![ADDITIONAL WRITING
So there I was, standing on the stage next to Rachael Leigh Cook before a packed, wildly appreciative audience at the Sundance Film Festival. Flashbulbs were popping. Next to Rachael, another star, Johnny Galecki, gestured to my writing partner Wade and me, “Who are those guys?” Rachael shot him a stern look, “They’re the writers.”
We wrote the film as a favor. Kevin, an up-and-coming director who was attached to direct one of our feature scripts, called one day asking for help. He had an idea for a short film and wondered if Wade and I would “take a pass” on the script.
Wade was skeptical at first, but I thought it would be a great way to demonstrate how well the three of us could work together. If we pulled off a quality short, it would only strengthen the viability of Kevin (as a first time feature director) and of us (as first time feature writers). Kevin faxed the script the very next day.
However, after a cursory glance, we realized certain things were notably missing from Kevin’s “draft.” Things like structure, plot, snappy dialogue… even basic fundamental formatting. Kevin had a nice concept and a few good sight gags, but did he have a short film here? No.
For the next week, we rewrote Kevin’s entire “script.” We added characters. We added dialogue and tone and clever punchlines. Hell, we even added a cat. Kevin was pleased, and soon cameras were rented, actors cast, and we were filming the sucker on 35mm.
About a month later, Kevin called, ecstatic: “We got into Sundance!”
DANCE TICKET
It turned out, Robert Redford had even better news for us. In addition to our Golden Ticket to Park City, our little short would also be premiering in a prime slot before a feature starring Rachael Leigh Cook and Johnny Galecki. Sundance received over 3,500 shorts that year and selected only 90. From the 90, only five were chosen to screen before features. We’d lucked into one of the highest-profile spots of the entire festival.
We reveled in our good fortune, but the exciting news was eventually undermined by the ego-shattering discovery that we wouldn’t be receiving complimentary tickets to see our own film. Kevin would. Sure. He was the director. The production company that produced our film would, of course. They were producers. But we were the writers. We would have to purchase tickets just like everybody else. I’m pretty sure the second assistant grip’s sister’s boyfriend gets better treatment.
The morning the box office opened, I eagerly logged onto the official Sundance website, credit card in hand. But so did the rest of Hollywood, and within seconds the Sundance website crashed. When I finally got the home page to load, I discovered our short was SOLD OUT.
Every day. Every screening. Sold out.
We would have to try to get wait-list tickets in Park City.
GIVE ME A LITTLE CREDIT
While packing up the car for the trek to Utah, our lawyer called. She’d watched our film and was confused. “Funny short. Any clue why you’re not credited as the writers?”
My heart stopped. “What…?”
Our lawyer continued, “Yeah, the credits read, ‘Written and Directed by Kevin Lee.’ Toward the end of the crawl, I did find you guys listed under something called ‘additional writing.’”
For several seconds neither one of us spoke. Our first film was days away from premiering and we were already getting screwed. “Additional writing?” What the hell was that?
My face pulsed with anger. Either Kevin, or the company that produced the short, had removed our names without telling us. It was too late now. In less than 10 hours, we would be on our way to Sundance without tickets to a short film that we apparently didn’t write.
THE WAIT LIST
While walking down Park City’s quaint Main Street searching for the theater that would be premiering our film (without us?) later that day, Wade and I tried to remain optimistic.
“What if we stood outside wearing a big sign that reads, ‘We Wrote This Movie And We Can’t Get Tickets’?”
“Or Credit… ” he added.
Wade and I never had the intention of standing outside wearing large sandwich boards. Or at least Wade never did. Instead, we’d arrive at the theater way in advance and secure the very first place in the wait-list line. However, when we reached the Prospector Square Theatre, over 40 people were already hunkered down in front of us. We got in line.
Things went from bad to worse when Wade spotted the director of the feature that our short was attached to. The director was walking down the line trying to buy wait-list passes for his family. The showing was oversold and the director was explaining, “My family’s here, but I couldn’t get enough tickets. I know this sounds crazy, but it’s incredibly hard to get seats, even if you made the movie.”
