“I can’t wait,” Hester said.
“Andy? You okay?” Hanson asked.
“I’m fine,” Dahl said, and smiled. “Sorry. Was just thinking. About being fictional, and all that.”
“We’re over that now,” Hester said. “That was the point of all of this.”
“You’re right,” Dahl said. “I know.”
Duvall looked at her phone. “Crap, I’m going to be late,” she said. “I’m breaking in a new crew member.”
“Oh, the burdens of a promotion,” Hester said.
“It’s hard, it really is,” Duvall said, and got up.
“I’ll walk with you,” Hester said. “You can tell me more of your woes.”
“Excellent,” Duvall said. The two of them left.
Hanson looked back at Dahl. “Still thinking about being fictional?” he said, after a minute.
“Sort of,” Dahl said. “What I’ve been really thinking about is you, Jimmy.”
“Me,” Hanson said.
“Yeah,” Dahl said. “Because while I was recuperating from our last adventure, something struck me about you. You don’t really fit.”
“That’s interesting,” Hanson said. “Tell me why.”
“Think about it,” Dahl said. “Think of the five of us who met that first day, the day we joined the crew of the Intrepid. Each of us turned out to be critical in some way. Hester, who didn’t seem to have a purpose, turned out to be the key to everything. Duvall had medical training and got close to Kerensky, which helped us when we needed it and made him part of our crew when we needed him. Finn gave us tools and information we needed and his loss galvanized us to take action. Jenkins gave us context for our situation and the means to do something about it.”
“What about you?” Hanson asked. “Where do you fit in?”
“Well, that’s the one I had a hard time with,” Dahl said. “I wondered what I brought to the party. I thought maybe I was just the man with the plan—the guy who came up with the basic ideas everyone else went along with. Logistics. But then I started thinking about Kerensky, and what he is to the show.”
“He’s the guy who gets beat up to show that the main characters can get beat up,” Hanson said.
“Right,” Dahl said.
“But you can’t be Kerensky,” Hanson said. “We have a Kerensky. It’s Kerensky.”
“It’s not about Kerensky getting beat up,” Dahl said. “It’s about Kerensky not dying.”
“I’m not following you,” Hanson said.
“Jimmy, how many times should I have died since we’ve been on the Intrepid?” Dahl asked. “I count at least three. The first time, when I was attacked at Eskridge colony, when Cassaway and Mbeke died. Then in the Nantes interrogation room with Finn and Captain Abernathy. And then on deck six when we returned to the Intrepid with Hester. Three times I should have been dead, no ifs, ands or buts. I should be dead, three times over. But I’m not. I get hurt. I get hurt really badly. But I don’t die. That’s when I figured it out. I’m the protagonist.”
“But you’re an extra,” Hanson said. “We all are. Jenkins said it. Charles Paulson said it. Even the actor playing you said it.”
“I’m an extra on the show,” Dahl said. “I’m the protagonist somewhere else.”
“Where?” Hanson said.
“That’s what I want you to tell me, Jimmy,” Dahl said.
“What?” Hanson said. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s like I said: You don’t fit,” Dahl said. “Everyone else served a strong purpose for the story. Everyone but you. For this, you were just around, Jimmy. You have a backstory, but it never really entered in to what we did. You did a few useful things—you looked into show trivia, and talked about people, and occasionally you reminded people to do things. You added just enough that it seemed like you were taking part. But the more I think about it, the more I realize that you don’t quite add up the way the rest of us do.”
“Life is like that, Andy,” Hanson said. “It’s messy. We don’t all add up that way.”
“No,” Dahl said. “We do. Everyone else does. Everyone else but you. The only way you fit is if the thing you’re supposed to do, you haven’t done yet. The only way you fit is if there’s something else going on here. We’re all supposed to think we were real people who found out they were extras on a television show. But I know that doesn’t begin to explain me. I should be dead several times over, like Kerensky or any of the show’s major characters are supposed to be dead, but aren’t, because the universe plays favorites with them. The universe plays favorites with me, too.”
