From Can't You Get Along With Anyone? A Writer's Memoir, and a Tale of a Lost Surfer's Paradise by Allan C. Weisbecker

CHAPTER FIVE

 

You call this a movie script? Give me a couple $5,000-a-week writers and I'll write it myself.
--Joseph Pasternak,movie producer

 

The day Lisa and I ran into Barry at the super in Golfito, I picked up an International DHL package at the puddle jumper office, which is just down the way from the super. The package contained the new In Search of Captain Zero screenplay, the result of the studio/producer having hired another screenwriter, the cost of whose labors was shared by Quiksilver, the mega-buckola surf-wear company that was now pitching in with the tossing of more money into the Zero movie-deal fire.

But a good question: Why would the studio/producers et al send me the new screenplay, given my persona non grata status (to say the least) with them (and Hollywood in general) and indeed with Sean Penn (the other contractual producer), whose brain was no doubt still squirming with fervent wishes for "something that resembles death" to befall my sorry ass. (But holy shit Sean would have been pleased to know how my real life was going!)

The answer to this good question resides in timing. As any standup comedian worth his salt will tell you, with jokes, with comedy/humor/whatever, timing is everything: the efficacy of a punch line,i.e., whether you laugh or heckle the sap on stage, is determined by the timing with which it's delivered.

So in a sense, the for me sense, the punch line to the joke that was the Zero movie deal was at hand, and the timing was good for both my real life and our purposes here. See, the end of the last contractual option period was fast approaching (February 18, 2005), which meant that come that date the studio/producers would not have the option of a re-option unless I chose to give it to them via an addendum to our contract. If I refused the addendum, in order to retain the rights to my book they'd have to buy it outright, the remainder of the purchase price (after the option money already paid) being 140 grand. Some fairly serious money, certainly from my point of view.

Before I press on with further ridiculousness, I hope you'll let me off the greedy shitball motherfucker hook when I say that I just wanted to get as much money as possible out of this fiasco, the whole 140 grand being my goal. Although I coveted the money itself, at this point I also needed some sort of a victory in my life. I hope you understand.

In describing my Zero deal legal position as February 2005 rolled around, the phrase in the catbird seat comes to mind, although I had to play this exactly right. Evidence of my catbird position is that in about mid January I started hearing from the producer, chit-chatty calls and emails, affable in the extreme, as if all had gone fine and dandy between us in this fiasco. In her transparent attempts at bullshitting me into giving them the option addendum she assured me that I would love the new screenplay, since it stuck so close to my book - she had evidently forgotten my various voicings of the catch-22 that there is no movie in my book.

But the point being that when, out of the usual sort of curiosity, I asked to read the new screenplay, the producer couldn't very well refuse me since she was desperate to butter me up into giving them the option addendum.

So the screenplay arrives on the day Lisa and I run into Barry at the super in Golfito and there is even more timing and symmetry in this, which should make you suspicious that I'm diddling with facts, i.e., making up some stuff: You'll just have to trust me on this matter since although I have a witness to the following scene in Lisa, it's becoming increasingly difficult to picture her backing me up in any assertions I might make in this narrative. The added timing and symmetry: While Lisa was at a munioffice taking care of paperwork, with me waiting in the car, the producer called my cell for more bullshitting and to see if I got the new screenplay they'd DHL-ed. Lisa returned to the car sometime during the following:

Yep, I said to the producer, the screenplay is right here on my lap. I hadn't opened the package yet, figuring to stretch out on the living room couch at home, open it then, get the effect of its contents in one fell blast, so to speak - hence it would be better if I was lying down at the time. I mean I knew what would be in there, more or less. As the producer started in on how much the other writer loved and respected my book, plus me as a writer, I was inspired to open the package, figuring to take a glance at a random page as sort of a goofball accompaniment to the producer's ramblings. I didn't get any further than the title page. There were two mistakes on it; three, actually. Again: On the title page.

