having been high on cocaine when he read it, as I’d been when I wrote it, he had found some story elements that didn’t track. He plodded his way through, zeroing in on the moments I liked best, suggesting alternatives I found ponderous and heavy-handed. I tried to concentrate, tried to be polite, but I found myself becoming increasingly sarcastic, ridiculing what Brad was saying, which made him more intractable, until we were shouting. But all the time I was arguing with Brad, I knew he was a stand-in for the real cause of my anguish, the headline in front of me that said “POLICE SEEK HIT AND RUN DRIVER.”
Finally, I said there was an emergency on the set and got off the phone. I re-read the article I don’t know how many times. I reached for the phone to call Cedars-Sinai, but as I did, I heard a quiet voice warn me that the police would probably put a trace on the phone. I hung up.
I told my secretary they needed me on the set, left my office, walked to the parking structure, got in my car, and drove off the lot to find a pay phone. Do you know how hard it is to find a pay phone now that everyone has cell phones? I knew there was one at the Fonda Del Sol, the Mexican restaurant and bar I often went to across the street from the studio.
I ordered a quick scotch to fortify myself and went in the back to place the call.
“This is Edith Strunk,” I said, “from the Valley Sentinel. Could you give me an update on the condition of Rosa Aguilar?”
I learned no more than that her condition was listed as serious. Still, it was a relief. She was alive. I had another quick drink to celebrate, got back in my car, and drove back onto the lot.
A few hours later, I was in the midst of a production meeting, when I was once again seized with terror and remorse. I excused myself, drove off the lot, found another pay phone at a gas station, and called again, identifying myself as a different reporter. Again, I was soothed and relieved to find that Rosa Aguilar was still alive, her condition serious but stable.
After that, whenever I became agitated, I found a pay phone and called to enquire about Rosa’s condition, addicted to the flood of relief that flowed through me at word that she was alive. I began to imagine that when she recovered, I’d come forward, and we might even laugh about this someday.
On the fourth day after what I was beginning to think of as “the accident,” I was driving to meet Brad, who, upset at the turn our conversation had taken, had asked if we could meet for lunch. Brad had no real power. That resided with Marty Nussbaum, who owned and ran the studio that had recently bought the network as well. But it seemed politic to meet with him. Ordinarily Brad would come to the lot, but we had arranged to meet at a restaurant near the studio. I noticed a pay phone in front of a convenience store in a corner mini-mall and pulled into the parking lot in front.
“This is Edith Strunk from the Valley Sentinel calling for an update on the condition of Rosa Aguilar.”
I was put on hold. I waited in a state of heightened awareness of the dryness in my throat, my speeding pulse, and racing heart, while listening to “Rocky Mountain High, Colorado” on the phone. When the Muzak stopped, I heard the shuffling of papers and muffled voices before a woman spoke.
“Rosa Aguilar died at approximately 6:40 this morning.”
My vision dimmed then ended, like a fade out. I felt myself falling, but I clutched onto the pay phone. I must have staggered towards the alley because the next thing I knew I was leaning against the dumpster, retching and heaving. The smell of my own vomit mingled with the smell of rotting garbage brought me back to life—or what would pass for my life from then on. I looked up to see a red-faced, bare-chested homeless man watching me. He seemed not much older than me with long hair and wild red eyes. He held a cardboard sign that said “Why lie? I need a drink,” but he held it by his side as he watched me puke.
I straightened up, standing on shaky legs, and realized I had thrown up on my Armani suit, and I’d have to reschedule lunch with Brad. The tinny computerized version of “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” let me know that my cell phone was ringing. It was Jonathan in New York.
“We did it, babe—we got the pick-up!”
There was silence as he waited for my reaction, but I was too disoriented to respond. A wave of nausea swept over me, my legs felt wobbly, and I thought I might throw up again. Jonathan was too elated to notice and went on, his voice high and fast with excitement.
“A full twenty-two! And we keep our time slot! Marty loves us! The advertisers love us! I’m so proud of you!”
I tried to murmur something appropriate. Jonathan was elated enough for two.
“I couldn’t do anything about the license fee, s we’re still stuck with the seven-day shooting schedule. But you’ve turned them out fast enough so far, and I told them you’d have no problem with that. Gold ring, babe, just like I told you! I love you.”
I got off the phone, called my secretary, and told her to reschedule Brad Castleman. Then I called my doctor and got a refill for Xanax.
CHAPTER 3
Jonathan flew home the next day. His plane got in at five. The plan was that he’d go to the house, shower, and change, and we’d all go out for dinner when I got home. I managed to leave the office just after seven. But I stopped in at La Fonda del Sol for a drink first. I wasn’t sure what I was going to say to Jonathan about what had happened or whether or not I’d tell him. In any case, I felt the need to fortify myself, and I always enjoyed the camaraderie among the grips and gaffers who mingled there after work. By the time I got home, it was after nine. Afraid I’d appear drunk, I snorted a line in the car.
Jonathan was hungry and angry. I arranged my face into what I hoped was a smile. His face fell when he saw my inebriated state.
“Julia was hungry; I ordered take-out. Have you eaten?”
I managed to kiss him, apologize, and mumble something about needing to address the network notes, which were predictably stupid but had to be done.
Our large kitchen was the primary family room. At its center was a full size work station with stools around it for kibitzing with the cook; more often than not we ate there rather than at the dining room table. Large copper pots and pans hung from a circular rack above it. Jonathan took out the containers of Thai food he’d already put back in the refrigerator and set them out for me. He took two plates from the cupboard—hand-painted ceramic plates we’d bought on our last family vacation in Italy. As he served me he told me his ideas. The pickup gave us a platform. The studio and network were solidly behind us, willing to spend money on guest stars, promotions, tie-ins. Now that it was an integrated media universe, we could cross-pollinate.
“Sounds sexy.”
He laughed, giddy with excitement at the fulfillment of our dreams. I got a beer from the fridge and picked at my food with chopsticks, pretending to eat. Jonathan was too excited to notice. He said that Marty had promised to open the Poseidon purse for us. Kate McKenzie, the actress who played Jinx Magruder, would be featured on every talk show on all the Poseidon networks and channels. There would be stories about her in every Poseidon magazine and fan book compilations in the bookstores. He even talked about a cartoon spin-off for Poseidon’s kid network. With Poseidon behind us, there was no limit to the saturation we could achieve.
When Jonathan and I had first begun developing the show, he’d been working for Trident, a small independent studio. By the time we sold the pilot, the studio had been bought by Poseidon, a conglomerate
