The Road to Amazing

  "What about cookie sheets?" I said, pointing.

  "They're not big enough," he said.

  "It's okay, we'll make 'em fit." Honestly, I was a little annoyed Kevin was being so pissy about the pans, especially in front of our friends. I guess he was feeling stressed.

  Gunnar lifted his glass. "I want to make a toast," he said. "To Kevin and Russ."

  "What?" I said, surprised. Gunnar was the kind of guy who tried to turn broccoli blue, not the kind of guy who made wedding toasts.

  "Russ," he said, "you may not remember this, but I was there the first time you met Kevin."

  "You were not," I said. Gunnar was strange, but he wasn't so strange that he'd be lurking in the bushes spying on two guys in a park in the middle of the night. Was he?

  "You couldn't have been there," Kevin said. "Russel and I were alone."

  "What?" Gunnar said. "No, the whole class was there."

  Everyone looked at him blankly.

  "It was the seventh grade," Gunnar said. "In middle school? Kevin transferred in from another district."

  I let myself relax. Gunnar was right. That was the first day I'd ever seen Kevin, even if I didn't actually talk to him until weeks, or maybe even years, later.

  Kevin smiled, relaxing at last. "I remember that. I was so nervous."

  "I don't believe it," I said. "You didn't look nervous at all."

  Gunnar nodded, basically agreeing with me. "The teacher asked you to tell the class something about yourself, and you said, 'My name is Kevin Land, and I'm going to be an astronaut.'"

  Kevin blushed. "I did not! Oh, God, that sounds like such a little kid thing to say. And I was nervous. I was terrified."

  "It didn't seem that way," Gunnar said. "You totally sold it."

  "It's not too late," I said to Kevin. "Maybe Min can get you on the first ship to Mars."

  "I'm serious," she said. "It's not going to happen."

  "I remember now," Kevin said. "I had just done this camp thing at Cape Canaveral."

  "And did you see sparks?" Min asked Gunnar. "Did you know Russel and Kevin were destined to be together?"

  "You didn't even know I was gay back then," I said to Gunnar. "Or did you?"

  "I knew you were different. That's why I liked you."

  This made me smile. I'd liked Gunnar the first time I met him, in the fourth grade, for exactly the same reason. I'd tried hard to hide my weirdness from my classmates, and Gunnar had too, but it never worked: he was too different.

  "What did you think?" Min asked me, meaning about Kevin.

  I had to think back. When it came to Kevin, there was a lot in my brain to untangle. But I did have a vague memory of the whole encounter.

  "I knew he'd be the most popular boy in class," I said. "Which he was."

  "I was not," Kevin said, wrestling with the plastic wrap on one of the take-and-bake pizzas.

  I didn't dignify his denial with a response. "I think the whole class knew, just from the way he looked, the way he stood," I said. "Even Jim Madsen, the most popular guy in class until then. I think he took one look at Kevin and said, 'Well, that's it, I'm done.'"

  Kevin kept blushing.

  "Did you think he was hot?" Gunnar asked.

  "Probably," I said. "Everyone thought he was hot."

  Kevin glanced at me. "I remember what I thought of you."

  "You do not. I'm sure you didn't even notice me."

  "Are you kidding? That hair? I noticed you right away. And I thought you were adorable."

  (I have red hair — more auburn, really.)

  Now I blushed.

  "We've gone over all this before," Kevin said. "Why do you think I teased you?"

  This made me smile. In high school, Kevin had sometimes stolen my underwear in the locker room and thrown it around to the other jocks. If anyone had tried to tell me then that he'd been doing it because he had a crush on me, because he was trying to get close to me, it would have blown my mind.

  "I wonder if our eyes met," I said.

  "What?" Kevin asked.

  "That first day. You say you noticed me, and I know I noticed you. I wonder what we looked like together. Wouldn't you kill to go back in time and see?"

  Kevin's face softened, and he had sort of a dreamy smile. "Yeah." Remember when I said he seemed sort of pissy? That was long gone by now.

