Page 23 of Mazywood

Ben stared at Johnny aghast, as if he had just witnessed a death. Ben was used to desperate creators hoping for a miracle if they kept smiling. It was possible Ben had never heard anyone tell his bosses to go fuck themselves, even politely. By the time Ben thought about it a while longer, he might convince himself Johnny’s truth-telling was a form of racism.

Johnny walked out of the conference room. The meeting was over.

Johnny hoped he could make it to the commissary before he’d get sick, but he didn’t get past LDR’s restroom. His insides emptied, stripping him of the strange mood that had seized him in the conference room. His knuckles shook against the spotless porcelain bowl as he retched, miserable and appalled at himself. The overwhelming scent of potpourri in his nostrils made him heave harder. Could he go back? Explain it away?

Hell no, he told himself. He might not do it again now, but now it was done. Maybe it hadn’t been the correct thing to do, but he couldn’t tell himself he’d been wrong.

Money was waiting for him outside of the stall door in the empty bathroom. Money might never have looked so angry at him. Still, he said, “You okay?”

Johnny nodded. He went to the sink to rinse stomach acid out of his mouth. He glimpsed Money’s face behind him in the mirror, sober as a pallbearer.

“Are you fucking high?” Money said to his reflection.

“Let’s go,” Johnny said. “We can’t talk here.”

The assistant wished them a good afternoon as the door’s bell tinkled merrily too close to Johnny’s ear. Outside, the sun glared from the metallic-gray, blue-striped tour bus passing with the guide’s voice celebrating the accomplishments of the studio he had just burned his bridges to. No golf cart waited for them, so they began their long walk that would be longer now. Since it was after four, a hot ride home in traffic waited. And then the hardest part: telling Tasha his comeback was dead when they needed it most.

“Still waiting for you to tell me what the hell that was about,” Money said.

“Tasha’s pregnant,” Johnny said instead. He had not spoken those words aloud to anyone. Even the girls didn’t know. Sharise was eighteen and applying for college. Imani was thirteen. Three months ago, he had believed he and Tasha would have their house back soon.

“Shit,” Money said, stopping to face him. “How old is…?”

“She’s forty-five,” Johnny said. “It’s a thing. Apparently. She’s due in June.”

Money gave Johnny’s shoulder a light pat. “Congrats, man,” he said, because that was what you said, but he knew damn well Johnny hadn’t planned to have another baby. Money had a ten-year-old grandson from his daughter, who was nearly forty. His younger son was running track at Cal State Fullerton.

“Is what it is, man,” Money said. “Might as well get happy about it.”

“I’m happy.”

“Yeah, I saw how ‘happy’ you are at that meeting,” Money said. “If you were any happier, you would have set the place on fire like Angela Bassett in Waiting to Exhale. Why can’t shit ever just be boring with you? Can we have one boring-ass day? Just one.”

“Sorry,” Johnny said. “But they were never gonna make it, Money. Or, if they do, it won’t be my movie anymore. They’ll just be the last ones to figure that out.”

“Shit, I’ll call them. You might as well take the money for the polish.”

Johnny shook his head. “I’m done. I need to…” His voice trailed off. He was developing a couple of TV pitches, but La Petite Mort had been his world for too long. He’d broken the cardinal rule and put too much faith in one project. He wasn’t even working on another spec script. Imagination was his living, but he couldn’t see his own future.

“I’ll start making calls in my car,” Money said. “On to plan D, I guess. Or plan E. Whoever it is better have deep pockets. Now we gotta buy it back.”

Johnny ran the numbers in his head: LDR had invested at least a million dollars in it so far; not exactly attractive to a new buyer. And LDR wouldn’t let it go before their option was up, which Rashad had gently reminded him. His stomach squirmed.

“I thought the wife is the one who gets morning sickness,” Money said.

Johnny heard himself laugh, which felt good. His stomach unknotted slightly.

Money patted him more firmly. “It’s all right, man. I’m mad as hell, but I got you.”

Johnny heard someone call his name—not Johnny, but Mr. Washington. Rashad was jogging toward them from the LDR cottage thirty yards away. He waved as if they wouldn’t have noticed a six-three brother in locs who looked like he could start for the Rams.

“Open your mouth and I will murder you where you stand,” Money muttered.

“Then you better remember where I stand.”

“Duly noted, nigga.”

“I’m glad I caught you!” Rashad said, although it took him a couple of breaths to think of his pitch. “Listen… what you said back there… they’re not ready to hear it. But I heard you.”