“Maybe you’re lucky,” Hanson said.
“No one is that lucky, Jimmy,” Dahl said. “So here’s what I think. I think there’s no television show. No real television show. I think that Charles Paulson and Marc Corey and Brian Abnett and everyone else over there are just as fictional as we were supposed to be. I think Captain Abernathy and Commander Q’eeng, Medical Officer Hartnell and Chief Engineer West are the bit players here, and that me and Maia and Finn and Jasper are the people who really count. And I think in the end, you really exist for just one reason.”
“What reason is that, Andy?” Hanson said.
“To tell me that I’m right about this,” Dahl said.
“My parents would be surprised by your conclusion,” Hanson said.
“My parents would be surprised by all of this,” Dahl said. “Our parents are not the point here.”
“Andy, we’ve known each other for years,” Hanson said. “I think you know who I am.”
“Jimmy,” Dahl said. “Please. Tell me if I’m right.”
Hanson sat there for a minute, looking at Dahl. “I don’t think it would actually make you happier to be told you were right about this,” he said, finally.
“I don’t want to be happy,” Dahl said. “I just want to know.”
“And even if you were right,” Hanson said, “what do you get out of it? Aren’t you better off believing that you’ve accomplished something? That you’ve gotten the happy ending you were promised? Why would you want to push that?”
“Because I need to know,” Dahl said. “I’ve always needed to know.”
“Because that’s the way you are,” Hanson said. “A seeker of truth. A spiritual man.”
“Yes,” Dahl said.
“A man who needs to know if he’s really that way, or just written to be that way,” Hanson said.
“Yes,” Dahl said.
“Someone who needs to know if he’s really his own man, or—”
“Tell me you’re not about to make the pun I think you are,” Dahl said.
Hanson smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “It was there.” He pushed out from his chair and stood up. “Andy, you’re my friend. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” Dahl said. “I do.”
“Then maybe you can believe this,” Hanson said. “Whether you’re an extra or the hero, this story is about to end. When it’s done, whatever you want to be will be up to you and only you. It will happen away from the eyes of any audience and from the hand of any writer. You will be your own man.”
“If I exist when I stop being written,” Dahl said.
“There is that,” Hanson said. “It’s an interesting philosophical question. But if I had to guess, I’d guess that your creator would say to you that he would want you to live happily ever after.”
“That’s just a guess,” Dahl said.
“Maybe a little more than a guess,” Hanson said. “But I will say this, though: You were right.”
“About what?” Dahl said.
“That now I’ve done what I was supposed to do,” Hanson said. “But now I have to go do the other thing I’m supposed to do, which is assume my post. See you at dinner, Andy?”
Dahl grinned. “Yes,” he said. “If any of us are around for it.”
“Great,” Hanson said. “See you then.” And he wandered off.
Dahl sat there for a few more minutes
, thinking about everything that had happened and everything that Hanson said. And then he got up and went to his station on the bridge. Because whether fictional or not, on a spaceship, a television show or in something else entirely, he still had work to do, surrounded by his friends and the crew of the Intrepid.
And that’s just what he did, until the day six months later when a systems failure caused the Intrepid to plow into a small asteroid, vaporizing the ship and killing everyone on board instantly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
No, no, I’m just fucking with you.
They all lived happily ever after.
Seriously.
CODA I:
First Person
CODA I: FIRST PERSON
Hello, Internet.
There isn’t any good way to start this, so let me just jump right in.
So, I am a scriptwriter for a television show on a major network who just found out that the people he’s been making up in his head (and killing off at the rate of about one an episode) are actually real. Now I have writer’s block, I don’t know how to solve it, and if I don’t figure it out soon, I’m going to get fired. Help me.
And now I just spent 20 minutes looking at that last paragraph and feeling like an asshole. Let me break it down further to explain it to you a little better.
