too, and the life they’d planned for him. But he also knew that if he walked away, she’d wait under the Strangers on a Train sign for at least an hour before going home. And it was cold out there.
He’d never imagined, two and a half years later, that she’d be the one to leave. He’d always seen himself as the weaker link.
Now, head throbbing, Saraub switched the phone from one ear to the other. Its ringing had woken him this morning—make that, afternoon. And good thing. It was the CEO of Sunshine Studios.
Reception was bad. The connection was all static. But then he walked to the window, and Bob Stern’s voice returned. “Before we juice this thing up, I wanted to get you on the horn,” Bob said. Saraub could only make out half the words: “wan et you on e orn.”
“That sounds about right,” Saraub answered. A white dot floated over his left eye, like maybe he was having a Wild-Turkey-induced aneurism. He considered this briefly, then decided there wasn’t much he could do about it either way, so no point worrying.
“Just want to get a handle on where you see this going,” Bob said. He had a staccato way of talking, like he was stabbing his words with a pitchfork.
“I’ve got one or two interviews left, then I’ll start my final cut. My hope is for a small art house release. Ideally, after good word of mouth, it would grow from there. Anything you want to know, shoot. I’m happy to go over details,” Saraub answered. Then winced, because he might not make it through this call: Wild Turkey’s anti-Thanksgiving was gurgling its way through his stomach.
“How much you spend so far?” Bob asked, only it sounded like: “Ow uch end so far?” When Sunshine declared bankruptcy, a multinational called Servitus bought it in a fire sale and appointed Bob Stern its new CEO. He was an investment-banking executive who’d never produced a picture, but Servitus had made the gamble that he’d steer the studio back into the black. He’d been clearing off his predecessor’s desk last week when he found the proposal and reel for Maginot Lines, then called Saraub’s agent and asked if anyone had made an offer yet.
“I spent about $150,000,” Saraub said. “Since I had my own equipment, I mostly only had labor expenses, and I didn’t pay myself. I’ve got an assistant on salary, and I cover all our travel, but that’s it.” He opened the window, hoping to get better reception. “I can send you an itemization.”
“Naw,” Bob said. “You can worry about all that when you pitch it for my people. Your prospectus—or do they call them pitches here?—is pretty thorough. Cheap, too. Cheap is Jehovah, Allah, and Christ, all rolled into one. I just wanted to tell ya, I saw the rough cut, and I came. Man, love. I’m in love!” Bob gushed.
Saraub’s stomach gurgled. He’d heard about half Bob’s speech, and really hoped he’d correctly interpreted the rest. For three years, he’d been trying to get studio backing, but even his good leads had always turned sour. By now, most of his film-school friends had given up and gotten jobs in software development. But so far, he’d never let the turkeys get him down. One rejection, ten, one hundred. He smiled and said thank you so he didn’t burn bridges, ate an extra bag of chips, punched a wall, then kept going. He’d resolved to wait every last one of them out until he got the answer he wanted.
“I’m so glad to hear it, Bob,” Saraub said. “But seriously, anything you want clarity on, let me know.”
“No, no. That’s all fine. Sore—How do you call that—Sore-rub?” Bob asked.
“Yeah. Sore-rub. Thanks. No one ever gets that,” he said as he tripped over the metal IKEA lamp on the floor, then covered the receiver to muffle the grunt. Audrey had been gone five weeks, and already the place was a sty. The carpet was littered with take-out containers, spilled soy sauce, and, inexplicably, pennies. The thing about food in early fall is, it attracts flies. They landed on his face at night as he drifted to sleep, and every time that happened he’d think: It really wasn’t so bad when she moved my shit.
“It all sounds square. My worry here is experience,” Bob said. “You say you want to edit it all yourself, and we can cover the suite. But you’ve never worked on a feature before. No bullshit, kid.