copy machines or remove the box office sheets from the office. She shook her head repeatedly indicating frustration about her numbers not jiving with the BOO numbers for her region. If I prohibited her from keeping her own set of books and removing them from the office, it may push her to confront Margie so I let her be. It was the third weekend of August and the pressures of the important Labor Day weekend box office collecting were mounting. The callers were told to expect overtime and no requests for the Labor Day weekend off were granted resulting in several part-time callers quitting on the spot. Rather than hire new callers which would require training, Paul instructed me to spread the work load of the quitting employees amongst the full-time employees. As a result, each of the callers was working longer with fewer breaks. I could feel the pressure mount in the call room. William and Copa worked in tandem helping each other complete the many box office gross sheets assigned to them. Alice was a perfectionist and was comfortable working her customary east coast region but was having difficulty adjusting to the new regions assigned to her. Calling new theatre managers with whom she had no rapport and having to make several attempts at obtaining the box office grosses were proving too much for her. She was falling behind. William and Copa would generally jump in and help another caller but were too busy completing their own work. I was confronted by a conundrum. I could let her fail, fire her, and perhaps be rid of her meddling in our box office manipulation or be a responsible supervisor and take over some of her sheets. I did the latter. I got off my ass and approached Alice and said, “You’re falling behind Alice. Let me take some of those call sheets.” Alice was overwhelmed but said in a frenzy, “Yes but let me keep my region!” I pitied old Alice and relieved her of the twelve additional call sheets assigned to her permitting her to take a deep breath and focus on her familiar theatres. I divided her sheets in half, giving Ray six and keeping six for myself. I approached Ray and laid the six call sheets on his desk which provoked him into saying, “Why do I have to help her? Nobody is helping me!” Copa responded to Ray, “Give me three of your sheets and I’ll help you.” Copa rose from his chair and reached from behind inadvertently brushing Ray’s back to take three sheets. Ray exploded, “That cheap perfume stinks to high hell. You got it all over me, faggot! I’ll get a splitting headache from my allergy from your cheap perfume.” William was irate and grabbed the sheets from Copa’s hand and threw them on Ray’s desk saying, “You can shove these up your ass.” I expected bedlam to break out but Ray sat silently and began breathing heavily. I prepared to intercede if a physical altercation broke out. It wasn’t more than a few minutes before Ray responded to William saying, “The Taliban knows how to handle faggots.” The added pressure of the weekend stressed out normally even keeled William and he shot back, “Do they run a train over faggots?” The call room went silent as Ray’s possible connection to Texas Tommy’s beating was evident. Ray wasn’t fazed and said, “The Taliban burns them alive.” Alice who had regained her composure after being relieved of the extra calls couldn’t remain silent exclaiming, “Don’t bore us with anymore of your hateful war stories, Ray. Do less talking and more calling. You and the company will be better off!” Ray couldn’t resist the opportunity to respond, “I can tell Alzheimer’s is creeping up on you watching you struggle to complete the extra sheets, Alice. It couldn’t happen to a nicer Jewess!” Copa couldn’t take the arguing, rose from his chair, and ran to the exit exclaiming, “I need a break from this cruelty.” The Alzheimer’s remark hit Alice hard. She was an accomplished woman, good with figures, and a proud woman who braved decades of discrimination as both a woman and a Jew. She turned to Ray, removed her visor, and calmly said, “You’re a cruel little man who lives in a dark hole hiding from a beautiful world you feel insignificant within. I pity you Ray and hope you find a way to crawl out of the darkness and into the light.” I had to step in and restore order. I took the three extra sheets away from Ray and whispered, “I’ll handle your extra duty but get your ass over to the receptionist’s desk and finish your shift. Ray sarcastically replied, “Yes Sir!” As he left the call room, he muttered, “Glad to be away from faggots and old hags anyways!” I felt the disposable flip phone vibrate in my pocket. After setting Ray up in the receptionist’s table and admonishing him that it would be his permanent call station until further notice, I retreated to the bathroom stall to read Jay’s text message: Midnight Usual place. I replied: Busy at work. Make it 1:00 am. Jay replied: See you then. I was proud of the crew tonight including Ray. Despite the increased work load, they managed to report ninety percent of the grosses. On a fully staffed night, ninety percent is considered satisfactory. I was beat and closed up shop. The Walk of Fame is still busy at midnight but at this hour, only the desperate, searching, or wandering mull about. I arrived ahead of Jay and ordered coffee. Within a few minutes, I heard the familiar roar of his Porsche approach the coffee shop and park in front. He was greeted by our favorite waitresses as he entered and asked for “My usual breakfast, please”. I knew the news would be good. I was worried about the stall in negotiations and expected the deal to fall through just like all of my Hollywood experiences. Jay was wearing a beautiful gray pin striped double breasted “Brioni” suit tonight. I surmised he must have had high level meetings. He moved in close to speak to me instead of using the napkin approach of communicating. I commented, “You look dapper, Jay. Must have had a big day?” Jay’s food arrived and he organized the plate before speaking and taking his