As Dog Is My Witness (2 page)

“
D
oes it
have
to be
New Jersey?” Glenn Waterman, tan, tall, flaxen-haired, and
handsome—damn him!—was leaning back in his leather chair, resisting
the impulse to put his feet up on his enormous modern desk, the one
with the state-of-the-art flat screen computer monitor on it. For
the sake of our conversation, he had removed the telemarketer-style
headset from his ear, but he kept glancing at it, like a dog
commanded to stay with a piece of red meat just barely out of
reach.

“Yes,” I said patiently. “It has to be New Jersey. I
wrote the script about New Jersey because I know New Jersey. In
fact, I think New Jersey pretty much becomes a character in the
script. If you move it to, say, Oregon, it’s not going to make
sense that people act or talk that way.”

Glenn had summoned me to Los Angeles, as far off my
normal turf as you can get without leaving the continent entirely,
to discuss the twenty-fifth screenplay I’d written,
The Minivan
Rolls For Thee
, a lighthearted murder mystery that
. . .  well, I’ve told that story already. Trust me,
it was necessary for the proposed movie to take place in New
Jersey.

Waterman’s company, Beverly Hills Films, was not, in
fact, headquartered in Beverly Hills, which makes sense if you’ve
ever dealt with anyone in the movie business. It was in Santa
Monica, in as nondescript an office building as you could find in
Southern California. But his office, in a corner with lots of
windows, naturally, was impressive, much as Waterman intended it to
be.

If he liked the script, Glenn’s company would
purchase what in the movie business is called an “option,” which is
something akin to a rental agreement. The production company gets
to take the script to studios to beg for money to produce it, and
the writer (that’s me) can’t let anyone else do the same for the
term of the option agreement. In return, the production company
(that’s them) gives the writer (that’s me) money. That’s the
theory, anyway.

Since Waterman had paid my airfare from Newark to
L.A. and put me up in a nearby hotel, I figured he had some
interest in the script. He was now “giving notes,” which means he
was telling me everything that was wrong with the script he had
told me, almost a month ago on the phone, was “brilliant.” Things
change quickly in Hollywood. If you’ve ever been there during an
earthquake, you know exactly what I mean.

“I guess,” he admitted finally. “Would be cheaper to
shoot it in town, though.”

“Anybody around here ever heard of the backlot?” I
asked.

“They never use the backlot anymore,” he said with a
sneer. “Movies for The Disney Channel use the backlot. Feature
films go on location.”

“So go on location to New Jersey,” I suggested.

“We usually go to . . .  other areas,”
Glenn said.

“Yeah. Usually to Canada, because films are cheaper
to make up there. But I’m willing to bet you can find a part of
Alberta that looks just like New Jersey.”

He brightened. “I’ll bet you’re right.”

“It’s movie magic, Glenn,” I told him.

As producers go, Waterman wasn’t a bad guy, which is
like saying that the shark felt really bad about eating you, but,
hey, he was hungry and you were a mackerel. Waterman didn’t
brutalize his assistant in front of me (I can’t vouch for anything
that went on outside my presence), always offered me a Diet Coke
when I got to his office, and only made me sit in the chair in
front of his intimidating desk when someone else was involved in
the meeting. Otherwise, I could use the couch, which itself was
larger than the living room of my Midland Heights, New Jersey
home.

“Aaron, on page 64 . . .  Waterman was
moving on to another note, and we’d been at this for three straight
days.

“Is this a big one, Glenn? I have a plane to catch in
. . .  I checked my watch dramatically. “An hour and
a half.” I was lying; my flight was actually in two hours, but I’d
heard enough nitpicking already—things that wouldn’t make the
script one iota better, but would still be changed as evidence of
the producer’s “brilliant creative input.” Besides, I was worried
about making my flight. This was Los Angeles, and driving from the
parking lot to the next traffic light could take a half hour.

“Go,” he said. “Go home to your wife and kids. And do
the rewrite fast, Aaron. We have to strike while the iron is
hot.”

I picked up my canvas bag, and stopped halfway to the
door, which meant I was only 50 yards from leaving the office. “The
iron is hot? We have a hot iron?”

“I’ve been talking this up, Aaron,” he said, looking
hurt. “People know me. They’ll want to know what I thought was so
terrific. Make it better, and we’ll have ourselves a deal.”

“If my agent finds out I’m working on the script
without an option agreement in place, she’s going to squawk,” I
said, knowing full well that my agent, based in Cleveland, would
have welcomed any interest in my scripts, even if it came from
Hitler Wasn’t Such A Bad Guy Productions, and they wanted me to
work for free, forever. Margot was not exactly what you’d call a
scorched-earth negotiator.

“Don’t worry. I have confidence in you. You fix it,
and you’ll have an option soon.”

Great. He had such confidence that he was sending me
on my way to do more work on a screenplay he’d initially loved, and
giving me no money to do it. I guess there’s confidence—and then
there’s confidence.

I made the flight with a little time to spare, after
having convinced the crack Los Angeles International Airport
security team that the part-metal object in my pocket was a guitar
capo, which it actually was. Unless they thought I could take
someone hostage by changing their key, I presented no actual
threat. The fact that everything in the security area was labeled
“LAX” didn’t inspire overwhelming confidence, but I could only hope
they knew more about who was a terrorist and who wasn’t than I
did.

I got out my cell phone before the flight attendant
made the announcement to turn all electronic devices off, something
which still sounds to me like a line from a science fiction movie.
I pushed the “1” button and held it for a couple of seconds.

Abigail’s voice, my favorite sound in the world,
broke through from 3,000 miles away. “Hello?”

“This is an obscene phone call.” The woman to my
left, in her mid-sixties, gave me an involuntary glance.

“Oh, good,” said my wife. “I haven’t had one in
hours.”

