Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
“Get in the car, you stupid asshole.” I get behind the wheel and he slips into the back. I want to tell him to get up front but I don’t bother. I pull out, happy to be far away from that bar and that terrifying Pussyfingers. I get the sense that the only reason they didn’t try to take more from me—in both money and other things—is their respect for Cowan’s films.
“I can tell you’re upset, and you have every reason to be.”
“Crack? Poker with gangsters? Are you absolutely insane?” I grimace and shake my head. “Don’t answer that, I already know you’re a nightmare. Why the hell would you call me down there?”
“You’re the suit,” he says calmly, his eyes narrowed now, his charming smile gone. “You’re the producer. You want to make this movie? You’re going to have to do much more than pay off a few unruly gentlemen to make it happen.”
I grind my jaw and want to scream in his face. I’m pregnant, you stupid prick. But that would only be counterproductive, and anyway, I’m not sure he’d care. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet, and I’m fairly certain that Tony Cowan is too much of a narcissist to think about anything beyond his own immediate needs.
“That is not my job. I’m the producer of your damn film. You need equipment, actors, soundstages, special effects, you come to me and I give you money. That’s it. I don’t bail you out of your drug debts. And seriously, crack cocaine?”
He laughs softly, but there’s no real mirth behind the sound. I glare at him in the rearview mirror and he looks back at me. His eyes are red-rimmed and he seems tired and older than he had the first time we met, and I wonder how long he was with Pussyfingers before Cowan finally called.
“Do you want to know what my movie is about, suit?”
I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Stop calling me that. And yes, I do.”
“My movie is about a man that wants things.”
I expect him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, I finally break the silence. “That’s not enough.”
“Isn’t it? That’s what all stories are about. Someone wants something and there are obstacles in the way of them getting it. The story is how they get past the things in their way and how far they’re willing to go to achieve their goals. That’s a story.”
“It’s not only that.”
“Oh, yes, suit, it is. Wanting is everything. Sometimes what the characters really want isn’t clear to the audience, and sometimes it isn’t clear to the characters themselves. Sometimes what they want changes. But it’s always about wanting, and not some superficial, socially programmed form of want. It’s not about playing nice and getting rewarded. No, we want to read about people willing to break rules, willing to bend morality, willing to hurt themselves and others to get what they want.”
I let that sink in. He’s striking a chord, but it doesn’t help me understand his movie, and right now I’m too pissed off about having to pay over $2,500 to a bunch of gangsters to ensure my director didn’t get his face blown to pieces.
I’m not feeling too generous at the moment and don’t want to hear his artistic bullshit.
“Fine, maybe that’s true, but you’re not telling me what your story is about. You said a man that wants things. Who’s the man? What are the things? All that matters.”
“Yes, it does,” he says, looking out the window. “This man is an addict. He wants drugs and only drugs, that’s all he can feel. But slowly, his addiction changes into something else, something much more sinister. He finds himself wanting other things, horrible things, and he has to struggle with those wants and those cravings. What do you do when what you need the most is wrong, suit? Do you deny yourself? Do you find some facsimile of the thing, a morally gray version of the real horror you’d prefer? How far do you go to silence the screaming need in your skull? That’s my movie. That’s why I played poker with those lovely gentlemen and why I bought their drugs and why I took it all.”
“The explains the raccoon insanity from the other day,” I grumble and he smiles in return.
“Tell me something, suit. What do you want?”
“I want to take you home and never think about you again.”
“That isn’t true.”
“I want to make this movie.” I glance at him in the mirror again and he’s listening like this is the most important thing in the world. “I want to bring another Cowan film to life.”
“That’s what I want too. See, suit, we’re not so different.”
“I’m not willing to take crack for this movie though.”
“Maybe not, but in some sense, I think you are. At least I’m betting you’ll show me just how much you want. Not the cold, calculating want, not the ugly, stained, pathetic image of want society projects into our brains. But real want, raw want. You’ll feel it.”