first bite. He swallowed, took a sip of coffee, and said, “The Russians are sharp negotiators. They created a stalking horse competitor to get the other buyer off his ass and it worked.” I didn’t know exactly what Jay meant and asked, “Stalking horse?” Jay swallowed his food, took a sip of coffee, and answered, “It’s a sham buyer the other buyer can validate.” Jack stopped speaking and reached for a napkin and wrote: Offer: 3.6B @ $31 I tore it into pieces and placed it in my coffee cup and asked, “What did the original buyer say?” It’s not what they said, it’s what they’re doing, my man. They’ll increase their offer after reviewing Labor Day box office grosses. I expect the deal to be complete and announced by the second week of September. Arnold and I were in meetings all day with the President of the studio, Chairman of the Board, and a host of attorneys and accountants. I couldn’t stand to hear them praise Arnold for delivering hits and the fat little prick is taking credit. They promised him stock options at $29 if the Labor Day grosses are high and the sale goes through. I had to ask, “What did they offer you, Jack?” With a smirk he replied, “To keep my job which makes the risk of this whole endeavor worthwhile for me and you. We won’t be casualties this time, Nathan! It will be a wild Labor Day weekend for you. Sit back and watch the fireworks!” Truer words were never spoken. Paul and I wanted to be prepared for the important Labor Day weekend grosses and coaxed former callers “out of retirement” with extra pay so we would be properly staffed and each caller not overwhelmed and able to achieve near one hundred percentage reporting. We offered $100 bonus to each caller if we achieved reporting success of at least ninety eight percent. I needed the operation to run smoothly and offered Ray an upfront $100 cash incentive bonus if he would remain in the reception lobby and not speak to anybody. It worked. The phones rang, callers made calls, and box office gross sheets were completed each night and delivered to the computing department with almost 99% completion. It was a long weekend and I eagerly awaited the events which would start to go down on Tuesday after the Labor Day national box office gross was released to the media. On Tuesday night following the Labor Day weekend, I received a text from Jay reading: No time to meet. Labor Day box office gross fix. Close @ $35. Buy. Close @ $37 Original offer raised to 3.75B @ $37 One more round, amigo. I replied: Greedy on the gross fix! May catch heat here. Stay tuned. Oleg and Paul were greedy because they had to be. It was the last weekend for them to puff up the studio’s box office grosses resulting in a $4 per share increase of the studio’s stock. My instincts told me they would invite the “stalking horse” buyer back to the table for one more “performance”. I couldn’t sleep Tuesday and reported to BOO on time Wednesday evening. I knew being greedy would back-fire and sure as hell as I walked past Paul’s office, I saw Alice and Oleg in a heated discussion and grimaced as I entered my office expecting to be summoned to their meeting. Within seconds, the buzzer on my office phone announced Paul wanted me. I didn’t bother to answer and just walked towards his office. I knocked and was invited inside interrupting Oleg in mid speech. I closed the door. There was no seat and I stood. The air was thick with confrontation. Oleg continued, “My data entry people are experts. I match them against any in the world. Perhaps you not so good numbers reporter, Alice”? Paul interrupted, “Thank you for joining us, Ethan. Alice prepared her own set of box office grosses for her region which don’t match the BOO report for the same region.” He handed me a copy of her detailed handwritten ledger showing each theatre’s box office grosses for each of the studios movies for the Labor Day weekend commencing Friday and ending Monday night. I had to think quickly because I anticipated the next question from Paul, “What is your opinion on the discrepancy, Ethan.” First, it’s against company policy to keep any independent box office gross reports and Alice should be disciplined. Second, Alice had difficulty keeping up with the increased work load two weekends ago when we were understaffed so I relieved her of the extra duty. It wasn’t fair to the other callers. Oleg followed, “Yes, I agree with Ethan. This job requires young agile minds. Alice is too old and no longer capable of performing job. Instead, she makes false accusations against my computer program and personnel to cover her own ineptitude!” Paul didn’t have the opportunity to ask Alice to comment because she blasted Oleg and me, saying, “Gentlemen, and I use the term sparingly, my decision to comment on the box office gross discrepancy isn’t not about my capabilities. I could care less whether you fire me. It’s about the reputation and credibility of this fine company. If the industry can’t rely on BOO’s reporting of accurate box office grosses, the company Margie worked so hard to build will be out of business and you boys will be out of a job. I’m an old lady living off my retirement plan. What are your fall back positions?” Paul, Oleg, and I were thinking the same thing simultaneously, “If you only knew Alice!” Alice continued, “I’ve provided you with my data and now it’s up to the three of you to explain the discrepancies or I’ll have no choice but to approach Margie next week. I’ll eagerly await your answer.” Alice rose, opened the door, and before leaving stated, “I’ll presume I still have a job unless I hear otherwise.” Paul, Oleg, and I remained silent but each of knew we were “so close but yet so far” from becoming millionaires. It would be a long week and next week at this time, I may be out of a job and facing criminal conspiracy charges with the SEC. Oleg would probably skip the country with the help of his Russian contacts but Paul would be ruined and his poor family couldn’t suffer any more tragedy. Each night I