Page 17 of Hot Set
A script for episode 107 slides across the table and lands in front of me. I open it up as if I have a clue what I’m doing.
A shortish man who looks to be in his late sixties stands next to Niks. “Welcome to 107, everyone. We’ve got a Bobby Provost script this go-round, so let’s make the captain proud.”
As if this morning can’t get any more surreal, it clicks in my overtaxed brain who this man is.TheAlan Rafier—director of my favorite show from now until the end of time,The Socrates Chronicles. I am sitting at a table read with Alan Rafier. My fingernails dig into my jeans. I am so out of my league. How am I going to function in the presence of gods?
Taking in the company, I begin to suss out who’s who. The male actors are all bearded with long hair and builds that would fit on the defensive line of any professional football team. Clansmen. Tribesmen. Brutes. Near the center of the table are a pair of network types. The suits are the dead giveaway. I wouldn’t be surprised to see True Time Networkinsignias on the breast pocket of their blazers.
Clustered together in the corner are what have to be the writers. Buried under a fleet of laptops, they’ll soon be listening to the tune of the dialogue. These folks will smooth out the flats and sharps of the piece. My favorite playwriting professor, Gary, always said, “Words are music to shape the story.”
Alan Rafier adjusts his glasses, and everyone quiets down. “You are all very welcome. This isThe Chieftain’s Son Episode 107, Blood and Bone. Our guest cast for this adventure is Morgan O’Toole as Bowstring.” There’s friendly applause that I can’t help but notice is nowhere near the ovationTraipse of Moonlightscored.
As he finishes the welcomes, I retrieve my favorite mechanical pencil with the super fat grip to write notes. I have no idea what I should be writing, so I decide to freewheel it for now.
The opening scene is Chieftain Rory plotting and planning with his bros. Donal Cam, the chieftain’s son, is still in the process of proving his worth to dear ol’ dad. The rest of the clan hasn’t decided if the young upstart should get a command for the next foray into land acquisition.
Jack isn’t in this scene. When I dare a glance his way, he looks straight at me. Before his lips manage a smile of greeting, I drop my eyes back to the script. An insane urge to doodle around Donal Cam’s name on the page comes over me. I quell it by highlighting a line in Irish I’ll ask Doolin to translate.
“Jack,” says Alan Rafier in a tone reserved for schoolboys who stare out the window instead of focusing on their lesson. By reflex, my head snaps up to look. Jack is flustered and trying to find his place on the page.
“Sorry, Alan.”
It’s safe to watch him now since that’s what everyone else in the room is doing. I swear the bone structure of Jack’s face shifts into something hard and savage. “Aye, Father. ‘Tis the blood of the despicables you seek, and that’s what I’ll deliver.” Even the pitch and timbre of his voice is altered. Jack O’Leary has left the building. Donal Cam is in the house.
As the scene jumps back to the doubting soldiers, Jack seeks me out again. No smile this time. His look questions, wonders. For the space of a few heartbeats, there’s no one else in the room but Jack, me, and our silent exchange. It hollows me out to do it, but I manage a quick shake of my head and return to my place in the script.
Whatever my responsibilities will be onThe Chieftain’s Son, I’m sure they don’t include locking eyes with Jack O’Leary.
ChapterSix
My office is tiny but more inviting to a writer than my cubicle at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear. It’s a cozy nook off the main writer’s room stocked with a magnetic white board nearly as big as the back wall, a desktop computer and its huge monitor, as well as a brand-new laptop. On my desk, a silver metallic basket overflowing with packages of Post-it flags wears a green ribbon and a note that says,
I knew we’d get you!!!
-Bobby
My new boss slips a lanyard with my ID card and a key fob around my neck. “All access. I’m giving you the keys to my kingdom.”
I inspect the card with my picture security snapped of me, proof I’m all-in with my new reality. Once I agree to something, I stick with it. Sometimes longer than I should. “Many thanks, Your Majesty. I don’t know about the long haul, but for now, I’m all yours.”
His face relaxes. “Music to my ears. Dinner tonight?”
I almost choke but clear my throat to cover it up. Does he meandinnerdinner, as in “I’m asking you out,” or “You’re new so I’ll show you where the good eats are?” I discovered through effective Internet stalking that Bobby is thirty-seven—younger than I guessed but still well out of my personal dating range.
“Bobby,” calls the woman with kinky red hair I recognize from the table read. She looks to be around my age. I covet herChieftain’s Sonlogo zip-up hoodie. It’s chilly in here and even chillier outside.
The writer’s room itself is stuffed with comfy couches and armchairs that make you crave a good book and a fireplace. A giant picture window frames bright green pastures peppered with copses of trees along the fringe. Even the crooked fences are picturesque. At one end of the room is a meeting table surrounded by a dozen green mesh rolling chairs. Every other inch of wall space is covered with massive white boards splashed with color-coded scene cards and episode numbers written above them.
We join the group that I correctly pegged at the table read as the writers. There are greetings all around, then bartering begins for changes and cuts that the writers’ tuned ears picked up while the cast read through the script.
Bobby nudges me. “Go get your laptop. I want you to record the session and transcribe so I can review decisions and not lose any decent ideas. Once this group gets going, things tend to fly fast and furious.”
I dart into my office and back to the room while the laptop boots up in my arms. Claiming a seat near the far corner of the table, I start recording. I open one doc for Bobby and another for myself to type notes on who is who.
Collin looks to be the oldest of the group. He’s got the beginning of a paunch and hair so black it shines bluish under the lights. Danna, one of two women on staff, could have stepped off a page of the Lawson Graham business wear catalog. Her air of authority fits her title as a senior writer with producer status. Benj and Benny look like the jock vs. nerd pair from an ensemble sitcom cast.I make a note to remember that Benny is the larger one because his name has double n’s to Benj’s single n.
Maureen, the red-haired women in the logo zip-up, is casually splayed across two chairs with her aqua ballet flats resting on the table. Whenever a lull crops up in the debate, she checks in with wry remarks that work to diffuse any rising tension. I wonder if she’s a writer or the on-staff therapist.
Collin’s elbows dig into the table as he kneads both temples with his thumbs. “I’m just saying the back-and-forth between Bowstring and Rory runs too long. Let’s cut half of page thirteen and get to Bowstring’s takeover hints earlier to punch up the tension.”