My Year In Television Development Hell.
Los Angeles is not a cohesive city. It is a quilt sewn by an impatient child, a jagged pastiche of Tijuana and Detroit and Pebble Beach. The seams were showing as I turned onto Sepulveda, the sushi joints blurring into pawn shops as my future receded into the smog. At Oxnard, I waited for the light to turn green while pretending not to notice a homeless actor with a cardboard sign begging people to watch his reel on YouTube.
My destination was the leasing office where I had agreed to pay nine hundred dollars a month to rent a studio apartment next to a Pizza Hut. It was where real life was supposed to begin, my grown-up home in a grown-up place where men with fat wallets would validate my self-worth. There are no new stories in Hollywood, though, and mine was shaping up to be one of the oldest—kid seeks fortune in television, stumbles, falls. I interviewed for jobs, but no one hired me. I wrote scripts, but no one read them. The past month had been a car crash in slow motion, a sleepless crumpling of time toward the day when I would be forced to beg out of my lease and move back in with my parents in Massachusetts.
“There’s a TV biz here too,” my Mom assured me during our last call. “The yard sale show on Worcester public access cracks me up—maybe you can write for them?”
My cell rang as I crossed the tracks into San Fernando. I pulled over next to a scrapyard and checked the screen—unlisted number. It’s the cable company, I thought, asking me where the hell their money is. I flipped open the phone and answered it anyway.
“Brother! How’d you like to come join the circus?”
I didn’t recognize the voice, but I loved its manic energy. “Who’s this?”
“It’s JP! From Highland Entertainment! You interviewed to be my assistant, remember? The job’s yours, but you have to start right now.”
“Oh!” I said, punching the air with my fist. “Yes, sir. I’d love to work for you.”
“Fuck off, you son of a whore!” JP shouted. In the background, I could hear locking brakes and staccato car horns. “Sorry brother, some cockface cut me off on Wilshire. Anyway, I need you to get up to speed fast. We hired a girl last week, but Dan just fired her.”
“I don’t have a lot of experience, but—”
“You work in TV now, kid. You made the sale, now shut up and get your ass over here—staff meeting’s in an hour.”
Mouth dry, hands shaking, I turned my car around and sped toward the Hollywood Hills.
Highland was located in Century City, a gleaming block of skyscrapers tucked between Beverly Hills and Westwood. There were no pedestrians, just columns of black and silver sedans pulling into underground garages. I passed beneath the proscenium of the largest building on the street and into the darkness below. After months of courting the steely-eyed beast that held this town in its thrall, it had finally agreed to devour me whole.
I lost my way twice before finding Highland at the end of an empty second floor corridor. The oak door was thick and freshly polished, but the white walls and dirty blue carpet gave it the feel of a strip mall law firm. Before I could catch my breath, a tall man with wild red hair, a goatee, and devilish grin grabbed my right hand and pumped it. “Good to see you again, brother. Welcome to the beating heart of the television industry.”
JP pulled me into his office and immediately closed the door. A floor-to-ceiling window bathed the room in warm sunlight, and off to one side a couch was covered in a tangle of white sheets. “I didn’t sleep here last night if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said.
“Oh, no, I would never assume—”
“Doesn’t matter. We’re meeting with Dan in five and I can’t let him fire you. Here’s the plan—no matter what he asks, pretend you know exactly what he’s talking about. Always keep smiling and don’t show any weakness. Questions?”
“Uh, what exactly do we do here?” My job interview had taken place in a Culver City coffee shop, and JP was already late for a meeting at Sony. He’d downed a double espresso, shared a few of his pet theories about Lost, and told me we’d be in touch.
“Oh boy, okay, here we go.” JP sat down at his desk and ran his hands through his hair, exhaling loudly. “So if you want to get a show on the air, you have to sell it to a network. If they like it enough, you’re on TV. Our job is to come up with a great idea, hire a writer to develop it, and pitch it to every possible buyer. Dan owns the company, so it’s his ass on the line. He runs the feature film side of Highland by himself, but he trusts me to handle TV.”
My mind churned with excitement. “You know, I have a script—”
“Stop right there,” he said. “Everyone in this town has a script. I’ll read what you’ve got, but don’t take a run at me until you’ve worked in TV for more than half a minute, okay?”
Before I could apologize, the door swung open and Dan strode in. He was a squat man with white hair and round glasses, a compact Donald Sutherland. “Conference room, c’mon!” he said. “Chop chop!”
