Agent to the Stars by John Scalzi Page B

I—” she stopped as someone approached us. It was the assistant producer of the show. “What do you want, Jay?” she asked.
    â€œBarbara, we really have to get a move on. Another forty-five minutes and we have to start paying overtime. And we still haven’t shot half of the episode. We’re going to be here all night if we don’t start now.”
    â€œThen we’ll be here all night,” she said. “Nothing’s happening until that damned union man gets his lazy ass over from Burbank.”
    â€œBarbara, we have to get this show in the can. We’re already two days behind schedule.”

    â€œI don’t give a damn about the schedule,” Barbara said, building up a head of steam. “What I give a DAMN about is that my son’s show is being held hostage by MORONS WHO CAN’T SCREW IN A LIGHT BULB. And if these boys think they’re getting overtime, they are seriously mistaken, Jay. It’s their fault we had to stop. If anything, at this point, they ought to pay me.”
    Jay the assistant producer threw up his hands. “You’re the boss, Barbara.”
    â€œThat’s RIGHT,” Barbara said, looking around. “I AM the BOSS. You’d all do VERY VERY WELL to remember who’s signing your DAMN PAYCHECKS. Now leave me alone, Jay, I’ve got to talk business.”
    Jay split. Barbara turned back to me. “Do you see what I have to put up with around here? Now I know why Roseanne was so hard on her crew. You have to be. These folks are nothing but a bunch of lazy assed slackers. Do you know, that light almost killed me. Another two feet and it would have landed right on my head.”
    â€œThat’s awful,” I said.
    â€œNow, enough about this,” she said. “What’s your problem, Tom? Something’s up with you, and it has us worried. How can you be my son’s agent if you’re falling apart over there?”
    â€œI’m not falling apart, Barbara,” I said. “ The Biz piece had nothing to it. Everything is fine. Really.”
    â€œIs it?” Barbara said. “I wonder. I’ve been thinking about where my son is at, and I truly wonder if this is where he should be at this juncture of his career.”
    â€œWell, hell, Barbara,” I said. “He’s got his own show on a national network. I say that’s pretty good for a twenty-three-year-old.”

    â€œAt twenty-three, Eddie Murphy had made 48 Hours, Trading Places, and Beverly Hills Cop, ” Barbara said, “and his show was on a real network.”
    â€œNot everyone can have Eddie Murphy’s career,” I said.
    â€œSee, this is what I’m worried about,” Barbara said. “ I think Rashaad can have Eddie’s career. You think he can’t.”
    â€œI didn’t say that,” I said. “But now that you mention it, I don’t want Rashaad to have Eddie Murphy’s career. It includes Harlem Nights and The Adventures of Pluto Nash, too, you know.”
    â€œBut this is all academic, isn’t it?” Barbara said. “Because the fact is, Rashaad’s not even in film at all . All he has for himself is one little show on one little network.”
    I started to reply, but there was a rap on the railing. We both turned to see Rashaad, in a hooded sweatshirt, surrounded by his lackeys. Someone had apparently forgotten to tell Rashaad that gangsta went out when Notorious BIG got perforated in Los Angeles.
    â€œSay, yo, ma,” Rashaad said. “The boys and I are going to get something to eat. You want we should, you know, bring you something or something?”
    Rashaad finished in the top fifth of his private boarding school, with a verbal SAT of 650. He majored in English at the University of California, Berkeley, before dropping out in his second year to become a standup comedian. Back then, his name was Paul.
    â€œRashaad, honey, where are your