  Meanwhile, the picture in my mind of Kevin back in the seventh grade was becoming clearer and clearer. He was wearing a blue shirt and jeans. He'd recently gotten a haircut — or maybe he always kept his hair that neatly trimmed. Yes, I thought he was hot.

  And now I've ended up with him, I said to myself.

  Gunnar lifted his glass again. "To Russ and Kevin," he said, "and to destiny!"

  Who in the world wouldn't drink to that?

  But once we'd finished toasting, Kevin turned his attention back to the pizza — which unfortunately, really was too big for the cookie sheet.

  "God damn it!" he said, frustrated again, and that's when I took over and made the executive call to cook the pizzas directly on the oven rack.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Forty or so minutes later, the doorbell rang again, which meant that the next ferry must have finally arrived on the island. I answered the door.

  "Vernie!" I said, grinning like a kid getting a triple-scoop ice cream cone.

  It was my friend Vernie Rose, a seventy-four year old woman, carrying an overnight bag. Vernie was even shorter than Min, but wider at the hips, with silver hair that was cut in sort of a bowl. She wore diamond cat-rim glasses, but it was her eyes that were doing most of the sparkling.

  Vernie was a retired screenwriter — she had once even been nominated for an Oscar (for a short film she wrote). We'd met a few years earlier, and now she was my screenwriting mentor. When it came time for Kevin and me to figure out who we wanted to spend the whole wedding weekend with us, I knew right away I wanted Vernie.

  She stepped inside, looking around the house. "Nice place," she said. "Where's the booze?"

  I laughed. "How was the ferry ride?"

  "Horrible. I'm too old for this shit. But I'm pleased as punch to be here. But first I need to spend a penny."

  I knew that meant she needed to use the bathroom, so I pointed out the way.

  When she got back, she said, "You thought I was kidding about the booze, didn't you?"

  But I'd totally known that was coming, so I pulled a glass of wine out from behind my back.

  "Oh, you're gooood!" she said, taking the glass. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

  Right then, the doorbell rang one last time, and I opened it.

  "Otto!" I said.

  "Russel!" he said, and we actually did hug.

  I'd met Otto years ago when were both sixteen and counselors at a summer camp. We'd even dated for a few months after that, but that was all long over. Now he was an actor living in Los Angeles, which was where I'd reconnected with him the year before. But Otto was a burn survivor. When he was seven years old, he got into some gasoline and matches, and now he had a big burn on his shoulder and one-half of his face. Over the years, he'd had some corrective surgery. Plus, he was a pretty good-looking guy to begin with, even more so now that he'd grown into his looks.

  Still, for a long time, he'd struggled, because it was hard enough being an unknown actor even without big scars on your face. But earlier that year, he'd landed a role on a network sitcom called Hammered, about this guy, Mike Hammer, and his friends living in a college dorm. Otto played Dustin, one of Mike's dorm-mates, who also happened to have scars on his face.

  Truthfully, except for Otto, the show wasn't that special. I mean, it was mostly about guys trying to get laid, and dealt with issues like "the friend zone," and fuck buddies, and how for some Millennials, porn is supposedly better than real sex — comedy themes that were completely tapped out five years ago.

  Still, it was incredible watching someone I knew on television. Better still, when the show had debuted in early J
une, Dustin had quickly become the break-out character. It's not every day that someone with scars on their face gets cast in a sitcom. It was a little like Laverne Cox on Orange is the New Black being the first transgender actress playing a transgender character on an actual TV program.

  The one problem with all this was that ever since Otto had become famous, I hadn't seen very much of him. I didn't hold it against him — I could only imagine how busy he was. But we'd gotten pretty close before that, and I missed him.

  "Otto Digmore!" Vernie said before I could even introduce them (they'd never met either).

  "Vernie Rose," Otto said.

  "I've heard so much about you," they both said to each other at exactly the same time.

  "Otto!" said Min, behind us.

  "Min!" Otto said. Gunnar stepped into view too. "Gunnar!"

