A Pagan's Nightmare (29 page)

“Dillen?”

“You got it.”

Spider-Man lives! Yes, yes!
“I’ll sleep soo much better tonight.”

Larry smiled a most exaggerated smile. “I’m so pleased. Wanna know what their license plate says on the van?”

“Tell me.”

“MRVNSKS.”

Perhaps this craziness explained the heightened interest from the producers. I had no idea what drove them to hate one project
and love the next. But they seemed to move in herds, those slick-haired decision-makers, and they continued to behave like
anxious Ebayers in the final seconds of bidding.

I was about to share the latest bids with Larry when my cell phone rang. “Mind if I take this call?” I asked, motioning Larry
to sit in my guest chair. “I think it’s my wife.”

“Sure,” he said, perusing the papers on my desk as he sat. “Go ahead.”

I leaned back in my chair and held the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Ned, it’s Angie.” She sounded breathless. “I just finished Larry’s ending, and it’s all tied to the ABBA song. Lanny knows
about ‘dancing’s wrong,’ and so he’d surely climb down and embrace MC and Ned when he realized he still had friends.” She
sighed into the phone as if relieved. “My bet is that Larry will write a sequel.”
Maybe I should let Angie be the agent, and I’ll organize the protests.

“Yes, honey. We’re discussing those very things right now. He’s here in my office.”

“He’s
with
you?”

“Yep. Been here for hours.”

“Well then, tell him I think he’s done a wonderful job of presenting Miranda as a god… a kind of idol worship if you will.
And showing how DJ Ned’s own idol was music. And tell Larry if his story gets published I’ll set up a booksigning for him
at Barnes and Noble. My friend Margie works there in community relations. Oh, and invite Larry to share his theological thoughts
with Pastor White.”

From burger deliverer to the homeless, to booksigning arranger, this was the woman I married—and still loved.

I held my hand over the mouthpiece. “Larry, Angie wants you to explain your theology to our pastor.”

He thought this over for a moment, nodded slowly. “Perhaps one weekday morning the two of them can meet me at Starbucks.”

I repeated his request to Angie, listened to her reply, then put my hand back over the receiver. “Angie says you should anticipate
some light debate.”

As if alarmed at the terminology, Larry sat up straight in his chair. “I can handle
light
debate, just nothing heavy. Okay? I’m exhausted from using up my creative energy on this ending.”

Angie’s next comment sent me further into feelings of inadequacy. “Ned, there’s also some kind of hellish theme running through
this story. I think Larry is trying to show us his own version of it. But he never goes to church or reads a Bible, so this
is the best he can do.”

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. Then I rubbed my chin and cocked my head to the side. “Hold on for me, honey, I need
to ask Larry something.”

Again I held my hand over the receiver. “Larry, besides the music thing, what other themes did you insert?”

“Spiritual themes, of course.”

“Please expound.”

He spoke to the window. “You have to consider the color of Castro’s hot tub, the month of August in Hotlanta, the red M&M’s,
Cuba, Killian’s Red, the sizzling tarmacs, and pushing red buttons, not to mention the very low price of gas. Oh, and if you
put the first two letters of Lanny’s last name with the first letter of Miranda’s last name, you get—” He paused and pointed
at his head. “Go ahead, you’re a smart guy.”

Hooch, Timms.
I suppose Larry would tell you that after a few stunned seconds my eyes grew wide with recognition. “This thing is your own
take on hell?”

He removed one of his Italian shoes and rubbed his foot atop the corner of my desk. “Correctomundo,” he said to his little
toe. “And of course, Marvin is—”

“Satan himself.”
Yes, I got something right!

“That is, if you believe in such a being.”

“Well, do you?”

He picked lint from his sock and put his shoe back on. “I’m not sure… but he makes for an interesting character.”

While I ended the call with my wife and offered to pick up dinner—this was a Tuesday, remember—Larry stood and tried to read
some notes on my desk.

I hung up with Angie, stood, and put my hand over a stack of papers. “You’ve been thinking about the afterlife, obviously.”

Larry nodded. “My therapist says I think about it way too much.”

“You think about hell too much? Or heaven?”