Wade and I shot each other a look. Doesn’t sound that crazy…
A few people agreed to help the director out, but most had been waiting for hours and were willing to wait a few more. When the director reached us, he was looking rather haggard.
“Hey, guys. Can you help me out?”
Wade and I exchanged a glance, “We’d love to, but… well, we wrote the other film.”
“The short? And you’re sitting out here?” The director looked genuinely surprised. “That… sucks.”
FORTUNES TURNED
What happened next was a blur.
We’d been waiting for six solid hours when we heard, “Anyone here need tickets?” A frumpy man had approached the wait-list line, oblivious. In one gloved hand, he was holding up TWO tickets.
“YES!” Wade screamed, ridiculously loud, and he leapt at the man. Dozens of otherswere already closing in, like rabid zombies fighting for a piece of the last uninfected brain. I shoved a 15-year-old down and hurled a wad of cash at the man. It bounced off his chest as Wade plucked the tickets from his gloved grasp. Within seconds, we were ducking under the ropes and leaving the madness of the wait-list line behind.
As we walked toward the section for ticket-holders, the wait-list line erupted into a volcano of indignant fury. “It’s not fair that he sold the tickets to people in the middle! Those guys don’t deserve those tickets!”
Ignoring the rancor, we approached the feature director, who was chatting with his family. He was happy we got in and even happier still when we handed him our wait-list passes. “We won’t be needing these. Hope your family gets in.”
“I owe you,” he said.
The theater doors opened, and the previously calm ticket-holders made a mad dash for the entrance: rowdy, careless, frenzied, embodying the spirit of a good, old-fashioned soccer riot.
We grabbed two seats right in the center. A few rows ahead, I spotted Kevin schmoozing it up. We made eye contact and Kevin grinned, showing no remorse, even giving me a “thumbs up.” I forced a smile and offered him a peace sign.
“That’s one more finger than he deserves,” Wade grumbled.
Moments later, the lights dimmed as a Sundance employee introduced the films. The theater was over its capacity, and people stood against the walls along both sides. As the man finished speaking, the crowd burst into applause and the film projector kicked on.
PAYBACK
“Before the Q and A, I want to do something that never happens at these festivals.” The feature director was at the podium addressing the enthusiastic crowd. “This never happens, but, could the writers and director of the short that kicked this evening off come up here and join me?”
The audience broke into applause as Wade and I tentatively rose from our seats. We hadn’t asked for anything, but the director clearly wanted to pay us back for helping his family get in to see his film. His gesture would work brilliantly as sweet justice, forcing Kevin to acknowledge us, in front of this giant crowd, as the guys who, you know, actually wrote his hit short. We reached the front of the stage at the same time as Kevin.
“This is crazy… ” he muttered, his normal demeanor of confidence now undermined by something resembling shame.
“Yeah. Congratulations,” I said. Then I strode onto the stage, empowered.
Meanwhile, the director had invited the cast of his feature to join us. Rachael Leigh Cook and Johnny Galecki rose and took the stage as the Q and A began.
So, there I was, standing on the stage next to Rachael Leigh Cook before a packed, wildly appreciative audience at Sundance. We’d overcome the odds. We’d gotten tickets. We’d gotten seats. And while our names hadn’t been seen on the screen, we were now getting credit the old-fashioned way.
Next to Rachael, Johnny Galecki gestured flippantly toward Wade and me, “Who are those guys?”
Rachael shot him a stern look, “They’re the writers.”
Damn right.
© Aaron Ginsburg
________________________________________________________
Additional Writing - Originally published in Script Magazine’s March/April Issue [2009]](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m40sfwOckp1qzg035o1_1280.jpg)
ADDITIONAL WRITING
So there I was, standing on the stage next to Rachael Leigh Cook before a packed, wildly appreciative audience at the Sundance Film Festival. Flashbulbs were popping. Next to Rachael, another star, Johnny Galecki, gestured to my writing partner Wade and me, “Who are those guys?” Rachael shot him a stern look, “They’re the writers.”