I followed Dan and JP into a closet with a table and four chairs stuffed inside. We fit, but it was tight enough that I could smell Dan’s onion breath. “Now that we’re here,” he said, taking off his glasses and flashing me a wide reptilian smile. “Where are we with Fly on the Wall?”
I swallowed. “I’m not sure what that is.”
Dan slammed his palm on the table. “Dammit, JP, this is Sabrina all over again!”
“He’s been on the job for less than ten minutes. Give him a day.”
“We don’t have a day!” Dan roared.
“I’ll find out everything I can about Fly on the Wall and get back to you this afternoon,” I said, my voice cracking. “It’s my top priority.”
Dan put his glasses back on. His crocodile smile returned. “Since JP doesn’t care to fill you in on our development slate, allow me. I came up with Fly in a meeting with Jeff Bewkes. You know, head of Time Warner? He’d just finished saying something incredibly poignant and I told him that I wished I could be a fly on the wall of his office. He laughed and said that I’d just hit on the next great TV drama.”
“We’re pitching Fly on the Wall as a fun police procedural,” JP cut in. “A cop meets a fly who can only talk to him. They become friends and the fly helps him solve crimes.”
I kept a grin on my face like JP had advised, not sure if Fly on the Wall was a real project or some sort of elaborate hazing ritual. Dan nodded, seemingly appeased, and slowly turned to the next page in his notebook. “Okay, now where are we with The Game?”
I told him I’d learn what I could and get back to him. Dan stared at me for a few more seconds, violently jotted something down, and flipped to the next page. We repeated the process for twenty more projects before he finally let us go.
Back in JP’s office, I stared at the couch and resisted the urge to wrap my head in the sheets. “Lay down if you want to,” he said, sitting at his desk. “I washed those last week.”
“That was intense,” I sighed, leaning against the wall.
“Dan was testing you, seeing if you could handle the pressure. You passed.”
“Hooray,” I shot him a weak smile.
“Look—I know Fly on the Wall is dumb, but Dan’s made dumb work before. Did you see Mr. Woodcock?” He gestured to a movie poster where Billy Bob Thornton was holding a pair of basketballs up to his torso as if they were giant testicles.
“Yeah,” I said. It had been on an airplane and I had switched the audio into Spanish halfway through in order to try and fall asleep.
“Without the money from that film, we’d be out of work That’s why Dan is pushing so hard—He got Woodcock off the ground last year, but I haven’t made a sale in TV yet.”
“Are we close on anything?”
“Not yet, but there’s one project I know I can sell—watch.” JP grabbed his desk lamp, swung the arm down, and twisted the shade up so that his face was illuminated from below. It made him look like a campsite storyteller with a flashlight held below his chin. “It’s the food court in the mall. Nighttime. The place is empty. That’s when you hear a whoosh—a ninja star flying inches over your head! See, unbeknownst to us normies, the ‘court is home to warring tribes of ancient warriors. A ninja master runs Panda Express, the Hot Dog on a Stick guy is a fencing champion, and Auntie Annie is a master contortionist with a mean streak. I call it Kung Food.”
I laughed, a smile creeping onto my face. I wasn’t sure if Kung Food was any better than Fly on the Wall, but JP’s passionate delivery made me want to whip out my wallet.
“I have seven-year-old triplets, and that’s the kind of shit they eat up,” he said. “I’m thinking Disney Channel, Cartoon Network, maybe MTV.”
“I’m sold. Where do we start?” I imagined working side by side with JP, spending late nights eating takeout and brainstorming big ideas.
He handed me a three-ring binder. “Potential Fly writers,” he said. “Call their agents and check if they’re available. It might take a few days.” I opened the binder—dozens of pages, ten point font. “Okay,” he admitted. “maybe a few weeks.”
My workstation was just outside JP’s door. While I booted up the computer, I noticed a skinny, well-dressed man sitting cross-legged on top of the desk next to Dan’s office. He looked older than me, but it was hard to tell by how much.
“Hello?” I said.
“This place is condemned, you know,” he said, staring blankly at Dan’s closed door. “Dan rents at a discount because the whole fucker’s coming down if the big one ever hits.”
I chuckled politely, not sure if this was another hazing ritual.
Sam got up and walked over to me. “I’m not joking. They built this place before there were earthquake codes. That’s why it’s so tall.” I stood up and extended my hand. He ignored it, standing back and giving me his once-over. “You’re a writer—good. Writers are fun drunks.”
