Chapter 32.5: Tele-Socio-Pathy

Wardrobe Department, Leavesden. November 2007.

"Would you fuck me?" Jealousy doesn't come naturally to me, but as I stared at the shirtless hunk in the mirror, I was feeling it full force.

"Thank God you're wearing underwear beneath those baggy pants." Anita's voice was more muffled than usual, if it was as a result of her face being buried in her palms or because she was swaddled between the hanging, thick, dark robes the death eaters wore was anyone's guess.

What I didn't have to guess, however, was that, "I'd fuck me." Had there been any amount of room in the narrow lane we were in, I'd have spread my arms out. 

Instead, I did a quick one-eighty to get a good look at the hot cross buns - If you know what I mean.

"You're treading a fine line, Bas. There's narcissism and then there's neurosis." Give the ice bath a rest, Specter, and hand me the baby oil. Two quick steps were all it took to cloister Anita even tighter into the row of coat hangers. 

I bent down, picked up the bottle of Johnson and Johnson, and plonked it into her hands so they had something else to do than strangle her hips. "It rubs the lotion on its skin. Or else it gets the pose again."

"Stop!" 

Buffalo Bill seemed to cut too close for my Clarice. Let's switch it up. "Hammer time!" Gotta use these baggy trousers for their intended purpose. Shuffle, kick, shuffle, arms, crab walk down and back up the aisle, and finish it with a nice spin. She danced right into that one. 

"I am not touching this. Can we please just get this over with? Your pants are fine. Let's just take the pictures and send them to Disney." Pop. She flicked the pink cap open and squirted a healthy dollop on to my hands. Guess this chump was going to have to wax himself because his agent was being a stone cold ice ice b...aby.

Thankfully, the Bas in the mirror proved more helpful as I returned to him to slip, slap, and slop the oil all over my torso. As I spread it all over myself, it quickly became apparent that I wasn't gonna be able to butter both sides of the bread. "You can at least help me do my back." 

"Ugh! Just for the record, this goes against all my principles. The reason I became an agent instead of an actor was so I could work in Hollywood without having to debase myself by giving massages to perverts." If you were wondering, her hands were just as cold as her attitude.

"Well, how else do we show my commitment? Do you think I relish slathering myself and wearing harem bottoms so that I invoke a sweaty prince lost in a Persian desert?"

Plap! "Gah!" She smacked me hard enough to leave a red handprint on my back.

"Who do you think you're trying to fool? You're loving this. Sell your shit to someone who doesn't know you better." Sort of what we're doing, Anita. "And it's Disney. I've seen the contract. They'd force commitment out of you, whether you liked it or not. I'm never letting you sign anything long term with them." Agreed. I wouldn't do that to myself either.

"Yeah, yeah. Keep rubbing, we're almost done." Along with this whole ruse.

"It is my sincere hope I'm not interrupting anything." David Heyman announced himself into the room with the delicacy of a raging bull.

"Uh oh, Anita. Looks like we're caught." I looked at the pair through the reflection in front of me and spoke with complete solemnity. "I'm sorry you had to find out like this, David. And you don't need to worry either. I won't blame you when the scandal breaks on the front pages of the tabloids." With curled fingers, I raised my hand and stroked the image of Anita's reflected face. "My darling, this is the end of the road for us. When the trial comes, I won't perjure myself for you, but I do promise to visit you in prison after they sentence you for your heinous sexual crimes." 

The handprint already on my back received a welty new friend. "You should be more worried about me snitching on you. And keep that finger away from my face. God only knows where it's been."

"Neither of you would need to worry about prison time, anyway. We're in showbiz. Nobody cares that much unless they plan on blackmailing you." David Heyman clasped his hands with a loud clap and excitedly rubbed his palms together. "While we're down this dark path, I've come here to inform you I've completed my end of the ploy. Although there are some caveats; so would you prefer the good news or the bad news first?"

"Always bad news to start off with. Babies don't cry about sweets being stolen away until you give it to them first." 

"Can't fault that logic. Very well. Bad news is that I failed to get more than a brief phone call with the head honcho above Jeff Robinov."

"Killer job, David." Damn, girl.

"On the bright side, however, my prodding, our manufactured turmoil, and recent other events combined have lit enough of a fire under WB picture's behinds that Jeff Robinov flew down to London with me. We've hashed out most of the major details, but he has nevertheless requested to have a face to face with you, Bas. So feel free to wipe off that baby oil. There's no longer a need to pressure the studio into believing you're courting another franchise. The jig, as they say, is up." 

Persia was going to need to take my name off the succession list. "Oh… uh, that's great. Disney or Bruckheimer won't be too cross I'm dropping out of the race too early will they?" I sought reassurance from my ear-to-the-ground agent.

"It's just business, they understand. Don't sweat it. Actors ditch roles every day. We weren't even anywhere near the stage where your rejection would affect them. They probably have a thousand other dudes to look at."

"That's good. Too bad about the photos though, I'd asked our resident photographer to clear his day after lunch to get my glamour shots."

"... You just want those pictures for yourself, don't you?"

"Would that be so bad? I look pretty good."

