Although Laurel never requested it of him, Tyler decided it might be a good idea to surrender his meds. He later changed his mind, concluding there was no harm to them, before changing his mind yet again, deciding he was definitely better off without them. Tyler remembered how the antipsychotics cost him several quality years of his adolescence, rendering his time at school mechanized and unmemorable. They said he was a model student who never caused trouble, which, his mother assured him, was the highest of accolades.
And so Tyler rolled the pill bottle into an unused kitchen drawer, resolving that he chose his reality, not other people.
Graphic design work for music bands was scant, but it was enough to sustain him while he looked for another job; although Tyler had no interest working as an assistant at another graphic novel publisher. His graphic novel, ‘Los Angeles Apocalypse’, should have been consuming all of his time; although he was pleased with the progress he was making, by keeping to his one-page-a-day work regimen.
His self-imposed deadline was page 19 by Friday, although the scenes leading up to page 19 involved the city-wide panic induced by the rising of the dead. It would take time.
Tyler relished the idea of the problem becoming the cure. Readers would not be expecting it.
The dead, thought Tyler, would realize that the living had degenerated into beings without any sense of purpose or place in the world; awaiting instructions but unaware what to do without them; stumbling around as if every road were a circle, bringing them back where they started, time and time again.
A call from Hazel mid-week reminded him that there was still the industry love-fest he’d been invited to attend on Friday, as Hazel’s date of course.
“You’re coming, aren’t you?” she asked the moment he picked up the phone.
“Why do those industry events always feel like a waste of time?” he asked her.
“Because you’ve refused to find a benefit to them. But if you want to sit in your musty old apartment feeling sorry for yourself, be my guest. I thought you could use a change of pace.”
“I don’t feel sorry for myself,” explained Tyler.
“You know you should be thanking me,” insisted Hazel. “I could have given up on you long ago. You don’t bother to respond to emails or return texts. No wonder you’re not getting anywhere. You’re shutting out the world.”
“I’m trying to get work done.”
“Am I too good for you?” she asked. “I think that’s a no-brainer. But if you want to be good enough for me? That’s up to you.”
Tyler had long believed he was her superior, but he indulged her. Getting out of the apartment was the only way to recycle the creative juices and find new inspiration; and he was anxious. He’d been waiting patiently for another chance to see Faye Rand on Saturday, preferably without Howard, who’d complained he’d been abandoned when Tyler returned to the bar the previous Saturday. Would Faye lead him back to Laurel, who just happened to be everything Hazel could never be?
Tyler didn’t care about Hazel, though she didn’t much care for him either. She still needed an acceptable escort, and he needed material for his graphic novel: descriptions of zombies hopped up on booze and self-importance.
“I’ll go,” he said.
“You could have told me sooner, Tyler,” she whined. “What planet are you living on anyway? You think you can survive in your head for long without someone like me willing to pull you out to remind you there’s a world out here with people in it? I wish you could be more grateful for what I do. I wish you’d listen.”
“You can spare the lecture. I’ll see you there.”
“You need a lecture,” answered Hazel, smartly, before Tyler hung up on her. If she wanted to expound on his imperfections, she could call back and leave a message. She didn’t.
Although he’d vowed to wait to see Laurel on the weekend, he’d tried her number during the week. She said it was the best way to reach her, and yet she never answered. Was it possible she was screening his calls and didn’t want to talk to him?
Turning Laurel from his thoughts, he submerged himself in his writing; although by Friday, he wasn’t making much headway with page 19. He was of half a mind to cancel the shindig, when he remembered that every experience was fuel for creativity. He washed up, shaved, threw on a shirt and a pair of slacks before walking to the car in his cleanest dress shoes.
“Are you ready to enter the depths?” shrieked a hoarse male voice. It was the homeless man he’d seen last weekend, his bony arms animating his torn overcoat. Although, the man’s face was largely obscured by a baseball cap, a toothy grin stretched the length of his bearded face.
To answer was to encourage him, so Tyler said nothing.
“Are you ready to find Ozymandias?” queried the man. “Are you ready to find your girl?” The questions were unexpected, the image of Faye’s face now more firmly imprinted on his brain. He was in no frame of mind for fruitless searches.
Without running, Tyler, distanced himself from the man as quickly as possible, leaping into this car and driving up to Sunset. Street parking at 7:40 on a Saturday was no less frustrating than he expected; but the rule of proximity gave him an unexpected edge. He nabbed his spot and traipsed on up.
Tyler felt younger, pounding the broken Hollywood sidewalks for the possibility of sin and adventure. If only he weren’t meeting Hazel. Once she got him alone, she’d tear into him.
The event took place at a studio space on Franklin. It was standing room only, by the time he got there. Hazel spotted him immediately, beckoning him over, presumably to introduce him to some people she was conversing with.