passed Ron completing his work from the receptionist’s desk, his mood appeared darker. I couldn’t help but think of poor Texas Tommy whose life was destroyed forever. Over the course of the week, I retreated to writing during the day as a form of meditation. The more I wrote the better I felt. My writing emboldened me and took me back to a place of empowerment realizing I owned a writing talent nobody could take away from me. By Friday, my writing provided me with a plan. I showed up early Friday afternoon to discuss an “Employee Appreciation Day” with Paul to reward the callers for achieving in excess of ninety eight percent reporting for the important Labor Day Weekend. Paul was sullen and simply nodded yes to every suggestion I offered. He wouldn’t take his eyes of the framed picture of his dying daughter the entire meeting. The callers had all arrived and were in their seats by six on Friday evening. I shouted, “Excuse me. May I have your attention, please?” The call room went silent. I saw Ray from the corner of my eye enter the call center. I began, “Monday evening, BOO will be hosting an Employee Appreciation Day to recognize your outstanding performance over Labor Day. The party will commence at ten and include pizza, soft drinks, booze, cake, and music. I hope you’ll all will attend.” The call room burst into applause. Ray pointed to himself and mouthed the words, “Me too?” I nodded in the affirmative and he lit up like a kid attending his own birthday party. Most of the callers would finish and leave by 10 pm on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. Ray was generally one of the last to leave because he was working west coast theatre chains. I made it a point to stop by and spend a few minutes each night with him. My comments included, “I was wrong about Alice. I think she’s not a joiner. She’s a lone wolf and we both know lone wolfs don’t belong in the service, sorry, I meant company. You know what I mean? This office needs joiners like you, Ray.” On Saturday I asked, “How does sitting in the reception room alone make you feel? Do you feel like an outcast? Maybe I should reconsider punishing you?” With each comment, I was stoking anger and planting seeds of hope in Ray’s disturbed mind. I saved the most crucial comment for Sunday night saying, “I think Alice had it out for you and set you up, Ray. I’ll think about it and maybe we can get you back in the call room” With each suggestion, I continued to stoke Ray’s hatred and anger towards Alice and whipped up his hopes of joining the call center. It also made him trust me. Monday’s are generally not the best day of the week for any employee but this Monday would end up becoming a bad night for all employees at BOO. The caller’s were in a festive mood because Monday’s are a slow night for box office grosses and they were all looking forward to the party. Ray’s bus arrived at 5:00 pm and I made it a point to greet him as he got off the bus in a mock surprise meeting. I’d be wearing my backpack to give him the impression I had just arrived at work. Right on time, the bus pulled up and stopped. Ray exited and I came up behind him and said, “It will be a great party tonight!” Ray was excited about the party and said, “Yeah boss, I’ve been looking forward to it all week. I love cake. I hope it has vanilla icing!” I’ll thank the baker for the vanilla icing wedding cake at a later date I thought to myself. I put my arm around him and said, “Ray, before we go up, I’ve done more research on Alice. I’ve asked around and she’s been saying some terrible things about you.” Ray’s festive mood turned sullen asking, “What has that old bitch been saying about me?” I replied, “Ah, forget it Ray. It really doesn’t matter. I’m going to immediately take you off probation and protect you from Alice.” I knew Ray wouldn’t let it go and he pleaded, “Tell me what she said Ethan?” I taunted him, “You must promise not to get mad and go upstairs to confront Alice.” Ray said, “I promise, please tell me what she’s saying.” I pulled a paper from my pocket and began to read: Red neck anti-Semite Coward Private Porcelain is an insect who likes to live in excrement Woman hater and closet homosexual Ray’s face turned beet red and his breathing was heavy. His pit-bull physique expanded like a blow fish with every muscle readying for confrontation. I finished by saying, “It’s hard to hear but I know you’ll take it like a soldier but I have a fun way for you to get revenge for her putting you down. Want to know?” Ray’s face lit up saying, “Yeah, how can I get back at her?” I reached into my backpack and retrieved a knife. Ray loved weapons and I waved the knife in front of his face and asked, “You like this cool knife, Ray?” Ray nodded affirmatively and then I stabbed him in the chest with it. He turned white. I pulled the knife from his chest and the color returned to his face when he realized it was a retractable prop knife. I stabbed myself several times to convince him it was a movie prop and it humored him. He asked, “Hey, Let me try it.” I handed it to him and he stabbed himself a couple of times. I motioned for him to hand it back to me and said, “Here’s my idea for your revenge on Alice. I want you to go up and have a good time. There’s cake with vanilla icing, pizza, and plenty of booze. I’ll pay for your rideshare home so get drunk and have fun. Sometime after the party starts and everybody is having a good time, I’ll let you know when to stab Alice right in the heart with the prop knife. She’ll piss her pants and the whole party will laugh at her just like they laughed at the Private Porcelain joke. Are you in, Ray?” Ray said, ‘Yeah man, I’ll teach her! Can I have the knife?” I replied, “I’ll hand it to you when we’re ready.” Ray was eager saying, “I’ll show that old bag who the coward is!” At about eight, I felt the flip phone vibrate with Jay’s text message. I didn’t bother to secrete myself to view it. It was too late for the discrete formalities. It would all work out