The writer, as part of his respect for me, had misspelled my last name in crediting me as the author of… "the novel"blah blahand so forth. Novel? My book of course is not a novel, which means fiction (right: made up); it's a memoir, nonfiction (right: whatever that means), a point that's pretty hard to miss if you're paying any attention whatsoever while reading it. So that's two mistakes. The third one is that in film credits the convention is you use the phrase "From the Book by"; you don't use "Novel" or "Memoir" or "Complete Crock of Shit" (I'm thinking of James Frey's book, should the movie deal I've heard about come to fruition) or whatever, in any case.

After my laughter subsided I pointed out all this to the producer (minus the James Frey aspect, since his book hadn't yet been exposed as a complete crock of shit), adding that three fuck-ups on the title page is not a good sign right out of the gate. I was able to laugh at the ridiculousness of this because I had not yet run into Barry at the super. That fucked-up turn of events would happen in a few minutes. So my mood had not yet gone to dark and borderline murderous.

As it turned out, it took a while to get through the new Zero screenplay, my being busy with border trips to arrange for the rearrangement of the love of my life's countenance and passing out while waiting for Hector's understudy; then the planning of my O.K. Corral extravaganza, plus the matter of the coming squatter invasion, plus being the eyes and ears of The Waterman Who Would Be King, plus keeping track of Logan and Ron's rumored deal-making, which maybe had to do with my assassination - by Hector's understudy for still more symmetry? Regarding this matter, I was still vacillating between not thinking about being assassinated and not caring if I was assassinated if I did happen to think about it; that fine distinction.

Right: Plus getting through the day.

Still another Meanwhile: My sex drive slid way over to the left-hand end of that spectrum after the Barry scene at the super. As sick a puppy as I was regarding sex with Lisa, I wasn't sick enough of a puppy to get past the ex-pro V-ball-player's dick images that would surface regarding what had transpired on my bed. The sporadic sex Lisa and I did have would usually be of this sort: It's the dark of night and we're in bed and I'm trying to mind my own business (meaning not conjuring specific ex-pro V-ball-player dick images), and suddenly Lisa is down there under the sheet rooting around and pretty soon locates my sorry-ass dick and with the expertise gleaned from her vast experience - and my dick having a mind of his goddamn own - she eventually gets the desired response and is grinding away on top, with me trying to get to the profound sense of fatigue and loss of essence as quickly as possible, which I do. Lisa immediately slides off saying, "Gotcha!" in obvious satisfaction, not of the sexual sort, but that she's been successful in causing me the loss of some of my essence.

I suspect that whatever fantasies I may have had during these trysts were of shootouts at O.K. Corral extravaganzas and, possibly, Doomsday Machines. Memory fails. (Yes, we'd come a ways since Lisa's "otherworldly" claim days, or, for that matter, me as a Sex God not wanting to think about mastodons after going boom. Or, for thatmatter, my assertion that with Lisa, this is it.)

During all of the above I exchanged calls on the coming Zero deadline with Steven, my treacherous, big-mouth attorney, whom I had still not fired. In fact, given all of the above (with some and-so-forths thrown in), I had nixed altogether the idea of firing him. Through the process of elimination I was starting to view Steven as my best buddy.

Steven's plan was to try to extort (not the word he used) another 10k or so out of the studio/producers for an option extension addendum. He doubted that they'd cough up the whole 140. This after the studio called and suggested, as they had exactly one year previously, that I extend the option for free. I'll not subject you to my reaction to this one. (A minor bright note/bulletin from Steven: the executive who had written the memo extolling the director's outline as "soulful" and possessing "all the elements" had been canned. I had spoken to his replacement, however. Predictably, there was a shortage of wattage in getting his bulb to glow.)

Hold on. I forgot to mention my view of the new screenplay. How to best accomplish this in the fewest words? Try this: The title page was the screenplay's strongest element, for the humor in it, if unintentional. The worst screenplay in the history of the world assessment again comes to mind, meaning that the extant screen adaptations of my two books - not counting my own - were in a dead heat for the honor.

