Chapter 7 – Who Do You Think You Are, Writing Hollywood's Biography?
Bruce walked into Estelle's office carrying three finished scripts.
Estelle looked up. "You do know the post office exists, right?"
"Yes, Estelle. What's your point?"
"You could mail me your scripts. Why hand-deliver everything? If this is about your first script, I already told you on the phone yesterday: Fine Line Pictures is interested, but twenty thousand is an insult. Trust me, a better offer will come."
"Of course I trust you, and I believe in my work. Even my adult scripts sell for at least five grand, so that price is a non-starter."
"The fact they're bidding means they see potential, but they're lowballing because you're unproven. No track record."
"Nobody's born with a résumé, right?"
"True, kid. Getting lowballed is a rite of passage for writers. But not every writer even gets that privilege—understand?"
"Sure. Throw a rock in any Village café and you'll hit three starving artists. One of them's definitely a screenwriter who can't sell anything."
Before Estelle could respond, Bruce pulled three scripts from his bag and placed them on her desk. "Forget it. Look at these instead. I only delivered them in person because I haven't left my apartment in two weeks. I needed an excuse to see daylight."
Estelle picked up the stack. "Three scripts. Are any of these older drafts?"
"Nope. All written in the past two weeks."
Estelle wasn't impressed. "I once read a script someone finished in three hours. Let's see what you managed in two weeks."
Bruce settled into a chair with coffee while Estelle read.
She worked quickly, with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been doing this for decades. She skimmed all three, then went back to Once Upon a Time in Hollywood for a closer look. About an hour passed.
Finally, she looked up with complete seriousness. "Answer me honestly."
Bruce shrugged. "Sure."
"Did you recently suffer a head injury?"
"What?"
"If I hadn't seen this with my own eyes, I'd never believe the person who wrote these is only twenty-four with virtually no professional credits. The only explanation is brain trauma." She gestured at the scripts. "Maybe a young writer could pull off Django Unchained and The Hateful Eight—both are clever as hell. But Once Upon a Time in Hollywood?" She shook her head. "My God, if I showed this to the studios, they'd swear the writer was at least forty."
Seeing Bruce's confused expression, Estelle leaned forward. "You know what other famous film ends with 'Once Upon a Time'? Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in America. How old was Leone when he made that? What was his status in the industry? And how old are you—who do you think you are, writing Hollywood's biography?"
She paused, then softened slightly. "But I have to admit—you write incredibly well. Whether you're qualified to chronicle Hollywood... that's for the work to prove."
Once Estelle calmed down, Bruce said carefully, "I understand what you mean. Sometimes creativity is like... looking in a shattered mirror. You see different versions of yourself in all the pieces. I just happened to see one version that's twenty years older."
He felt slightly guilty, knowing he'd essentially stolen years of Tarantino's future work.
"I don't understand your mirror metaphor at all, but I'll pitch these scripts to every studio I know. And if anyone offers less than a hundred thousand for Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, I'll tell them to go play in traffic."
Bruce's eyes widened. "A hundred thousand?"
"Too low for you?"
"No—my God, we're talking a hundred thousand dollars. I've never seen that much money in my life."
"You will soon, kid. This is an age that craves entertainment. Whoever can blow people's minds with the best story wins. If you weren't a complete unknown, I could get you a million for these."
Bruce left Estelle's office floating on air. The feeling lasted all the way back to his building and stayed with him as he sank onto the couch at Central Perk.
The scripts weren't sold yet—he hadn't made a dime—but Estelle's words had hit him like a wave. The money mattered, sure, but more important was the future he could now see clearly ahead of him.
The café was nearly empty. Bruce sat alone, lost in thought.
Rachel brought over his coffee. "Hey, Bruce? I'm saving up for a Thanksgiving trip with my family, so I hope your tip won't be too stingy."
Bruce smiled. "Don't worry. You'll be happy with it."
As Rachel turned to head back to the counter, she spun around with a grin. "You look like something good happened today. Want to share?"
Bruce opened his mouth to answer just as the café door swung open and someone else walked in.
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P2treon Soulforger (20+ chapters ahead)