“How did you know that?”
“Well, you’re clearly not an actor and no one moves to LA to be a fucking producer,” he said, finally shaking my hand. “I’m Sam, Dan’s assistant. If I wasn’t quitting in two weeks, it’s possible we could have become friends.”
“Sam!” Dan shouted from behind his closed door. “Get in here, Sammy boy! I can’t remember where I put my pen.”
Sam rolled his eyes and walked toward Dan’s office. “What are you waiting for?” he yelled at me, clapping his hands in the air sarcastically. “Get back to work, c’mon! Chop chop!”
I spent the rest of the day glued to the phone, speaking with low ranking goobers at every agency in town. It was dull work, and most of the assistants acted as though I had just pulled them away from something far more important. What if they were the beating heart of the television industry, I wondered, and we were just a fly on their wall?
By working straight through lunch, I was able to hand Dan eight pages of Fly names by the end of the day. He grunted, snatched the paper out of my hands on his way out the door. “A grunt on your first day? That’s amazing,” Sam deadpanned. “You’ll do well here.”
I staggered home at 8 PM, exhausted. The delivery guy asked me why I didn’t walk next door and pick the pizza up myself, but I paid him and slammed the door before he could say anything else. I sat in the dark and inhaled three slices of supreme, replaying my interactions with Dan and JP over and over. I had no idea if every production company was like Highland or if I’d just hopped a runaway freight train, but in that moment I didn’t care. After months of peanut butter and canned soup, the pizza was hot and salty and perfect. I can stay, I thought to myself over and over until the words had burrowed inside me and taken root. I can stay, I can stay, I can stay. I’ll write the best script of my life. JP will read it and fall in love with my words. He’ll help me sell it and I’ll be on the air by next spring. I’ll be rich, I’ll be famous, I’ll be smart and clever and in control of my life. My talent is undeniable. This town will be mine.
After dinner, I poured myself a beer and opened the file for my latest script, Back Issues. It was the first of the seven screenplays I’d written since moving to LA that I was truly proud of, a story about an anxious romantic who buys a failing comic shop. I’d loved Back Issues when I left home that morning, but every line rang false to me now.
“Who wrote this shit? We can’t sell anything this boring,” said the Dan inside my head.
“It was just something my assistant gave me,” said JP. “He doesn’t get it yet.”
I began deleting conversations, then entire scenes. JP wouldn’t be able to sell a protagonist who was forty years old and balding, so Felix became twenty-seven, handsome, fit. The conversation in the bar was too talky, so that had to go, and Dan would never buy that Felix and Nori were just friends—I’d add in some sexual tension, maybe a fling in their past. Sully would need to broaden out, of course, and if this was going to be a family friendly show, he couldn’t get away with saying anything that dark, and oh god, did I really write a line of dialogue that requires working knowledge of both Pokémon and Friedrich Nietzsche?
By 3 AM, my fourth bottle of beer was empty and I was staring at a blank page one.
The next three months disabused me of the notion that TV development was a business based around creative inspiration. I developed a crick in my neck from holding a phone between my ear and shoulder, and my Fly on the Wall spreadsheet bloated past the hundred page mark. My workday began when JP got in his car and called me at the office. It ended when he pulled into his driveway long after his children had finished their dinner. With twenty-two projects on our slate, there was always an agent to call, a sample to critique, a name to vet, a pitch to practice.
We had a staff meeting every day, and it always began with the same question. “Where are we with Fly on the Wall?” Dan asked, staring at me with his toothy smile.
“We’re still looking for a writer,” I said, wiping the sweat off my brow. It was late July, the air conditioner had failed, and the office smelled like the locker room on a submarine.
“Well? What’s taking so goddamned long?”
Because this is the dumbest project anyone has ever heard of, I thought, fanning myself with the first page of my spreadsheet. Because in the dramatic final scene, the fucking fly returns home to an actual pile of shit. Because we’re a pimple on the scrotum of the corpse of the television industry. Because you’re a hack, a troll, a tyrant—
JP kicked me under the table. “We’re waiting to hear back from Julia,” he said.
“Then get her on speakerphone. C’mon! Chop chop!”
Julia, our agent, was an effervescent battle-axe. She was also the only person who could back-talk Dan without getting fired. “You fuckers realize I get twice as many calls from you than any of my other clients, right?”
