Day Two.

At Kinnetik…

The rush was on.  Brian flew into his office, full Armani battle gear, briefcase and a tall Starbuck’s.  Cynthia dashed in like M.A.S.H.’s Radar, shoved three folders on his desk and flipped the top one open.  He tossed his empty cup.  “Did you finish -”

“Here’s the video disc and presentation…this is the contract in triplicate – I flagged the signature spots…”

“What about -”

“…the bottom one has all the specs I could find on Cellular Innovations,” she took a breath, held out a last sheet.  “I ran a map in case -”

“I’ve got the GPS.”

“- you need help finding the place,” she tersely finished, watched his bleary eyes as he chucked the folders into his case.  “And where the hell were YOU last night?”  Which got the smug Kinney smile.  “Forget I asked.  And it’s a two-hour drive.”

“Thank you, Theodore.”  He smiled at her glare.  “And thanks for coming in early.”

“About my raise.”

“Would you LOOK at the time!” Brian checked his bare wrist, grabbed his case and dashed away.

“god I love my job,” Cynthia stated flatly, tossed her paper into the trash.

Hollywierd.  Day Two, Workday One.

The elevator doors opened.  Ahead, glass double doors with drab black lettering: Art Department, and a reception desk where a young Punk-Rocker Girl sat reading a plain-cover script.  Justin checked his shirt collar for his photo ID, opened the door and stepped into a gray room that looked more medical than creative.

Punk Girl smiled a wary, “Can I help you?” eyes scanning his ID.

“I’m Justin Taylor and I’m here to see the Art Director, Mr. Silberman?”

“Oh, yeah.  He said to send you right in,” she pointed down the hall, “Drafting.  Second door to your left.”

“Thanks.  Is that the Rage script we’re working on?”

“This?  No, it’s just a side job.  Producers get so many, they hire readers to weed them down.”  She displayed an 8x10 form.  “I check off  ‘Pass’ or ‘Recommend’ then send them back for forty bucks a script.”

“That’s…interesting.  Well, I won’t keep you.  Nice meeting you…” he squinted at her tag, “…Moon.”  He smiled and nodded, headed down the hall, imagined how the worst movies he’d ever seen had made it to the big screen.  And thanked the luck that flew Rage past the gauntlet faced by most.

Drafting Room.  Large as a boardroom.  An art museum in itself with walls of drawings and models.  Six men and a woman sat on swivel chairs at drafting tables, some with rulers and squares, some sketching freehand.  A disc player had easy listening on low but a couple guys had earplug wires leading into shirt pockets.

Nobody seemed to notice Justin near the rear wall, standing beside a pleasant but all-business thirtyish gent in GQ casual and McGyver looks.

Silberman studied Justin’s awed attention to the wall of drawings beside them. “So besides the comic, what other experience do you have?”

Christ, don’t look bennie, Justin recovered, raised his chin and relaxed.  “I did some ads for a company I helped create – LightWave.”

“Advertising?  That’s a whole different animal,” Silberman stared.  “What do you know about filmmaking?”

Zip.  Nada.  “As much as I knew about comics and advertising.  Nothing I can’t learn if you show me what needs to be done.”

Silberman raised a slow smile, “Brett said you’d be a go-getter.”

Marco walked in with a box of supplies, immediately noticed them.  “Justin.”

“Hey, Marco.”

Silberman broke in, “You two have met?”

“I’m the official tour guide and wheels until he gets settled in,” Marco flashed a smile at Justin then to Silberman, “ “Want me to show him what to do?”

“Oh.  Justin isn’t an Assistant Draftsman.  He’ll be a wrist and technical advisor.”

“Wrist?” Justin blinked.

“Illustrator,” Marco responded quietly.

“You’ll catch on quick,” Silberman assured Justin.  “Wait here a minute.  I have to pick up a breakdown -”

“Script pages,” Marco translated low.

“- then we’ll introduce you to the other wrists.”

Silberman patted Justin’s shoulder, strode out the door.

Marco shoved his box at Justin, “Hold this for me,” waited for Justin’s firm grip, “Be right back,” and trotted out.

Justin looked into the box of pens and inks, scanned the room and saw a Bob-Ross-type man notice him, smile and wave him over.  Relief, Justin thought as he paced to oblige.  Maybe art talk will make me feel less like the village idiot.        

In the hall, Marco stopped Silberman at his office door,  “Mr. Silberman?” got his eye and smiled, “I didn’t know we had an opening for an illustrator.”

“Justin’s on a work-for-hire contract.”

“But I have an application on file for the first opening,” Marco stayed cool.  “I’m willing to work-for-hire.  Is there a reason why I wasn’t considered?”

Sensing the dissatisfaction, Silberman laid fact.  “Justin’s talent is more in line with what we need for Brett Keller.”

“But I’ve been here four months and have more experience than Justin.”