We wrote the film as a favor. Kevin, an up-and-coming director who was attached to direct one of our feature scripts, called one day asking for help. He had an idea for a short film and wondered if Wade and I would “take a pass” on the script.
Wade was skeptical at first, but I thought it would be a great way to demonstrate how well the three of us could work together. If we pulled off a quality short, it would only strengthen the viability of Kevin (as a first time feature director) and of us (as first time feature writers). Kevin faxed the script the very next day.
However, after a cursory glance, we realized certain things were notably missing from Kevin’s “draft.” Things like structure, plot, snappy dialogue… even basic fundamental formatting. Kevin had a nice concept and a few good sight gags, but did he have a short film here? No.
For the next week, we rewrote Kevin’s entire “script.” We added characters. We added dialogue and tone and clever punchlines. Hell, we even added a cat. Kevin was pleased, and soon cameras were rented, actors cast, and we were filming the sucker on 35mm.
About a month later, Kevin called, ecstatic: “We got into Sundance!”
DANCE TICKET
It turned out, Robert Redford had even better news for us. In addition to our Golden Ticket to Park City, our little short would also be premiering in a prime slot before a feature starring Rachael Leigh Cook and Johnny Galecki. Sundance received over 3,500 shorts that year and selected only 90. From the 90, only five were chosen to screen before features. We’d lucked into one of the highest-profile spots of the entire festival.
We reveled in our good fortune, but the exciting news was eventually undermined by the ego-shattering discovery that we wouldn’t be receiving complimentary tickets to see our own film. Kevin would. Sure. He was the director. The production company that produced our film would, of course. They were producers. But we were the writers. We would have to purchase tickets just like everybody else. I’m pretty sure the second assistant grip’s sister’s boyfriend gets better treatment.
The morning the box office opened, I eagerly logged onto the official Sundance website, credit card in hand. But so did the rest of Hollywood, and within seconds the Sundance website crashed. When I finally got the home page to load, I discovered our short was SOLD OUT.
Every day. Every screening. Sold out.
We would have to try to get wait-list tickets in Park City.
GIVE ME A LITTLE CREDIT
While packing up the car for the trek to Utah, our lawyer called. She’d watched our film and was confused. “Funny short. Any clue why you’re not credited as the writers?”
My heart stopped. “What…?”
Our lawyer continued, “Yeah, the credits read, ‘Written and Directed by Kevin Lee.’ Toward the end of the crawl, I did find you guys listed under something called ‘additional writing.’”
For several seconds neither one of us spoke. Our first film was days away from premiering and we were already getting screwed. “Additional writing?” What the hell was that?
My face pulsed with anger. Either Kevin, or the company that produced the short, had removed our names without telling us. It was too late now. In less than 10 hours, we would be on our way to Sundance without tickets to a short film that we apparently didn’t write.
THE WAIT LIST
While walking down Park City’s quaint Main Street searching for the theater that would be premiering our film (without us?) later that day, Wade and I tried to remain optimistic.
“What if we stood outside wearing a big sign that reads, ‘We Wrote This Movie And We Can’t Get Tickets’?”
“Or Credit… ” he added.
Wade and I never had the intention of standing outside wearing large sandwich boards. Or at least Wade never did. Instead, we’d arrive at the theater way in advance and secure the very first place in the wait-list line. However, when we reached the Prospector Square Theatre, over 40 people were already hunkered down in front of us. We got in line.
Things went from bad to worse when Wade spotted the director of the feature that our short was attached to. The director was walking down the line trying to buy wait-list passes for his family. The showing was oversold and the director was explaining, “My family’s here, but I couldn’t get enough tickets. I know this sounds crazy, but it’s incredibly hard to get seats, even if you made the movie.”
Wade and I shot each other a look. Doesn’t sound that crazy…
A few people agreed to help the director out, but most had been waiting for hours and were willing to wait a few more. When the director reached us, he was looking rather haggard.
“Hey, guys. Can you help me out?”
Wade and I exchanged a glance, “We’d love to, but… well, we wrote the other film.”