In scheming how to best extort as much money as possible from this fiasco, I quizzed the producer regarding who, outside her little circle of idiots (not my exact words), had read the new screenplay. This was a vital question. No one, she said, to my relief. The new screenplay "needed a polish" before dissemination, she added, which the other writer was currently working on.

It needed a polish? To return to a Titanic allusion, this was like claiming that the ship, if raised, would only need some fresh paint before its next try at a trans-Atlantic crossing.

The producer went on to inform me that after the polish they were going to send the new screenplay to a slew of Hollywood mega-folks, including Brad Pitt, with the notion of a Pitt/Penn match up. Hey, maybe there would be conflict between the two stars in deciding who plays my old buddy, Captain Zero (who, perhaps fittingly, had lost his mind) and who plays me (ditto, come to think of it).

Speaking of minds (and having lost them), mine wandered to a possible Variety headline:

Pitt Plus Penn Pugilize Pursuing Pal Pic Part!

Thing was, given her agenda (wheedling a cheap option addendum), the producer could not have done a dumber-ass thing than issue the Brad Pitt bulletin. In fact, the bulletin may have cost the whole gang of them $140,000. See, when I combined the Brad Pitt fantasy with the concept that no one outside her little circle of idiots had yet read the new screenplay, I realized that if I stuck fast and demanded the whole 140k, they'd give it to me. This is what I mean by the timingbeing perfect for my greed-driven purposes:As soon as Pitt's people or any people read the new screenplay and responded with something along the lines of "Whaddare ya, nuts?" a dose of reality might actually set in, making the coughing up of another 140k less likely.

By the way, assuming there's some bizarro alternative universe out there where this movie actually gets made, my preference in who will play me leans toward Pitt, since Penn, given his sentiments toward my sorry ass, would likely go into the tank. Meaning in his playing me.

But the final upshot: I told Steven to put on his lawyer game face, tell the fuckers that no addendum was in the offing and to put up or shut up, and by God they did. On February 19th, 2005, a check for $140,000 arrived at my accountant's office in North Carolina, to augment the $200,000 they'd already paid me for my once-brilliant adaptation, plus options.

Aside from my dizzy spells and double vision and agoraphobia and the all of the above distractions in my life, and given that my mental state was a sandwich or two short of a picnic, that I was able to rally and outthink some of Hollywood's finest minds, including that of Steven, my treacherous, big mouth attorney, was pretty impressive, no?

But I wasn't yet finished with Hollywood in terms of greed-driven extortion; I was out of my mind and rolling now on a bunch of levels, aside from the O.K. Corral extravaganza one. By way of explanation, a question: What about my deal to write the adaptation of my other book, Cosmic Banditos? It was now February, 2005, some six months after my meetings with John Cusack's people at New Crime Productions (plus my brink hovering at the Stanford particle accelerator). Shouldn't I have long ago finished the adaptation and shouldn't the movie itself currently be playing in a theater near you?

What's up with that deal?

If you'll remember, on my stateside trip six months previously I'd pitched my various bizarre thoughts on how to reinvent Banditos for the screen and had been given the okay by Cusack's people at New Crime. The plan was that I'd put that stuff in writing in the form of a preliminary outline. I somehow did so (no mean feat considering… right, all of the above) and emailed it to them in mid-September. Contractually and decorum-wise, they should have gotten back to me with notes within a couple of weeks, plus a go-ahead to start the screenplay itself. Guess what? Now, in February - again, six months, half a year later - I had not yet heard from them. Not a word.

If you're thinking I must have gotten cranky at this added example of Hollywood nonsense - think again. The last thing I needed during this period was a go-ahead to write a goofball comedy about The Meaning of Life. Without a recap of events since the previous summer/fall, which might raise the final page count here into four figures, let's just say that my mood was not exactly conducive to comedic thinking. Imagine going through election night with Clay then rising and shining all amped to write howler scene sequences and dialog about The Meaning of Life. Ditto with visions of strangling Doc Bruce and Lisa's Linda Blair act (while my sabotaged cell phone buzzed and blinked in my pocket) dancing in my head. Enough said, drift-wise.