“We need a writer for Fly and we need him today,” said Dan.
“You’ve rejected everyone! Wentworth, Alvarez, Sackheim & Donner, Vivenzio—”
“None of those writers have worked since Judging Amy,” said JP.
She sighed. “I like Fly. Good characters, fun premise. But if you want an A-lister, I need some source material to sell them on—a book, maybe, or a comic. You’ve worked with Sterling before, right? Have you considered going back to that well?”
“They took twenty percent off the back end last time!” Dan shouted.
“Well, this is your come-to-Jesus moment. If you want to get Fly off the ground with a respectable writer, give me something to work with.” She hung up the phone.
“What do you think?” Dan asked JP.
“She’s right,” he said. “If you really want to sell the project, let me meet with Sterling.”
“I’ll sleep on it,” Dan grunted, smacking his lips. “Sam? Sammy boy?”
Sam, who had been staring at the floor, snapped to attention. “Yeah, Dan?”
“I’m thirsty. I need you to go down to the Whole Foods on Pico and get me a can of Perrier—yellow label, not green.”
“Sure thing,” he said, mouthing the words ‘two more weeks’ to me as he strode out of the room. I winked at him. It was a declaration he made at least once a day.
It took until September for us to get in the door at Sterling Comics. With Dan’s reluctant permission, JP attempted to broker a deal for Sterling to release a Fly on the Wall comic book. After that, Julia assured us, getting a top writer would be no problem.
“I have to admit, I kinda love it,” said Tim, a tall man with thick-rimmed glasses and a Green Lantern T-shirt. JP and I were sitting across from him in the cavernous meeting room on the top floor of the Sterling Comics building in Westwood. Thirty floors below, I could see the stalled brake lights of the 405 Freeway stretching for miles toward the ocean.
“I’m glad,” said JP, still catching his breath. He had just delivered an inspired version of the Fly on the Wall pitch that he and Dan had spent weeks rehearsing. The light that had shone behind his eyes during the Kung Food pitch was missing, but JP was still a riveting salesman.
“This isn’t Cowboys & Aliens, of course,” Tim said. “We’re not talking seven figures. We’ll be taking a bath on the book regardless, so our stake in the show has to be significant.”
“You don’t think the comic will do well?” JP asked.
Tim laughed. “No one makes money on comics anymore—maybe if you’re Marvel or DC. I don’t even think of us as a comic book company. We’re a multimedia content aggregator that happens to publish the occasional graphic narrative.”
“You do lots of deals like this?” I asked.
“It’s all we do. It’s hard to sell a story on its own, so people come to us. We put out an underlying property that acts as a vote of confidence for attracting talent. That’s the game.”
That evening, I walked into my apartment and turned on the TV. I flipped channels absently, my mind humming with anxiety. I worked in television now, but I felt further from my goals than on the day I’d moved to LA. None of my scripts had an underlying property. None of them had a talking fly who helped fight crime. I jammed my finger on the channel-up button—cop show, cop show, sitcom, car commercial, local news, beer commercial, reality show, infomercial, scrambled channel, static. I couldn’t answer phones forever. I couldn’t keep walking into that stinky, cramped closet. I couldn’t face Dan’s toothy grin day after day after day.
Out came the laptop. I hadn’t worked on Back Issues in weeks, and my notebook had ten pages filled with changes waiting to be made—plot and character updates informed by countless sales meetings and script analysis pow-wows. My vision blurred as I scanned the latest version of my script. I knew what I needed to do, but I wanted to fight it. I began typing anyway, the keys stinging my fingers as I worked.
The Sterling Comics version of Fly on the Wall was released in early February, though an Amazon search for ‘Fly on the Wall’ still only turned up the AC/DC album. Regardless, two large cardboard boxes filled with the things showed up on our doorstep one Monday morning. The comic was markedly better than our pitch pages—the writer had injected some much-needed humor while removing the actual pile of shit at the end—but the part where the cop helped the fly try to attract a mate still felt forced to me. JP and Dan were both satisfied, though, and I spent the rest of the week mailing copies of the book to prospective writers.
“Blow ‘em off and come drinking with me,” Sam said after Dan and JP had left for the day on Thursday. “I’ll come in early tomorrow and help you finish.” He didn’t have to ask twice.