“The short? And you’re sitting out here?” The director looked genuinely surprised. “That… sucks.”
FORTUNES TURNED
What happened next was a blur.
We’d been waiting for six solid hours when we heard, “Anyone here need tickets?” A frumpy man had approached the wait-list line, oblivious. In one gloved hand, he was holding up TWO tickets.
“YES!” Wade screamed, ridiculously loud, and he leapt at the man. Dozens of otherswere already closing in, like rabid zombies fighting for a piece of the last uninfected brain. I shoved a 15-year-old down and hurled a wad of cash at the man. It bounced off his chest as Wade plucked the tickets from his gloved grasp. Within seconds, we were ducking under the ropes and leaving the madness of the wait-list line behind.
As we walked toward the section for ticket-holders, the wait-list line erupted into a volcano of indignant fury. “It’s not fair that he sold the tickets to people in the middle! Those guys don’t deserve those tickets!”
Ignoring the rancor, we approached the feature director, who was chatting with his family. He was happy we got in and even happier still when we handed him our wait-list passes. “We won’t be needing these. Hope your family gets in.”
“I owe you,” he said.
The theater doors opened, and the previously calm ticket-holders made a mad dash for the entrance: rowdy, careless, frenzied, embodying the spirit of a good, old-fashioned soccer riot.
We grabbed two seats right in the center. A few rows ahead, I spotted Kevin schmoozing it up. We made eye contact and Kevin grinned, showing no remorse, even giving me a “thumbs up.” I forced a smile and offered him a peace sign.
“That’s one more finger than he deserves,” Wade grumbled.
Moments later, the lights dimmed as a Sundance employee introduced the films. The theater was over its capacity, and people stood against the walls along both sides. As the man finished speaking, the crowd burst into applause and the film projector kicked on.
PAYBACK
“Before the Q and A, I want to do something that never happens at these festivals.” The feature director was at the podium addressing the enthusiastic crowd. “This never happens, but, could the writers and director of the short that kicked this evening off come up here and join me?”
The audience broke into applause as Wade and I tentatively rose from our seats. We hadn’t asked for anything, but the director clearly wanted to pay us back for helping his family get in to see his film. His gesture would work brilliantly as sweet justice, forcing Kevin to acknowledge us, in front of this giant crowd, as the guys who, you know, actually wrote his hit short. We reached the front of the stage at the same time as Kevin.
“This is crazy… ” he muttered, his normal demeanor of confidence now undermined by something resembling shame.
“Yeah. Congratulations,” I said. Then I strode onto the stage, empowered.
Meanwhile, the director had invited the cast of his feature to join us. Rachael Leigh Cook and Johnny Galecki rose and took the stage as the Q and A began.
So, there I was, standing on the stage next to Rachael Leigh Cook before a packed, wildly appreciative audience at Sundance. We’d overcome the odds. We’d gotten tickets. We’d gotten seats. And while our names hadn’t been seen on the screen, we were now getting credit the old-fashioned way.
Next to Rachael, Johnny Galecki gestured flippantly toward Wade and me, “Who are those guys?”
Rachael shot him a stern look, “They’re the writers.”
Damn right.
© Aaron Ginsburg
________________________________________________________
Additional Writing - Originally published in Script Magazine’s March/April Issue [2009]
![GO WEST, JESSE JAMES
During our time in Hollywood, Wade, my writing partner, and I have had our fair share of painfully horrible business meetings. It comes with the territory. We assumed we were prepared for pretty much anything.
We had not taken into account Tom Fernet.
Tom had been given our names by a mutual acquaintance and called me up to discuss an opportunity. He explained that he had an idea for a film about the outlaw Jesse James and was looking to pay decent money to have a treatment written. He was a well-spoken man, intelligent and articulate, if not a little eccentric. His words seeped through the phone with a strong southern lilt, Virginia born and bred. Not wanting to pass up any chance to make money writing, I told Tom that Wade and I were interested.
