Julian
THAT FUCKING CRACK in the ceiling must be a metaphor for my life. I could have sworn it was barely noticeable only weeks ago, but this morning the fucker’s two inches long. If I don’t repair it soon, it’s going to be a bigger headache to correct in the future. Or maybe it’s a metaphor for my relationship with Ashley. What the hell happened last night? We went from happy to hurting in sixty seconds flat.
After half-assing through my morning routine, I venture to the kitchen. I’m fixing a cup of coffee when Ashley comes out of the bedroom with a suitcase trailing behind her, the guitar case strapped across her back, and a large trash bag in one hand. I’m tired and cranky, and I still haven’t figured out what I could have done differently to stop yesterday’s conversation from veering off course. I fear anything else I say will only make the situation worse. “What’s going on?”
Her hair is styled in a loose ponytail, and her skin is free of makeup, making her appear younger than her twenty-six years. Her expression is placid, the perfect advertisement for a yoga product—or a constipation remedy. “I’m staying with Lisa for a few days until I figure out where to go next.”
“Lisa. Your coworker?”
“Yeah.”
I want to tell her she doesn’t need to leave. I want to let her know I’d enjoy having her here even though she gutted me last night and we’re not happy with each other right now. But that’s not what I say. “Running away as usual, I see.”
Damn, I should cut off my own tongue. Fuck you, morning. Fuck you.
Her eyes blaze with contempt, but then she blows out a long breath and composes herself. In a cool voice, she says, “You’re running, too. You’re lying to yourself if you don’t see that.”
I set my mug down and place my hands on my hips. “So what? You want me to stop working with your brother? Is that the ultimatum you’re throwing down?”
“I’d never presume to tell you what to do. You need to figure this out yourself, because anything I say is going to make you defensive. Just do me a favor. Whatever you decide to do about your career, make sure it’s what you want. I’d hate for you to wake up one day ten years from now and discover you let your own happiness slip from your reach because you chose the path of least resistance.”
I can’t contain the sarcasm even if I tried. “Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.”
She stares at me for a moment, her lips parted as if she’s going to say something else. Instead, she gives me a curt nod and lifts the garbage bag off the floor. “Take care of yourself, Julian. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
My protective instincts kick in as I realize she really is leaving. “Wait. Do you need a ride somewhere? How can I get in contact with you?”
“Lisa’s picking me up, and you have my phone number. Carter will know where I’m staying.”
My fingers are itching to take her in my arms and tell her to stay. But that wouldn’t be fair to either of us. She wants assurances I can’t give her, and she wants me to make decisions I’m not ready to make. “Bye, Ash.”
She salutes me. “Bye, J-Dawg.” Then she spins around and walks out the door.
I won’t pretend it’s easy watching her go, but it’s for the best. Hers and mine.
I’M GOING TO strangle someone today. Hell, Marie won’t come near my office, and my scruffy appearance is warning everyone else away. Good thing, too, because my patience is nowhere to be found this week, and the casting director on the line is the latest in a string of people unlucky enough to cross paths with me.
Bill Nance thinks he’s God’s gift to Hollywood. In truth, he’s a slimy gatekeeper who got his gig by knowing important people’s secrets. Unfortunately, those important people bankroll major television productions, including a made-for-TV film that should have been a perfect opportunity for Gabriel.
“Let me get this straight,” I say into the speakerphone. “Gabriel walked out on an audition. Without provocation.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it unprovoked, exactly.” He chuckles. “Let’s just say I administered a bit of truth serum first.”
“Truth about what?” I say, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice.
“I told him he didn’t look clean-cut enough for the role of Jacob. The part calls for a young stockbroker from a middle-class background who gets hardened by prison time. It wouldn’t be believable.”
“Because he’s Latino.”
“Right,” he says without a hint of embarrassment or shame.
What a dick. I’m guessing he doesn’t think I’m believable as a Hollywood agent, either.
“Look, I know how hard it is to get jobs when you’re trying to get a foot in the door, so I asked him if he wanted to read for the part of José. It’s perfect for him.”
“Let me guess, José’s a Latino inmate who befriends Jacob and helps him on his journey of self-discovery.”
“Hey, you’ve read the script?” Nance asks.
Jesus Christ. I take a deep breath and count to three. I’d love to explain to Nance how problematic his behavior was, but I stop myself, remembering Quinn’s admonition: “Your job is to keep Carter Stone happy, so he’ll want to work with SCM and continue to make us money. You do Carter no favors by pissing off the very people who want to work with him.” The deal with Sanderson isn’t inked, and I’m hesitant to ruffle anyone’s feathers until it is. But signing a multimillion-dollar deal feels less important to me than speaking up for Gabriel. It’s the right thing to do.
Fuck. I’m operating at half capacity, stymied by the politics of the business and my boss’s threats. If I fuck up things for Carter, I fuck up everything.
My chest tightens. Whoa.
Where did that come from? Even I know two plus two does not equal five.