  The three of them ran together and hugged like one of them had been shipwrecked on an island for six years — even Min who, like me, was not a hugger. Min and Gunnar had known Otto at summer camp too, and the three of them hadn't seen each other since way back then.

  "You look so different," Gunnar said.

  "Fantastic," Min said. "You look fantastic."

  The weird part was, Otto looked different even since I'd last seen him. Was it the fact that he was famous now, that I'd watched him on TV? Honestly, it seemed like more than that. And it wasn't just the obviously expensive clothes and the new, incredibly flattering haircut. He had a confidence he'd never had before. He and I used to joke that the secret to success in Hollywood was to simply act successful, but now I saw that actual success looked different than fake success. It wasn't as eager-to-please. Anyway, it flattered him too.

  "God, how long has it been?" Otto said to Min and Gunnar. "Ten years? We were all such kids."

  As they talked, I introduced Vernie to Nate and Ruby, who were back from the beach.

  At one point, I overheard Gunnar saying to Otto, "It's so great, you're being famous and everything."

  Otto shook his head and even blushed a little, perfectly endearing. "I'm not famous," he said.

  "You so are!" I called. "And you totally, totally deserve it."

  At that point, he just smiled modestly, but right after that, he peeled off from the others to go wash his hands before dinner.

  * * *

  A few minutes later, we gathered everyone at the dinner table. Kevin and I stood together at one end.

  "We'd like to say a couple of things," Kevin said. "First, just so you know, we've installed hidden cameras throughout the house, including the bathrooms. So if any of you do anything questionable, the two of us will definitely know."

  People laughed, but Gunnar said, "Really?" and when I told him no, he actually looked kind of disappointed.

  "No, seriously," Kevin said, "Russel and I really want to thank you all for coming. It means a lot to us. But we also wanted to explain why we hadn't asked any of you to be our best man. Or best woman."

  "Best person," Min said, and I pointed at her.

  "Why?" Nate said, mock-indignant.

  "Because we hate you all," Kevin said.

  Nate snorted, and everyone else laughed again. Kevin was killing this little speech of his, which made me happy for a lot of reasons, but especially because it meant he'd finally relaxed about the weekend.

  "Actually," I said, "it's because we didn't want to have to choose. The way we see it, you're all our best persons." My eyes found Ruby and Nate. "Well, except for you guys, because I only just met you. But I'm sure if I knew you, I would absolutely want you as a 'best person' too."

  Yes, this was mostly me being diplomatic (I couldn't imagine ever liking Nate that much).

  Ruby hoisted her drink. "I'm right there with ya!" she said.

  Kevin took my hand, and we faced the gathering again. "Anyway," he said, "that's what we wanted to say. That we love you all, and we're really happy you could be here with us."

  Everyone hooted and applauded, and told us they loved us too, and how happy they were to be there. After that, we ate and talked, but I couldn't help thinking about what Kevin had said. The stuff about not wanting to pick a "best person"? It was the actual truth, something he and I had decided beforehand.

  But as I looked around the table, I wondered: If someone put a gun to my head, who would I pick — not only as my best person, but as my best friend? The whole idea of a best friend was really kind of stupid — something from grade school, like wanting to be an astronaut when you grew up. But I still wondered who it would be. Min? She was definitely the person I confided in the most, even now that I lived in Los Angeles, and I think she probably understood me better than anyone. But Gunnar was the kind of guy you could count on for absolutely anything, no questions asked, and Min and I joked a lot about how he understood more than he sometimes let on. Otto and I had once been boyfriends, which gave you a special kind of intimacy (you'll note that he was the only person I hugged at the front door). Now that we lived in the same city, he and I had ended up becoming really close — at least before his career had taken off. And there was Vernie, the person who had helped me find meaning in my life by getting me to realize I wanted to be a screenwriter, and who was now the world's greatest mentor.

  Then there was Kevin, the guy I was marrying. The instant I thought of it, I realized that he was my best friend, no matter how you sliced it.

  The best man is also the groom, I thought. Who knew?