“We aim to please. I’m on the plane.”

“Thank goodness,” Abby sighed. “I’m tired of being a
single parent.”

“How are they?”

“Leah misses you,” she said. “And I’m pretty sure
Ethan finally noticed you’re gone. He complained about walking the
dog, but didn’t say it was your turn.”

“Well, it’s been four days. He was bound to catch on
sometime. Have I gotten any work calls?”

“A couple from the
Star-Ledger
and one from
Lydia at
Snapdragon.
She says they don’t have anything now,
but she’s not forgetting about you.”

“Neither is Bank of America, and they want their
mortgage payments made on time,” I groaned.

“I’m still gainfully employed, Aaron,” my wife
reminded me. “We’re not getting thrown out on the street anytime
soon. Oh, and you’ve gotten four phone calls from Lori Shery.”

That was odd. “Lori? What’d she say?”

“Just to call her back. She obviously doesn’t know
you were away, and I haven’t talked to her. I just heard the
messages on the machine.”

“She probably wants a free column for her newsletter,
but she usually emails,” I said. It was odd that Lori would call,
and four times in a day—I had talked to Abby the day before— meant
it was important.” Well, there’s not much I can do from here. I’ll
call her when I get home.”

“Which will be soon,” Abby said.

“It’s touching how much you miss me.”

“It’s garbage night, and Ethan can’t lift the cans
all by himself.”

“Stop it. Your devotion is getting me aroused.” The
woman next tome looked up at the “call flight attendant” button,
and seriously considered pressing it.

Abby’s voice turned serious. “I’ll be glad to see
you, honey,” she said. “You know that.”

“I miss you guys more than I can tell you in a public
place,” I answered. “I hate being away.”

“How’d the meeting go? Did you get the option?”

I wasn’t interested in telling her what a bad
negotiator I am.” They’re saying I have to turn off the cell, Abby.
I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”

“That means no, doesn’t it?”

“See you soon, honey. I love you!” I hung up.

So I’m a bad negotiator, a liar, and a coward.

T
he flight was, as usual,
uninteresting. I’m not a fan of air travel, since I don’t actually
get to fly the plane. Surrendering control of my life to someone
I’ve never actually met on the basis of a uniform with wings on it,
issued by a corporation interested in keeping costs low, does not
make for a relaxing experience. And you can’t make up for that with
a bag of pretzels and a Diet Coke.

Back on the ground, in cold, windy Newark, New
Jersey, I started to feel empowered again. After all, here I
controlled my own destiny. I picked up my battered blue minivan
from Cut Rate Parking, used my EZ Pass to gain access to the New
Jersey Turnpike, and fought the final stages of rush hour toward
Midland Heights. Familiarity may breed contempt, but at least it’s,
um, familiar. Not having to check a map every fifteen seconds,
which I had to do in L.A., was a huge and welcome relief.

I pulled into my driveway, hungry and tired, at 8:15.
Luckily, I travel light, so the canvas bag holding my screenwriter
equipment and my one carry-on case were the only items I had to
maneuver into the house. But after only four days, I had already
gotten out of the habit of wearing a heavy coat, and was already
trying to remember why I didn’t live in a warmer climatic zone.

Entering the house was no small feat, since four
small feet were waiting for me just inside the door. Mr. Warren T.
Dog (the “T” is for “The”), the beagle/basset mix we’d liberated
from a shelter not long before, can hear a fly walking on the
outside wall of a building two blocks away, and so he heard me
coming up the steps to the front door. When I opened it, he was
squealing and pacing in front of the door, making it difficult to
get by without petting him, so I patted his head. He looked
disappointed, as if I should have immediately taken him for a walk,
or at least fed him some hamburger meat.

Ethan, as twelve years old as a kid with Asperger’s
Syndrome can get (which means he was often twelve going on nine),
was sprawled about the sofa in the living room, one foot, with
shoe, on the cushion, and one off, in a T-shirt and shorts. He
didn’t know it was in the twenties outside, because twelve-year-old
boys don’t have nerve endings. He was staring blankly at a Disney
Channel movie called “The Luck of the Irish,” which they run about
every 20 minutes. I was hoping some day to make as much from
screenwriting in a year as the guy who wrote this TV movie gets in
a month of reruns.

“Hi, Dad.” For all he noticed, I could have just come
home from getting a gallon of milk at the convenience store.
Depending on to whom one speaks, Asperger’s Syndrome (AS, for those
of us in the know) is either a form of, or similar to,
high-functioning autism. Kids like Ethan, who are on the
higher-functioning end of the autism spectrum, are not severely
hampered in their lives, but need help understanding the world’s
finer points—like the fact that when their fathers leave home for
four days, it’s not the same as a trip to the neighborhood video
store.

“Hi, kiddo. Come here.” I held out my arms to embrace
him, and he looked at me like I had to be insane. “Come on.”

He glanced at the TV screen again, but he knew I was
serious. He stood, walked to me, and put his arms around me
awkwardly, making sure he was positioned to keep his eyes turned
toward the kid on TV who was turning into a leprechaun right before
the big basketball game. No, I’m not kidding.

“I’m glad to see you,” I told my son.

“Uh-huh,” he answered lovingly. I let him go because
two better huggers were headed my way from the kitchen.

Leah, newly nine years old, was, unsurprisingly,
faster than her mother, but I had to bend to receive the flying hug
she offered. It was worth it, since Leah hugs whole-armedly,
essentially wrapping herself around the huggee in an outpouring of
affection. A Leah hug is worth flying 3,000 miles.

“Hello, pussycat,” I said. Despite my general
indifference to cats, I used it as a term of affection. “I missed
you.”

“I missed you, too, Daddy,” came the chirpy voice a
quarter inch away from my left ear. “Did you bring me
something?”