The entrance to the bar was an unmarked door in an alley just off Venice Boulevard. After triple-checking that his car was locked, Sam grabbed my shoulder and pulled me down a steep flight of wooden stairs. The room looked like something out of a Twin Peaks dream sequence, with bright red walls and a checkered floor. The place was about half full, mostly with dead-eyed schmucks pounding drinks while squinting at script pages in the low light. Lady Gaga blared through the sound system at top volume, but there was no dance floor. The mirror behind the bar was plastered with un-cashed residuals checks for fractions of a cent.
We grabbed a booth in the corner, away from everyone. “No, Dan, I don’t know what the Wi-Fi password is at SoHo House,” Sam shouted into his cell phone. “Can’t you ask your waiter? Or someone you’re with?”
I snatched the phone from him and closed it. “Stop. Healthy boundaries, remember?”
Sam sighed. “You’re lucky—JP’s one of the good ones. There aren’t many.” After glancing around to make sure no one was watching, he pulled a flask out of his pocket and dumped the contents into his blended margarita. “I used to be a millionaire, you know. I had my own production company. I wasn’t as successful as Dan, but I got a few shows off the ground.”
“Really? What happened?”
“Drugs, bad decisions, I dunno. I thought my friends were the right kind of people and they ended up being the wrong kind of people.”
“I can’t imagine going from that to Dan and his stupid talking fly.”
“Dan actually sold a feature film version of Fly on the Wall to Universal four or five years ago. Will Ferrell was attached to star. Vince Gillian wrote a draft of the script. Dan’s a mean son of a bitch, but he’s not stupid.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
“We’re all flies, and we’re all orbiting the same pile of shit. I’m in here two or three nights a week, and I’ve heard it all. See that girl?” He pointed to a tall woman with frizzy black hair at the end of the bar. “She’s a writers’ assistant on a reality show about the third Kardashian sister no one even likes. The dude she’s talking to edits Disney Channel sitcoms for tweens. Those guys in three-piece suits? They work in the mailroom at CAA. Every one of them would strangle me with their bare hands if it got them just one step closer to what I had. And once you’re up there, you’ll do whatever it takes to stay. No one wants to be tossed back into the snake pit. No one wants to start again at forty fucking four.”
I took another swig of beer and shook my head in commiseration. For the first time, I noticed a few small stripes of gray staining Sam’s youthful haircut. “It’s not all shit,” I said. “There’s The Office, AMC, Aaron Sorkin—”
“Fuck Aaron Sorkin,” Sam said. “He gives us miserable pricks something to shoot for when what we really need is a kick in the ass.” He took a swig of his margarita and grimaced.
I sniffed the air. “Jesus, did you put gin in that thing?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m giving notice tomorrow morning. I can’t take this shit anymore.”
“Yeah right. You’ve been saying that since the day I got here.”
“What’s the alternative, huh? Admit that I’m gonna be straightening papers on Dan’s desk until I kick off from a heart attack in twenty years? Shit, man, you’ve gotta have hope.”
I barely saw JP during March. The comic book had changed everything, and Fly on the Wall’s image around town transformed from water cooler punchline to viable project. JP met with every interested writer, power-walking between the two different Starbucks locations where I set up alternating meetings.
“Let’s hire Michael Chernuchin,” Dan said one morning, waving a Daily Variety article in JP’s face. “See this? He’s coming off ten seasons of a hit show.”
JP skimmed the paper. “I’m not sure Law & Order has much in common with—”
Dan snatched it back. “Chernuchin’s a name. I can sell him. Make it happen.”
JP called Julia that afternoon. She was apoplectic, her voice an octave higher than normal. “Chernuchin’s a hack,” she said. “He’s old, he’s out of touch, and he’s completely wrong for Fly. Worst of all, he’s with ICM!”
“I know, Jules, but Dan—”
“Fuck Dan!” She slammed down the receiver. Three days later, Michael Chernuchin was attached as the head writer of Highland Entertainment’s Fly on the Wall.
I finished my script that night. It was elevator pitch perfect, a microwave-safe goulash of borrowed sitcom tropes. The tone was clear. The jokes were facile and translucent. A studio audience filled my head as I wrote, pausing for laughter at all the right moments. I remained above them all, an uncaring god surveying his three-camera kingdom.
“My script is done. Can you take a look?” I said to JP the next morning.
He grinned up at me. “I thought you’d never ask.”
