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THE MIND GAME |
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THE SOUL STEALERS Annie came into the living room, ashen, shaken. "They've issued a life directive, Jack." "Life directive? What the hell are you talking about?" "If you don't begin processing and I continue living with you, they'll cut me off from Transformationalism. Totally." Weller's composure shattered utterly. "That does it'" he shouted. "I absolutely, categorically, totally forbid you to see any of these maniacs again!" "Jack! Stop it!" Annie screamed. "Don't you see that you're confirming everything they said?" Tears began to form in her eyes. "If you won't come for processing, I'm getting out of here this very minute!" Then she slammed the door behind her, leaving Weller transfixed in the center of the living room, his body frozen in rage, his mind roaring with emotional white noise. He stood there for long moments trying to force rationality back into his screaming brain, trying to break the shocked, stunned, raging stasis that held him in emotional and physical paralysis. But before he could move, before he could get himself to the door, he heard the engine of her car start in the driveway. Then, with a roar, the metallic scream of a missed shift, and the howl of an engine revving toward redline, she was gone.... *** Order is the enemy of Chaos. But the enemy of Order is also the enemy of Chaos -- Gregor Markowitz Chapter One Sweat plastering the back of his shirt to the seat of his Triumph, eyes burning from San Fernando Valley smog, brain throbbing with dulled exhaustion, Jack Weller turned off the Ventura Freeway onto Moorpark. Another day, another ten minutes of Monkey Business in the can, another piece of my lifeline sold for a hundred dollars and my name flashed across the boob tube as the director of a peculiarly mindless kiddie show, he thought. But don't get me wrong, I love Hollywood. Down Moorpark -- stations, Burger palaces, supermarkets, giant drugstores -- left, right, left, and onto the street where he lived. Endless anonymous ticky-tacky ranch houses inadequately veiled by trees and thick shrubbery. Oh, the towering feeling? He turned up the driveway and parked behind Annie's ancient red Porsche sitting in the open garage. Image, image, the price we pay for image! If a would-be up-and-coming young director or an aspiring actress wanted the comfort of a closed, air-conditioned car, it had to be a late-model Cadillac or at the very least a fancy Buick -- anything less said "poor," and that was the kiss of death. So two sports cars it was, acceptable image on the cheap. Inside, Annie was waiting for him in the living room. lithe, blond and lovely in a flowering caftan but tired and empty around the eyes, poor baby. "Hi. babes," she said. A brief pro forma kiss with no juice in it. "How did it go?" Weller asked, going to the bar and getting out the Martini fixings. Annie sighed. "The usual," she said, "Next week Harry's lined up an audition for a part in a perfume commercial. And some writer client of his is working on an original screenplay which might have something for me in it if it ever gets sold. How's the monkey business?" Weller poured two Martinis, handed her one, sat down on the couch beside her, and took a long cold swallow. "More fun than a barrel of producers," he said. "Our warm, wonderful father figure came in with a hangover, the kids were into playing practical jokes on each other today, and the damned chimp crapped on the set twice." "But don't get me wrong, I love Hollywood," Annie chorused along with, him. They laughed and relaxed closer to each other. The air-conditioner was beginning to cool him off, and the Martini was beginning to loosen a few of the knots in his gut. There are those who would say I've got it made, Weller reflected. A more or less steady five-hundred dollars a week directing a network show, even if it is kiddie stuff. Twenty grand of equity in a house, even if it is in the Valley. A beautiful wife who loves me, even if we do have our problems. One man's ceiling is another man's floor. "What's for dinner?" Weller asked, feeling like any nine-to-fiver coming home to the little woman, and hating it. "Chinese spareribs and corn on the cob," Annie said. "Pour me another, and I'll go take a look." Weller's stomach sent pleasure messages to his grumbling brain. It was one of his favorites, and Annie's fixing it was always a little flash of the love between them that still seemed to survive despite her frustration with an acting career that was going nowhere and his frustration at clinging to the bottom rung of a long, long ladder, no closer to directing feature films or even prime-time segments than he had been two years ago. At least we haven't gotten to the point of