And in that moment, I realize Ashley’s right. I do think my career begins and ends with Carter, and my professional relationship with him is holding me back. Through no fault of his, but still . . . dammit. Why couldn’t I see this before? You didn’t want to see it, my inner voice whispers.
My inner voice may be quiet, but my outside voice is loud. “No, I didn’t read the script, Nance. I took a wild guess. The point is, you treated Gabe like trash, and that’s not okay.”
“I . . . didn’t . . . uh . . . mean anything by it,” he says sheepishly. “I thought being frank would be the best approach.” He gives me a long-suffering sigh. “Look, I think you might be too close to this issue—”
“So, what? You want to speak to my boss instead? I’ll dial him myself.”
He clears his throat before he responds. “Hart, I respect you. You’ve got a great reputation in a business that brings out the worst in people. But you can’t be sensitive about these things. It’s business. And at the end of the day, money talks in Hollywood. Everything else is set dressing.”
He’s right about that. But he fails to see what I can grasp easily. Audiences are clamoring for movies that reflect the diverse world we live in. The spate of recent movies fronted by black creatives that surpassed Hollywood’s expectations is just one example of how out of touch people like Nance are. And studios will follow the money if someone helps them see the forest for the trees.
“Nance, this isn’t something you want printed in the Hollywood Reporter. Actors talk. Agents talk. And then it spreads like wildfire. Plus, you’re wrong. And it’s myopic thinking like yours that leads to the whitewashing of movies that would have done loads better had an actor of color been selected for the lead role. Four words: Ghost in the Shell.”
There’s no way Nance isn’t familiar with that flop of a movie. With a $110 million dollar budget, the film barely took in a sixth of that during its opening weekend.
He sighs. “What would you have me do? Hire your client despite my misgivings?”
“Apologize to my client. That’s it. Whether he wants to go for a role is his decision, but I’ll advise him against working with people who can’t see past their own biases.”
“Fine. I’ll call him. I truly didn’t mean anything by it.”
And that’s one of the most fucked-up parts about this. “I’ll tell him to expect your call.”
I hang up, roll my chair back, and stand at the floor-to-ceiling window that looks out onto the building’s courtyard. I’m running on adrenaline, and I don’t know what to do with all the extra energy pulsing through me. I settle on pacing the width of my office.
Focusing on Gabriel’s terrible experience has the added benefit of distracting me from Ashley’s absence. It’s been four days since she left my place, and I miss her more than I could have imagined. She’s out of my life for sharing her honest opinion, one I’m now forced to agree with.
Not even five minutes after my call with Nance, Gabriel rings my cell. I pick up immediately and drop into my chair. “Hey, Gabriel. I was just going to call you to give you a heads-up. Bill Nance should be calling you later today.”
Gabriel laughs. “He already called.”
“He did?”
“Yeah. And he apologized for his comments. Said he’d be more mindful of his prejudices in the future.”
“I’m not so sure I’d believe that.”
“Yeah, I agree. But he tried. And I can’t recall ever having that kind of conversation with anyone in the five years I’ve been hustling in this business. So thank you. For the first time in my career, I feel like someone in this business has my back. My instincts about you were right.”
“And what instincts were those?”
“I’ve read your comments about diversity in Hollywood. About equal pay and representation. Your willingness to speak up and speak out sealed the deal for me. This shit won’t ever change if we can’t even talk about it. There are plenty of agents, but an agent who cares about the issues that could make or break my career, that’s gold.”
I’m stunned into silence. I’ve spent so much time justifying my position to Quinn, I lost sight of the fact that my advocacy could make a difference for actors on the front lines. It makes me want to get on my soapbox and represent them all. And it reminds me once again that Ashley tried to get me to see my value apart from my connection to Carter, but I was unwilling to listen.
“You there?” Gabriel asks on the other end of the line.
“Yeah, I’m still here. Thanks for the vote of confidence. I’ll make sure you don’t regret it. Look, I can’t pretend to understand how you felt today, but I can relate. And I’m sorry. There will be other auditions. I’ll work my ass off to make sure of that.”
“With you on the case, I’m not worried. Heading off to the J-O-B now.”
“Right. We’ll talk soon.”
The phrase my mother drilled into my head as a kid comes to mind: Don’t just talk about it, be about it. That’s it. If SCM wants to stand out from the crowd and position itself as a player in an already crowded market, why not brand itself as the agency that will take on Hollywood’s diversity problem? Quinn gets publicity, notoriety, and a host of new clients like Gabriel, and I get a career I can be fired up about. But as much as I can imagine the possibilities, the reality of my circumstances tempers my excitement. Quinn would never go for it. He’s made his position on this issue clear, and he’s not interested in being a maverick.
As all these thoughts swirl around in my head, I picture my mother, her hands at her hips and her voice soft and encouraging: Quinn’s not the person to make this happen. You are.
I wish Ashley were here to help me work though my ideas, but I stupidly pushed her away when she told me truths I didn’t want to face. She’s right. I do need to resolve a few issues before I can love her the way she deserves to be loved. And I’m not wasting any more time getting there. I pick up the phone and ring my colleague, who answers immediately.
“Hey, Sooyin, I need your help.”