I guess nobody is above the thrill of being on the receiving end of hot gossip.
“Fine, but the only reason I’m telling you is because you’re the only person who reached out to me after my brush with viral fame.” I look around the restaurant to make sure we’re shielded from prying ears before I lean in. “I’m fucking miserable. I hate it so much. I have no idea how Peter has tricked so many people into thinking he’s a genius, and I’m ashamed I fell for it for so long.”
His smile grows with every syllable I utter. When I’m finished, he’s grinning like a lunatic across the table.
“I knew it!” he booms, gaining the attention of the entire restaurant. “He’s a goddamn asshole and I knew you saw it!”
“Reggie!” I whisper-shout across the table, a frozen smile plastered across my face. “Could you say that a little louder? I’m pretty sure there are a few people in the Valley who didn’t hear you.”
“Oh, fuck ’em.” He tosses his napkin on the table. “A schmuck can only be a schmuck for so long before people start to catch on, and people are starting to catch on to Peter’s crap.”
My ears perk up at this news.
I’m working on what is still Peter’s show and he did apologize—though it didn’t seem like the most sincere thing in the world. I’m not sure it says great things about me that I’m so excited to hear some not-so-great things about him, but I can’t help it.
My grudges are long-lasting for minor offenses. For what he did to me? It could last lifetimes.
“Well, don’t get quiet now,” I say. “Tell me the goss!”
It’s all the encouragement he needs.
The rest of the diners fade away as all my attention narrows in on the wonderful storyteller in front of me.
“I’m good friends with one of the big executives involved with your project,” he says, and it’s a very promising start to the story. “I remember him reaching out to me about the script when he had it in his hands, and I thought it sounded similar to the script you told me you’d been working on. When I asked him who the writer was and he said Peter, I called bullshit immediately. But Peter had a good reputation and some other guys vouched for him, made it an easy sell.”
My blood starts to boil all over again as I think of how hard I’ve had to work to prove I’m deserving of being in a room, when shitbags like Peter and his friends do nothing but shake hands and somehow land the best jobs.
“I told my guy not to trust it and when I saw that video of you on his car, I knew I was right. But this industry, for as many steps as we’ve taken in the right direction, is still a boys’ club run by white men.” His arms are gesturing all over the place and I’m worried he’s going to knock his glass over. “It’s a load of crap and that’s coming from a straight white man!”
“I can’t say I don’t agree with you there.” I reach for his water and pull it closer to me for safety. “The writers’ room Peter stuck me in is basically the advertisement for the boys’ club. I’m the supervising producer and they spend the majority of the day talking over or just flat-out ignoring me.”
“Well, let ’em,” he says. “Let them talk over you and take all the credit. I know you just got brought on staff, but if you can manage it, I think you should step all the way down.”
“Are you serious?” I feel my brows furrow in confusion. This is the opposite of the advice I thought he was going to give me. I was preparing to stage a coup to regain power, not throw my hands in the air and walk away.
He pulls his water back across the table and takes a deep gulp. “As a heart attack.”
Brilliant writer, still makes dad jokes.
“All right then.” I sit back in my chair, ready to listen. “I’m going to need you to explain this one to me first.”
He nods, obviously expecting a little pushback.
“Listen,” he says. “I’m not sure of the exact details, but I know whatever is happening over in Peter’s part of the woods is not good. He’s worked with students for too long; I don’t think your script is the first one he’s passed off as his own. The whispers that have always been in the background are getting louder, and I get the sense that a reckoning is coming. You are not going to want to be associated with him when it happens. Your script, as wonderful as it was, is going to go down with him.”
I’m not sure if it’s because I grieved the loss of this project months ago, but the sadness I would’ve expected at hearing his news is nowhere to be found. Rather, in its place is relief so deep I almost shed a tear. The weight of building this project back up while knowing that Peter would receive the praise has been too much to bear. I dread going to work and I’ve started to resent the project. I never want to feel that way about writing.
“You don’t look too broken up over it,” Reggie says, watching me closely. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”
He piques my interest yet again.
“And why, may I ask, is that?”
“I want to start by telling you what a fantastic television writer you are. It’s why I call you whenever I’ve had staff openings and it’s why, if after you hear me out you still want in a room, I’ll do whatever I can do to help get you there,” he says, and my hackles rise. “But I read the project you sent me and I have to tell you, that’s not a television show.”
I regret the last bite of pita bread I ate as the Mediterranean food I downed turns in my stomach. I’ve been in this business for long enough to know it’s highly subjective and not everyone will love what I write, but that doesn’t make hearing it any easier. Rejection, no matter how thick your skin, still stings.
This rejection, however, feels more like a bullet wound than a quick jab of a needle. I didn’t only send him the pilot episode; I sent him an entire season.
Without the restraints of Hollywood breathing down my neck, I was able to create without boundaries. I wrote the entire season not thinking I was wasting my time, but that I was investing in my craft. It was an amazing way to look at it and I thought it unlocked something I’d been afraid of letting out.
But maybe I was wrong, too wrapped up in the characters to be objective.
“And I sent you so much.” I force out a laugh that I hope disguises my disappointment. “I hope you didn’t force yourself to read the entire thing.”
“What? No.” The lines on his forehead deepen and he shakes his head. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying. I loved it. I read every word you sent to me.”
I attempt to follow what he’s trying to say, but he’s all over the place and I feel like I’m getting whiplash.
“You’re right, I’m not hearing you.” I throw my hands in the air like a petulant teenager. “Tell me again, but slower this time.”