ELEVEN
MEETING OF THE MINDS
Nate flipped through the sequence on a rosewood conference table in a meeting room along with the two producers, Desmond Krout and Alice Sommers. Desmond had shaved sidewalls, a hipster trilby, and a diamond ear stud. He wore creased khakis, a whiter-than-white shirt, and handmade Esattos with a two-inch lift and spoke with a Brit accent. When he smiled his teeth jutted like Freddie Mercury’s. Alice was the color of café au lait, straight raven hair, pretty except for a grouper mouth. She wore moleskin pants that cupped her buttocks like grapefruit in a net, a man’s white shirt rolled up to the biceps revealing her slim, muscular arms, and a pair of cat’s-eye sunglasses.
“These are good, Kendall,” Alice said. “You have a gift for framing a scene. But they’re not specific enough. We want to see stiff penises and penetration.”
Kendall’s mouth froze in a half guffaw. “Are you serious?” He turned to Nate. “Is she serious?”
“Wake up, Kendall! This ain’t the Comics Code! This is the way people behave in real life.”
“I don’t doubt that, but come on. This is going to get you an ‘X’ rating. It’s practically obscene.”
Desmond clapped Kendall on the shoulder with a little squeeze. Kendall wanted to strangle him.
“It’s all about context, Kendall!” the producer said as if addressing a vast crowd. “It symbolizes the depravity of the Hellfire Club.”
“Why are we even arguing?” Alice said. “You’re either going to draw it the way we want, or we’ll find another storyboarder.”
“He’ll draw it,” Nate said, looking seriously at Kendall. “Won’t you, Kendall?”
Kendall realized Nate’s ass was on the line as well as his own. “Of course,” he said. “Sorry for wasting your time with this version.”
“It’s not a waste,” Desmond said. “We are very impressed with your layouts and pacing. And the background detail is spot on. Where you from, Kendall?”
“Omaha,” Kendall said, his loathing a metallic taste at the back of his tongue. He prayed it didn’t show.
“Well, that explains it. Once you’ve been out here awhile, you’ll shake off that small town syndrome. Night Shifts is not about titillation. It’s a serious critique of where we’re at as a society. It’s a very moral picture.” He sounded like Russell Brand.
Nate clapped his hands. “Okay. Are we all on the same page? Kendall?”
Kendall forced a smile. “No prob. I’ll have new pages tomorrow.”
Desmond slapped him on the shoulder. “Attaboy.”
“Okay,” Nate said. “Y’all know about my party Friday night.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” Desmond said.
“I’ll be there,” Kendall said.
Alice looked at her watch. “Des?”
“I know. I know. Gotta go. Larry David waits for no man.”
Desmond and Alice excused themselves.
Nate looked at Kendall. “Since when did you become such a prude?”
“I’m not a prude. This shit is toxic! Are you kidding?”
Nate shook his head. “The movie will be made, and it will be a huge hit.”
Kendall packed up his portfolio. “Okay. What the fuck do I know? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wait.” Nate went to his desk and pulled something from a top drawer. It was a laminated VISITOR pass decorated with Awesome Possum and Illeana the Illusionist. “Here’s your free pass to Wyrick World.”
Kendall felt a tinge of awe as he took it, a brush of the childlike wonder he’d experienced at his first Wyrick movie, Awesome Possum. He couldn’t help but light up like a kid. “Thanks, man!”
“You in the new house? What’s that like?”
“It’s weird, Nate. It’s like living in a museum or something. Take me a couple weeks to get used to it.”
“I’ve always wanted to see that house.”
“I’ll have you by soon. I’m still unpacking.”
“Yeah. Come to the party. We’ll get you laid.”
Kendall thanked Nate and left. He retrieved his car from a company lot and signed out with the guard at the gate.