taking it out on each other, he thought. pouring two more drinks. Not yet. Annie went into the kitchen, and Weller sat back down on the couch, sipping his drink and contemplating the furniture. How he hated the wall-to-wall carpeting, the Danish-modern junk, the big color TV console, the Middle American-ness of it all! Five years, and he still couldn't think of this house as home, as something permanent. Home was a big, lavish place in the Hollywood Hills, with a swimming pool, a huge garden, and a sauna; home was where they were going to live when Annie was a star and he was a big-time feature-film director. The only thing that could he worse than the transient feeling of this house would be accepting this place, this life, as something they had arrived at, rather than a place along the road to the top. I'm only thirty-one, he thought, and Annie's only twenty-nine. We're not old enough to be stuck where we are. "Come and git it'" Annie called from the kitchen. Weller tossed down the rest of his drink, his attention drawn from these heavy musings to the dinner-sized hole in his stomach, and he went into the dining room happy to be thinking of little else but ribs and corn. *** By the time he had put away two butter-drenched cobs of corn and a plate of crackling sweet-and-sour spareribs, Weller was feeling more mellow, and he and Annie leaned toward each other across the table over coffee, looking into each other's eyes and beginning to feel cozy. They would probably make love before settling down in front of the tube tonight. Despite everything -- a couple of brief bouts of experimental swinging, three desultory orgies, and a few sneaky side affairs along the way -- they could still please each other in bed. In fact, after the transitory thrill of unwrapping a fresh new body, Weller had found the other women he had had during their six-year marriage ultimately and rapidly boring compared to Annie. Annie had always told him that other men left her with the same feeling, and nothing in their life together had signaled to him that this was a kind lie. They had been totally faithful to each other for over two years now, having learned, if nothing else, that their sex lives together were not the source of their mutual nagging frustration, that bedtime adventures were no cure for lack of career satisfaction. "Love you, lady," Weller said, reaching across the table and touching his palm to her cheek. "We're lovely people," she said. They touched, and they eyed, and they kissed, and then they went into the living room, shucking clothes as they walked, and made love on the green velvet couch, dissolving away the tedium and frustration of the day, at least temporarily, into the mindless melding of bodies. But inevitably after a time it had to be over, and they found themselves once more lying naked against each other on the couch, dully watching television. For the Wellers, as for two hundred million others, the tube was an artificial release from boredom, from the need to chew over things that had been said to each other a thousand times before just to fill dead air. But for them it was also an instrument of self-flagellation. Weller watched the prime-time dramatic shows knowing that they were formula garbage, contemptuous of the directors who had made their secure careers in big-time TV and who no longer burned to do features. And yet each time a director's credit line appeared on the screen, it was a little knife in his gut. For the nobodies who directed these turkeys were still a long step up the ladder from Jack Weller and his Saturday morning monkey show, and he never saw a prime-time segment that he could admire, that he didn't know he could do better. And Annie compared the face and figure of every featured actress to herself, unable to understand why they were getting the work while she had to scramble and scheme just to get an occasional commercial or walk-on. "Full shot, close-up, full shot, close-up," Weller muttered, seeing whatever it was only in terms of the formula blocking. Weller wondered why he watched so much of the damned stuff -- there was certainly nothing to learn from it. But what had they done during those intermittent periods when they righteously swore off watching TV? Lots of movies, which made the envy even worse. Middling Hollywood hangouts which led to swinging which led back to middling Hollywood hangouts. Rounds of parties with people who were mostly worse off than they were, where they were objects of envy. Earnest heart-to-heart talks which petered out into dull staring contests which left them hating each other and blaming each other for the deadly boredom. What was missing from their life? It didn't take a shrink or a marriage counselor to figure it out for them. Success, that was what was missing, and there was no substitute