“Hello, Internet”: You know that New Yorker cartoon that has a dog talking to another dog by a computer and saying, “On the Internet, no one knows you’re a dog”? Yeah, well, this is that.
No, I’m not a dog. But yes, I need some anonymity here. Because holy shit, look what I just wrote up there. That’s not something you can just say out loud to people. But on the Internet? Anonymously? Might fly.
“I am a scriptwriter…”: I really am. I’ve been working for several years on the show, which (duh) has been successful enough to have been around for several years. I don’t want to go into too much more detail about that right now, because remember, I’m trying to have some anonymity here to work through this thing I’ve been dealing with. Suffice to say that it’s not going to win any major Emmys, but it’s still the sort of show that you, my dear Internet, would probably watch. And that in the real world, I have an IMDB page. And it’s pretty long. So there.
“Who just found out the people he’s been making up in his head are real”: Yes, I know. I know. Didn’t I just say “holy shit” two paragraphs ago about it? Don’t you think I know how wobbly-toothed, speed freak crazy it sounds? I do. I very very very very much do. If I didn’t think it was completely bugfuck crazy, I’d be writing about it on my own actual blog (if I had my own actual blog, which I don’t, because I work on a weekly television series, and who has the time) and finding some way to go full Whitley Strieber on it. I don’t want that. That’s a lifestyle. A whacked-out, late night talking to the tinfoil-hatted on your podcast lifestyle. I don’t want that. I just want to be able to get back to my own writing.
But still: The people I wrote in my scripts exist. I know because I met them, swear to God, right there in the flesh, I could reach out and touch them. And whenever I kill one of them off in my scripts, they actually die. To me, it’s just putting down words on a page. To them, it’s falling off a building, or being hit by a car, or being eaten by a bear or whatever (these are just examples, they’re not necessarily how I’ve killed people off).
Think about that. Think about what it means. That just writing down “BOB is consumed by badgers” in a script means that somewhere in the universe, some poor bastard named Bob has just been chased down by ravenous mustelids. Sure, it sounds funny when I write it like that. But if you were Bob? It would suck. And then you would be dead, thanks to me. Which explains the next part:
“Now I have writer’s block”: You know, I never understood writer’s block before this. You’re a writer and you suddenly can’t write because your girlfriend broke up with you? Shit, dude, that’s the perfect time to write. It’s not like you’re doing anything else with your nights. Having a hard time coming up with the next scene? Have something explode. You’re done. Filled with existential ennui about your place in the universe? Get over yourself. Yes, you’re an inconsequential worm in the grand scope of history. But you’re an inconsequential worm who makes shit up for a living, which means that you don’t have to lift heavy boxes or ask people if they want fries with that. Grow up and get back to work.
On a good day, I can bang out a first draft of an episode in six hours. Is it good? It ain’t Shakespeare, but then, Shakespeare wrote Titus Andronicus, so you tell me. Six hours, one script, a good day. And I have to tell you, as a writer, I’ve had my share of good days.
But now I have writer’s block and I can’t write a script because fuck me I kill people when I write. It’s a pretty good excuse for having writer’s block, if you ask me. Girlfriend leaving you? Get on with it. You send people to their deaths by typing? Might give you pause. It’s given me pause. Now I sit in front of my laptop, Final Draft all loaded up, and just stare at the screen for hours.
“I’m going to get fired”: My job is writing scripts. I’m not writing scripts. If I don’t start writing scripts again, soon, there’s no reason for me to be kept on staff. I’ve been able to stall a bit because I had one script in the outbox before the block slammed down, but that gives me about a week’s insurance. That’s not a lot of time. You see why I’m nervous.
“Help me”: Look, I need help. This isn’t something I can talk to with people I actually know. Because, again: Bugshit crazy. I can’t afford to have people I work with—or other writers I know, most of whom are unemployed and would be happy to crawl over my carcass to get my television show writing staff position—think that I’ve lost my marbles. Gigs like this don’t grow on trees. But I have to talk to someone about it, because for the life of me I haven’t the first damn clue about what I should be doing about this. I need some perspective from outside my own head.