So, that the folks at New Crime had somehow just flat forgot about their deal with my sorry ass - aside from being ridiculous - was a gift from the gods, narrative and otherwise. But now, in February of 2005, with my mood edging ever to the right-hand end of the demented spectrum, and with my Zero deal victory still fresh, I had Steven call New Crime to demand payment for the Banditos first draft screenplay that not only had I not written, but had been - and continued to be - incapable of writing.

A ballsy move, no? And New Crime coughed it up - another $50,000 or so going into my coffers - along with an apology for their tardiness. Even then, and certainly reviewing my behavior now as I write, my move, though legal, seems questionable. I mean, as I say, I liked the people at New Crime. (Plus, as you'll see, Cusack and New Crime subsequently did me a favor without which this book might not even exist.)

What can I say, except that I was not in the mood to cut anyone any slack.

Not only all this, fiscally, but I'd just sold two parcels of Pavones land Lisa and I had invested in, to the tune of another couple hundred grand. You'd think being financially flush would raise my spirits at least a smidgeon, no?

No. Or, rather, only indirectly. One day, as a way of getting through the day, I commenced work on a list of… no, not of women I've had sex with - that one was frozen-stuck at 119, the figure having gone up by one due to a change of heart about the alpha whore who semi-raped me, who was now included in the total - but shitball motherfuckers who, with all my money, I could have professionally assassinated. My thought was that I'd hunt up Hector's understudy and make a lollapalooza of a package deal with him -- assuming he didn't assassinate me first via a deal with Logan/Ron.

Even limiting the list to people who'd annoyed me just since 2000, the turn of the millennium, I soon realized that Hector's understudy would probably have to do some farming out. Plus, with how long he'd be on my payroll, he'd probably hit me up for a dental plan.

To include my list here would be ridiculous, in terms of clarity and brevity (especially), as well as rhythm and pizzazz. I will say that I left out heads of state and corporate CEOs, figuring they would be above Hector's understudy's proficiency level - Bob Woodward was the closest to these types who made the final hit list. (Oprah would have been on it had I known at the time that she was going to stand behind the essential truth of James Frey's book.) Still, the fucking thing was endless. Even after I crossed out all the Hollywood shitball motherfuckers (figuring that they were too dumb-ass to be held morally responsible for their behavior), it occurred to me that it would take a fortune more along the lines of Bill Gates' to get it all done, even considering Hector's understudy's already low per-hit going rate, without any package discount I might negotiate.

I exaggerate only slightly.

But I did blow off a little steam with my list, which was a positive.

So now February rolled into early March, and Barry continued to make himself scarce. (All this shit transpired in under two weeks: Busy, busy, no?) The one time he was home alone, a weekend with his workers off, Lisa was off somewhere, doing whatever fucked-up thing she was doing. And another time when it looked like conditions were perfect and, armed to the teeth, I stumbled in Barry's direction (I was having a dizzy, double-visioned day), a carload of his gringo friends arrived before I reached his property line.

But I persevered. I kept my Browning 12 and S & W .38 well-oiled and within easy reach, Lisa figuring this was related to the coming squatter invasion. I'd occasionally take the Browning 12 out and fire a round into the ground. It had misfired on me once, so I was worried. It's hard to think of a greater humiliation than a shotgun misfire while you're trying to blow a hole in the house of a shitball motherfucker who fucked the love of your life in your own bed. There's some depressing symbolism in that sort of turn of events, if you get my Freudian drift.

So as February became March my O.K. Corral extravaganza waited to happen. Waited until Something Happened Next, a lightning bolt that would change everything.

From Can't You Get Along With Anyone? A Writer's Memoir, and a Tale of a Lost Surfer's Paradise by Allan C. Weisbecker

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Sean and Me, Part 4 The Spooky Art