A Second Script.

“Christ, this is awful”, he exclaimed aloud as he took another drag of his cigarette while continuing to read. ‘Second Chances’ was entering its eighteenth season and its executive producer, Robert Gibson, was busily reading a script for the premier episode. Gibson, a man of sixty-six years, was bald of average height, noticeably overweight, and a chain-smoker. He was a rather lonely man who had lost his wife some four years ago to illness. He had been the program’s executive producer since it’s inception nearly two decades ago. 

He stood up from his chair and gazed out the window of his fourth-story office. It was a late summer evening, the deep orange sun slowly falling into the horizon. Those were the days, he thought. The excitement of a new hit show he had helped launch back all those years ago. He picked up the phone on his desk and said to his secretary, “Linda have Tillman call me first thing tomorrow morning”, “Yes, Bob”, she replied. He hung up. 

Randy Tillman was the show’s new writer who had been hired to replace George Blotsky who had been with the program for nine years before dying of a stroke suddenly last fall. Tillman had been a screenwriter for close to five years now. He’d been involved in a couple of small-budget films that didn’t get much, if any publicity but had caught Gibson’s attention. He liked his work and he thought he might be able to breathe some life into his old show. 

Shortly after he took the job though, things began to unravel for Randy in his personal life. He was in his early-forties and twice divorced. He had married his third wife, Marge, three years ago and they had a two-year-old son together. But she had caught him being unfaithful, a foolish lack of judgment for Randy who had caught up with an old fling at a chance encounter at a show out of town. He was separated from Marge now and this had brought out an old demon in Randy that he thought he had previously vanquished years ago. 

Booze had helped to quicken the end of his first marriage and was now fueling his most recent melancholy. Marge had threatened for full custody of their son. This, of course, didn’t help. He was beginning to spiral out of control. Not surprisingly, his work had begun to suffer. He was late with everything and what did get done well, it was not good, to put it mildly. Things came to a head a few weeks ago when he showed up drunk to his sister’s baby shower. Her sister had found him asleep in his car with the keys in the ignition and the thing still running. It was three in the afternoon. To his credit, or more likely God’s grace, he had managed to make the two-hour trip unscathed. 

It was just past four the following afternoon, a Wednesday when the phone rang in Gibson’s office. He picked up, “Bob, it’s Randy on the line”, Linda said. “Thanks, put him on”. 

“Bob, have you read them? I thought I came up with some really good things if you don’t mind me saying so. My big bitch of a wife certainly does. She minds everything I do.”

“Randy, you’re hitting the bottle already?” 

“The bottle? What? Don’t be ridiculous.” 

“Randy, I’m no fool there is no way anyone could be sober and believe that that pile of excrement you dropped on my desk was anything resembling good.” 

“You know you and my wife should get together. You’d make quite a pair.”

“Cut the crap. We’ve got some serious work that needs to be done. The network executives have given us some leeway since we lost Blotsky but they’ll be breathing down my neck in no time. We need something to work with and this isn’t it. For fuck’s sake who is Mindy? And where did she come from? And, by the way, the leading man’s name is Ed and not Roland.” 

Bob could hear Randy rummaging around for something on the other end of the line and muttering incoherently before blurting out “Yeah, well everybody’s a critic. Maybe we should rename the characters. How about that?”

“Look you’ve gotta pull yourself together. I know you’re going through some things right now but you’ve gotta give me something decent by the end of next week.”

Randy didn’t say anything. Then the sharp crash shattering glass broke the silence. “And Randy, you might one to consider laying off the sauce for a bit, alright?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Crazy. Just like my wife. Next week, yeah sure.” 

Bob hung up and opened the bottom drawer where his eyes met a half-full bottle of Scotch. Do as I say not as I do he thought. He poured himself something to help forget that conversation he had just had. 

Later that night, back at home, Bob poured himself another drink, had a sip, and promptly lit a cigarette. Staring up at the ceiling the house was quiet. Empty actually aside from himself. Privately, Bob was a lonely man having lost his wife, Jane, four years ago to illness. They had been married for twenty-six years and had never had children. 

The silence was broken by a loud buzzer. He had almost forgotten that Rachel Norman was stopping by. She was the show’s leading actress and had been through its entirety. Bob waddled outside just in time to greet her as she came across the path leading from the garage to the house. 

Rachel was a tall and very attractive woman in her early forties. They had become very close personal friends over the years and although he admired her beauty, their relationship was entirely platonic. He hadn’t been with anyone since his wife had died and as far as he was concerned his romantic life had ended with her passing. 

Rachel strode up to him, a friendly smile across her face. Just as radiant as ever he thought, there’s something so alluring about her. “Well, you’ve done it this time.” She said. 

“Yeah, it’s gonna need some fixing.” He closed the door behind them. “Can I get you something to drink?” 

“Can you? Yes. Should you? Probably not.”

“Oh, please,” he remarked sarcastically. 

She took a seat on the sofa. “Randy, what has gotten into him? The thing is all over the place. Charlie got a kick out of it. I called him earlier and he couldn’t stop laughing.” 

Charlie Lyles, the lead actor played Ed, who was Rachel’s husband on the show. 

“I know the thing is a mess but I did think there were some good pieces of dialogue.” Bob looked up at her with a blank, expressionless stare. 