“Both. I mean, the potential existence of both. But I’m not so sure that the whole burning fire thing is how it goes. I mean,
what if people like the zealots aren’t even aware that they’re in hell, but instead they think they’re still trying to earn
God’s favor, and it just goes on and on until the entire planet is one huge, orbiting cheese-ball?”

I couldn’t resist. “Hmmm… My Big Fat Orbiting Cheeseball?”

Larry’s eyes widened. “Great title for the sequel, Ned. Jot that on a Post-it note for me.”

I did, and handed him the note. “If all this cheese alarms you, why don’t you wander into some church and ask a few questions?”

He thought on this for all of two seconds. “Too stuffy. And besides, you’ve never invited me. No way would I go alone and
risk getting smothered by the thumpers. I hear there are tons of thumpers here in Atlanta.”

I had no reply;I was too preoccupied with my status in the agent world. I had the potential to be the first agent to sell
a project that fit into the genre of
Non-Christian’s comic allegory of hell, disguised as apocalyptic spoof.

“Sorry,” I said to him, “my mind wandered. You were saying something about the thumpers?”

Larry stuffed the Post-it note into his shirt pocket and turned to look out my window at the traffic. “What I was saying was
that I avoid ‘em. I would have asked you a few of my spiritual questions, but you’re kinda like Ned Neutral, from what I can
tell. You know, somewhere in the middle.”

I possessed neither the learning nor the guts to share with Larry any knowledge about the afterlife. Embarrassing, considering
whom I was married to. Being a once-a-monther who rarely paid attention, I suppose I was a fine example of neutrality.

He kept twisting his neck and trying to read my papers upsidedown. “So, when are you gonna tell me the numbers from L.A.?”

I set my cell on the desk and motioned for him to sit again. “Help yourself to my guest chair, Mr. Hutch. You’ll want to be
seated for this.”

Larry sprawled in the chair, put his hands behind his head, and scrunched his eyes in anticipation. “I just looooove Agent
Orange.”

I pulled the offers from my desk drawer, where I had hidden them. “When I read you these numbers, you’ll be tempted to propose
marriage to Agent Orange. But please restrain yourself. I’m spoken for.”

Before I read Larry the four competing offers, I pulled his CD from my computer and tucked it into its case, aware that its
contents
approached legalism from such an odd angle that I should probably ask him to autograph the thing.

Truth was, I should not have been surprised that Larry had attemped some spiritual tangent of a theme. I mean, even his
Aliens Invade Billy Graham Crusade
manuscript had contained a remorseful alien. One little green man out of 14 million little green men—at Philips Arena the
little fellow had stood in his chair and confessed his desire to take over the world by the time he reached adult height,
which in his case was three-feet, one-inch.

Angie and I did tithe generously to the Baptist church in Buckhead, and even made a cash contribution to Victor, who promised
to move out from under the 1-85 bridge. After all, fifteen percent of $272,000—an outright buy of the film rights instead
of a mere option—was the largest commission check of my career.
Thank you, Mylan Weems.

Today, however, Buckhead was a long way away. Today Angie and I had sand in our flip-flops, sunblock on our arms and necks—and
hammers in our hands. Wielding similar implements out on the porch and inside the sunroom were Larry, Miranda, my son, Zach,
and Miranda’s twenty-four-year-old sister, Carla, who just happened to be from Augusta.

Surprise, surprise.

We had come to Abaco to renovate and to celebrate. But mostly to renovate. On the southwest side of the island sat an old
bungalow, a pastel blue two-story tucked among palm trees. It had four small bedrooms, plus a substantial loft with opposing
port-hole windows. On the first floor, all doors and windows stayed open, and tropical breezes blew past our sweaty faces
and right out the other side. One year after the deal had closed on Larry’s story, and two months after he’d begun writing
his next big thing, he was the proud new owner of a Bahamas home in need of repair.

The six of us had been on the island for five days now, helping Larry fix up the abode he had purchased with half of his proceeds
from the deal. This was the first home he had ever owned. For the
past year he had kept all of his deal monies in a savings account, mostly living off interest and toying with his next manuscript.
Then, one day in July, he announced to me via e-mail that he was flying to Abaco to look at real estate, and asked if I would
like to go along.