"Put on a shirt. Right now." Goodbye my halcyon days.

–

WB Offices London, UK. November 2007.

De-greased and re-dressed; David, Anita, and I all packed into David's Range Rover - because of course he needed four-wheel drive to navigate the treacherous terrain of urban London - and arrived safely in the center of town after a brisk hour-and-a-half race over the M25 motorway.

Despite extending the offer to utilize my dusty license, I'd instead been shoved and strapped into the passenger seat where I wasn't allowed to even backseat drive. 

As we entered the building and took that familiar route to David's quarters, he did that thing with his hands again, where he rubs them on his pants when he feels nervous. "Okay, before we get in there, I feel it is imperative that we discuss the details of our upcoming match. He's just staying for a few hours before he's flying back and is only really here to throw his weight around after getting twigged on the nose and needing to capitulate in order to keep the production running smoothly. I don't know what he wants to say to you, Bas. I don't. But what's ultimately important is that you sit there and smile if he's praising you or look appropriately chastised if he wants some ego stroking. We're at the finish line. You just need to make a good impression."

"Good impression. You got it." I dipped back into my silence of the lambs catalogue. "If he's impressed enough, maybe we can take him out for a bite," Hannibal would be proud. "With some fava beans and a nice chianti thpthpthtpthp!"

That tongue twister didn't last long because Anita clawed my chin and jammed my jaw, so I couldn't make the noise anymore. "Bas, decide now whether you want to be a part of the problem or the solution."

"hy not 'oth?" You try saying your Ws and Bs with your lips so far apart.

"Behave." If I must.

"Look sharp!" came the last warning before David opened the door to his office and we saw the man of the hour. 

"Bas Rhys, at last. I have heard so much about you." Perched like a vulture on vacation, with his feet up on David's desk, was a man with a hairline that'd clearly been widowed several times over. 

Wait. No. I'm curbing the snark. Let me reorient. Business Bas, activate.

"Bas, Anita, may I introduce Jeff Robinov. The man who writes all our cheques."

Anita better not get any plastic surgery because that artificial smile on her face belonged in the largest tank in an aquarium. All teeth. 

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance." My turn to choke the sea life.

"Nice to meet you. Come in. Take a load off." Asking a man and his goonies to get comfortable in his own office while taking his desk was almost as much of a power move as flying ten hours just to make us drive for three at his whim. And not to toot my horn, but we weren't exactly small beans. "I gathered us all here today so we could clear the air on a few things. My decision to restructure the tone of the movie has proved quite an unpopular decision. I have had plenty of other producers and financiers dissatisfied with the current state of our flagship production." Cough JK Rowling cough. "You, Bas, are among that number." He kicked his feet off and replaced them with his elbows. "What's this I hear about a project with Disney?"

"Oh…er, that. Just thinking about future projects," I wasn't. "You know how I tend to go away in between the Harry Potter movies and do a few side jobs - that sort of thing." Clearly, he bit the bait.

"I'm aware. I took a gander at the file WB keeps on you. Interesting read. In my opinion, they seem to have undersold your ambition. Counting all the movies and TV shows you've jumped into over the last seven years, and not forgetting all the PR we put you through and especially your unique take on merchandising, you're piling your plate quite high there." Eyes were the window to the soul and while I couldn't normally read minds with how intently he was staring at me, I couldn't have heard 'you're biting off more than you can chew,' any louder. "What do you think, David? About time our young mogul got a producer credit." 'Because you won't stop fucking meddling.'

Let's see if we could have a melding of the minds. "Couldn't agree with you more if I'm honest. Ideally, I'd like to focus on one thing at a time, but even if my heart's with Harry, sometimes other roles get my tummy rumbling." Give me what I want and I'll keep my mouth shut and appetite small. 

"That's good to know, Bas. I think it's best for all parties involved if we collectively refocused on our original vision and volitions." 'Stay in your lane.' "I'm taking the executive decision to reinstate our primary script. Good thing we hadn't tackled the big scenes yet." 'And I'll stay in mine.' "Making movies is getting harder and harder these days. We have to present a united front."

"Because of the writer's strike, you mean?" The Writers Guild of America officially went on strike as of this week. Neil Gaiman, a card-carrying member of the organization who moonlighted as our partner in crime, had reserved his spot at the picket weeks ago. No script revisions were happening even if he wanted them to.

And now, it all comes together. This was what all the stalling had led to. An impasse.

"Informed aren't you? Another thing that needs to be revised in your profile." I don't know why there was so much grit between his teeth as he smiled and shook my hand. It wasn't like Anita was stomping her heels on his foot. "I think that wraps up our meeting for today, which I hope you all agree has helped us turn a page so that we're all on the same one." My knuckles almost audibly creaked with how hard he was clenching my hand. "Bas, as long as I'm around you've got a strong future with Warner." 'Take the deal, don't welch, or I'm coming after you.'

I squeezed right back. "Then I very much look forward to it." You won't have a reason as long as you don't give me a reason. 

My grip eased, and I pumped one last time. Truce? 

Jeff pumped once more also and let go. 'Truce.'