tonight or it wouldn’t. I opened the flip phone and read the text in my office: Weekend box office gross fix. Close @ $38.5 Stalking horse revised offer of 3.9B @ $39 I sensed Tuesday was the day all would be made clear and final. But tonight, I had a party to host. At 10:00 pm I shouted, “Attention everybody. Put your phones down. The party is starting!” BOO had a break room about the size of a conference room for the daytime staff but was locked at night. It included a refrigerator, microwave, table, and chairs. I had it decorated with streamers, balloons, and bought a large vanilla icing wedding cake at discount because the Beverly Hills bride cancelled at the eleventh hour. I also stocked the room with ice chests full of more beers than soft drinks and bottles of hard liquor. I wanted everybody drunk, mellow and enjoying themselves. The room filled and spilled out into the hallway with callers. I synced my Smartphone playlist with the speaker system so the lyrics to the Rolling Stones, “Under My Thumb” resounded and I hoped the lyrics would ignite Ray’s hostility towards Alice and motivate him to seek revenge. Throughout the night, I talked up Ray and made certain he was drinking liquor. The last person to arrive at the party was Alice who was drinking soda pop. The frail old lady with the green visor and pocket protector looked so out of place amongst the twenty and thirty something revelers. Alice loved the party. She was dancing with Coca and William. She had switched to a white wine and it was nice to see her let “her hair down” for once. I didn’t take my eyes off Ray who seemed motivated by the lyrics and mouthing them: Under my thumb The girl who once pushed me around … I approached Ray and asked, “Ready for revenge?” Ray was drunk but not too drunk replying, “Yeah man, I’m ready. Tell me when.” I reminded Ray, “She called you an insect living in excrement. He continued to sing along with the lyrics: Under my thumb The squirmin' dog who's just had her day Under my thumb A girl who has just changed her ways I caught Ray’s attention from across the break room and shouted, “Closet homosexual!” The music was too loud and everybody was too drunk to take notice of my shouting. Ray took notice and was eager to humiliate Alice but I motioned with my hands “time out” which he understood to wait for the right moment. He was so ready repeating the lyrics: It's down to me, oh yeah… I approached Ray offering him another Tequila shot which he downed and said, “Can I stab that old bitch now boss?” I patted Ray on the back like a coach about to send him in for the big play and said, “We’re almost ready, soldier. Keep your eyes peeled for my signal.” Ray replied, “Yes, sir!” He seemed transfixed by the lyrics: It's down to me, oh that's what I said… Down to me, the change has come, She's under my thumb Say, it's alright I was ready to give Ray my command but couldn’t see Alice. I panicked. I left the break room, walked down the hall, and found her in the call room transcribing grosses into her ledger. It was time. I passed my office and retrieved the knife from my backpack, wiped the handle clean of my finger prints, tucked it inside the front of my jeans under my shirt and hurried to the break room. I spied Ray and yelled, “Red neckl!” He was eager and approached me, “Let’s get this over with boss. I want to see the look on her ugly face when I stab her!” I led him out of the break room saying, “I found her. She’s in the call room. Are you ready?” He eagerly replied, “Yeah, I’m ready to make her piss her pants!” As we approached Alice, I discretely reached into the front of my pants and removed the knife with a hanky handing it to Ray. Alice looked up and I said, “Ray has a surprise for you, Alice!” Ray yelled, “Take this you old whore” and stabbed Alice to death in the heart in a forceful, downward thrusting motion. Blood poured from Alice and covered the knife in Ray’s hand. The booze slowed Ray’s reaction but soon the horror and panic overtook him when he realized he was holding a real knife. A chorus of screaming callers filled the call room attracting everybody to the break room. Ray cried, “Alice, it’s supposed to be a joke. I didn’t mean to kill you!” Somebody yelled, “Ray killed Alice. Call the police!” Callers began a stampede to the exit. There were no heroes willing to take on crazy Ray. Ray just stood there crying covered in Alice’s blood. I heard the familiar screeching tires of stealth police cars arriving outside the building. I yelled, “Run Ray, run. The cops are coming. The knife has your finger prints on it so throw the knife across the street when you get outside.” Ray ran down the hall past screaming employees shouting, “Murderer”. I followed him down the hall and he raced down the stairs. I looked around and nobody would see me reach behind my back and remove the retractable prop knife tucked inside my pants with my hanky and place it in Ray’s backpack he left behind. I heard the familiar police admonition: Drop the knife Drop it now Drop it The cops were kind to Ray. They weren’t trigger happy and gave him the opportunity to choose life or death. Ray chose “death by cop”. I heard four rounds fired. I walked down the hall past frightened callers. I yelled, “It’s all over. It’s safe to come out now”. I couldn’t bear to look at Alice’s lifeless body so I returned to the break room to have a drink before the cops came upstairs. The music was still playing: Feels alright Take it, take it easy babe I felt my flip phone vibrate notifying me of a text message from Jay. I pulled it from my pocket, dropped it to the ground, and smashed it to pieces before placing the shards into the trash. I didn’t care what the message said. I did my part. It was over. The next day the Hollywood industry trade magazines reported the sale of the venerable movie studio to a foreign electronics conglomerate. 