His office was located on a trashed block in the more seedy section of Venice, tucked snugly between a bargain locksmith and what was once a small bakery (now a gutted, abandoned building). Wade and I exchanged an apprehensive glance, and then I knocked. The door opened immediately, as if Tom had been waiting for us right on the other side for hours.
He stood before us, a younger, much-less handsome Charlton Heston look-alike. Probably in his mid-fifties, his wild white hair sprouted from his scalp, refusing to obey his command. When he grinned, I saw that his teeth were crooked and brown, with several gummy gaps where entire teeth were missing.
“Come in, come in!” Tom bellowed in his warm Southern drawl.
We stepped inside Tom’s office, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Every square inch of every single wall in the entire office was completely wallpapered with photographs. Not photographs of Jesse James, as one might imagine from a Jesse James enthusiast. No, the quilt of scrappy images blanketing the room was comprised entirely of women. Mostly celebrities. Mostly in sexy positions. Floor to ceiling. Many overlapping. The sheer number of things pinned and stapled and taped recklessly to the walls instantly created a chaotic, claustrophobic overtone. The pictures were ripped from their original sources without precision, and hundreds of frayed, torn edges flapped on the walls as if the room were breathing. It was as if I were being attacked by a rabid copy of People Magazine. Tom didn’t say anything to clarify this “hobby” and instead said, proudly, “Okay, the first stop on our tour,” and pointed gingerly to a small sepia-toned photo right in front of us.
“This is Jesse James at age sixteen, which is pretty much what he looked like during the one year he lived in California. This is what I want our movie to be about. We’ll call it: Go West, Jesse James.”
I tried my best to look at the browning photo of the young Jesse James, I really did, but the picture was tacked below a huge spread of Britney Spears in a compromising position and just above a large color photo of a scantily dressed Christina Aguilera torn carelessly from the local newspaper. Also stapled to the wall in random places, I noticed a handful of Polaroids of young women, smiling and waving at the camera. I made a mental note not to touch anything…
In a desperate attempt to get the meeting started, I asked Tom what he did for a living.
“I do a lot of work in the beverage industry.” Tom explained. “In fact, I’m about to introduce a new beverage to the Southern California marketplace.”
“A new beverage?”
This was a question I knew I’d regret later and Tom was up out of his chair. “I’ll show ya.” He rummaged around a makeshift desk and returned with a plastic bottle that looked like Cherry 7-Up. He handed it to me, a proud inventor.
I had to study at the label twice to make sure I was reading it correctly. Unfortunately, I was. Tom’s new beverage was called: SUM PUSSY.
“We’re gonna market it in low-end gentlemen’s clubs. I got high hopes.”
“I can’t help but notice you’ve neglected to include a list of ingredients.” Wade commented, glancing at the back of the bottle.
Tom’s smile tightened, “It’s an energy drink.”
“Ah.”
“Now, before we git started thinkin’ about our movie, we should discuss our business arrangement. I got a deal in place already with Douglas James, the last living descendant of the Jesse James lineage. I own fifty percent of this project, and Douglas owns fifty percent. And you guys don’t git to walk in here off the street and git fifty percent right off the bat. Although, you write the treatment and maybe even write the script, I could change the deal around. Actually, I’d be willing to give you guys fifty percent of the deal right now, and I’ll share my fifty percent with Douglas, maybe. Though, I won’t give him half, because he hasn’t done shit. Maybe ten percent for Doug, forty percent for me, and you guys could split fifty percent.”
The question in my mind at this point was fifty percent of WHAT? What in the hell was this crazy old man talking about?
Before Wade or I could even comment on the worrisome aspects of Tom’s proposed “business arrangement,” he handed us thick packet about Jesse James and began what can only be described as a college-level lecture on the infamous outlaw. After thirty minutes had passed, Tom’s seminar had not yet reached the era when Jesse James was actually in California.
“Excuse me, Tom, could we possibly skip ahead?” Wade requested.
Tom looked mildly confused by this interruption. “Uh…okay.”
Wade flipped ahead in Tom’s handout. “I’m trying to picture what exactly you want this film to be about, and I’m trying to imagine what Jesse James did in California. So I was looking ahead and I happened to find a section of your outline labeled ‘What Jesse James Did In California.’ I just wanted to ask a couple questions about this section.”