He bought the second place we looked at.

His intention was to rent it out for twenty weeks a year while also using it for, in his own words, “intense writing retreats.”

It was now November. The Saturday of Thanksgiving week, in fact. Larry had bribed us all with promises of roasted island turkey
garnished with pineapple—if we would only spend a week here helping him fix up the place. An easy decision for all, to say
the least.

Filming for
A Pagan’s Nightmare
had wrapped in September, and Mylan Weems remained secretive about any edits they had made to the storyline, though Larry
said they were few. Larry—asked by Mylan to be a script consultant—had played spectator to several weeks of filming, returning
to Atlanta regularly to continue with his twice-a-week therapy sessions.

The gentleman who helped Larry specialized in working with creative people, tapping into childhood traumas and memories, into
histories and abuses that might later show up in an artist’s work. Here on the island Larry was more open with the details
of his sessions, even though I told him he should probably keep them between himself and his shrink.

“I insist that you know, Ned,” Larry told me as we donned work gloves and stacked decking boards into his yard. “It’ll at
least help you understand my work.”

Besides the Sunday school teacher who made him hold a chalkboard eraser in his mouth, other issues surfaced that were beyond
my ability to predict: Being raised after age eight by step-parents—churchgoers, both—who often left Larry locked in his room
alone. A legalistic neighbor who blared religious music into the streets on weekends while pretending to be a DJ. Getting
fired from a construction job by a Bible-thumping boss. A childhood fascination
with large boats. A spare bedroom filled nearly floor to ceiling with music CDs. He explained that his one happy memory from
his early years was being driven to Cape Canaveral to view launches. His stepdad always rented the same little house in Cocoa
Beach.

I pressed too hard only one time, as the two of us were taking a break from building the steps to his deck. “Ya think you
use your humor to cover up pain?” I asked.

Larry’s response was just what I deserved. He tossed his paper cup into the trash pile and said, “Ned, you’re an agent, not
some psychoanalytical psychology person.”

I didn’t ask any more personal questions during our time on the island. Whatever had messed with Larry’s head was either dealt
with, or repressed behind his newfound career, his comely girlfriend, and his island hospitality. My guess was that it was
dealt with. Regardless, his sharing of his past helped me deal with my present.

Prior to the sale of his work, I had looked at Larry through the lens of profit, and he likely looked at me in the same manner.
He and his creativity were a commodity to be sold for my gain. I had paid almost zero attention to the man himself. Here on
the island I had learned that he was as flawed as I was, and whether or not he ended up with Miranda and had his own family,
I made sure that he knew he had full access to mine.

I pulled a deck board from the stack and said, “Christmas is at my place this year, Lar.”

He whopped a nail into place, then another. “I’ll be there, Nedster.”

By late afternoon he’d climbed atop a ladder in his kitchen, installing crown molding with an artist’s gusto. Angie stood
below in the role of helper, handing up each piece, Larry accepting them one after another while sneaking glances at Miranda.
She was sitting on the floor painting a rocking chair aqua blue, pausing between strokes to flirt with him.

“I can’t believe I’m dating a screenwriter,” she’d say.

“Aw, hush.”

Zach toiled happily with Carla on another chair, so I joined Miranda in helping paint the last two. Both young women sported
tie-dye shirts, denim shorts, and old leather sandals, though Carla wore her hair much longer, grown out to the small of her
back. The four of us worked on our knees, scooting around the floor atop newspaper.

I painted one rocker arm as Miranda did the other, and I could not resist the urge to find out what she knew about Larry’s
story.

“He’s told you the plot by now?” I asked in a lowered voice.

She glanced into the kitchen at Larry and wiped a drop of aqua blue from her arm. “All I know is that there’s some kind of
search for a girl by the main character, and that he has a bit of a problem with some religious people.”

“You could say that,” Zach offered.

“Yes,” said Carla, turning away to hide her face, “you could say that.”

Miranda quickly rolled a hand towel into a whip and popped her sister on the behind. “You’ve read the story, too?”