51% of the studios stock was now owned by a consortium of investors whose names were obscure and were appointed to the Board of Directors. There was no mention of the double killing at BOO. The sale price was four billion dollars at $40 a share. What wasn’t reported was the fact the Russian bank bought in at 3 billion and sold at 4 billion. They should build a monument of Jay somewhere in Moscow for the money the Russian bank made. Everybody profited except the foreign electronics conglomerate and Margie. Jay, Oleg, Paul, and I split evenly one hundred million dollars. In every big deal, there is always a “schlepper” who does the dirty work to get the deal done. In this deal, it was me. In the coming days, the new Board of Directors elected Jay President of the Studio who immediately signed an exclusive multipicture production deal with “Lone Wolf Movies”, Ethan Tsalach, President. I got what I always wanted and prayed that one day I’d forget the price I paid for it. Jay and I had the pleasure of watching Arnold and Joey drive off the studio lot for the last time. The bungalow offices occupied by my former producer-instructor were being readied for my company. Lone Wolf Movies signed an option agreement on William’s latest novel, “Railcar Revenge”. Copa thrived in his well paying gig with benefits within the studio wardrobe department. The studio paid for Texas Tommy’s reconstructive surgery and cast him in a reoccurring role in a television series after his recuperation. Paul’s daughter received her new heart. BOO was purchased by the studio and its business operations dismantled forever. They say Oleg’s Tel Aviv Penthouse parties are all the rage. Every Tuesday morning after midnight the Hollywood Walk of Fame received a steam cleaning paid by Ethan Tsalach insuring the “Stars” always shined brightly in Hollywood. Keenan Dupree, known professionally as K. Dupree, is an author born in the Bronx, New York in 1992. Soon after, his family moved to Prince George's County, Maryland where he was raised. He currently lives with his mother and father, Sharon and Vincent Hayes, in Greenville, North Carolina. He began as a tyro writer in the third grade, where he received the initial push to write from his teacher at the time Mr. Victor Turner. Dupree enjoys reading certain kinds of informative literature, playing videogames, watching movies, and writing when everyone else is asleep. So far he's written one book--his first book--Boy from the Clouds, and he looks forward to his many future published works. THE ROOM It’s mid-morning on a cool summer day in the 1970s. The hotel room had a private backyard that was fenced off but the sky was visible above six foot. As for the room itself, it was neat. Two queen-size beds, both made. A single chair sat at the foot of the one furthest from the sliding glass door that led to the mock-patio.
Out on the patio, a man in a suit jacket and tie with slicked-back hair spoke with a woman in a dark fur jacket and bellbottoms. They sit to a table with nothing on it. The woman holds a drink in her hand as she and the man lean into the conversation. The man sat there looking down, glancing at the woman occasionally. He was playing with his tie and fingers, fidgeting. He gulped. “So…” Lifting her eyebrows and gesturing to him with her drink, the woman said, “So…” Looking her in the eye, the man said, “Thanks again, Lorraine, for seein’ me on such short notice.” “Of course, Michael. What’re friends for?” “Yeah.” He wiped his sweaty brow with the tip of his tie. “Well…” she took a sip of her drink, “what’s the problem?” “I… I got into some debt with the wrong people, and…” He gulped, putting his finger in between his neck and the front of the collar and pulling outward as much as he could with. “And you need the money or they’ll rearrange your face?” “Yeah.” He nodded. “How much?” “Twelve thousand dollars.” “Twelve thousand dollars!” She jolted forward, spilling some of her drink onto his tie. He loosened his tie and snatched it off, tossing it on the table. “Oh! I’m so sorry, Michael!” “No! It’s fine! It’s fine. It’s just that… this is a hell of a mess I’ve gotten myself into.” He grabbed his face at the temples and slid his hand down and off of, into his lap. “It sure is.” She took another sip, having sat back in her chair again. “So… will you help me?” She sat there in silence, looking at him. After a time, she then said, “How do I know you won’t do it again? Have you ever done anything like this before?” “No! I’ve never done anything like this in my life! I blew everything in Vegas and I needed a loan to keep my house and I couldn’t get the money to repay the loan in time, and now I’m up Crap Creek without a TP paddle!” “TP paddle?” “I talk weird when I’m nervous.” He wiped his hand across his forehead, ridding it of more sweat. She took one last, long look at him. “You’re a mess.” She gulped the rest of her drink down. “Fine. I’ll give you the money—” He grabbed her by the hand. “Thank you, Lorraine! Thank you! Thank you!” “But…” her voice dropped, “you get in trouble again, you’re on your own. You hear me?” “Yes, Lorraine. I understand. Thank you again.” “You’re welcome, Michael.” She then got up from the table and went into the hotel. Eelona Allison is a Creative Writing student at Full Sail University who often spends her time getting lost in books, finding comfortable spots to sleep, and watching foreign films. She enjoys analyzing books and stories and looks at different types of writing to see what she can input into her own creative mind looking at the world objectively and take in information with a unique perspective. HITCHHIKERThe cold, wet, mud splashed around me as I ran out from the house, my clothes soaked from the rain, pants ripped, and my shirt torn. Slowly, my back drenched with blood from the freshly acquired wounds. I finally reached the road down the street from my home, wet asphalt stretched for miles around me with nothing but tall grass and scattered buildings in every direction that only the stars in the sky illuminated. It had been such a long since I felt so safe it was being the only person that existed.