Tom nodded, “Sure.”
Wade continued, dryly, “Okay, the first bullet point under this section reads ‘He punched cows.’”
Startled by this, I leaned over and glanced at the outline in Wade’s hands. Sure enough, there it was.
“Yep.” Tom said. Clearly this bullet point needed no explanation.
“He punched cows?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know. He was a cowpuncher.”
Before I could explain that no, I wasn’t familiar with that turn of phrase, Wade interrupted again, “Okay, fine, whatever. My real question is this second bullet point here. ‘He didn’t do any outlawin’.”
“That’s right.”
“So, are we to understand that during the year in which Jesse James lived in California, he didn’t rob any banks, or—“
“Nope. He didn’t do any outlawin’ at all. He lived with his uncle, worked on cattle drive, and tried to go straight.”
“I see.” Wade said, folding the outline in half. Our man Tom had somehow ferreted out the most boring year in the short life of Jesse James, notorious American Outlaw, and now wanted to make it into a movie. Perhaps we could call it, The Year Jesse James Took Off.
“So, how does that sound? Do we have ourselves a deal?” Tom asked, sincerely.
Wade scratched his head, “So… you want to hire us to write the treatment?”
Tom’s face squinted up instantly. “Okay, so, look: there’s no money. But that’s why I’d be willing to give you fifty percent. You can own part of this deal, and we’ll all collect when it gets made.”
This revelation was our cue to rise and get the hell out of crazy town. We thanked Tom for his time, and told him we would discuss the project amongst ourselves and get back to him shortly. As we walked towards the front door, which was wallpapered with images of Kristi Yamaguchi ice skating, Winona Ryder candidly walking along a private beach, Pamela Anderson naked, and a young Reese Witherspoon from Cruel Intentions, Tom blurted out, “Have you ever heard Billy Gashade’s Ballad of Jesse James?”
“No.” I sighed.
Then Tom, inexplicably, began to sing: “Jesse James was a lad that killed many a man. He robbed the Glendale train…”
“Glendale, California?” I asked, suddenly hoping that maybe we’d finally found the one fricking thing Jesse James actually did on this coast.
“Glendale, Missouri.”
“Nice meeting you, Tom.” I extended my hand.
Most of the drive back was in utter silence, punctuated by the faint smell of antifreeze burning in my engine: the foreshadowing of my radiator cracking later that evening – a fitting finale to the humiliating day.
“Wow.” I said, after a long pause.
“Yeah.” Wade replied.
“Sorry about that.” I felt responsible for dragging poor Wade through the fun house.
Wade smiled, “Well, we may not have landed a writing job today, but we did get a character for our next serial killer movie.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “And I don’t know about you, but I sure could go for Sum Pussy right now.”
© Aaron Ginsburg
________________________________________________________
Go West, Jesse James - Originally published in Script Magazine’s January/February Issue [2007]](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m3o01eerW31qzg035o1_1280.jpg)
GO WEST, JESSE JAMES
During our time in Hollywood, Wade, my writing partner, and I have had our fair share of painfully horrible business meetings. It comes with the territory. We assumed we were prepared for pretty much anything.
We had not taken into account Tom Fernet.
Tom had been given our names by a mutual acquaintance and called me up to discuss an opportunity. He explained that he had an idea for a film about the outlaw Jesse James and was looking to pay decent money to have a treatment written. He was a well-spoken man, intelligent and articulate, if not a little eccentric. His words seeped through the phone with a strong southern lilt, Virginia born and bred. Not wanting to pass up any chance to make money writing, I told Tom that Wade and I were interested.
His office was located on a trashed block in the more seedy section of Venice, tucked snugly between a bargain locksmith and what was once a small bakery (now a gutted, abandoned building). Wade and I exchanged an apprehensive glance, and then I knocked. The door opened immediately, as if Tom had been waiting for us right on the other side for hours.
