From Kyiv Commix’x “All for Goldstein” Retrospective and Restoration Series
Saint Stephan clinches the deal?
Goldstein licks his bottom lip.
He roughly rifles through the several hundred pages of bound manuscript – “Kyiv Commix”, by Saint Stephan, embossed into the cover.
“You keep trying to make The Ferret out to be a bad guy, but I don’t see him that way at all. And then some chick absolutely just beats the shit out of him, I mean, just completely fucking pulverizes his wings, and the very next day, he’s walking around the streets of Kyiv like nothing even happened…”
“Well, you see, there’s more than one person writing these things, and –”
“More than one person? This work’s got your name on it…”
“Yes, of course, I know, but what I’m saying is in Kyiv Unedited, inside Kyiv Unedited itself, there’s more than –”
“Whoa, whoa, hold it, hold it – either you wrote it or you didn’t…”
“No, no, I mean, yes, of course, I wrote it, but –”
“Okay then. Look, The Ferret’s seriously damaged, right; he’s major-league broken, right?”
“Right, but –”
“Yeah, so I figure, for the story to really work, you should have had him laid up in a hospital for a while… all bandaged up… with those wings in casts, or even amputated…”
“But –”
“… just lying there, going ‘yeah, yeah, heh, heh, heh,’ trying to get his confidence back but all tormented, reflecting on his defeat, I mean, actually reflecting, probably for the first time in his life, on this humiliating defeat, obsessing over it, see, now that he’s all laid up, damaged to the hilt and alone in that hospital, making excuses about it, trying to deny it, I mean, really, really tortured – see?”
“Yeah.”
“All right, then. When you’ve been in the business as long as I have, you know what’ll grab people, you know what’ll sell. But the way you’ve got it, the very next day, The Ferret’s walking around, like it never happened. That kind of thing, it just don’t grab in this business, it’s not convincing, it don’t sell… The humiliation’s really important. I mean, in this business, it’s, it’s… Now Rico Soiree. Love that guy. Maimed and mutilated son-of-a-itch. Mean-spirited. Deeply conflicted and disturbed. Vicious. Vengeful. Part of a nose. Wears a turban ‘cause he’s got no ears. That’s humiliating. Humiliation’s very important in this business – see?”
“Yeah.”
“So he’s out to get his own. Love the guy – just love the guy! But you don’t got him enough in New Jersey. Hudson County – know the area, grew up right there. It’s perfect. Bar scenes in Jersey City, some broken-down depressed area, ghetto, projects, lots of poor people, alcoholics, prostitutes, hustlers, transvestite queers, junkies, illegals, unemployed ‘cause the industries are all shuttered or gone. So he’s in this bar, see, acting like a tough guy, picking on little guys, disabled guys, older guys weaker than him, guys that just wanna have their drink and be left alone, that chicken woman coming around to get him, and then the bouncer, maybe a big Polish guy, who’s unimpressed, tells him to pay his bill before he leaves. Suddenly, Soiree flinches. The tough guy act crumbles. He shows his fear. He pays his bill, a lot more than he owes. Because of his fear. He’s still trying to play the tough guy but you can see he’s shaken up, unnerved. He leaves, humiliated. And the chicken woman’s so damn ugly, the humiliation’s even worse. Outside, they laugh at him through the door. That kind of thing – it’s really important, I mean, it’s –”
“Um… okay…”
“And then with The Half Guinea, he’s always going after the black girls. Is he a black guy too? You never make it clear. If we cast him, are we supposed to look for a black actor, or what? The way this is written, it makes what would usually be an easy decision for us to make hard. Or is he half-black? Is that it? He’s half-black and we’re supposed to understand that without you exactly saying so? Subtly implied, not explicitly stated? Is that it?”
So, are you going to, uh –”
“What?”
“You know, I don’t know, buy the idea, sell the idea, I don’t know, whatever it is you do – produce it, or… I mean, or what?”
“Ah, look. This thing, it’s got like, what, 360 stories?”
“Yeah.”