“Angel is at Blastwurks, Kale is at Lone Survivor and Neera is at Optic Ventures,” announced Hazel, beaming. An artfully crafted cover framed on a wall was titled ‘Sick,’ which gave Tyler a tinge of nausea’; although the nausea may have been the result of his recent commitment to no medications.
“Where do you work?” asked one of the men.
“I was at Bold Endeavors,” he answered, realizing he could have left it there, but he could never contain himself. “Now I’m taking some time off to hammer out my graphic novel.”
“Sweet,” answered the other man. “What’s it about?”
“Let’s just say, Los Angeles will get spared total destruction in the most unexpected of ways.”
“Might I ask?” queried Neera, as eager as the others to draw out information. Tyler was beginning to feel transparent.
“A writer’s secret,” he answered. “Are you three working on anything?”
“Some collaborations with studios,” answered the first man who looked like his name was probably Angel. “Exciting new strategic partnerships are making it possible to put some older stories into development.”
“It’s one thing to write a graphic novel,” interjected Hazel. “It’s another to turn that graphic novel into a film.” The others murmured in support.
“Can anyone direct me to the bathroom?” Tyler asked Angel, who pointed to the rear of the room.
Tyler nodded, announcing it was a pleasure to meet them, before easing himself through the thickening crowd. The chatter was deafening, hot breath of Manhattans and Mimosas, overpowered by the occasional blast of perfume, accosting him from all sides.
“That was rude,” said Hazel, ready to castigate him for something.
“Why did you introduce me?” he asked, suspecting she wanted him to feel diminished by them.
“You should see what you can do with a little more determination,” she answered.
“I have plenty of that,’ he returned.
“The kind that doesn’t get you shut out but the kind that gets you inside like all these people.”
“I am inside,” he whispered, uncomfortable with their conversation surrounded by so many people; although no one appeared to care.
“Cause I invited you and I didn’t get a thank you,” she answered, hard-wired to claim the last word and the final triumph.
“Who didn’t get thanked?” asked an oily voice Tyler could never forget. It was Todd, founder and owner of Bold Endeavors.
“It doesn’t matter,” answered Hazel, embarrassed she may have revealed too much of herself.
Todd reached for Tyler’s hand. Tyler accepted.
“It’s been far too long,” said Todd with the widest, most winning smile imaginable. “And the thanks goes to you for being a pillar of our company for so long. Wish I could bring you back.”
“It’s done,” answered Tyler, removing his hand from Todd who’d been shaking it for a good ten seconds.
“What do you think of ‘Sick’,” asked Todd, still beaming.
“I haven’t seen a copy yet,” answered Tyler.
Todd turned back to Hazel, asking her to send Tyler a copy of ‘Sick’. She chirped her ready assent.
“And what are you working on again?” asked Todd. They’d had the same conversation before, but Todd always forgot.
“It’s a story about Los Angeles and the dead people who rise up to save it.”
“What’s it called?”
“Los Angeles Apocalypse.”
“Hasn’t that been done?” asked Todd.
“Not that I’m aware of,” answered Tyler, doubting himself. “The dead have to keep the living zombies from destroying everything. The living just stopped caring about anything and only the dead give a damn.”
“There’s a possibility there. Send me sample pages.”
Tyler already had, but again Todd had forgotten; although it was Hazel who screened his emails every day. Was she sabotaging him? He turned to her but she was ignoring him.
“It’s a happy ending,” explained Tyler, still keeping pace with Todd. “Everything works out, through herculean effort of course.” He knew he could write the story he wanted while also giving Todd what he wanted.
“I think you’ll really enjoy it,” added Tyler as Todd shook hands with someone in the crowd. “Maybe we can talk about how to make it work for Bold Endeavors.”
Todd grabbed Tyler by the shoulder.
“Set something up with Hazel, alright? She’s my go-to gal. Send her what you have and let’s see what she thinks.”
Were manuscript submissions really a matter for Hazel to decide? What did she know of graphic novels? She’d give it a once over, shrug it off and turn to other things.
Todd was already exchanging warm handshakes and toothy smiles with a short white-haired man in a grey designer suit.
Tyler turned to Hazel.
“You should have sent samples already,” she replied.
“I’ll send him what I have.”
“Send them to me. There’s a protocol.”
“You read graphic novel submissions?” he asked, still in disbelief. She once told him she thought graphic novels were too gory and ugly. How was Todd relying on her judgment?
Resolving to send it directly to Todd anyway, Tyler turned.
“It’s pretty easy actually,” she continued, her voice ringing in his ear. “You can always tell by page one if it’s gonna suck. That’s like 80%, right into the garbage can.
“What a remarkable instinct you must have,” he replied, turning his face.
“Send me something good and we’re in business.”