He stood before us, a younger, much-less handsome Charlton Heston look-alike. Probably in his mid-fifties, his wild white hair sprouted from his scalp, refusing to obey his command. When he grinned, I saw that his teeth were crooked and brown, with several gummy gaps where entire teeth were missing.
“Come in, come in!” Tom bellowed in his warm Southern drawl.
We stepped inside Tom’s office, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Every square inch of every single wall in the entire office was completely wallpapered with photographs. Not photographs of Jesse James, as one might imagine from a Jesse James enthusiast. No, the quilt of scrappy images blanketing the room was comprised entirely of women. Mostly celebrities. Mostly in sexy positions. Floor to ceiling. Many overlapping. The sheer number of things pinned and stapled and taped recklessly to the walls instantly created a chaotic, claustrophobic overtone. The pictures were ripped from their original sources without precision, and hundreds of frayed, torn edges flapped on the walls as if the room were breathing. It was as if I were being attacked by a rabid copy of People Magazine. Tom didn’t say anything to clarify this “hobby” and instead said, proudly, “Okay, the first stop on our tour,” and pointed gingerly to a small sepia-toned photo right in front of us.
“This is Jesse James at age sixteen, which is pretty much what he looked like during the one year he lived in California. This is what I want our movie to be about. We’ll call it: Go West, Jesse James.”
I tried my best to look at the browning photo of the young Jesse James, I really did, but the picture was tacked below a huge spread of Britney Spears in a compromising position and just above a large color photo of a scantily dressed Christina Aguilera torn carelessly from the local newspaper. Also stapled to the wall in random places, I noticed a handful of Polaroids of young women, smiling and waving at the camera. I made a mental note not to touch anything…
In a desperate attempt to get the meeting started, I asked Tom what he did for a living.
“I do a lot of work in the beverage industry.” Tom explained. “In fact, I’m about to introduce a new beverage to the Southern California marketplace.”
“A new beverage?”
This was a question I knew I’d regret later and Tom was up out of his chair. “I’ll show ya.” He rummaged around a makeshift desk and returned with a plastic bottle that looked like Cherry 7-Up. He handed it to me, a proud inventor.
I had to study at the label twice to make sure I was reading it correctly. Unfortunately, I was. Tom’s new beverage was called: SUM PUSSY.
“We’re gonna market it in low-end gentlemen’s clubs. I got high hopes.”
“I can’t help but notice you’ve neglected to include a list of ingredients.” Wade commented, glancing at the back of the bottle.
Tom’s smile tightened, “It’s an energy drink.”
“Ah.”
“Now, before we git started thinkin’ about our movie, we should discuss our business arrangement. I got a deal in place already with Douglas James, the last living descendant of the Jesse James lineage. I own fifty percent of this project, and Douglas owns fifty percent. And you guys don’t git to walk in here off the street and git fifty percent right off the bat. Although, you write the treatment and maybe even write the script, I could change the deal around. Actually, I’d be willing to give you guys fifty percent of the deal right now, and I’ll share my fifty percent with Douglas, maybe. Though, I won’t give him half, because he hasn’t done shit. Maybe ten percent for Doug, forty percent for me, and you guys could split fifty percent.”
The question in my mind at this point was fifty percent of WHAT? What in the hell was this crazy old man talking about?
Before Wade or I could even comment on the worrisome aspects of Tom’s proposed “business arrangement,” he handed us thick packet about Jesse James and began what can only be described as a college-level lecture on the infamous outlaw. After thirty minutes had passed, Tom’s seminar had not yet reached the era when Jesse James was actually in California.
“Excuse me, Tom, could we possibly skip ahead?” Wade requested.
Tom looked mildly confused by this interruption. “Uh…okay.”
Wade flipped ahead in Tom’s handout. “I’m trying to picture what exactly you want this film to be about, and I’m trying to imagine what Jesse James did in California. So I was looking ahead and I happened to find a section of your outline labeled ‘What Jesse James Did In California.’ I just wanted to ask a couple questions about this section.”
Tom nodded, “Sure.”
Wade continued, dryly, “Okay, the first bullet point under this section reads ‘He punched cows.’”