A few days later, JP took me to lunch at Pink Taco, an upscale Mexican joint in the Century City Mall. “Come for the apps and stay for the innuendo,” JP said, loading half a cup of guacamole onto a tortilla chip. “Anyway, you’re a funny writer. Decent characters, neat world, a good twist.” He took a huge bite of his chip and chewed it with his mouth open. “Holy shit, this guac is orgasmic!”
“Don’t bullshit me, JP,” I said
“I’m not,” he swallowed. “You’re a good writer. Raw, but talented. I can help you whip that script a good staffing sample, maybe get you hired as a writers’ assistant on Fly if it goes.”
“Thanks,” I said, waiting for the other punch to land.
He sighed. “Look. There’s a quality in great writing that can’t be faked. A certain kind of spirit. This script felt like you wrote it with a gun to your head.”
I rolled my eyes. “Like that isn’t what you’ve been doing with Fly on the Wall.”
“Brother, if you’ve been following my lead this whole time, I’m really and truly sorry. I’ve been trying to sell out since the day I got to LA and I still can’t find a buyer. You’ve gotta write what gets you off—anything else is gonna read as fake, no matter how hard you try.”
I turned on the TV when I got home that evening, but it didn’t hold my attention. I stared out the window instead, eating a bowl of Captain Crunch while watching the sun set behind the Pizza Hut. What am I doing here? I thought. What’s the point? It had been almost a year since I’d written anything I’d cared about, and it looked like I was even worse at selling out than JP. After dinner, I got in my car and drove for hours, making long, lazy loops from Hollywood to the valley and back again. The lights and sounds of Los Angeles washed over me as I groped around in the dark, searching for a way forward, going nowhere.
I got back to my apartment at midnight and tried to get some sleep. After twenty restless minutes, I reached under the bed and grabbed my notebook with the half-chewed Bic jammed down the spiral. I got up and walked over to the kitchen counter, wincing as I turned on the overhead light. I was beyond tired. The room was too hot. My hands were stiff from gripping a steering wheel for four hours. I flipped past the notes from the latest staff meeting, past my Back Issues changes, and settled on a blank page near the end.
I wrote for nearly an hour. The words were awful, but they were mine.
It was amazing how quickly things ended. Dan and JP pitched Fly on the Wall to eight different networks over a two day span. They each turned us down. By Friday, Fly was dead.
“We did everything we could,” JP said. I was leaning against the window in his office. The sun was shining outside, the sky an ebullient shade of blue. The weather in another city might have darkened to fit our mood, but Los Angeles rarely delivered that sort of resonance.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“That’s up to Dan. This was his baby, and I’m not sure he’s ready to let it go.”
That’s when the phone rang.
Three minutes later, we burst into Dan’s office. “We did it!” JP shouted.
“Someone bought Fly on the Wall?” Dan stood up, excited.
“Someone bought Kung Food! We’re in at Cartoon Network, brother! Our first sale!”
“Oh,” said Dan, sitting back down. “Did TNT call back yet? I know they passed on Fly, but if I can get Kathy on the phone again—”
“I spoke with her this morning—they’re still not interested. But Kung Food—”
“Damn it, JP, I told you to come find me when Kathy called back!”
Sam ran in with a bottle of champagne. “Mazel Tov, you guys! Welcome to the bigs!”
“Sam, get me Kathy Brill at TNT,” growled Dan. “Then Reilly, then Greenblatt.”
“I’ve gotta take a leak first, okay? Five minutes—then I’m all yours,” JP said.
Dan groaned and leaned back in his chair, but he didn’t say no. Dazed, the three of us walked into the hallway. “You done good,” I said, slapping JP on the back. The TV industry didn’t have a beating heart—the whole business was a vaudeville trick, a balancing act of spinning plates and unicycles and clowns wobbling around on stilts made of money. But some of that money was ours now, damn it, and I wanted to celebrate.
“I can’t believe it. Kung Food doesn’t even have a writer yet—I only pitched it to the president of Cartoon Network because I had an hour to kill after the last Fly meeting and I ran into him at the commissary. That kind of sale just doesn’t happen.”
“Best not to question things like this,” said Sam, popping the champagne cork.
“I guess not,” JP said, grabbing the bottle a taking a swig. He staggered back, laughing as warm champagne bubbled out of the bottle and spilled onto the carpet.
“A toast,” Sam said, “to two more weeks.”
“Two more weeks,” I agreed. “And then I’m done with all this shit.”