“Until that time, there’s not much to say,” he replied with a shrug.
A given conversation might secure an offer to read his work, but the people expressing interest never meant it, ignoring him when he followed up. The problem was most people in entertainment were seekers, which meant they could never back up what they said. Givers were hard to access because they were surrounded by the most ruthless seekers of all.
Tyler knew he could make a compelling case for ‘Los Angeles Apocalypse.’ to Todd. He just needed a meeting; which meant circumventing Hazel, the self-appointed gatekeeper.
“Where are you going?”
“Fresh air,” answered Tyler. It wasn’t easy angling himself through the thickening crowd.
“You need my help, Tyler,” she hollered as he reached the front door. “You can’t do this without me.”
Tyler turned, before stepping outside. “Why can’t I? If something’s good enough, why does it depend on one person giving it a thumbs up or down?”
There was a smirk on Hazel’s face. Was it only a quest for power over him? Had Todd even seen his other works, or had Hazel gleefully trashed them? He stepped outside. He couldn’t talk to her.
“You don’t know how this business works,” she said, still following him. “But I’ll show you.”
“I understand what this business needs,” he answered, turning on her. “And it needs edgy entertainment that sells. Though if you’re throwing out stories after glancing at one page, I’d say you’re the one who doesn’t know how this business works because you don’t appreciate the hard work that goes into it. And I’m sure as hell not sending you something you’re gonna trash ‘cause you don’t get it. You say you want to help me, then help me for once. Or do you just prefer talking about how you can help without doing a goddamn thing at all?”
“You ignore me for months and you want my help?” she asked, still smiling.
“I ignore you because you’re in it for yourself. That’s why. And I don’t believe you when you say you want to help. You never wanted to help. You just want me to think I need you. But I’m not going to depend on you if it means you get to dictate my life. I don’t belong to you, even if you think I do.”
“You’re living in your own head, Tyler,” she answered angrily. “That’s the problem. You can resent me, but how’s that going to do you any good? I’ve only wanted to help you but you’re your own worst enemy.”
“Look. If you give a damn, show me.”
“I can’t give you special treatment.”
“Isn’t that what the elites get, special treatment? The problem Hazel is you don’t consider me worthy, and for that reason, I can’t expect you to care.”
“If you don’t feel worthy …” she began.
“I do. And I need to be with people who feel likewise.”
Tyler walked off, pleased with his honesty.
“You don’t know me, Tyler,” she howled.
“And you don’t know me either,” he yelled back before catching the flashing end of a walk signal.
Conversation with Hazel was always a tug-of-war. But Laurel, the psychiatrist, could hear him and understand him. He hadn’t been able to reach her over the phone, but he planned to see her in person.
The drive was short, and he remembered the 4-plex. Her light was out, but that was no matter. Rolling out of the car, he mounted the front steps. This time, the front door was locked. There were four buttons for units 1-4, but Tyler didn’t know if it was unit 3 or 4 he wanted.
“She’s been gone for days,” groaned a man, his voice like a bag of rocks.
Tyler turned. It was the same homeless man with the cap he’d seen in his neighborhood.
“You?” asked Tyler.
“Who else would it be?” answered the man with an ugly grin.
“How do you know about her?” asked Tyler, utterly at a loss.
“I know about everyone who seeks the Porto.” answered the man. Tyler had never heard of such a place. Was it a swank new club that handpicked its patrons?
“Where’s this Porto? Did you follow her there? When did she leave?”
“The Porto’s on the map she gave you.”
Tyler checked his jacket pocket, and there it was, a folded up card with crawled writing. He thought he’d given it back to her. The word ‘portal’ was in fact ‘porto,’ the ‘l’ turning out to be a crease.
“What do you want?” asked Tyler, stepping close to see the man’s face.
The man removed his soiled baseball cap to reveal eyes much like Tyler’s, and a nose that resembled his too. If it weren’t for the man’s unruly growth of facial hair, wrinkled eyes and sun damaged skin, they might have looked alike.
Tyler retreated.
“We used to be such good friends. I did all the dangerous things when you couldn’t. You remember that tree you said not to climb, but I did. I did it for you.”
Tyler didn’t have many friends as a boy, not after Grandma Vi died, but he’d made up a friend when he was ten, who could do all the things his mother forbid him from doing himself.
The boy he’d conjured up was called Monroe, and Monroe did as he pleased. He made the mistake of telling his mother about him and how Monroe could even talk to his grandmother for him, but she said he was too old for imaginary friends who talked to dead people. And so came the antipsychotics and the end of childhood.
“You remember me?” asked the homeless man. Tyler figured he was looking at himself, perhaps ten years in the future once every opportunity turned to nothing.
“No pills to help you forget,” added the man.
Tyler slumped to the ground, at a loss what to think and what to do.