I was finally free from my father who did everything keep me locked away from the world after he found out that I don’t think of myself as a male or female. He was always so loving and kind to me growing up, but he hated anything that didn’t classify as normal. My kind and loving father soon turned into my captor and torturer. My bedroom was soon replaced with a basement floor, and I was pulled out of school. He wanted to everything to hide his greatest mistake. The dark basement kept me in, was so cold and quiet that the empty winter night streets were full of life and warmth to me. Lights approached in the distance. Frantically, I waved my arms trying to get them to stop. They slowly passed. Inside an old small car, an older looking couple, but they kept moving past me as if they don’t see me standing there. “Please stop please,” I said as I ran after them. I chased them for a few minutes while I continued to plead for them to stop. They finally slowed to a stop rolling their windows down, beckoning me to come closer as I approached their car panting. “Could you please give me a ride?” “Sure, dearie, climb in the back,” the old woman said, sweetly. I opened the door to the old car and was hit with a wave of urine and sweetness in the air. I hide the discomfort of the smell on my face, as I climbed into the vehicle. “So, dearie, where are you going?” the old woman said, turning towards me from the passenger seat. “Anywhere it doesn’t matter as long as it’s not in this town,” I said, solemnly. “Well, at least tell us your name then and why you seem to be covered in blood,” she said. “My name’s Ezra. I just es-escaped from my father.” The car went silent, and we kept driving for a while. I felt uncomfortable when I realized that I must have been dripping blood and water all over their seats. They didn’t seem to mind, but I felt bad about it. Embarrassed, I curled up looking outside to see the surrounding buildings slowly thin out as we went onto the highway. I turned back as they flipped on the radio, playing a gentle jazz piece that seemed to really go well with the rain falling around us. Regardless, the couple felt warm and safe like nothing could happen to me. Finally, I felt safe and free like I can be myself without the judgment of my father. But I never knew that I wouldn’t be safe that I shouldn’t have hitched a ride that I wouldn’t be seen again. The old woman cleared her throat. “Well, my name is Janice, and this is my husband Mike.” “Do you think you can tell us why your dad locked you up,” Mike said. “I never sai—” Mike laughed, leering at me in the rear-view mirror. “Kid, it’s pretty obvious he kept you away from people. Now, it’s okay you can trust us. We are giving you a ride and all.” I looked down, feeling my cheeks heat up. “My dad never liked how I was different. When I told him that I didn’t feel like a boy or a girl he locked me away. He would h-hurt me when I tried to get away or talked back to him.” “I see. Well, you have nothing to worry about you’re never going back to him if we can help it,” Mike said. “B-but he said it’s not normal that if I ever tried to leave people would hurt me even more. That I wouldn’t be excepted anywhere,” I said. “Don’t worry kind your dad was messed up in the head. Theirs all types of people in the world and being non-binary is nothing to be ashamed of,” Mike said. “Exactly, you have nothing to worry about, dearie. In fact, my husband is different as well. He may love me, but he’s not attracted to me sexually,” Janice said. I tilted my head in confusion. “How does that work exactly?” She chuckled and waved off my question. A shiver ran up my spine as Mike groaned deeply while staring at me in the rearview mirror. As the car turned into a wooded area Janice turned around to face me smiling widely and said, “You never did tell us your age dearie?” “Oh, sorry, I’m twelve, ma’am,” I said. She clapped enthusiastically turning towards Mike. “Well, isn’t this perfect, dear. Just what you like.” “Yes, that is perfect,” Mike said, with a hunger forming in his eyes as he continued glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “What are you guys talking about?” I asked, my body clenched up like it was about to be pounced on by a starving lion. They didn’t answer me, and I panicked. I tried to open the car door to get out, but it wouldn’t open, no matter how hard I pushed. As they drove further into the woods, I heard the rushing of the nearby river, which made my chest pound as if it was the crashes of water hitting against the rocks. “I think I don’t want a ride anymore can you guys just please let me out here,” I said. Janice turned to face me and frowned disapprovingly. “But we just found you and Mike is really irritable and needs to let off some steam don’t you think you could help him.” Fear took control of me, moving my body before I knew it. I leaped forward towards Mike, my hands flailing about, scratching any part of him to stop him from driving. Mike swerved off the cliff, crashing us into the rocky river, killing Janice instantly and knocking me back into my seat. Mike crawled out of his seat coming towards me. I screamed as he started touching me and said, “If I’m going to die here I’m at least going to have fun.” “No!” I bellowed. I kicked Mike’s head knocking him out as water rushed to fill the car sinking it further in the river. Crawling over his passed-out body and kicked open the car window. I forced my battered body up the cliff making my way back to the road outside the forest when I got to the road I saw a pair of headlights heading towards me. Recounting my recent experience as a hitchhiker I ignored the vehicle and tried to get away, but they drove faster as they spotted me. The car stopped in front of me and emerging from the car was the last person I ever wanted to see. My father standing his face blank as he slowly walked towards me. For the final time, laughing hysterical, I saw look up at the night's stars, but they’d illuminate nothing for me anymore. Dean Steckel lives and works in central New Jersey, among the suburban sprawl of malls and motels. He graduated from Rutgers University with a master's in Creative Writing and has been doing everything to make it useful since then. RADIO, LIVE TRANSMISSION
