By Eric Czuleger (@ECzuleger)
The skyline of Los Angeles encircles a desk and a chair. An elevator bank and a washroom spring up from the floor. Interior architecture of the infamous and infinite.
He is the most important person in Los Angeles and he knows it. This makes him the 14th most important person in the world, though he thinks he is the 4th. “Are you using it?” he asks again, smile broadening like melting butter. Rachel considers her answer. She wears a red Prada suit that she plans on returning immediately after this meeting. She is hungry, and tired, and minty, and flexible and shiny, and she looks wonderful. She feels like a hollow cathedral. She doesn’t know the answer to the question. He sucks air in through his teeth and rubs his pure white hands together in slow concentric circles as he speaks: “You know about me because you know about me. No one can drop my name because no one knows my name. That’s a valuable asset. This is all about developing assets. I want you to be an asset to me. I could tell you a long list of names of people who are assets to me. But, like so many offers, this is only a one-time thing. I need a producer for this project, and it needs to be someone I have on the team. I want you on my team. So, what do you say Rachel?” Rachel feels like she is breathing either too quickly or too slowly, she cannot tell which. Her calf is shaking and she is trying to silence the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of her heel on the marble. “I think… I use my soul,” she says. Silence, except for the tap- tap-tap. “I... I try to be a good person,” Rachel continues. “I try. And I use my soul.” The word try echoes in her head like a scream in a cave. She just told a lie. She knows that she shouldn’t lie. The room feels wrong because nothing feels wrong about it. A leather strap is pulling tight deep in her gut. She is promising herself bed, Xanax, and celebrity news if she can make it out of this office without falling to pieces. “See, that’s not your fault,” he says. “That’s the culture. You’re mistaking religion for business. You’re mistaking belief for ethics. You have something that I would like to trade you for. Simple simple. No monsters, no saints, no big bad wolves, no ulterior motives. I get something, you get something, and we all get a movie. Is it a cliché? Yes. Do clichés come from somewhere? Duh. Do I have this exact conversation every single time I meet with someone here? Oh, you bet. There is a reason that these windows don’t open any more.” She fidgets, uncertain. “I know that you’re a climber, Rachel. I hear things. I see things. But if you’re thinking in terms of good and bad, you’re not going to get anywhere. We’re just talking about two sides of the same coin.” He walks around his desk and picks up a screenplay. “What is that?” she asks. He tosses it. It lands perfectly in her lap. Untitled. “Is it good?” she asks. “Honestly, no. It’s not great. It’s not so much that it’s BAD, it’s just been done about a billion times. But it’s the movies! We reinvent the wheel every day. We just package it in different ways. It’s vampires, and angels, and permissible teen eroticism under the guise of fantasy. Fun, fun, fun stuff. Harmless. Blockbuster material here.” Rachel has to pee. She squeezes her knees together and riffles the pages. Words, phrases, character, names, screen directions, meaningless without context. Doesn’t matter. If he says it’s a winner, it’s a winner. She feels her heart beating beneath her Prada jacket. She wonders if her soul is somewhere between her heart and her bladder. She imagines it like a blue mist with a soft light at its core. It emits a gentle warmth, and it helps her discern right from wrong. It tells her what music she loves. It smells like the melting sugar on the top of a crème brule. It grows brighter when she holds her dog to her chest. She wonders what it would be like to just have a heart in her chest with no soul to accompany it. What would it be like to feel your heart beating and nothing else? |
He smiles. It is the smile from an advertisement for men’s watches. It is a smile like a good armchair. It is a smile that would make babies have sweet dreams and old women wink at one another.
Rachel produces public service announcements about the dangers of huffing paint thinner. She takes jobs that are jobs. She takes as many jobs as she can. She crushes her personal life under the heel of the boots she cannot afford. One day she will have love and friendship and late night talks over cheap bottles of wine with people who she can share secrets with. She will have these things when she can afford them. The screenplay is heavy, thick white paper. It feels good in her hands. She crosses her knees tighter and digs her nails into the paper. She wants it. She doesn’t care. She wants it. She goes for the kill: “So, why do you want my soul?” she asks. “I want it because I want it,” he says, running two fingers down the sides of his silk tie, smoothing unseen wrinkles. “You can’t swing a cat without hitting someone who calls themselves a producer around here. So, what do you want MY soul for? I don’t really believe in all of that, so it’s meaningless to me. I’ll give you my soul like my business card. Except my business card is worth more.” Another lie, her business cards are cheap and flimsy. “As far as I’m concerned,” she continues, “you’re a money guy with a track record for picking winners. I want a winner. I want to be an asset for you. But if I’m indulging you by claiming I’ve got a soul to begin with, and that I can give it to you, you have to meet me half way. What do you want to do with my soul in particular?” He walks slowly around his desk. He looks at her and his face is blank. “Cards on the table. I’m a collector and an advertiser. A brand manager. I am trying to get a point of view across. I am trying to promote my employer’s brand... What my employer cares about is what any employer cares about. They want their numbers up. I make that happen. But I need to make sure that any candidates are on the level. I need a commitment. Some people are Pepsi people, some people are Coke people. Let’s just say, I want everyone to be a Pepsi person. Two sides of the same coin. That script has a lot of product placement in it. Do you take my meaning?” She sees a bit of sadness float past his eyes. “You gave away your soul, too?” she asks, gently. He looks out the window at an uncharacteristically dark cloud moving across the Hollywood hills. He nods. A smile crosses his lips, then passes. “Do you miss it?” “I don’t remember what it was like to have it. But, yes, sometimes I think I do miss it. Sometimes. It’s been a long time. It’s fine though. I’m great. I’m fine.” He looks to Rachel and places his hands on his desk, spreading them wide. “Was it worth it?” she pries. He nods. Slow, measured, absolutely sure. “You love what you love in the world. You do whatever you can to keep doing it. I love the movies. I always have, and I always will… and trust me, I have a very clear understanding of what always means.” “Okay,” she says, after a moment. “I’ll do it. I’ll give you... my soul.” He opens the top drawer of his desk and takes out a contract. “Do I sign it in blood?” she jokes. “A pen will work. Blood is very difficult to write with. Besides, our office is transitioning to paperless, to reduce our carbon footprint.” “Just sign there.” He points to a line with an X on it. The entire contract reads, I promise my soul to ________. “Why isn’t the name filled in?” “We fill it in later. Let’s just assume… you’re promising your soul to Pepsi.” He hands her a heavy silver pen. It feels cool and beautiful in her fingers. To find out what happens to Rachel, you can purchase Eric’s five-star book Immortal L.A. on Kindle for $2. 94. Or write your own Maker story, to be published here on Fiction Crowd (see below).
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You have a meeting with your Maker. They are going to offer you a deal you can’t refuse, but for a price too high to pay.
We want to know what you’re being offered, and whether you say yes. Write your own Maker meeting story and we’ll publish them in forthcoming issues. |