Page 59 of How To Plot a Payback

So many empty coffee mugs clutter my desk. So many neglected tasks await my attention. I gave up changing clothes three days ago. I’ve been in the same maroon sweatpants since the Sunday morning coffee spill. Not even the Monday afternoon spaghetti stain, which I rubbed off with the palm of my hand, was enough to give me pause. Groceries ran out Monday evening, whereupon I turned to canned black beans. Somewhere around midnight I ate a bag of steamed corn. With a butter knife. From the bag.

And it was not for naught.

“Believe me,” I begin, reaching for the stack of papers at my desk. I start tidying them, gathering them. “Your jobs are safe. I could never write like that again. I tell you, Paula, I was just about on the ledge. I don’t think I could’ve lasted much longer like this . . .”

And I mean it.

The last six days have been pure insanity.

But there was no chance on earth I was going to be able to get another job in the industry after this fallout. So I took a hard look at the odds and said to myself, “Lavender has already ruined my life. Worst-case scenario has already happened. So why not try?”

So after my ID tag was snapped and I was ordered to stand down, I did the crazy thing nobody expected: I sat at my desk and kept writing. Script after script after script. Paula tried not to take them at first, but I leaned in on the fact that she had gotten her current position from me.

And so, Friday morning—and every morning after that—when I showed up at her house with a printed script in a bright red binder with the cellophane freshly pulled off, she took it, and I could only pray she followed through.

I knew it wasn’t easy for her to say, “Here, Mr. Goodwin. Finn has written an episode, if you wanted to see . . . another one,” but she is a good friend—and, as evidenced by this moment, loyal.

It was a long shot, hoping I could produce anything in such a short time that could compare. Me against a seasoned team of fifteen putting their heads together every day.

Me against them.

Their collective wit against mine.

No news came for five days.

Nothing to give me hope.

Except for the fact he had not put a restraining order on my efforts.

But I told myself if there was no news by this evening, I would call it. Begin a hunt for a new position under staggering odds. Beg for my old job at Higher Stakes with all dignity lost. I had been mentally preparing myself for the past few hours.

And now . . .

“Finn.” I realize all of a sudden that Paula has taken hold of my hand. Apparently I’ve been putting a stack of blank paper in my laptop bag, and she stops me. “Okay.” She takes a breath. Frowns at me as if realizing I’m more delirious and sleep-deprived than she’d hoped. “I’m going to get you something decent to wear. You stand by the door—just stand there. Don’t do or touch anything. Then we’ll go.”

I frown. “Okay.” But I do have enough pulled together to ask, “Why are we going to work at two thirty?”

At this, she takes a deep breath and shakes her head as she heads down the hall. “You’ll see,” she calls over her shoulder. “Let’s just say you’d better want this job as much as you’ve acted this week. Because they weren’t kidding when they said you gotta be all in.”

* * *

It’s both worse and better than I imagined.

Under normal conditions I would’ve clued into this truth sooner, as we walked down the hall dotted on both sides by dark and empty rooms. I would’ve realized it as the noise of shouting grew, choice words echoing down the corridor.

But I was too fixated on fixing everything on my body at that moment, from straightening the button-down shirt, to rubbing the fingerprints off my glasses, to pushing down the curl at the top of my head that had gone into overdrive from lack of showers.

Paula filled me in on the drive, but it’s not until I am standing at the open doorway, looking in, that I see the extent of the situation.

The long rectangular table and the floor around it are littered with papers as if a printer has exploded. Coffee mugs and greasy bags of takeout are everywhere. Chairs are tipped over. Nearly everyone is standing, but on opposite sides of the table, as if at war. One of the execs, Ken, is slapping a paper on the table as he’s yelling. He sees me step into the doorway. He halts.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” And then he props his foot on a chair. “So you’ve chosen him then, and any crackpot idea he schemes up. Over all of us. I’m out.”

As he blows past me, coat in hand, he gives a curt nod and says, “Good luck, everyone! I’m getting off this ride!”

I’m still frowning as my eyes follow after him, when I notice a second person, a woman, steal past and trail him down the hall.

A minute goes by in utter silence.