“Rachel, you’re always looking for something redeemable in everything. But let’s call a spade a spade. The thing is shit from front to back. Period. There’s nothing good in it.” He walked over and put the drink on the table, a gin and tonic with a lime wedge. He walked back toward the window on the far side of the room. 

She took a sip of her drink and looked up at Bob who had since lit up another cigarette and was now staring out the open window. 

“You feel something about him I can tell. He’s talented but you're partial to him, well obviously you sought him out but if you truly thought him hopeless you’d be ripping him apart right now.”

He took a sip of his whiskey, looked at her a moment, then back at the window. Still staring out the window, he said “Rachel, this show has got to end at some point you and I both know that. It’s been my life. Especially so ever since.. Since well you know. I don’t want it to end on a whimper with some dull highlight show. You’re right I think there is something unique about him. He can help breathe one last gasp into this tired, old story. But I won’t suffer stupidity. I told him as much he’s got to give me something soon.” 

“I didn’t know you felt that way. That we’re at the end. You’re right though.” She laughed. “I was still in my twenties when we started this show. It’s a shame that George passed. It really is. He would’ve done something special for sure.” 

“Yeah, I miss him. But the thing about it is we’ve been sagging for the past couple years. Even George couldn't make up for it. There are only so many plot devices you can come up with over eighteen seasons.”

The truth of it was that the show’s ratings had been down the past three seasons. Network executives were relentless in informing Bob of that inconvenient fact. The storylines were stale, the character arcs played out. Heck, Charlie had gone bald over the course, everyone knew he wore a hairpiece now. Well, everyone except Charlie he thought no one else knew. The only thing propping the whole thing up was a loyal fan base that became attached to the characters. But that audience hadn’t grown in a long time. 

“Randy, he wrote that film a couple years back. It was good. What was it called again?” 

“Oh that was ‘House by the Sea’” 

“Yes! That was a good one. Michelle was in that. I miss her. You know Randy should write her character back into the show. I loved working with her.” 

Bob grunted and lit another cigarette. 

“Well, I should get going. Don’t be so glum, yeah? Anyway, I think you’ve got to visit him. The man sounds like a wreck. Third divorce, the kid too. Check-in on him.” 

“Yeah. I was afraid you’d say that.” He sighed and she laughed. 

He opened the door for her and watched as her slowly shrinking silhouette disappeared into the moonlit night down the path to the garage. He lit another cigarette and stared up at the moon. It was a fine late summer night. No evidence of autumn just yet and the sky was clear with that all too familiar celestial body so strikingly vibrant. 

The next day he called Randy from the office. It was 10 AM. Nothing. He tried again now well past noon. This time Randy picked up. “Yeah?” He could tell that he had just woken up, his voice groggy. “Randy, it's Bob. I want you to meet me for lunch in an hour at Rosalinda’s.” 

“I had something else to take care of right now…” 

“No, I insist. I’ll see you in an hour.” Bob hung up. 

Rosalinda’s was a popular cafe downtown that was always crowded. This afternoon was no exception. Bob got there early and took a seat at an outdoor table. 

About a half-hour later, he saw Randy shuffle in a little disheveled looking but otherwise no worse for wear. He waved at him and he came over and took a seat. Well, he’s clearly hungover Bob thought. 

“Randy thanks for coming.” 

“Sure. You know I had some things to do and..”

“I know but it’s important. I wanted to apologize…”

“Apologize. You’re kidding, for what? I was out of it” Randy interjected. 

 “Maybe so but I wasn’t much better myself. I know you’re going through stuff right now. But I wanted to make it clear if I didn’t already by saying that you're here for a reason. Truly, I know what you can do. The other day.. I was just so disappointed.” 

The waiter came by and Bob ordered coffee for them both. Black. 

“So, look, this show has been with me for eighteen years. I’ve gone through some personal hell too. These past four years since I’ve lost Jane. It’s been rough. Really, I’m not sure how I’ve gone through it.” 

He lit a cigarette and continued. “Thing is I’ve gone through the motions so to speak I know what that’s like but I hate myself for it. For not giving my best effort. And that’s what I saw in you with what you left me the other day. That’s what pissed me off. I could see what I hated most in myself in you. Dammit, I didn’t want to preach but the hell with it.” 

“I appreciate that Bob, I do. I... ” 

“When you’re in this business for as long as I’ve been, you get these feelings I don’t know how to describe them. Intuition maybe. When I read and saw your stuff I had that same sort of feeling. It reminded me of when I first met Rachel at a casting call almost twenty years ago. She had only a couple of credits to her name in some awful movies. I don’t even remember what but I knew right away that she was it. And here I am with you. I have that same sort of feeling.” 

“I have to say I wasn’t expecting the pep talk. Yeah, things have been well... I don’t have to say you get it. I’ll finish up something soon like we talked about earlier. I don’t know what to say but this whole thing. It means a lot to me.” 

“Good. This story is almost done, but yours isn't. Take this opportunity to do something and run with it. I know I’m going to be seeing you long after this show is done. In the meantime though, help me finish this thing and make it eighteen years worth remembering.” 

Four days later, Monday, Bob woke up. It was early in the morning, still not past 6 AM. With his bathrobe on he shuffled toward the front door to go outside. He lit up a cigarette, opened the door, and saw a package there on the floor waiting for him. He opened it, a script. He read the first page, looked up at the rising sun, and smiled.