“Ah, okay, let’s say I give this thing to one of the many screenwriters I know in this town. So, what’d’ya think he’ll say? He’ll look at it and say, ‘What’d’ya want me to do with it,’ and I’ll say, ‘Pick one of the stories and give me a script,’ and so he’ll take it, and what’d’ya think, huh? You think he’ll understand what he’s reading? No, of course not. And so each time he wants some kind of explanation or clarification of what’s supposed to be going on, you don’t expect him to go to you each time, do you, ‘cause you’re not even going to be here, are you? But of course, if you were, you’d say, ‘Just read a few more to help you get the context.’ So my screenwriter reads a few more, and he understands even less than when he started. So he reads a few more and then a few more after that, and before you know it, all this time goes by and he’s read almost the whole damn thing by now, and these stories don’t go in any order, so he’s almost no better off than he was when he’d started. Meanwhile, his colleagues are making money. And while they’ve made money, he’s just wasted his time. So you know what he’ll do? And keep in mind, these are my friends in the industry, I’ve known them for a long time, so you know what he’ll do? He’ll throw the thing in my face and say, ‘Fuck you,’ that’s what he’ll do. I’ve just wasted his time, and suddenly, word gets ‘round and my reputation suffers, and that’s something I’ve worked too long and hard at to risk in this town. And it’s not just this one screenwriter – it’ll suddenly be all of them. Why? Because these people are powerful, they belong to a union, a guild, they speak with one voice – it’s an absolutely terrifying force to behold. I mean, you couldn’t have just given me a script? No, no, I suppose that was just too fucking much to ask, wasn’t it?”
“You wanted I should give you what, 360 movie scripts at 90 to 120 pages each properly formatted and bound to industry standards, instead of one literary manuscript of a few hundred pages with 360 fast and easy stories from which to choose?”
“You didn’t even give me one script, let alone 360.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m not in the scriptwriting business.”
“Then I don’t know what you’re doing here. What the hell are you doing here? Why are you wasting my time?”
“Then it looks like I’d better go.”
“On the other hand…” Goldstein licks his bottom lip…
… “You know, ah, what’s that name again?”
“Stephan. Saint Stephan.”
“Yeah, ah, you know, on the other hand, that’s what these people are paid for. That’s what they’re supposed to do – if they can’t find context, they have to look for it. If they have to read the other stories to understand just one, then that’s what they’ll do. If the hypothetical screenwriter I’m talking about doesn’t take the job, then fuck him – they’re a dime a dozen in this town, and somebody else will. Somebody younger, more ambitious, anxious to prove himself in this dog-eat-dog market and make his mark! Yeah, that’s right, that’s the ticket – because that’s what they’re paid to do!”
“So, uh…”
“So, nothing, and may I just call you Stephan, without all this Saint business?”
“Even Steve’s okay…”
“Hey, that’s great, Steve! So you know what, Steve?”
“No – what?”
“Here, I’m drawing up this contract, ah, actually, just pulling it out of my drawer here, heh-heh… and, ah, we’ll just sign it, and…”
“Gee, that’s great, Mr. Goldstein.”
“Yeah – don’t mention it. I’ll make a hell of a lot more money off it than you.”
“Oh, I wasn’t even presuming. But just out of curiosity, how much will I get?”
“To start? Because, you know, calculating earnings into the future – well, that’s kind of a mug’s game. I mean –”
“No, no – to start would be fine.”
“Oh, ah – a million dollars.”
“Hey, that’s not bad…”
“Yeah… yeah…”
Saint Stephan pulls out a pen.
“Okay, where do I sign?”
As Stephan reaches for the papers, Goldstein pulls them back, sticks them hurriedly into the “Kyiv Commix” manuscript, which he cradles up against his chest, and in something like a possessed panic, starts up from behind his desk.
“Wait a few minutes, will ya – I’ll be right back…”
Goldstein rushes to the door and leaves.
Stephan hears the revving of the Porsche’s motor outside and the screeching of tires off the lot. The roar fades down Los Losseros Boulevard’s westbound side.
Filed by Jack Step, May 9, 2016