for it. "Look at her," Annie said. "She's walking through it like a zombie. Maybe I should shop around for a new agent --" The ringing of the phone cut through the television trance. Annie got up and answered it. "Hello, Bob --" "The what --" "It is?" "I'll ask him, Hold on." Standing by the phone table, Annie said: "It's Bob and Susan Shumway. They're going to the Transformationalist Celebrity Center tonight. Bob wants to know if we'd like to meet them there." Bob Shumway was a fairly successful television writer. Bob and Susan and Jack and Annie had had a brief swinging number three years ago which had quickly faded out into a kind of distant friendship. Bob was something of a Hollywood trendie, always trying to be "where it was at," a great believer in going to the right parties and meeting the right people. Weller admired his style, though only in small doses. "What's the Transformational Celebrity Center?" Weller asked. He had heard of Transformationalism, dimly. It was one of those consciousness-raising cults, like Arica, EST, or Scientology, of which he had a low and jaundiced opinion. Somehow it didn't seem like much of a Bob Shumway number. "Bob says it's a kind of private club run by the Transformationalists. Free drinks. Very Beverly Hills." "You want to go, Annie?" She shrugged. "We don't have anything better to do." "Let me talk to him," Weller said. He went to the phone. "Hi, Bob. What's happening?" "Thought you might like to meet us at the Celebrity Center, babe. It's only been open a couple of months, but it's an interesting scene." "Didn't know you were into guru games, Bob." "Hey, you can just tune out the Transformationalist scam. Point is, Transformalionalism has mucho bread, and this center is designed to attract the Hollywood heavies." "So?" "So? So they've set up a groovy place, and they ply you with unlimited free booze. And such being the case, a lot of people are starting to hang out there. Contacts, boy! The movers and shapers. Beautiful people. Take a look. Might be the place to make the Big Connection. What do you say?" "Just a minute, Bob." Weller looked at Annie. "Want to see if we can meet someone who can make us stars at this guru den?" he asked sardonically. "At least we can lap up the free booze," he added in a W. C. Fields voice. "Sure," Annie said, much more earnestly. By the look in her eyes Weller could tell that she was already fantasizing a chance meeting with Joe Levine. Hope springs eternal, he thought, feeling just a little sad, a shade protective. "Okay, Bob, we'll meet you at about eight thirty." "Make it eight thirty sharp, and we'll meet you in the parking lot." "Roger." "Ten-four, babe. See you there." *** The Santa Monica Mountains march east-west to the sea, a natural barrier between the suburbia of the San Fernando Valley to the north and the glitter and flash of Hollywood and Beverly Hills at their southern feet. From Mulholland Drive, running along the crest line, Weller could see the vast nightscape of Los Angeles spread below them, a brilliant carpet of light. Driving up over the ridgeline and down the defile of Beverly Glen Boulevard toward Beverly Hills, whipping around the curves in the open sports car with Annie's golden hair streaming in the fragrant night air, he lived for the moment in the Hollywood persona he longed to capture and hold. Beverly Hills, Bel Air, Malibu Canyon, Topanga, Laurel Canyon -- these hills were the habitat of those who had made it; this was where they belonged. Out of the hills and onto the flat streets of downtown Beverly Hills, the streets largely empty of pedestrians even at this hour, the action taking place very privately, behind closed doors. Weller pulled into the parking lot of the Transformationalist Celebrity Center. There were about two dozen cars in the lot -- Jags, some older Porsches, a couple of Cadillacs, but also some of the cheaper sports cars, and even one VW van. Weller parked alongside Bob Shumway's vintage Aston-Martin. Bob and Susan were leaning against the car, Bob slightly paunchy in a cream-colored leisure suit, Susan dark and full-bodied in midnight-blue capris and a bare midriff red blouse. "Hi." "Hi." Kiss, kiss. "Been here often?" Annie asked as they walked out of the parking lot. "A few times," Susan answered. "It's only been open awhile," Bob said. "Just starting to catch on. The real heavies should just be starting to appear. The only free saloon in town." By this time they had reached the entrance, a brown door in an otherwise featureless building front. A small bronze plaque identified it as "The Transformationalist Celebrity Center." Immediately inside was a small blue-walled reception area. Facing them was another closed door with another bronze plaque. This one said:
Transform the transformers and
transform the world.
