Wow! Eight in the morning, the day after she’s hired, in your studio office? She really means business, huh? – Nubz
A humorless smile graced my lips as I thought back to Nubia’s response to this too-early, too-soon ass meeting. She’d been too busy at the book signing to ask about it, but that hadn’t kept her out of my text messages, seeking a follow up. Apparently, Logan had reached out to her directly for some studio information, so she knew there were pieces being moved into place.
Despite my efforts to the contrary.
I had to assume Logan hadn’t shared anything about the way our meeting ended – there was no way Nubia wouldn’t be on my ass about it if she had.
But since Nubia was still on the good, excited energy, Logan must’ve opted for the kind of goal-focused tunnel-vision that often agitated me in other people.
Something I knew said more about me than it did about them.
Productivity worked for some people.
Avoidance was more my speed.
But, because it was clear that wouldn’t get me where I was trying to go, I showed up to the damn meeting, a little before the time Logan had indicated on my calendar – something I wasn’t even sure how she had access to, but she did.
In fact, I was very early, almost thirty minutes, and was burning time in the WAWG executive parking lot trying to remember what Logan’s car looked like.
I knew it was a BMW, but that was the only real detail I could remember – it was light color too, but exactly which, I couldn’t call to mind. Maybe because it was dark, and late, and I was a bit distracted by her ass and thighs and face.
The lot at this place was full of fucking BMWs.
None of them appeared to have the same front-end damage Logan had done to hers, but from the tiny bit I knew about her, I wasn’t sure that mattered.
She was a Byers – of the you don’t want to see their law firm on the letterhead unless you hired them Byerses. I wasn’t sure exactly how yet, but I was certain she was related to Desiree Byers, who’d notably blended the fine art of public relations, image consulting, and cutthroat lawyer into a unique position for herself in the fabric of this city.
If Logan was anything like that, her car was probably fixed before most people’s alarm went off for the day.
Instead of dwelling too long on where Logan’s car may or may not be, I pulled myself out of my own vehicle, which I had yet to bother with getting fixed. It was an eyesore, sure, but once I was in it, I wasn’t thinking about that shit, and had better uses of my time than worrying with a cosmetic flaw.
Things like… working on my script.
Now that things were starting to move, thanks to Nubia’s insistence, I had to have an actual product. While I would’ve rather vegged in front of one of my gaming consoles and big-ass TV, I found the focus and inspiration instead to write three more episodes before I passed out on my couch, only waking up when I did because I needed to be ready for this meeting.
With my laptop tucked under my arm, I headed into the executive building at WAWG for the first time. I had to go through a whole security screening, which I wasn’t expecting, have an access badge printed, and then finally I was given directions to my office – which was apparently on the fourth floor.
The studio execs were up on six, the moneymaker shows on five.
At least, that was how “Freddy” at the security desk had explained it before jotting down my office number, with two lines under fourth floor.
I couldn’t say exactly why, but that shit had me feeling salty as I headed off to the elevator, and then even more annoyed when I had to press that damn four.
My phone chimed as I was exiting the elevator, and it was no surprise to see the name that flashed on the screen, accompanied by a text containing just two words.
Good shit. – Nick Davison
That message could easily be confused as not saying much, but truly… it was saying a whole lot.
Nick was the only person outside my family who’d seen a single line of script for One Day Sober, and he was the only person at this point whose feedback I implicitly trusted. As an indie filmmaker, he’d already accomplished much of what I was just now trying to chase, and was on his way to the kind of lofty acclaim I could only hope for at this point.
If this was his show, his office would be on the fifth floor.
Which was why “good shit” was a compliment of the highest order, on the two scripts I’d sent him just this morning. The first one, he’d completely dismantled, right in front of me. I was back in LA – back home – watching a game with this dude, when I told him about the script’s existence. He told me to send it to him, so I did, thinking he would check it out later.
Nah.
He got up and printed it right in his home office, then took a red pen to it.
Asked questions.
Challenged my premise, the conflicts, every piece of what would become the pilot episode, and then told me not to say shit else to him until I fixed it.
So… I fuckin’ fixed it.
And I learned from what he said and adjusted.
From there, honestly, I’d gotten a little stuck, not sure how to bring in what felt like a missing layer to the plot… until Logan’s comment at that disastrous lunch.
There’s always a love story.
And… shit, I guess she was right, because with that in mind, I’d knocked out two more episodes.
Two more “good shit” episodes.
I’d known Nick a long time – our fathers were good friends – long enough to trust that he would be real with me, especially about something like this. If it was fucked up… he would say so.
With the good energy of that brief commentary on my mind, I strolled down the busy hall to find my assigned office, which was tucked at the end. I had my eyes peeled for the numbers on the side, knowing that would be my only way of identifying which one was mine, with it being my first day here.
In front of my door though… I wasn’t sure I knew much at all.
Pierre Perry III – One Day Sober
The words were embossed on a plaque, just underneath the office number. Looking around, I saw that the other office doors bore similar signage, but I definitely hadn’t been expecting this. The offices were all glass across the front, with some sort of privacy feature that not everyone employed – I could see straight into some offices, not so much with the others.
Mine was one I couldn’t see into… which may have been a good thing, because if I’d known Logan was already on the other side before I opened the door… I probably would’ve turned around and kept walking.
She was throwing me, still.
“Good morning,” she chirped from her position at my desk, where she was busy setting up what appeared to be a brand-new computer. “I’d hoped to have this all set up before you arrived.”