Startled by this, I leaned over and glanced at the outline in Wade’s hands. Sure enough, there it was.
“Yep.” Tom said. Clearly this bullet point needed no explanation.
“He punched cows?” I asked.
“Yeah, you know. He was a cowpuncher.”
Before I could explain that no, I wasn’t familiar with that turn of phrase, Wade interrupted again, “Okay, fine, whatever. My real question is this second bullet point here. ‘He didn’t do any outlawin’.”
“That’s right.”
“So, are we to understand that during the year in which Jesse James lived in California, he didn’t rob any banks, or—“
“Nope. He didn’t do any outlawin’ at all. He lived with his uncle, worked on cattle drive, and tried to go straight.”
“I see.” Wade said, folding the outline in half. Our man Tom had somehow ferreted out the most boring year in the short life of Jesse James, notorious American Outlaw, and now wanted to make it into a movie. Perhaps we could call it, The Year Jesse James Took Off.
“So, how does that sound? Do we have ourselves a deal?” Tom asked, sincerely.
Wade scratched his head, “So… you want to hire us to write the treatment?”
Tom’s face squinted up instantly. “Okay, so, look: there’s no money. But that’s why I’d be willing to give you fifty percent. You can own part of this deal, and we’ll all collect when it gets made.”
This revelation was our cue to rise and get the hell out of crazy town. We thanked Tom for his time, and told him we would discuss the project amongst ourselves and get back to him shortly. As we walked towards the front door, which was wallpapered with images of Kristi Yamaguchi ice skating, Winona Ryder candidly walking along a private beach, Pamela Anderson naked, and a young Reese Witherspoon from Cruel Intentions, Tom blurted out, “Have you ever heard Billy Gashade’s Ballad of Jesse James?”
“No.” I sighed.
Then Tom, inexplicably, began to sing: “Jesse James was a lad that killed many a man. He robbed the Glendale train…”
“Glendale, California?” I asked, suddenly hoping that maybe we’d finally found the one fricking thing Jesse James actually did on this coast.
“Glendale, Missouri.”
“Nice meeting you, Tom.” I extended my hand.
Most of the drive back was in utter silence, punctuated by the faint smell of antifreeze burning in my engine: the foreshadowing of my radiator cracking later that evening – a fitting finale to the humiliating day.
“Wow.” I said, after a long pause.
“Yeah.” Wade replied.
“Sorry about that.” I felt responsible for dragging poor Wade through the fun house.
Wade smiled, “Well, we may not have landed a writing job today, but we did get a character for our next serial killer movie.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “And I don’t know about you, but I sure could go for Sum Pussy right now.”
© Aaron Ginsburg
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Go West, Jesse James - Originally published in Script Magazine’s January/February Issue [2007]
#TheFinder BTS: “Eye of the Storm” - What the episode looked like in the Writers’ Room:
#TheFinder BTS: “Eye of the Storm” - The set always lights up with optimism whenever Exec Producer Vahan Moosekian shows up to check in.
#TheFinder BTS: “Eye of the Storm” - This is how we often find @MercedesMasohn, passed out with her sides in a dark alley…
#TheFinder BTS: “Eye of the Storm” - A contemplative moment from Toby Hemingway (Timo Proud).
#TheFinder BTS: “Eye of the Storm” - Guest Star Lisa Waltz & @MercedesMasohn brave the storm.
#TheFinder BTS: “Eye of the Storm” - Our awesome still photographer @jrosephoto caught in the act…
Homemade Pizza Night
Tangy tomato sauce topped with shredded beet greens, Kalamata olives. sundried tomatoes, & pine nuts, sprinkled with goat cheese, fresh mozzarella and finally topped with strips of sweet Halawy dates — all on a panko crust infused with smokey coffee dry rub.
Found this fun pic I took of Lance Gross on our most expensive “set” ever.
And on that note: REMINDER: There’s a brand new episode of THE FINDER tonight! Don’t miss it!
#TheFinder “Swing and a Miss” BTS-Pic:
@geoffstults on the mound and on the monitor.