Silberman grew tired of the corner.  “When you publish a national comic book that gets a director’s interest, I’m sure you’ll understand.”  And he broke contact by walking into his office.  It’s not what you know.  It’s what you can DO.

Marco thought a moment, watched Silberman shuffle through papers on his desk, toned a pleasant, “I see.”  It’s who you know.  “Thanks for listening.  And if another spot comes up, maybe keep me in mind?”

Silberman stopped to look up, evaluate Marco’s accepting manner and conclude with a warmer, “Bring me a portfolio that sparkles and we’ll talk.”

Marco nodded, thought a moment then headed back to the Drafting Room.

Hours later and miles away…

Fuck.

Really fucked THAT up.

Not what I planned.

And what the fuck is wrong with THIS thing now.

Dress shirt collar open and tie sagging, rock CD on low, Brian took his eyes off the deserted rural highway long enough to press a button on his dash-mounted GPS.  Dead.  Options: throw the fucking thing out the window or check the phone.  So he pulled the cell from his suit pocket and volleyed attention between it and driving.

Two callbacks.  On the first hit, Kinnetik.  On two, a  213 area code.  Los Angeles.  Brian paused, glanced up, realized he was drifting left and eased back into his lane.  Checked the dash clock.  Almost 5 PM.  Only 2 PM in LA.  Lips tense in decision, he redisplayed Kinnetik, hit dial and waited.  “Cynthia.” 

Shuffling through papers, hair stringy from a bad and busy day, Cynthia clamped the receiver between her ear and shoulder.  “Brian.  You were supposed to be back an hour ago.  Where ARE you?”

“Trailblazing the wilds of West Virginia without a GPS and hunting for a major highway.  And if you even mention map, you’re fired.  What’s up?”

“I’m sure you heard about our Liberty Air account.”

“Don’t remind me.” Brian flipped open his briefcase and glared at a folded newspaper: Money Woes Plague Liberty Air.  “Is that all?”

“Leo Brown called and he’s livid.  There’s some kind of rumor that Drew Boyd…you know… that -”

“Jock model.  I know.  What rumor?”

“That he’s gay.”

“Lucky him,” Brian grinned.  If true, Drew hid it well, flying just under gaydar range.

“It’s not funny.  Leo thinks we purposely concealed that and steered his campaign toward Drew.  Now he’s worried about the publicity.  Brian, he wants all the ads pulled yesterday or he’ll sic his attorneys on us.”

“On a rumor,” Brian scoffed.

Cynthia jet a breath.  “So far, but I have it on good authority it’s true.”

“Who?  Some anti-pileup paparazzi?”

“I’ll let you talk to Ted.”

Brian waited until he heard Ted’s lackluster hello.  “Theodore.”

Ted hung his head.  “It’s true.  Drew and Emmett had a secret affair for a few weeks.  Which doesn’t exactly make us look clueless since we’re all friends.  But I swear I didn’t know until after the ads ran.”

Brian stayed calm.  “Just sit tight.  He’d be hard pressed to prove we were conspiring for a kickback on his million.  I’ll give him a call tomorrow.” Brian touched his brow in painful afterthought.  “And book me a First Class seat to Denver this Friday.”

“Sure, Bri.  What time is Justin’s flight getting in?” Ted assumed.

“It has nothing to do with Justin.  It’s part of the deal with our latest client, Cellular Innovations.”

“That’s good news,” Ted tried cheery but blew it with a mumbled, “God knows we need the business,” and concerned,  “Do we know anything about cellular concrete?”

“We will after I attend…” Brian crunched his eyes shut from a fleeting pseudo headache.  “…The World Of Concrete Convention next weekend.”  I can just imagine what fucks I’ll find.

“They have conventions for concrete?”

“Theodore, just book the flight then go home and feed your cat.”  Brian disconnected the call, saw a stop sign ahead and eased off the gas, thoughts racing.  How the fuck do I placate Brown.  And what did Justin need.  It’s 4 PM in Chicago.  Brian inhaled a clearing breath, scrolled to Brown Athletics and tapped.  Waited.  “Is Leo Brown still there?  Brian Kinney.”

The response was immediate and explosive.

Brian’s face tightened.  “Leo…Leo.  Listen to me.  Are you listening?  Who buys your personal underwear?  No, I’m serious.”  Brian smiled at the answer.  “My point exactly.  Wives don’t care if Drew Boyd has a secret life.  But the GAY market may spike, and we’ll jeopardize THAT if we pull the ads based on an orientation rumor.  Let the ads run and let the STATS decide.”  Brian leaned his head back, serenely exhaled.  “I will personally keep you posted.  Now relax and let ME worry about it.”

Nuclear incident under shaky control, Brian blew a noisy breath, saw a Stop sign ahead.  A safe time and place for his next call.  Idling the Vette at the deserted crossroad, Brian displayed Justin’s number.  It was the last thing he remembered seeing before feeling a whoosh of air from the opening driver door and pain so intense he blacked out.

