Screening rooms
.
And those buildings over there must be where the important studio executives had their offices. One of the executives was
Ellen Bass. Ellen Bass, who was too busy to watch her tape. And maybe even Rose Schiffman had offices over there, too. That
made sense. With a few secretaries typing up all of her movie ideas. She was even nominated for anOscar a few years back, so everyone must be kissing her little ass
.
After she went to see Jan, she would definitely mosey on over to the movie lot and look for Ellen and Rose. That way she might
be able to kill two birds with one stone
.
----
10
R ose liked waking up at five in the morning to write. To sit in her flannel pajamas with an afghan over her feet, while the
house was still quiet and there was no chance the phone would ring or that anybody would drop by. Still in a dreamlike haze,
she could close herself inside her cluttered home office and get lost in the words she scrawled on the turquoise lines on
the yellow legal pad.
Later, when the day began in earnest, she’d turn on the computer and transfer the newly composed pages to the blipping, bleeping,
intimidating high-tech machine she still didn’t quite understand after months of instruction, yet somehow managed to operate
by rote. But for her the brain-dancing, thought-weaving production times were always during those still, dark hours, when
she sat alone in her cluttered little space, sipping from a cup of very black coffee, using up the points on the soft-leaded
Blackwing 602 pencils.
Sometimes while she worked, she imagined that she was a romantic figure, like the sensitive and perceptive Colette, reclining
on a chaise in a flat in Paris, instead of the myopic and neurotic Mrs. Andrew Schiffman, lying on a convertiblesofa in a house in Sherman Oaks. But soon Andy’s alarm clock would blast, and her reverie would be shattered.
“Honeee?” “Mahhh??” The jarring sounds of morning called her back from the far reaches of her mind. Her husband and daughter,
both cranky in the morning, rushed around getting ready to go off to work and school, and she had to help them through their
morning rituals and out the door.
While she rehashed the dilemma between two of her characters in her mind, she made fresh coffee for Andy, who stood in the
kitchen with the cordless phone under his bearded chin, simultaneously slathering peanut butter on his toast, and checking
in on the conditions of his patients—AIDS patients, cancer patients, some of whom looked last night as if they might not make
it through to the morning.
While she decided how to open the love scene, she packed a lunch for Molly, who leaned on one arm, muttering sleepily about
how Dad always made her late for school, pushing the cereal around in the bowl and reading “Cathy” out loud to Rose from the
morning funnies.
This morning she absently made the lean turkey sandwich and cut up the fresh fruit, knowing attempts at good nutrition were
futile, since in a few hours Milly would make a furtive trade with some enviable kid whose mom gave her corn nuts and bologna.
From the table where her face was buried in the funnies, Molly said suddenly with a laugh, “Cathy reminds me of you, Mom.
She’d kind of ditzy, her office is always a mess, and she’s a worrywart.”
Daughters loved to blow the whistle on their mothers, Rose mused as she padded across the kitchen in her faded pajamas and
her beat-up fuzzy slippers. She knew that fromwatching the behavior of Marly’s twins, who were teenagers now and very critical of their mother. But at the age of ten, Molly
seemed to be starting a little early. Probably because she was growing up in crazy, mind-blowing L.A.
“We’re late,” Andy said, hanging up the phone, filling his non-slip coffee mug, kissing Rose on the cheek, and ushering Molly
toward the door to the garage. Rose followed, carrying the lunch box, which accidentally slipped
.
And those buildings over there must be where the important studio executives had their offices. One of the executives was
Ellen Bass. Ellen Bass, who was too busy to watch her tape. And maybe even Rose Schiffman had offices over there, too. That
made sense. With a few secretaries typing up all of her movie ideas. She was even nominated for anOscar a few years back, so everyone must be kissing her little ass
.
After she went to see Jan, she would definitely mosey on over to the movie lot and look for Ellen and Rose. That way she might
be able to kill two birds with one stone
.
----
10
R ose liked waking up at five in the morning to write. To sit in her flannel pajamas with an afghan over her feet, while the
house was still quiet and there was no chance the phone would ring or that anybody would drop by. Still in a dreamlike haze,
she could close herself inside her cluttered home office and get lost in the words she scrawled on the turquoise lines on
the yellow legal pad.
Later, when the day began in earnest, she’d turn on the computer and transfer the newly composed pages to the blipping, bleeping,
intimidating high-tech machine she still didn’t quite understand after months of instruction, yet somehow managed to operate
by rote. But for her the brain-dancing, thought-weaving production times were always during those still, dark hours, when
she sat alone in her cluttered little space, sipping from a cup of very black coffee, using up the points on the soft-leaded
Blackwing 602 pencils.
Sometimes while she worked, she imagined that she was a romantic figure, like the sensitive and perceptive Colette, reclining
on a chaise in a flat in Paris, instead of the myopic and neurotic Mrs. Andrew Schiffman, lying on a convertiblesofa in a house in Sherman Oaks. But soon Andy’s alarm clock would blast, and her reverie would be shattered.
“Honeee?” “Mahhh??” The jarring sounds of morning called her back from the far reaches of her mind. Her husband and daughter,
both cranky in the morning, rushed around getting ready to go off to work and school, and she had to help them through their
morning rituals and out the door.
While she rehashed the dilemma between two of her characters in her mind, she made fresh coffee for Andy, who stood in the
kitchen with the cordless phone under his bearded chin, simultaneously slathering peanut butter on his toast, and checking
in on the conditions of his patients—AIDS patients, cancer patients, some of whom looked last night as if they might not make
it through to the morning.
While she decided how to open the love scene, she packed a lunch for Molly, who leaned on one arm, muttering sleepily about
how Dad always made her late for school, pushing the cereal around in the bowl and reading “Cathy” out loud to Rose from the
morning funnies.
This morning she absently made the lean turkey sandwich and cut up the fresh fruit, knowing attempts at good nutrition were
futile, since in a few hours Milly would make a furtive trade with some enviable kid whose mom gave her corn nuts and bologna.
From the table where her face was buried in the funnies, Molly said suddenly with a laugh, “Cathy reminds me of you, Mom.
She’d kind of ditzy, her office is always a mess, and she’s a worrywart.”
Daughters loved to blow the whistle on their mothers, Rose mused as she padded across the kitchen in her faded pajamas and
her beat-up fuzzy slippers. She knew that fromwatching the behavior of Marly’s twins, who were teenagers now and very critical of their mother. But at the age of ten, Molly
seemed to be starting a little early. Probably because she was growing up in crazy, mind-blowing L.A.
“We’re late,” Andy said, hanging up the phone, filling his non-slip coffee mug, kissing Rose on the cheek, and ushering Molly
toward the door to the garage. Rose followed, carrying the lunch box, which accidentally slipped
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