Transform the world and transform your own lives. Beside the door was a small desk, and behind the desk was an intense-looking young man with a clipboard of papers and a ball-point pen. "Good evening and welcome to the Transformationalist Celebrity Center," he said earnestly. "Please sign in." He handed Weller the clipboard and pen. The form on the clipboard had places for name, address, phone number, and whether or not he had visited the Celebrity Center before. Weller shot Bob Shumway a narrow look, thinking, here I go onto one more mailing list, filled out the form, and handed it to Annie. After they had all filled out the form, the attendant held the door open for them, and they walked into a large room with a cream-colored ceiling, red flocked wallpaper, and a dark hardwood floor. A bar with a mirror behind it ran the length of one wall, and there was a small, low stage in the middle of the opposite wall. The rest of the room was filled with small cafe tables. On the far wall was a huge black and while photograph of a heavyset man in his fifties with long, thinning gray hair and a bushy gray moustache. There were thirty or forty people scattered about the place, a few of them silting at the bar. Anonymous soft music played, far in the background. They took a table near the bar. Bob Shumway ran his eyes around the room. "Couple of TV producers, few actors, there's Eddie Berger from GAC, what's-his-name who writes half the cop shows in town, film critic from Los Angeles, nothing much. Looks like a slow night so far." A waitress appeared, wearing a white blouse and black slacks, again with that intense look about the eyes. "What's your pleasure, folks? All refreshments are courtesy of Transformationalism. May you enjoy your evening and leave transformed." The little spiel reminded Weller of a living television commercial. The waitress took their orders and departed toward the bar. "Weird," Weller said, cocking his head in her direction. "Yeah," said Susan. "They remind me of the Salvation Army, all bright and clean and wide-eyed." "But they run a good place," Bob said, perhaps a bit sharply. "So how are things with you kids?" he asked. "Still got a contract for fourteen segments of Monkey Business a year." Weller said. "Annie's auditioning for a commercial next week...." He gave Annie a sympathetic look and gilded the lily a bit for her. "... and she's up for a major part." "In an unsold script," Annie added somewhat wearily. Bob shook his head. "Chimp shows. Agent's bullshit. What's wrong with you kids? You've got the talent, all you --" "Bob!" Susan hissed. "Will you leave them alone? Bob forgets that if he hadn't gotten to Arnie Palucci in a drunken moment, he'd probably still be back writing cartoon shows." "For Chrissakes, Susan, that's the whole point. It's not what you know --" "IT'S WHO YOU KNOW," the other three chorused. The waitress arrived with their drinks. She set them down with a little bowl of nuts and four copies of a lithographed brochure. On the cover was the same photograph that hung enlarged on the wall and the words, "TRANSFORMATIONALISM AND YOU!" "Who is this guy?" Weller asked. Bob lifted his glass and toasted the wall photograph. "Our host and benefactor, John B. Steinhardt," he said. "Guru of Transformationalism and proprietor in absentia of this noble saloon. "Weird-looking duck," Weller opined. "He used to be a science-fiction writer, I think," Susan said. She gave Bob a little false smile. "All writers are crazy." "Hey, Bill, over here!" Bob had caught the eye of a balding, middle-aged man drinking at the bar. As he lurched over to their table, Bob whispered to Weller, "Bill Wallenstein, story editor on Harrison & Company, make the most of it, Jack baby." Wallenstein sat down, none too steadily. 'This is Jack Weller," Bob said. "He's a director." "Yeah? What's he directed?" the story editor said with a certain shit-faced belligerency. "And this is Jack's wife, Anne Weller, she's an actress." Wallenstein beamed a woozy smile at Annie. "Ah yes, I believe I know your work," he lied transparently. Annie gave him a sickly smile and pointedly began leafing through the brochure. A story editor on a TV series usually had about as much to do with hiring directors as the script girl and even less to say about casting. Which, however, did not always prevent them from using the old casting-couch come-on. "So ... ah .... how's it coming, Bill?" Bob said, a shade uneasily. "Ah, the usual," Wallenstein grunted. "We've got a backlog of a lousy two scripts, and Irv wants me to knock out two myself this month, in between rewriting the crap we've got. Say ... how about you doing one for us, Bob?" "No way," Bob said. "I'm doing a TV movie, and I'm happily booked up." "Lucky bastard," Wallenstein muttered. "Say, Mrs. Weller, maybe you'd like to come down to the studio and maybe 1 could introduce, you to Irv..." Oh, brother! Annie didn't bother to look up; she continued reading the brochure. "Mrs. Weller -- ?" "Annie --?" "Huh?" Annie finally looked up. "What ... ? Sorry...." "I said maybe you'd like to come down to the studio and I could introduce you to my producer." Annie smiled sweet-sour at him. "I'm tied up for the next few weeks, maybe I'll give you a call after that," she said, and pointedly went back to reading ''TRANSFORMATIONALISM AND YOU!" "I'd be glad to come to the studio and meet your producer," Weller said, giving Wallenstein a somewhat toothy smile as he put a slightly fey lilt into his voice. "You wouldn't happen to be bi, would you?" Wallenstein cringed woozily. Bob looked aghast. Susan tried to choke back giggles. Annie kept reading, ignoring the unseemly scene. