“Look, let me know if she says anything, okay?”
“Don’t worry, Roy. You’ll be the first to know.” It was the only time I had ever heard Aunt Ruby laugh.
—
I had no siblings, so I had no choice.
As usual, remembering trivia was my way to deal with anxiety. Standing outside the house, I remembered that the original stars of Sons and Lovers were supposed to be Alec Guinness and Montgomery Clift. The film was finally made with Trevor Howard and Dean Stockwell.
The picture had been nominated for the Oscar; my fate would be less prestigious. Just as I was on the verge of a new career in detection, I had to do something that I’d never done before, something truly frightening. I had to get a real job.
A WEEK LATER, I WAS STANDING ON THE STREET, HOLDING A BAGUETTE AND a balloon.
Trivial people take all kinds of part-time, low-paying jobs, some more humiliating than others. Through contacts, I’d managed to secure employment at the Farmer’s Market in Union Square. Here, upstate farmers sold produce to gullible urbanites willing to shell out exorbitantly for organic goods. A friend who’d been laid off from a film journal had been helping out at several stands and tipped me off to similar opportunities. I could do pickles, pretzels, or bread. The latter was a staple and so seemed the least demeaning.
“U-shin sent me,” I’d said, mentioning my friend.
Annabelle, the young lady farmer at the Nature’s Meal booth, had a pretty face the color and texture of a leather belt. She looked at my pale skin and slender frame with amusement.
“Okay, pavement boy,” she said. “Here you go.”
Then she handed me the balloon and the loaf. She pinned a button on my chest that read RISING BREAD, FALLING PRICES! Her bakery, located in Millwood, two hours from Manhattan, was having a sale.
“Just stand there,” she said, in a gruff and grizzled rasp. “And look pretty.” Then she shook her head in dismay, as she might have at a newborn calf too weak to survive.
I was secretly hoping that my city ways and her country manner would cause romantic sparks, as in a Tracy and Hepburn film. But Annabelle quickly moved away from me and arranged some zucchini and pear muffins.
As I stood there, mortified, I recalled that Spencer Tracy had been replaced by Gregory Peck in the movie of The Yearling. The whole film had been remade from scratch, just like, well, a burnt loaf.
Then, to my horror, I saw Abner Cooley.
Abner, of course, was the original trivial person success story. His Web site, PRINTIT!.com, had grown from a homemade operation—done, literally, out of his parents’ house on Long Island—into a grassroots phenomenon. It mostly featured negative gossip on forthcoming films secretly slipped to him by bitter studio underlings. Frightened and annoyed executives had seduced Abner with consulting jobs, and then he’d parlayed his popularity into a book deal and a TV hosting gig. The latter came courtesy of his boyfriend, Taylor Weinrod, recently promoted to V.P. at Landers Classic Movies, or LCM, the old movie cable network.
As his success had—you’ll pardon me—ballooned, so had Abner. Never a sylph, he now threatened to topple over from his own girth, and a wispy blond beard, as ever, couldn’t give shape to his face. Formerly obnoxious, he was now unbearable, and never more so than today, when he saw me … and my balloon.
“Milano!” he said, with barely disguised glee. “What a pleasant surprise!”
Abner had never forgiven me for my Ambersons coup, and seeing me in my current position clearly warmed his overgrown heart.
“I’m sure it is,” I said.
“A loaf of bread, a red balloon … you could be the star of, what was that French film?”
“The Red Balloon?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, unpleasantly. “So, fallen on hard times?”
“I’m just helping out a friend,” I lied.
Just then, Annabelle called over, “Hey, what’s-your-name, watch your loaf! It’s trailing in the dirt!”
Exposed, I cursed under my breath and said nothing more. Abner chuckled, his cheeks expanding, his eyes disappearing.
“How generous of you,” he said.
I could have told him the truth—Abner would be chastened by my helping out my mother; God knows he’d lived long enough with his own—but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. So I didn’t take the bait.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll get back on your feet in no time. Now,” he said, mischievously, “may I have some miche?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” I said, through my teeth, and gestured with my balloon at Annabelle.
“Actually, what am I saying? It’ll only go bad in my fridge. I’m flying out to L.A. tomorrow.”
“Bon voyage.”
Though I hadn’t asked him why, he went on to explain. “Maybe you read the trades. I’ve been hired to adapt The Seven Ordeals of Quelman.”
My only response was silence. Here was the most famous and beloved cult fantasy novel—four sets of trilogies, actually—of all time. And Abner Cooley had been hired to write the script! I had never been able to finish the first book. I had no interest in, intention of, or talent at being a screenwriter. Still, I was boiling with anger at the injustice.
“Good for you,” I choked out.
“Yep. They decided to go right to the source for once. The producers want a few changes that might not sit well with the fans in geekville. But”—he shrugged, cavalierly—“that’s the difference between film and book.”
Film and book! Abner wasn’t even using the proper plurals; he was talking like one of the studio scum he had started his career by skewering. He had fully completed his duplicitous journey to the other side, where people made a living wage. And geekville? Where did Abner think he got his own birth certificate?
“Good luck with that,” I nearly whispered.
“Thanks. It’ll be twelve films in all. They’ll release the first one next Christmas, then three a year until the end of the decade.”
