The kid was maybe twenty-five. Didn't look like he shaved yet, in any case.
In the time-honored tradition, Ted shuffled into the office and immediately launched into his spiel.
"Three words: Heart of Whiteness."
The kid stared back at Ted, eyes vacant.
"You know Heart of Darkness."
The pupils showed no recognition.
"Conrad? Marlowe boats up the Congo? Madman Kurtz the ivory trader? 'The horror! The horror!'?"
"What was that last part?" The kid sounded halfway intrigued.
" 'The horror! The horror!' ?" Ted asked.
"Yeah, that. That's from a movie."
"You probably saw Apocalypse Now."
"One of the all-time great kick-ass movies. Calls in the air-strike at the end and blows the place up."
"You know that was the ending Coppola hated the most."
"He had other endings?"
Ted sighed. There were days he hated being a film buff. They usually coincided with his visits to studio offices.
"He filmed four endings. One for 70 millimeter. One for the first 35 millimeter screening. Another that never really got out. The one you know he called the 'mom and apple pie' ending."
"Really? Coppola used audience response way back then? Genius!"
"So, back to my story..."
"You wanna remake Apocalypse Now? Great idea."
"I don't," Ted said. "I want to make Heart of Whiteness."
"What's all this Heart stuff?"
"Apocalypse Now was loosely based on the novella Heart of Darkness."
"That a Tom Clancy story?"
"Joseph Conrad. A Polish writer."
"A Polack wrote Apocalypse Now?"
Ted seriously considered walking out then and there. But he had been to three other pitch meetings, and this one was the most promising. He and the kid had been talking for a few minutes and he was still in the office. Always look for that half open-window...
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose. But what I'm trying to describe is a modern-day satire based on the novella. I call it Heart of Whiteness because the story is set in New York, with Manhattan as the mouth of the river, and Rye as the trading outpost upstream."
"Where the fuck is Rye?"
"A suburb of New York City which is closer to Connecticut than it is to the Empire State Building. The idea is that Marlowe, our hero, is dispatched to Rye to try and convince Kurtz to return to New York."
"I thought you said Rye was in New York."
"It's a suburb. The company wants Kurtz back downtown."
"Why?"
"They want him to come back to work at the magazine."
"Rye is a ritzy place, right? Like Brentwood?"
"More like Beverly Hills. Without all the hotels and palm trees."
"Okay. So he's got the good life. Why would he want to go back to the dirty, crime-ridden city?"
"Well, see, that's the crux of the situation. The movie will portray Rye as uncharted territory, a place where dreams are lost. Kurtz has gotten married, watched his wife pump out a couple kids, bought a Caddy, a big house and a membership at the country club."
"Definitely sounds like he's got it made."
"Not really," Ted said. "See, before Kurtz set out for the suburbs, he was a real city dweller. The kind of guy who can find good Ethiopian food at five in the morning."
"Ethiopian food? That's that eat-with-your-hands shit, right?"
"Right," Ted said, ignoring the kid's ignorance and pitching full throttle. "So Marlowe travels up the commuter rail to Rye, and he's beset by all these problems. Gets off at that wrong stop, gets pushed off the train by heavy traffic, etcetera. Takes him a while to get to Rye. And then, when he finally has completed his quest, conquered the wilds of the suburbs and talked to his man, Kurtz says he doesn't want to go back to the city."
"Why would he?"
"Because he's a city boy. He doesn't like cars. He doesn't like acres of chemlawns. Marlowe knows this. He's read the files. But Kurtz is adamant. And Marlowe sees that Kurtz has died."
"Kurtz dies?"
"Well, in the book he does. But in my version, he's dead in a spiritual sense. He's lost his edge, his ambition, his need to be a part of civilization."
"By living in the suburbs?"
"Yes."
The kid leaned back and popped some jellybeans into his mouth. He talked as he chewed.
"Tell me something, Ted. Who lives in cities?"
"People?"
"What kind of people?"
"I don't know."
"I'll tell you, since you want to play dumb. Niggers live in cities. In Texas, spics live in cities, but back east, niggers live in cities."
"Now, wait a minute..."
"No. Sit down. Time for a lesson in movie economics. First rule of movies: make movies for people who will go see them. You can't make a movie that says cities are better than the suburbs and expect white people to go see them. Hell, there aren't any theaters in cities any more. All those twenty-four, thirty-two, forty-right, sixty-four theater complexes are in the suburbs."
"There are the Magic Johnson Theaters."
"How many screens is that? Sixty? Maybe? Know how many screens the Lost World opened up on?"
"Four thousand."
"You're damned right. Think you can write a nigger movie starring white people and expect it to open on even a thousand screens?"
"Can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, Ted."
"Would you be talking this way to John Singleton? Vondie Curtis Hall? Edward James Olmos? Robert Rodriguez?"
"No, because they wouldn't be bringing me any stupid nigger movie that stars white folks. They're smart. They stick spics in spic movies and niggers in nigger movies. And while we're talking about guys with a lot more money than you, you should know that when Spielberg makes a jew movie he uses kikes."
"Just wondering," Ted said. "All these excessive references are making me a bit uncomfortable."
"Don't get morally superior on me. I listen to rap music. I watched Pulp Fiction. I know nigger's not a bad word anymore. I watched that John Leguizamo show. He laid spic all over the place."
"I think you're missing the point."
"From where I'm standing, I don't think you have the option of criticizing me. I think you've got to stand there and listen."
Look for the crack in the door. Look for the unlocked window. Look for the open garage. Look for the sleeping guard dog. Kiss ass, get in and make the changes from the inside.
Fuckit.
"Actually," Ted said, picking up his folder, "I don't have to stand here. Thank you for your time."
"You can't walk out!" the kid whined. "I didn't say the meeting was over yet!"
Nonetheless, that's exactly what Ted did. He felt much better about the validity of his story, which made him feel much worse about humanity. Oh well, if he hurried, he could be at MGM by three.