  All of which made me realize (again) what a lucky guy I was, and that I'd pretty much have to have blue broccoli for brains to complain about anything in my life.

  * * *

  After dinner, we all cleaned up, and Vernie helped me load the dishwater.

  "So what's new in Hollywood?" she asked me.

  "Well, A Cup of Joe is officially dead," I said. A Cup of Joe was an indie movie project I'd written that some friends and I had been trying to set up in Los Angeles. We'd come really close to getting financing a couple of times, but it had always fallen through. In the end, everyone had given up and moved on to other projects.

  "Just dead or truly dead?"

  Everyone in Hollywood knows that nothing is ever really dead — that there's always one more place to try, one more hustle to play, or maybe an unexpected change in the marketplace. But it's somehow also true that sometimes a project finally seems truly dead, and you have to learn to let it go.

  "Truly dead, I think," I said.

  "Well, I'm really sorry to hear that. It was a damn good script. But they're all spins at the roulette wheel. You know that, right? There's a huge element of luck in all this, just flat-out random chance. That's why you can't get bogged down with any one project. You need to have at least five scripts always ready to go. Do you have five scripts ready to go?"

  "Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" I said, saluting like a soldier.

  Vernie laughed.

  "I've decided I need a new strategy," I said.

  "I'm intrigued. Go on."

  "Well, with A Cup of Joe, it all boiled down to money. Everyone wants to make a feature film, but no one has any money. So I've decided to write a single-location script. Something completely bare-bones that can be produced for a hundred thousand dollars or less."

  Single-location scripts were suddenly all the rage among aspiring screenwriters in Hollywood. The idea was that the whole story is set in a single location (or two), so the movie can be filmed fast and inexpensively.

  Vernie thought about it, then nodded. "I guess that makes sense."

  "You know," I said, "movies like Buried, or Devil, or Moon, or Wrecked, or ATM, or Locke? All those writers got lots of attention for good scripts that could be filmed really cheap."

  "Twelve Angry Men," Vernie said.

  "Yeah!"

  "What are they about?"

  "Well," I said, "Buried is about someone trapped in a coffin. Moon is about someone trapped in a moon station, Devil is about people trapped in an elevator, Wrecked is about someone trapped in the wreckage of a car, ATM is?
??"

  "Okay, okay, I get the idea. Do they have to have one-word titles?"

  "No, that's just a coincidence."

  "There's just one problem," Vernie said.

  "What's that?"

  "Movies are an inherently visual medium. And also a medium that depends on movement."

  "What's your point? That no one wants to see a movie set in a single location?"

  "You said it."

  "But the writers are using their self-imposed limitations to explore a particular theme," I said. "These are movies that are literally about being trapped, so the setting reinforces the theme. Besides, the critics love 'em."

  "Oh, the critics." She made a motion like she was jacking off, and I laughed.

  "Well," I said, "in addition to having one-word titles and being about people who are trapped, you know what else those movies all have in common?"

  "What's that?"

  "They actually got made. Unlike, oh, I don't know, the twelve screenplays I've written?"

  Vernie smiled. "Good point. But do me a favor?"

  "Sure."

  "Never forget the whole point of movies."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Movie moments."

  I stared at her.

  "You know, movie moments?" she went on. "Those moments in every good movie where everything comes perfectly together — the writing, the acting, the visuals — with some great emotional punch? Like when Brody sees the shark for the first time in Jaws and says, 'You're gonna need a bigger boat.' Or in Spartacus when Kirk Douglas stands up and says, 'I am Spartacus!' And then the rest of the crowd stands up too, one by one, all saying that they're Spartacus too."

  "The cockroach scene in Snowpiercer," I said.

  "I don't know what that is," Vernie said, "but I'm sure you're right. A movie moment is any moment in a movie where it all comes together — it's larger than life, but also somehow perfectly about life. They're actually the reason we go to the movies in the first place, because they perfectly capture some emotion that we've all felt, and clarify exactly what the movie is trying to say."