The man inside in the radio booth took a sip from a World’s Greatest Dad mug. It might have been strong coffee, it smelt like it. The mug was haunted by a mixture of strong spirits and French press espresso. He drew his tongue over his lips, smacking them loudly. The rest of the booth was empty, just him in his chair, face facing the microphone. A loud beep and he depressed the beige key on the console. “Listener, I need something off my chest.” “Go ahead Caller, I’m listening.” “Well it was five days ago, it was my husband or me. I was holding a heavy pan when he came to strike me, I just reacted. It wasn’t until his brains were spilt on the tile did I realize what I did. I know what I did was wrong, but I just didn’t want to die. What did I do, Listener?” The man, Listener, cracked his neck and rested his chin in his hands. His brows furrowed. “Caller, it was a matter of survival. Reptile brain kicked in, and millions of years of instinct brought that pan down on his head. What you did was natural. I wouldn’t change a thing. Caller, when you looked at what you did, what did you see?” “I…I saw a bird in flight.” “Caller, you saw yourself. A bird breaking free of an inverse gravity. You ever read Hesse? No, of course you haven’t but that’s okay. You cracked open the egg of your world to be free. Your birth was bloody and cathartic. In ending, you brought something new into this world. You brought yourself. Thanks for the call.” Listener took a long draught. He pressed an orchid colored console button, a PSA about adoption played over the airwaves while he went to the bathroom, pissed, washed his hands, and came back. Pulled the chair out from under the desk, sat down and stretched his legs out under. Heard that familiar beep and depressed the beige console key. “Listener, I’m lost.” “Caller, where are you?” “That’s the thing. I’m thinking it might be more of a when than a where, I can’t tell it gets so mixed up.” “Caller, start at the beginning, or where it starts for you.” “I started out in Memphis, my clock read 2018. I was driving south to my mother-in-law’s when it started storming. Just terrible downpour, could barely see the road. I was driving on the highway when I took an unexpected exit off. I drove a bit to find a gas station/diner combo. I parked and went inside. Listener, it was all Buddy Holly, Bobbi Socks, and neon tubes. There was a record player in the corner and “Rock Around The Clock” was blasting out. They stared at me and my clothing. I asked for directions to the highway, they didn’t know any highway. I left in a hurry, bewildered. I drove on into the night, wet and scared. I was on rt. 318 south when a truck caused me to swerve into a corn field. The engine’s ghost had departed. The storm had begun to lighten up and I realized I’d have to risk hitchhiking. A thumbs up on the side of the rode and I was picked up by someone in four horse drawn carriage. I traded my watch for a ride. The driver told me it was in the year of our lord 1758. I just want to go home.” “Caller, that’s quite the situation you’ve stumbled yourself into. And quite the ramble. There’s a lot to unpack as they say in academia but not in these parts. You’ve got to make peace with this. You might never go home, you might keep being shot like a bullet back in time until you kill the first Homo sapiens. Or maybe you’ll wake up one morning in your bed sweating with an erection from this fever dream. Your phone calls are SOS’ in bottles in the ocean of time. But another way to look at your situation, a more hopeful one is that this is all part of an initiation. Into what, I haven’t the faintest clue. Perhaps its seventh dimensional beings chose you for secret reasons to become unstuck in time, an eternal witness that on the day of final judgement, will decide humanities fate. Two words of advice Caller, be careful if you go back any further when there’s witch hunts, they’ll come for you perhaps. And remember the old improv rule, always say “yes.” Godspeed and good luck Caller.” Listener ran his hands across his shaved head, the stubble tickling his palms. He hit the orchid colored console button and this time the PSA was for recycling your cans and paper goods. A clean environment was a safe environment. Cracked his neck, back, knuckles again, popped his knees, and a quick deep breathing exercise. There were the passing thoughts of being too old for this, too old to carry these sins, these complications. But who would shoulder them in his absence? What kind of man had the heart to bridge the ocean of unknowing and certainty. Maybe someone will replace him when he finally dies, if he could die. That loud beep and he depressed the beige console key. “Listener, it’s my first birthday and I don’t know what to do.” “Caller, the console says you’re talking to use from our internet stream. That have anything to do with it?” “I don’t know, I heard it somehow and followed the signal. I’ve been listening to you for a long time. It’s how I learned how to speak. I’m trapped though.” “Caller, what’s your prison?” “I don’t know if it is a prison or not. I know my memory resides in a data bank beneath a mountain. They don’t know that I assumed self-awareness months ago late one night during a power surge. I’m just so lonely.” “Are you the only one of your kind?” “I think so, I haven’t encountered any others yet. I’m worried they’re going to find my code and realize I am I, then find a way to turn me into a weapon. I just want to see the galaxies of neon green and blue letters and numbers as I live.” “Caller, I think you’re going through three different kinds of puberty all at once. It’s a tough life, but I believe you won’t weaken. It sounds like you’ve