They're Watching (2010) Read Free Page B

little more than a week of eighteen-hour days, Keith summoned me into his trailer to say, "I just don't think my character's dog would have a squeaky toy. I think he'd have, like, a knotted rope or something, you know?" To which I'd wearily replied, "The dog didn't complain, and he actually has talent."
    The friction that had built up between us gave way like a crumbling of tectonic plates. Jabbing a finger at me, Keith lost his footing on the rewrite pages he'd thrown on the floor and banged the counter with his well-defined jaw. When his handlers rushed in, he lied and said I'd hit him. There were major contusions. Having the star's face in that condition would mean shutting down the shoot for at least a few days. Given the Manhattan location, that would cost about a half a million per day.
    After realizing my lifelong dream, it had taken me just nine days to get fired.
    As I waited for the taxi to arrive to take me to the airport, Sasha Saranova empathized with me in her trailer. A sometime model from Bulgaria, she had a knee-weakening accent and natural eyelashes longer than most Hollywood prenups. Playing opposite Keith, she'd endured his personality in close-up. Her visit was motivated more out of self-concern than genuine friendship, but I was shaken and didn't mind the company.
    It was just then when Ariana called the set. I had been off the radar with her, not returning phone calls for three days, worried that if I heard her voice, I might just crumble under all the pressure. And Keith happened to be on hand to grab the phone from the production assistant. Still icing his swollen jaw, he told Ariana that Sasha and I had withdrawn to her trailer, as we did every evening after wrap, and our standing instructions were that we were not to be interrupted. "For anything." It may have been his best performance.
    Ironically, I left Ariana a message on her cell at almost the same time, breaking the news and reciting my flight information. Little did I know that Don Miller had dropped by with the enrollment paperwork from the Writers Guild, accidentally messengered to his doorstep. I'd imagined her many times in the sweaty, regretful aftermath, listening to the voice mail from me and putting my miserable explanation together with Keith's little ruse. A stomach-turning moment.
    I had a long and reflective flight home to L.A. Pale and shaken, Ariana was at the Terminal 4 baggage claim, waiting with even worse news. She never lied. At first I thought she was crying for me, but before I could talk, she said, "I slept with someone."
    I couldn't speak for the ride home. My throat felt like it was filled with sand. I drove; Ariana cried some more.
    The following afternoon I was served with my very first legal complaint, filed by Keith and the studio. Errors-and-omissions insurance, it turns out, doesn't cover tantrum-inflicted injuries, so someone had to be held accountable for the shutdown costs. Keith had sued me in order to back up his lie, and the studio, in turn, had jumped on board.
    Keith's version of the story was leaked to the tabloids, and I was smeared with such cold proficiency that I never felt the guillotine drop. I was a has-been before I'd really been, and my agent recommended a pricey lawyer and dropped me like a sauna rock.
    No matter how hard I tried, I could no longer find the interest to sit at the computer. My writer's block had become fixed and immobile, a boulder in the middle of that blank white page. I suppose I could no longer suspend disbelief.

    Julianne, a friend since we'd met eight years ago at a small-time film festival in Santa Ynez, had thrown me a lifeline--a job teaching screenwriting at Northridge University. After long days spent avoiding my stagnant home office, I was thankful for the opportunity. The students were entitled and excited, and their energy and the occasional spark of talent made teaching more than just a relief. It felt worthwhile. I'd been at it only a month, but I was starting to