The last week of the season started off normally. Monday was the pitch. Tuesday was writing night. As per usual, Juliet was almost immediately bored and began traversing the hall around one a.m., bothering writers and killing time. She always did this. Wrote her first sketch. Wandered around for a couple of hours. Then, eventually, she'd write another sketch. As it happened, Vian had hit a lull in her writing so she was more than happy to accompany Juliet on her aimless journey through the fourth floor. Plus, Hugo had become his Swedish alter ego, Olav, who was significantly more talkative and difficult to understand. Vian and Juliet prospected through the Bullpen and into the kitchenette, where they found nothing of interest. They ducked their heads in writers' rooms at random, one of which was Bill and Michael's room.
"What are you kids doing?" Juliet asked. Bill wasn't there, which wasn't much of a surprise given that Michael was. Nick was there too, occupying the space where the Texan would have been.
"Trying to figure out the glitch in this sketch," Nick said, drumming a pencil on the edge of Bill's desk. He didn't have Bill's computer open, just the hard copy sketch in front of him. He wasn't really fresh out of college like Juliet or Vian had been, but he had that kind of vibe to him. Like a frat boy, but one of the good ones a girl could trust to hold her drink. His dark hair always looked like he'd rolled off the couch of Sigma-Phi-Whatever and walked straight to class.
"Nothing a little quantitative analysis can't fix," he said.
"Quantitative analysis? Like in statistics?" Juliet asked and Vian was taken aback.
"You don't know what theatrical quantitative analysis is?" Vian asked.
"No. I didn't major in Theatre Nerd like the rest of you," she said defensively, throwing her hands up in a "V" like she was being cornered by the police.
"What did you major in?" Nick asked Juliet. Now he alternated between drumming on the edge of the table and the underside. Tap, tap. Thunk. Tap, tap. Thunk. He was humming "We Are the Champions" under his breath.
"I double-majored in English and French," she said, "But I was in an improv troupe in LA."
"Why French?"
Juliet scoffed: "I'm French. My dad's French. France is French. Why, what did you people major in?"
"Theatre," Nick, Vian, and Michael said in chorus.
"Specialization in acting," Nick supplemented.
"Playwriting," Vian said.
"Directing," Michael said.
"Directing?" Vian said.
"Yeah. I wanted to be a director"--Michael gained a look of intense concentration as if on explaining his dream he was carefully manifesting it into reality-- "Realizing the artistic vision of a film and all that."
"I'm surrounded by nerds," Juliet sighed. Michael chuckled.
"Playwriting?" he asked Vian.
"I just want to write. It's always the same. I just want to write."
When they'd exhausted all plausible off-topic topics of conversation Vian and Juliet excused themselves. Vian went to continue her work with Olav. Juliet was about to make a serious attempt at a second sketch when an intern slipped her a note.
"What's this for?" Juliet said. The intern put an index finger to their lips. Juliet was tempted to repeat the question louder, but she was too intrigued by her note. The note was written on a piece of printer paper folded in half.
Report to the MaN.
She groaned audibly into the empty hallway but made her way obediently to Nat and Max's room.
YOU ARE READING
Television Romance
General FictionFive... four... three... two... and we're LIVE! Vian's got a new job as a television writer in New York and she feels overwhelmed. She's fighting with her fiancé, she has no idea what she wants to do with her life, and she's being dragged headfirst...