At a Hollywood Book Store…

Marco picked a large flimsy paperback off a shelf and set it on the three heftier film and art books in Justin’s hands.  “This one.  It doesn’t look like much, but it’s a classic on perspective and it’ll help with storyboarding.”

“I really appreciate this,” Justin smiled, shadowed Marco along the racks.

Marco’s eyes scanned more bindings.  “You didn’t tell me you did a national comic.”

“It’s a gay comic.  I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Personally, I think all Ruben’s women are fat hags.  Professionally?  I admire his genius.”  Then he turned a warm eye.  “I’d like to see your work sometime, if it’s okay.”

“Sure.  I wouldn’t mind seeing some of yours either.”

“Tell you what.  My place after work.  I’ll tour you through my gallery.”

“Have you got a computer?”

“Du-uh,” Marco feigned Valley Girl.

Justin chuckled aside.  Dumb question a stone’s throw from Silicon Valley.  “I’ll show you our website.  Some of my stuff is online.”

“Sounds good,” Marco gave a genial nod, went back to checking books.  “So what do you think of the job so far?”

“All I did was tour departments and observe,” Justin shrugged. “The people are really nice.  There’s a lot more technical stuff than I figured.  I work mostly freehand and eye judgment.  Straight-edges and compasses…” Justin shook his head in a first sense of doubt.  “Seems so restrictive.”

“You haven’t seen restrictive till the DIRECTOR gets hold of your work,” Marco side-glanced.  “I’ve seen some artists hafta completely revamp their visions…some actually quit and storm out.  They say every movie artist is a closet director,” then tacked on, “No offense.”

“None taken.  I’ve been out of the closet for years,” Justin accepted in stride.  “As for vision, I guess that depends on the Director.  Brett’s been really cool about keeping to what we want.”

“Sometimes you get a lucky break, but you can’t always pick and choose your projects.  They come, you take ‘em.  There are a lot of art departments and only so many movies to go around.”  Marco pulled another book.  “Here’s a good one on camera placement.”

“I’m placing cameras?” Justin quirked.

“You’re learning about filmmaking,” Marco firmed, plopped the book on Justin’s stack.  “And while you’re doing THAT, maybe you can tell me a little about comic books.”

Justin smiled at a flashback to his own comic education – Michael dumping a stack in his arms at 3 AM and saying: Just look at the pictures.  “There really isn’t much to tell.”

“So you’re gonna hold out on me?”

“Course not,” Justin chuckled.  “It’s just…compared to all THIS,” he raised the stack, “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Try me.”

“Okay,” Justin tipped his head.  “Is there a comic book section anywhere around here?”

Marco split a satisfied smile.  “With all the super-hero movies out?  I’m sure there is.”

That decided, both men turned and scouted the signage.

In rural West Virginia…

Brian opened his eyes to a close-up of white paint on asphalt, a nagging sting in his upper left arm and vague disorientation.  What the fuck happened, and where AM I?  He forced himself to sit up and slowly sharpen on his surroundings: a Stop sign, endless trees casting long late-day shadows.  Fuck.  I’m sitting in the middle of a goddamn highway.  Pro – it’s so deserted, nobody ran over me.  Con – Where the fuck is my car and how the fuck do I get out of here?

He hand-wiped dirt from the side of his face and felt for cuts or scrapes.  Breathed a silent Thank-you.  No damage.  Next he sloughed off his jacket to his short-sleeved shirt, observed his bicep and touched two purplish dots too far apart to be a snakebite.  Thank-you again.  But what WAS that?  Analyze it later.  Priority One, get off the fucking road.

Brian rubbed his arm, draped his jacket over it, stood and staggered to the berm.  He gripped the Stop sign for support and looked for signs of life.  Instinctively he hunted for his cell phone, found his pocket empty.  FUCK, he scrunched a face.  Had it in my hand when WHATEVER the fuck happened.  Has to be in the car.  The car.  He swiveled helplessly, did a quick pat-down of all his pockets, hissed, “My wallet.  I’ve been carjacked.  Fucking carjacked and ROBBED!” noticed his jacket’s Armani label and griped, “By morons with no fashion IQ.”

Eyeing skid marks which were likely the Vette’s, he followed their direction along the highway, occasionally glanced back while running mental inventory.  Car, wallet, phone, briefcase, laptop and my fucking C I files!

Hope sprang when he saw a newspaper caught in brush near the tree line ahead.  Maybe they pitched his briefcase.  Even the phone.  He hurried toward the paper while scanning for any sign of his phone and staying alert for passing cars.  He grappled through brush, reached for the paper, heard a rumbling sound and froze.

An alpha of another sort.

Don’t.  Move.  Stare direct.  Don’t run…don’t run…don’t fucking run.

Brian faces a huge tawny dog with head low, teeth bared, wild eyes and a muzzle smeared with blood.

Song: “Setback” by Fluke

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