time Jennifer had pulled the
Esquire
profile off the Internet, and I was definitely intrigued. There was something so irresistible about the paradox that was Philip Fleck. So much money. So little creative ability. And – if the
Esquire
writer was to be believed – such a desperate need to show the world thathe was a man of genuinely creative gifts. ‘Money means nothing without validation,’ he told the journalist. But say it turns out that, for all your billions, you are actually talentless? What then? And I guess there was a schmucky part of me that thought it would be rather amusing to spend a few days observing this supreme irony.
Even Sally was intrigued by the idea of spending a week in the proximity of such extreme wealth.
‘Are you absolutely sure this is not some ruse that little Bobby Barra has cooked up?’ she asked me.
‘For all his big time talk I doubt that Bobby actually has access to his very own 767, let alone a Caribbean island. Anyway, I did get a copy of Fleck’s script – and I had Jennifer run a WGA check on it. Fleck is registered as the author – so, yeah, the whole thing seems perfectly legit.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Don’t know. I only got it right before leaving the office.’
‘Well, if we’re leaving on Friday, you’d better find the time to do some serious notes on it. You are going to have to sing for our supper, after all.’
‘So you are coming?’
‘A free week on Phil Fleck’s island idyll? Damn right I am. I can dine out on this for months.’
‘And if it all turns out to be utterly tacky?’
‘It’ll still be a story worth telling around town.’
Later that night, after insomnia sprung me out of bed at two in the morning, I sat in our living room and cracked open Fleck’s screenplay. It was called
Fun and Games
. The opening scene read:
INT. PORNO SHOP, NIGHT
BUDDY MILES, fifty-five, lived-in face, cigarette permanently screwed into the side of his mouth, sits behind the counter of a particularly scuzzy porno shop. Though pin-ups and the lurid covers of assorted magazines bedeck the area where he sits, we quickly notice that he’s reading a copy of Joyce’s
Ulysses
. The opening movement of Mahler’s Symphony 1 is being played on the boom box next to the cash register. He lifts a mug of coffee, tastes it, grimaces, then reaches below the counter and brings up a bottle of Hiram Walker bourbon. He unscrews the top, pours a shot into the coffee, replaces the bottle, and sips the coffee again. This time it passes muster. But as he looks up from the mug, he notices that a man is standing in front of the counter. He is dressed in a heavy winter parka. A balaclava helmet covers his face. Instantly BUDDY notices that the hooded figure is pointing a gun at him. After a moment, the hood speaks.
LEON That Mahler you playing?
BUDDY (nonplussed by the gun) I’m impressed. Ten bucks says you can’t guess the symphony.
LEON You on. It’s Symphony Number-the-one.
BUDDY Double or nothing you can’t guess the conductor.
LEON Treble-or-nothing.
BUDDY That’s a little steep.
LEON Yeah, but I’m holding the gun.
BUDDY Can’t argue with that. Okay, treble or nothing. Who’s the guy waving the stick?
LEON pauses for a moment, listening carefully to the recording.
LEON Bernstein.
BUDDY No sale. Georg Solti and the Chicago Symphony.
LEON You fucking with me?
BUDDY Check it out yourself.
LEON – still training the gun on BUDDY – opens the top of the boom box, pulls out the disc and studies its label with distaste, eventually chucking it away.
LEON Damn. I never get that Chicago sound.
BUDDY Yeah, it takes a while to adjust your ears to it. Especially all that big brass. Listen, are we going to get done whatever you want to get done?
LEON You read my fucking mind. (He moves closer to Buddy). So go on, open up the register and make me happy.
BUDDY No problem.
BUDDY opens the register. LEON leans over, using his free hand to grab the cash. As he
Esquire
profile off the Internet, and I was definitely intrigued. There was something so irresistible about the paradox that was Philip Fleck. So much money. So little creative ability. And – if the
Esquire
writer was to be believed – such a desperate need to show the world thathe was a man of genuinely creative gifts. ‘Money means nothing without validation,’ he told the journalist. But say it turns out that, for all your billions, you are actually talentless? What then? And I guess there was a schmucky part of me that thought it would be rather amusing to spend a few days observing this supreme irony.
Even Sally was intrigued by the idea of spending a week in the proximity of such extreme wealth.
‘Are you absolutely sure this is not some ruse that little Bobby Barra has cooked up?’ she asked me.
‘For all his big time talk I doubt that Bobby actually has access to his very own 767, let alone a Caribbean island. Anyway, I did get a copy of Fleck’s script – and I had Jennifer run a WGA check on it. Fleck is registered as the author – so, yeah, the whole thing seems perfectly legit.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Don’t know. I only got it right before leaving the office.’
‘Well, if we’re leaving on Friday, you’d better find the time to do some serious notes on it. You are going to have to sing for our supper, after all.’
‘So you are coming?’
‘A free week on Phil Fleck’s island idyll? Damn right I am. I can dine out on this for months.’
‘And if it all turns out to be utterly tacky?’
‘It’ll still be a story worth telling around town.’
Later that night, after insomnia sprung me out of bed at two in the morning, I sat in our living room and cracked open Fleck’s screenplay. It was called
Fun and Games
. The opening scene read:
INT. PORNO SHOP, NIGHT
BUDDY MILES, fifty-five, lived-in face, cigarette permanently screwed into the side of his mouth, sits behind the counter of a particularly scuzzy porno shop. Though pin-ups and the lurid covers of assorted magazines bedeck the area where he sits, we quickly notice that he’s reading a copy of Joyce’s
Ulysses
. The opening movement of Mahler’s Symphony 1 is being played on the boom box next to the cash register. He lifts a mug of coffee, tastes it, grimaces, then reaches below the counter and brings up a bottle of Hiram Walker bourbon. He unscrews the top, pours a shot into the coffee, replaces the bottle, and sips the coffee again. This time it passes muster. But as he looks up from the mug, he notices that a man is standing in front of the counter. He is dressed in a heavy winter parka. A balaclava helmet covers his face. Instantly BUDDY notices that the hooded figure is pointing a gun at him. After a moment, the hood speaks.
LEON That Mahler you playing?
BUDDY (nonplussed by the gun) I’m impressed. Ten bucks says you can’t guess the symphony.
LEON You on. It’s Symphony Number-the-one.
BUDDY Double or nothing you can’t guess the conductor.
LEON Treble-or-nothing.
BUDDY That’s a little steep.
LEON Yeah, but I’m holding the gun.
BUDDY Can’t argue with that. Okay, treble or nothing. Who’s the guy waving the stick?
LEON pauses for a moment, listening carefully to the recording.
LEON Bernstein.
BUDDY No sale. Georg Solti and the Chicago Symphony.
LEON You fucking with me?
BUDDY Check it out yourself.
LEON – still training the gun on BUDDY – opens the top of the boom box, pulls out the disc and studies its label with distaste, eventually chucking it away.
LEON Damn. I never get that Chicago sound.
BUDDY Yeah, it takes a while to adjust your ears to it. Especially all that big brass. Listen, are we going to get done whatever you want to get done?
LEON You read my fucking mind. (He moves closer to Buddy). So go on, open up the register and make me happy.
BUDDY No problem.
BUDDY opens the register. LEON leans over, using his free hand to grab the cash. As he
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