And this is where you come in, Internet. You have perspective. And I’m guessing that some of you might just be bored enough to help out some anonymous dude on the Internet, asking for advice on a completely ridiculous situation. It’s either this or Angry Birds, right?
So, what do you say, Internet?
Yours,
Anon-a-Writer
* * *
So, the good news is that apparently people are reading this. The bad news is people are asking me questions instead of, you know, helping me. But then again when you anonymously post on the Internet that the characters you write have suddenly come alive, I suppose you have to answer a few questions first. Fine. So for those of you who need it, a quick run-through of the most common questions I’ve gotten so far. I’m going to paraphrase some to keep from repeating questions and comments.
Dude, are you serious?
Dude, I am serious. I am not high (being high is more fun), I am not making this up (if I was making things up, I would be getting paid for it), and I am not crazy (crazy would be more fun, too). This is for real.
Really?
Yes.
Really?
Yes.
No, really?
Shut up. Next question.
Why haven’t you discussed this with your therapist?
Because contrary to popular belief, not every writer in Los Angeles has been in therapy since before they could walk. All my neuroses are manageable (or were, anyway). I suppose I could get one, but that would be a hell of a first session, wouldn’t it, and I’m not entirely convinced I’d get out of there without being sedated and sent off to the funny farm. Call me paranoid.
Isn’t this kind of the plot to that movie Stranger than Fiction?
Maybe? That’s the Will Ferrell movie where he’s a character in someone’s book, right? (I know I could check this on IMDB, but I’m lazy.) Except for that I’m the writer, not the character. So same concept, different spin. Maybe?
But, look, even if it is, I didn’t say what was happening to me was creatively 100% original. I mean, there’s T
he Purple Rose of Cairo, which had characters coming down off the screen. There’s those Jasper Fforde books where everyone’s a fairy tale or literary character. There’s Denise Hogan’s books where she’s always arguing with her characters and sometimes they don’t listen to her and mess with her plots. My mom loves those. Hell, there’s The Last Action Hero, for God’s sake. Have you seen that? You have? I’m sorry.
There’s also the small but telling detail that those are all fictional, and this is really happening to me. Like I said, a subtle difference. But an important one. I’m not going for originality here. I’m trying to get this solved.
Hey, is your show [insert name of show here]?
Friend, what part of “I want to be anonymous” don’t you understand? Even if you guessed right I’m still not going to tell you. Want a hint? Fine: It’s not 30 Rock. Also I am not Tina Fey. Mmmm … Tina Fey.
Likewise:
You know that these days the Internet does know if you’re a dog, right?
Yes, but this dog opened this blog account using a throwaway e-mail address and cruises the Web using Tor.
Why don’t you just write scripts where people don’t get killed?
Well, I could do that, but two things will happen then:
1. The script gets turned in and the producers say, “The stakes need to be raised in this scene. Kill someone.” And then I have to kill someone in the script, or a co-writer does, or one of the producers does a quick uncredited wash of the script, or the director zaps a character during shooting, and someone dies anyway.
2. Even if I don’t kill anyone, there still needs to be drama, and on a show like mine, drama usually means if someone isn’t killed, then they are maimed or mutilated or given a disease that turns them into a pustule with legs. Admittedly, turning a character into a pustule is better than killing them dead, but it’s still not comfortable for them, and it’s still me doing it to them. So I still have guilt.
Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like to do better than turn in scripts whether the characters do nothing but lounge on pillows, eating chocolates and having hot, cathartic sex for an hour (minus commercial time, your capitalistically inspired refractory period). I think our audience wouldn’t mind either—it would be inspirational and educational! But it’s not that kind of show, and there’s only so edgy basic cable is going to let us be.