I just stood there, looking at her, more concerned with how damn good she looked than what she was talking about – I think she took it as an impetus to keep talking.
“I thought you might appreciate getting straight to work, so I’ve taken the liberty of compiling some pre-production checklists for you, that should take you through every step of the process for taking your show from page to screen,” she explained, abandoning the computer setup to point out several packets on the desk. “I’ve also put together some lists of Black videographers, writers, and actors that might be suitable – they’re categorized by their styles, with other projects they’ve worked on annotated for quick reference.” She stopped, and straightened, tucking hair behind her ear before folding her hands in front of her body – a move that emphasized her perfect posture.
“All of this is also available via cloud documents for easy access, and I’ll get your computer set up with software for managing the staff, cast, and budget for this project. You’ll also find a money order that should more than cover the damage to your vehicle from our incident the other night – I consulted with the person who did the body work on my car, and he assures me the amount is correct,” she finished with a smile, then finally stopped speaking to wait on me to say… anything.
Shaking my head, I finally stepped fully into the office, closing the door behind me. “Logan… I don’t give a shit about a check.”
“Whether or not you give a shit isn’t relevant to me doing the right thing,” she said, moving away from the desk to do more… executive concierging, I guess. “For now, the fridge is stocked with various snacks, juices, and plenty of bottled water – you can let me know what you do and don’t like, and I’ll adjust it as necessary,” she explained, gesturing to a little seating area that had been built out – probably by her – into a decent lounging spot. “The TV will be brought up later, and I have an espresso machine on hold, if you want daily coffee. Let me know anything else you’d like brought in to make the space more comfortable.”
“Please stop talking,” I told her, shaking my head. My words earned me a raised eyebrow, but… shit. “You’re overwhelming me.”
“Ah,” she said, offering a slight nod of understanding. “Far from the first time I’ve been accused of that. So… let’s scale back. Have a seat,” she offered, as if this wasn’t my office, but… I took the damn seat, there on the couch, and put my laptop down. She joined me, opting for a spot as far away from me as she could get, which wasn’t easy, since I’d plopped down right in the middle. “Tell me about your vision for the show,” she prompted, her gaze still bright and interested even though I’d forced her off her careful agenda.
The problem was, she was still taxing me.
“When you say vision…?”
“Literally, what does it look like? Feel like? Sound like?”
I pushed my shoulders up. “Uh… moody, I guess. Melancholic, but still warm. Like… the shit that’s happening isn’t bright and happy all the time, so I want that to come across in the cinematography. I want the viewer to feel it, you know? Like… everything. No moments where it’s just the words telling you… everything is conveying what’s happening.”
Logan nodded. “I understand. So the cinematography is a top priority, and presumably the music as well… are you thinking original music, or a blend, or are we licensing everything?”
I sat back, scrubbing hands over my head.
I hadn’t thought about that, yet.
“Can we come back to that?”
“Of course. So… warm and melancholy. That’s quite a juxtaposition.”
“A necessary one,” I told her. “And… fitting.”
She smiled. “Okay. If that’s the case, it’ll be important to bring in staff and crew that understand that – I’m assuming you’ll act as writer, producer, director, all within your scope as showrunner, but have you considered bringing in others? To get some other voices, other flavors in the room?”
“Without question,” I agreed. “I’m going to write it myself, but that’s all – I want all the talent we can bring to the table.” I hesitated a moment, then told her, “I already have Nick looking at the scripts for me.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Nick? As in… Nick Davison?” she correctly guessed, so I nodded.
“Yeah, that’s my boy.”
“Really? Wow,” she said, sounding a little too surprised for me to let it ride.
“Why wow? Is that a shock?”
Immediately, she shook her head. “A shock? No. I just… I’m just a little surprised that you two would be friends – I just never would’ve guessed that. Not that I really even know Nick, but he seems like such a good guy.”
“And I… don’t?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you implied it.”
“Did I?” Logan asked, pushing herself to a stand. “If so – I apologize. It wasn’t my intention to offend, and I’ll be more careful with my words moving forward.”
I’d barely blinked and she was already back at the desk, paying me no mind in favor of going back to whatever she was doing with the computer when I came in.
“Ay… we don’t have to do this awkward shit, you know?” I asked, following her over, and getting in her space so she couldn’t pretend not to hear me. “If you insist on being here, it can’t be weird.”
She straightened up, turning to face me, permeating my senses with the same subtle, dessert-reminiscent scent I’d noticed on her before. “I’m not making it weird, Pierre. I’m doing my job. It’s the only reason I’m here – not for you to strip me out of my preppy clothes and stroke this shit out of my head – or whatever the fuck you said to me.”
I sighed, taking a seat on the edge of the desk. “I… shouldn’t have said that to you. I know.”
“Yeah, so why did you?” she asked, crossing her arms.
“Because it was the truth,” I admitted, with a shrug. “You look good as fuck, and you feel good as fuck, so… that’s what I was trying to focus on. Something that didn’t make me feel like my damn head was turning inside out.”
As soon as those words left my mouth, I regretted them.
She wasn’t even asking for, didn’t need or want, all of that. Yet here I was, spilling shit I sure as fuck wasn’t trying to discuss, unnecessarily.
“Look… I’m sorry,” I told her, before she could press me about my previous statement. “Whether or not it was true isn’t relevant – I was out of line, when you were trying to be professional. It wasn’t cool, and I’m sorry.”
She stared at me for what felt like a long time, then finally offered a nod of acknowledgement. “Apology accepted. And now that that’s over… you can finish talking to me about your vision.”