Chapter 15 Dave
When I woke up this morning, Kris was gone. I guess it wasn’t a surprise. He probably thought a domestic morning with me would be boring. I came extra early to my writing class so I wouldn’t get mopey about it.
I don’t blame him for skipping out. There’s nothing rock ‘n’ roll about brushing teeth side by side with the guy who blew you. Hell, it’s not something I usually care about either, but Kris brings it out in me, which would be hilarious if it wasn’t so tragic.
I’m sitting in the empty lecture hall, replaying the night before and counting all the ways I’m a fool. If I had resisted Kris harder, I wouldn’t be thinking about that determined look in his eyes when he kissed me, or how I wanted to cover myself in his scent. I wouldn’t be reminiscing about the way he tastes or the sounds he made. And I wouldn’t be mooning over how sweet he was about staying in bed with me.
Because here’s the reality: Kris is the ultimate short timer in my life. He’s made it clear that the second his insurance money comes in, he’ll be heading out. I’m sure everything about me and this job feels temporary, like a blip he’ll barely remember. But it’s more than a blip for me, at least I want it to be. And there it is. The number one reason I’m a fool.
I’ve been daydreaming so long I barely noticed the other students filtering into the classroom. I sigh. It’s time to stop lamenting over my stupid crush and start preparing to get flayed for my latest screenplay failure.
Earlier I sent the teacher (and printed!) the gay sex version of my script I wrote. Somehow, leaning into my nonsense made the words flow easier. It was actually fun to write. But yeah, I’m not anticipating lots of good feedback today.
Mr. Radnor walks in today with his usual swagger. I wonder if he’s right about any of this stuff. Is Hollywood really so cold and dollars driven? It probably is, and I’m probably terribly naive for believing that my “love of stories” could propel me to any kind of success here.
It was actually Chelsea’s passion for filmmaking that inspired me. Whenever she talked about the films she wanted to make, she lit up. She was so happy and excited that the constant dread I felt at med school seemed extra bleak. I thought I could find what she found in the cinema: a creative spark, a calling.
I’ve always loved movies and books, though maybe not the way she did. And God knows, I knew how to spin a tale, though most of the stories I told were to mask the reality of who I was. In retrospect, it seems pretty sad.
Mr. Radnor straightens his pile of papers and scans the aisles. When he sees me, his expression changes. Well, I guess he read my submission. I try not to shrink down in my seat.
Today I’ll have to accept once and for all that I can’t write, that it was a stupid dream, and that I’ve made a choice for the wrong reasons, again.
Mr. Radnor begins his lecture, and I try to focus. Today’s lesson is all about subplots and supporting characters. He draws a star diagram on the whiteboard to illustrate how to arrange the character and story arcs for these supporting elements and explains how they keep a movie from feeling thin and underdeveloped.
He uses the example of The Wizard of Oz . The main story is Dorothy defeating the witch and trying to get home. The supporting characters are the Lion, Tin Man, and Scarecrow. Each of them has their own goals and challenges that complement the main thrust of the narrative. It makes sense.
I think of my script. Maybe Jaxon’s fiancée Christine could start her own journey of self-realization instead of sitting around while Jaxon bangs Chip. Maybe Chip could reveal he wants to be a captain, just like Jaxon. The possibilities are endless.
“Dim the lights. It’s time to watch a clip.” Mr. Radnor’s words break into my thoughts. Near the end of each class, we watch thirty minutes of a movie to see how the screenwriter executed the principles we covered in the lecture.
I zone out a little as the Scarecrow sings and dances down the yellow brick road, though I can relate to his desire for a working brain. While I’m staring off into space, Mr. Radnor appears at my shoulder.
“Mr. Schwartz, I’d like to chat with you after class. Can you stay an extra few minutes?”
“Uh, yeah?” I say, wanting to disappear into the upholstery.
“Is that a yes?” he asks sharply.
“Yes, it is,” I respond. Thank goodness the lights are dim, and he can’t see the blush staining my cheeks.
“If you’re saying yes, you shouldn’t phrase it like a question.” Man, this guy can’t stop criticizing.
“Sure, of course you’re right,” I mumble. I glance at the screen. I wish I could knock my heels together and transport myself back to my apartment.
“Glad that you understand,” he grumbles. “See you after class.” “Yes,” I respond, but he doesn’t acknowledge my words as he stalks back to the lectern.
That old familiar feeling of dread settles in my chest, but I try to talk myself out of a complete despair spiral.
What can he actually do to me? I paid for this class. There’s no way he can kick me out unless I violate the terms of the bootcamp or threaten someone’s safety. A few detailed sex scenes shouldn’t get me banned. Maybe he just wants to yell at me. That’s fair. I can handle that.
The weight in my chest seems to lighten. I’ve been yelled at millions of times. When I threw a big party in high school, when I came out, when I got my tattoo, when I quit medical school. I am such an enormous disappointment to my family that they shrugged when Chelsea chose film school over law school. Ha! Mr. Radnor can yell at me all he wants. I’ve dealt with worse.
The lights come up and Mr. Radnor gives his closing remarks. He ends by writing a quote on the board: “There is no point in having sharp images when you’ve got fuzzy ideas.”—Jean-Luc Godard.”
I wish Jean-Luc Godard was here right now. Maybe he’d appreciate my foray into soft-core space exploration. We can call it avant-garde! For all my positive self-talk, my heart’s beating fast as I wait for the other students to leave. Finally, it’s just me and Mr. Radnor in the room.
I’m sitting in my seat, and he’s standing with his arms folded behind the lectern. He’s not moving, so I guess I’m supposed to come to him. I think this is some kind of power move on his part. Asshole.
I slowly get up and sling my backpack over my shoulder, then inch my way down the stairs to the front. When I arrive, Mr. Radnor gives me a severe look.
“Is this class a joke to you?” he asks.
“Uh, no.” I freeze on the last stair.
“Do you understand the mission of this class? It’s called Writing a Blockbuster Movie . Do you think the pages you turned in reflect that mission?” He leans forward to punctuate his point.
“I know my script isn’t a traditional blockbuster. I got inspired and wrote the scenes, then kept them because they made the story more interesting.”
Mr. Radnor nods as I speak and then says something I totally did not expect.
“Well, I think your judgment was correct.”
“It was?” As much as I believed it, I didn’t think he would agree.
“Your script is much more interesting now. There’s more conflict, deeper characters, and higher stakes. It’s a remarkable improvement.”
My heart is pounding now.
“No kidding?”
“No, I’m not kidding.” He looks impatient, but I’m feeling great.
“Well, that’s–” I begin, but Mr. Radnor cuts me off.
“It’s a problem. My promise to you, to all the students here, is that you’d have a blockbuster pitch for a movie studio at the end of this class. If you proceed with this idea, you will not have a blockbuster pitch.”
“I get that,” I say, still reeling from the surprise positivity.
“I don’t want you asking for a refund or giving me a bad Yelp review,” he says vehemently.
“Oh. I don’t think–” I start, but he cuts me off again.
“I can’t afford any more one-star reviews.”
“Ah, okay.” I take a deep breath and allow him to finish.
“So, you understand, if I help you with this, you will not ask for a refund or give me one star review?”
A smile breaks across my face.
“I promise I won’t withdraw. And if you can help me get this story in shape, I’m sure it will be worth a five-star review. Don’t you?”
“Yes. Absolutely yes.” Mr. Radnor looks relieved.
“Cool, we’re all good then?” I start edging towards the door, but Mr. Radnor still has something to say.
“We’re good, so long as you understand that it’s very unlikely that your script will ever get made.” Ahh, way too harsh the vibe, but I know he’s right.
“I understand. The odds for everyone else’s scripts aren’t good either, are they?” I ask.
“No. But your chances are even worse.”
“I can live with that.”
“Alright.” He turns away and starts gathering his papers. I take that as a sign I can leave.