Fiction: The Inner Sanctum

“Jordan,” says Rumer. “How goes it?”

I’m in a blond-wood–paneled conference room, which is empty but for a long table edged with chairs. In the center of that table sits a misshapen oval of metallic-black webbing, resembling an egg laid by a computer, and it is from this object that Rumer’s question has emanated.

Illustration by Paul McCreery

More About

• Rumer Hawke
• Billy Mernit
• Paul McCreery
• Venice (California)
• Dana Morton

“Fine, thanks,” I address the speakerphone, and remain standing, aware of Yuko discreetly withdrawing and shutting the door behind her. “And yourself?”

“Could not be better,” says Rumer, his voice resonating richly from wherever he is. “Jordan, your story.”

“Yes?”

“Captivating. We’ve been immersed in it, and if anything, its possibilities only become more and more intriguing.”

I wonder if Rumer is using the royal we, or who, exactly, has been immersed in the work with him, but this warm praise sweeps aside such moot questions. “Well, thanks,” I begin, “I’m glad — ”

“No, Jordan.” Rumer is chuckling. “I’m thanking you. For providing us with such an extraordinary wealth of material. It’s Rabelaisian, really ...”

Have I read any Rabelais? I can’t remember, and have only a vague sense of what this adjective connotes — bewigged lechers and saucy maids with their skirts up?

“There’s enough there to seed a franchise, which is why it’s so important for us to get the thing right from the start.”

Franchise? “Of course,” I say.

“And it’s your vision, Jordan, which is why we’re determined to let you have your way with this. You’re the man.”

I recognize this brand of nonsense, pure hyperbole, from other meetings with other players in the past, but it’s always fun to be so nicely buttered up. “Well ...”

“Most of my colleagues wouldn’t go this route,” Rumer goes on. “They’d bring in Scott Frank or Bill Goldman to doctor the thing, Nathan Colt” — the mention of golden-boy screenwriter Colt sends a brisk swipe of ice down the line of my spine — “but I have faith in your vision. There is a story there, and it is filmic, and you’re the right writer to dig it out for us.”

“I appreciate that.”

“You know this story. You’ve got an innate sense of the structure of it, which is the most important thing.”

“It is,” I agree happily. “And my vision,” I say, lapsing into his movie meeting–speak, but that’s just as well, as it’s a good moment to pitch my new ideas, “what I’ve been thinking lately is, maybe we can go even a little edgier than what I — ”

“Ack!” says Rumer. “Ack-ack-AAAAR-kss-kss-AWK!”

Stunned into silence, I can only stare at the speakerphone, involuntarily taking a few steps back from it, and wait for the shriekings of the wounded pterodactyl to subside.

“Actually,” says Rumer, after a pause, “there’s really only one hurdle. We need a new ending. So we’ve written up some notes.”

Yuko materializes behind me, another woman beside her. Tall and long-faced, wearing a dark-burgundy suit that certifies serious executive status, she holds out a pile of pages that looks phone-book thick. Reeling from the revelation that Rumer wants a new ending (how? what?), I take it from her, realizing it’s my draft, riddled with underlining, highlighting, and scrawlings in the margins, atop another thick sheaf of papers.

“This is Dana Morton,” says Rumer, “the best development person in the West, or as I like to call her, my right hand.”

Dana extends her own right hand, smiling broadly while her clear gray eyes exude shrewd, don’t-fuck-with-me intelligence. I juggle the page stack for a handshake that’s alarmingly firm. “I’m a huge fan,” she says, and nods at the draft. “Fabulous work.”

“Oh. Thanks,” I murmur.

“Dana’s going to be with you, all the way,” Rumer continues. “What do you think of Johnny D’Arc?”

“D’Arc?” I echo, thrown. This director, the Tarantino of the moment, is about as hot a commodity as exists in the business, but what does he —

“Because he’s interested in the project,” says Rumer. “And we have a window, a small one, before Johnny begins his next movie.”

“Wow.” I’ve just said “wow” to Rumer Hawke, a choice I’ll replay as an Idiot Moment for weeks to come, but the surreality of the conversation has unmanned me.