Chapter Six #2
That was the same time that LDR had courted him to develop La Petite Mort, winning his passion project in a modest bidding war: They wanted an “elevated” Black horror film like Get Out, the company president had promised him on the Zoom call, leaning so close to the camera that Johnny instinctively pulled back in his seat.
After so many years of pitching in the lean times after Frat House Haunting was exploited to death, it had felt surreal to see studios falling over themselves to buy one of his scripts.
Never mind that Johnny’s erotic supernatural thriller was nothing like Get Out—but it was still revolutionary to hire a Black director to make a Black movie about anything.
And beneath its jump scares and sex scenes, La Petite Mort was about the relationship between historical trauma and sexual addiction on a Black man and his lover on the run from a demon, so sure—close enough.
And after years of waiting, they were still waiting. At a quarter to four, Mo shifted in his chair, restless. “Man, they better not come in here with some—”
As if Mo had uttered an incantation, Ben and Rashad arrived in a flurry of apologies about a meeting going late.
Ben, who had seniority as LDR’s director of features, wore a perpetually lightly shaved five-o’clock shadow.
Rashad, who had just been hired in the past year as a development executive, was a tall brother who wore locs he kept trimmed short.
They always looked like college students to Johnny, but Ben might have been older than thirty.
Ben had a law degree, like so many agents and execs in Hollywood, and Rashad was a former screenwriter who joked he had gone to the “dark side.” Rashad’s notes were some of the few Johnny paid attention to on a story level, since he could think beyond budget.
Rashad’s glassy eyes and weak smile before he sat at the table told Johnny everything he needed to know. The late meeting had been about him.
“We need to jump on this, guys,” Money said with his usual bluntness. “Hardwick’s due to start shooting in Budapest in March, so it’s now or never. Time to start booking space.”
Johnny’s eyes never left Rashad, who was staring at the tabletop like he was in time-out.
“Just tell us,” Johnny said.
Ben looked at Rashad, surprised at Johnny’s intuition. Seeing development execs finally run out of bullshit was a sad sight.
“Listen…” Ben said. “I still can’t sell my boss on the script.”
Rashad closed his eyes and sighed audibly.
“Monday, you said he loved the polish,” Johnny said, keeping his voice measured when he wanted to leave the room and slam the door. The nausea was creeping back.
“Man, what’s the issue this time?” Money said. “We got the budget under fifteen. We got you the caliber lead you said you needed. It’s practically PG-13 after all the cuts. What is it?”
Neither spoke right away, so anything they said after giving it thought would be a lie.
“Money…” Johnny said to his friend in the same calm tone, trying not to inflame his headache. Money looked at him, wild-eyed with frustration. “Do you know why Denzel Washington and Halle Berry never starred in a movie together at their height in the nineties?”
“What?” Money’s irritation transferred to Johnny in his confusion.
“Think about it,” Johnny said. “There they were, the two biggest Black stars in the world, both sexy as hell. But they never costarred back in the day. Not even once.”
Johnny saw the spark of enlightenment in Rashad’s eyes, but Ben only looked more confused. “O-kayyyy…” Ben said, trying to guess his angle. “I’m not sure what—”
Johnny tried to stop himself—or at least he would tell himself he had later—but he couldn’t.
“Money knows why: because they’re Black.
And because no movie where a Black man had sex earned over a hundred million dollars until Creed in 2015,” Johnny said.
“Ryan Coogler did it in Creed and Sinners, but I’m not Ryan Coogler, am I? You’re still afraid of the sex.”
Ben looked at Rashad as if for help, but Rashad still had nothing to say.
“Let me try to explain so there’s no confusion…” Johnny said. “It’s not just about the sex. It’s about not being free to reveal our full humanity—still.”
“We bought a script called La Petite Mort,” Ben said. “It’s a French term for an orgasm. And you think we don’t want to do a movie with sex in it? Because the actors are Black? What are you saying?”
“You just explained what I said very well,” Johnny said.
Money was giving Johnny a look that said, What the fuck are you doing?
Rashad cleared his throat. “I think it’s getting a little heated…” Like a lion tamer.
Johnny felt the opposite of heated: He felt cold to his core.
It dawned on him that this exercise was always going to lead to this moment because no one on LDR’s development team had the courage to realize that La Petite Mort was never going to get a green light.
He had been more than a fool to believe it himself.
And at his age, bullshit was too heavy to carry.
Johnny stood up. “You’re smart, brother,” he said to Rashad. “You can do better.”
Ben looked panicked. “Johnny, wait. I can shake loose money for another polish. No one is saying this isn’t happening—”
Johnny’s look cut him off. Money had taken a job as a development exec before Johnny brought him on to executive produce Frat House Haunting, and he told Johnny the part he hated most about working at a studio was the dishonesty. Money’s gift was forging relationships.
“We still have the rights for another year,” Rashad said. “They’ll just hire someone else.”
“I wish them luck,” Johnny said. He managed a bright smile. “If this ever gets made, maybe I’ll recognize a few frames. And I’ll be happy to cash the check.”
Ben stared at Johnny aghast, as if he had just witnessed a death.
Ben was used to desperate creators hoping for a miracle if they kept smiling.
It was possible Ben had never heard anyone tell his bosses to go fuck themselves, even politely.
By the time Ben thought about it a while longer, he might convince himself Johnny’s truth-telling was a form of racism.
Johnny walked out of the conference room. The meeting was over.
Johnny hoped he could make it to the commissary before he’d get sick, but he didn’t get past LDR’s restroom.
His insides emptied, stripping him of the strange mood that had seized him in the conference room.
His knuckles shook against the spotless porcelain bowl as he retched, miserable and appalled at himself.
The overwhelming scent of potpourri in his nostrils made him heave harder. Could he go back? Explain it away?
Hell no, he told himself. He might not do it again now, but now it was done. Maybe it hadn’t been the correct thing to do, but he couldn’t tell himself he’d been wrong.
Money was waiting for him outside of the stall door in the empty bathroom. Money might never have looked so angry at him. Still, he said, “You okay?”
Johnny nodded. He went to the sink to rinse stomach acid out of his mouth. He glimpsed Money’s face behind him in the mirror, sober as a pallbearer.
“Are you fucking high?” Money said to his reflection.
“Let’s go,” Johnny said. “We can’t talk here.”
The assistant wished them a good afternoon as the door’s bell tinkled merrily too close to Johnny’s ear.
Outside, the sun glared from the metallic-gray, blue-striped tour bus passing with the guide’s voice celebrating the accomplishments of the studio he had just burned his bridges to.
No golf cart waited for them, so they began their long walk that would be longer now.
Since it was after four, a hot ride home in traffic waited.
And then the hardest part: telling Tasha his comeback was dead when they needed it most.
“Still waiting for you to tell me what the hell that was about,” Money said.
“Tasha’s pregnant,” Johnny said instead. He had not spoken those words aloud to anyone. Even the girls didn’t know. Sharise was eighteen and applying for college. Imani was thirteen. Three months ago, he had believed he and Tasha would have their house back soon.
“Shit,” Money said, stopping to face him. “How old is…?”
“She’s forty-five,” Johnny said. “It’s a thing. Apparently. She’s due in June.”
Money gave Johnny’s shoulder a light pat. “Congrats, man,” he said, because that was what you said, but he knew damn well Johnny hadn’t planned to have another baby. Money had a ten-year-old grandson from his daughter, who was nearly forty. His younger son was running track at Cal State Fullerton.
“Is what it is, man,” Money said. “Might as well get happy about it.”
“I’m happy.”