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Transformationalist Celebrity Center." Mercifully on cue a tall, gray-haired, almost regal-looking woman had mounted the small stage and was speaking into a small throat mike slung around her neck. She carried herself like an actress, and her cold, unblinking green eyes dominated the room. "Uh-oh," said Bob, "here comes the commercial. " "For those of you who are here for the first time, let me tell you what this place is all about. Candidly, Transformationalism wants you!" She pointed at the center of the room (deliberately?), mimicking the famous Uncle Sam poster. "And we want you to want Transformationalism! Transformationalism has centers throughout the United States and the Western world. As many as twenty million people have had some Transformational processing, but this is something new. John has decided that it's time to reach out directly to people like yourselves who mold public consciousness. Our goal is to transform the mass consciousness, to raise the total consciousness of the human race to ever-higher levels. You are in key positions to further this great cause, and we can transform you into happier, more successful, more highly conscious human beings...." As the dull rap went on, Weller's attention began to wander. His eyes moved around the room, and way over at a corner table he thought he saw Marsha Henderson. He had known Marsha when he was in the children's programming department at CBS, they had gotten along well, and now she was a hotshot studio executive overseeing a whole stable of prime-time shows. Maybe she'd remember me, he thought. Maybe this evening won't be a total loss. " -- to give you a real feel for what Transformationalism is about, our founder, the first Transformed man, the highest consciousness on the planet today, John B. Steinhardt." The lights dimmed slightly, and a section of the wall behind the stage slid upward, revealing a giant-screen television set, a full five-by-seven job. A moment later the face of Steinhardt appeared on the screen, approximating the pose on the wall photograph and the brochures, but in full color. His complexion was ruddy like a Colonel Blimp, and his eyes were blue and somewhat watery. Looks a bit like a rummy, Weller thought. "Hi, I'm John Steinhardt, and I've served my time in the entertainment racket too, written three hundred science fiction stories and a shelf of books as long as your arm, you probably never heard of. But that was many moons and many transformations ago. I remember what it was like to crank out wordage at peon wages, working like a maniac just to survive, never even having enough time to think about why the hell I could never get anywhere, why a so-called creative person had to run at top speed all the time just to keep from slipping backward like the Red Queen. Yes, friends, I know your problems, and your dreams and your frustrations all too well...." Steinhardt spoke in a gravelly voice with the speed of a used-car salesman doing a thirty-second commercial, yet Weller found the performance instantly capturing his attention. Steinhardt didn't come off like the usual slick guru; he had the ability to project himself as one of the boys, to give this video-tape spot the immediacy of beery barroom rap. "... The world moves so fast these days even those of us who fancy we're leading public consciousness can't keep up with the changes we're creating every day. Politics, media, the stock market, our own kids -- zip, zip, zip, everything transforms itself faster than we can follow it. You have to be a moron not to realize that none of the old rules describe reality anymore. But a lot of otherwise smart people fall into the contemporary trap of believing that somewhere, somehow, someone or something is going to give you a new set of rules and simple step-by-step instructions for putting Humpty Dumpty together again...." The man had energy. Weller saw that most of the people in the room were paying attention, Bob nodding over his drink, even Annie, staring at the screen and toying unconsciously with the brochure. This good old boy sure could sell snake oil! "... Synanon, Arica, est, old-time religion, the world is full of outfits that claim they can navigate you through all the whirlpools if you'll follow their instructions. Well, not Transformationalism, I kid you not, friends. Transformationalism faces the truth, and the truth is that the human race has evolved to the point where ongoing change has become permanent. There will never again be a set of roles or a fixed consciousness that will make sense out of the world for you, because the only thing that's certain is that anything that describes how reality works today will be obsolete tomorrow. ... " Over in the corner Marsha Henderson was getting up and walking toward the ladies' room. Got to find some way of introducing myself before she leaves tonight, Weller thought. ". . . So I'm not trying to sell you rules or sets of perception or a static road map of reality but a series of processes designed to give you Transformational Consciousness, to free you from the trap of seeking permanent perceptions of anything, to evolve your minds into instruments capable of riding the change, transforming the world as the world transforms you. So take a look around, ask questions, see if you don't want to get involved in what's happening here. In the meantime the drinks are on me!" Steinhardt saluted the room with his hand in the manner of your genial host; off went the TV set, up came the lights, and onto the stage came the woman who had introduced the taped speech. "Upstairs we have demonstrations and detailed literature for those of you who are interested. Any of our people here will be glad to assist you." She left the stage, and the room was immediately transformed back into a bar. Drinks were ordered, people resumed their conversations, and over in the corner Marsha Henderson was standing beside her table talking to her party. "Well, what did you think of that?" Bob Shumway asked. He could sure move used cars," