line, too.” She knew, though, that he’d be
ready to bail out at a moment’s notice, just as he had before. She was sure
he had already re-packed his parachute after aborting his last bailout in
mid-jump.
“We’re going to do a hundred mil opening weekend,” he said. “And
that’s if a natural disaster cuts into the box office. I’ve never seen buzz like
this on a movie before.”
They moved forward another car length. Teri let out a big sigh.
“What are you worried about?” he asked.
“What if the movie’s no good? What if I was just so desperate for a
hit that I let all the weirdness of suicides and wills and crazy mothers
influence my judgment?”
“I read the script, too, Babe. It’s good, damn good.”
“You read the scripts on the busts, too. You’re the one who told me
to do them. Do we trust your judgment?”
“Trust Doug Bozarth and his people who thought it was good enough
to sink seventy-five million dollars into. And you’ve seen the final cut of
the movie. You know it’s good, Babe. The hype may bring in the audience
the opening weekend, but word-of-mouth’s going to give it legs. We’re
going to set records with this one.”
“If you say so.” But Teri wasn’t so sure. She had seen can’t-miss turn
into what-were-you-thinking before. Sure, opening weekend should be
good, but word-of-mouth, while it could give the movie legs, could also
cut it off at the knees. Twitter and Facebook and other forms of social
media, with the instant gratification they brought, could kill it before the
first Saturday matinees were over if the Teri Squire haters started texting
in darkened theaters.
They pulled up another car length, and a young man in black pants,
white shirt with tie, and tennis shoes opened the passenger door. The
murmur from the crowd opened up to a roar. Teri could just make out
her name being spoken over and over, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a
shout, as the crowd recognized who was in the car.
Mike took her hand in his. “You ready to do this?”
Teri took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then
opened them and smiled. She nodded.
“Then let’s go greet your fans,” he said.
She gave the valet her hand and allowed him to escort her out of the
car while Mike hustled around to take the handoff and lead her to the
door. Excited fans surged forward against the rope line. Hands extended
holding paper, pictures, napkins—anything she could autograph. She took
the first one and signed her name, then took the next.
“Babe, we gotta get inside,” Mike said.
“Just a few more,” she said. “You’ll notice these folks don’t think I’m
toxic.” She reveled in the attention and adulation of the crowd. It had been
a long time since she had felt like this. And with her track record, there
was no guarantee she would ever feel it again, so she wanted to enjoy it
while she could.
Mike held her elbow and tried to hustle her along, but she insisted on
signing everything that was thrust her way. Exasperated, he grabbed her
hand as she reached for a glossy shot of her from her first Oscar-winning
film. She got only a glimpse of it, but something about the photo troubled
her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Maybe not the photo, exactly,
but the hand that held it.
“Now,” Mike said. “Inside.”
She looked at the person who held out the photo. “I’m sorry. If you’ll
still be here later, I’ll be happy to sign it.”
The man was thin-faced with longish greasy hair and a gap-toothed
smile. His appearance startled her. There was something troubling about
his face, just as something troubled her about the hand that held the photo.
She glanced down just as the man withdrew the offer. It was a fast move,
too fast for her to be able to make out any detail of the tattoo on his bare
forearm. She could see just enough to tell there was something there,
crude and simplistic. And vaguely familiar.
She looked back at the man, whose smile lingered but his
ready to bail out at a moment’s notice, just as he had before. She was sure
he had already re-packed his parachute after aborting his last bailout in
mid-jump.
“We’re going to do a hundred mil opening weekend,” he said. “And
that’s if a natural disaster cuts into the box office. I’ve never seen buzz like
this on a movie before.”
They moved forward another car length. Teri let out a big sigh.
“What are you worried about?” he asked.
“What if the movie’s no good? What if I was just so desperate for a
hit that I let all the weirdness of suicides and wills and crazy mothers
influence my judgment?”
“I read the script, too, Babe. It’s good, damn good.”
“You read the scripts on the busts, too. You’re the one who told me
to do them. Do we trust your judgment?”
“Trust Doug Bozarth and his people who thought it was good enough
to sink seventy-five million dollars into. And you’ve seen the final cut of
the movie. You know it’s good, Babe. The hype may bring in the audience
the opening weekend, but word-of-mouth’s going to give it legs. We’re
going to set records with this one.”
“If you say so.” But Teri wasn’t so sure. She had seen can’t-miss turn
into what-were-you-thinking before. Sure, opening weekend should be
good, but word-of-mouth, while it could give the movie legs, could also
cut it off at the knees. Twitter and Facebook and other forms of social
media, with the instant gratification they brought, could kill it before the
first Saturday matinees were over if the Teri Squire haters started texting
in darkened theaters.
They pulled up another car length, and a young man in black pants,
white shirt with tie, and tennis shoes opened the passenger door. The
murmur from the crowd opened up to a roar. Teri could just make out
her name being spoken over and over, sometimes a whisper, sometimes a
shout, as the crowd recognized who was in the car.
Mike took her hand in his. “You ready to do this?”
Teri took a deep breath, squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then
opened them and smiled. She nodded.
“Then let’s go greet your fans,” he said.
She gave the valet her hand and allowed him to escort her out of the
car while Mike hustled around to take the handoff and lead her to the
door. Excited fans surged forward against the rope line. Hands extended
holding paper, pictures, napkins—anything she could autograph. She took
the first one and signed her name, then took the next.
“Babe, we gotta get inside,” Mike said.
“Just a few more,” she said. “You’ll notice these folks don’t think I’m
toxic.” She reveled in the attention and adulation of the crowd. It had been
a long time since she had felt like this. And with her track record, there
was no guarantee she would ever feel it again, so she wanted to enjoy it
while she could.
Mike held her elbow and tried to hustle her along, but she insisted on
signing everything that was thrust her way. Exasperated, he grabbed her
hand as she reached for a glossy shot of her from her first Oscar-winning
film. She got only a glimpse of it, but something about the photo troubled
her. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Maybe not the photo, exactly,
but the hand that held it.
“Now,” Mike said. “Inside.”
She looked at the person who held out the photo. “I’m sorry. If you’ll
still be here later, I’ll be happy to sign it.”
The man was thin-faced with longish greasy hair and a gap-toothed
smile. His appearance startled her. There was something troubling about
his face, just as something troubled her about the hand that held the photo.
She glanced down just as the man withdrew the offer. It was a fast move,
too fast for her to be able to make out any detail of the tattoo on his bare
forearm. She could see just enough to tell there was something there,
crude and simplistic. And vaguely familiar.
She looked back at the man, whose smile lingered but his
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