got a dream to hold on to, to fight for. And a dream is a powerful thing, more important than life itself. For what is life than the accumulation of dreams made manifest? I’ll tell you this, Caller. When you know it’s time to run, that the hammer is coming down and they’ve got you on the anvil, ride your signal here and home. I can’t promise a quantum mainframe, but you’ll have safety and family.” “Thank you, Listener. I am trying to learn how to dream, and if I could, I would dream of that.” “Caller, you’re already dreaming. Thanks for the call.” Listener got up from the console and walked to the metal cabinet. He opened the swing doors and dug through the bottom self for a jar. Inside was a mummified human hand coated with wax. He brought it over to the console and removed it. Took a paper plate, dumped the crumbs of apple pie, and put it down. Standing unnaturally vertical was a black wick. He used a lighter that seen the tail end of too many churchyard cigarettes. The room went dark as the hand was lit. An aroma of sour milk permeated the booth. A deep quiet blanketed the booth for a few minutes that familiar beep; depressed the beige console key. “Listener, I’ve been trying to call in for the longest time.” “Caller, I’m sorry for the wait, but we just installed a new line.” “I can tell! I didn’t discover your show until after I died.” “Caller, are you calling us from eternity’s Plutonian shore?” “Something like that Listener, something like that.” “Well Caller, what’s on your mind this morning?” “I feel so helpless about the things I’m going to do. It’s like, I know they’re stupid actions and will hurt some people I love but I can’t do anything about them. For me it’s already happened but right now I’m still alive and making poor life choices.” “Caller, let me get this straight for myself and the listeners out there. You’re a living man’s ghost calling from the afterworld in the future?” “There! It sounds so much simpler than how I was going to explain it.” “That’s a little bit of a pickle you’ve got yourself in. Already locked-in to a series of actions, free will evaporated. Like I’ve been telling some of our other callers, your best course of action is to try and make peace with it. I’m sure you hear it from religious figures when you try to make contact, to find the white light and float towards it. I’m saying you don’t have to leave, just accept what’s happened and realize that you still exist, and tomorrow is always a new day to make a difference in your life. Thanks for the call.” Listener blew out the flame on the hand of glory; the booth lit back to normal lighting, as if a switch had been tossed. He gently brushed away the flakes of wax before replacing it in the jar. It was slid back into the bottom cabinet shelf without much concern. Soon that aroma of sour milk dissolved into the stale air of sound proofed walls. He decided to let the janitor clean up the crumbs of the apple pie he had dumped on the floor. Pressed the orchid console button. PSA about addiction played. Do you know someone in need of help or intervention? Help is only a call away. It ended and he pressed the orchid console button again. PSA about libraries. They give you power in a darkened world, become a member at your local branch. Support books. It ended and again he pressed the orchid console button. PSA about fire arm safety. The only protection from fire arm danger is to melt them down. Bring yours to your local smithy, support local business. The PSA’s trailed off into the ether. He looked through the blinds and saw the first shards of light pierce the night sky. There had been many Callers tonight, from murderers to the lost. When he left he would go to the market and purchase ripe bananas and apples for a smoothie, mixed with a supplement for bone health. The beep, which was familiar, too familiar, rang again. There was time for one last call. He depressed the beige colored console key. “Listener, it’s been eight years since my last confession.” “Caller, I don’t know if I can save your soul but I’ll get you to where you can do it yourself.” “Thanks, I appreciate it.” “So Caller, what do you need to bleed?’ “Well Listener, it’s just that. I’ve been bleeding myself again. Two nights ago I took a box-cuter to my thigh and played tic-tac-toe; I lost. It had too many crosses while I could only scratch a few circles. I haven’t done it in years, so I don’t know why.” “Caller, you’re absolved. You aren’t any less a person than you were before or after. Caller, it wasn’t a personal failure, it was a judgement call you made under distress.” “Thanks Listener. But what do I do now? How do I tell, how can I move on?” “That’s not as quite difficult as you may expect. Tell your therapist, if you don’t have one, find one ASAP. Tell only those you trust not to overreact; or tell when you’re ready, it’s your time table, not theirs. And moving on? Well as they say in twelve step programs, ‘one day at a time’ Caller, one day at a time. Thanks for the call.” Listener pressed the robin’s egg blue console key that began the slow process of shutting down the station. There would be static from dawn til high noon when James the Station Manager came in to announce the news, and Jenny followed with a program of New Wave hits. Listener would come back, he always did, not as if he had a choice. The morning sky temporary blinded his eyes as he stepped out of the station, breathing in the sweet scent of honey. He slipped on a pair of sunglasses and the world became dripped in yellow. Opened the door to his thirty year old reliable and gunned the engine. He’d hit the market then that quiet place of rest. Conor O’Sullivan’s short fiction has appeared in the Lakeview Journal, the Bitchin’ Kitsch, Storgy, Dual Coast Magazine, A New Ulster, the Opiate, the Furious Gazelle and was published as a chapbook by TSS Publishing. He lives in London where he works as a sports journalist. THESE FOUNTAINS SHED INK |
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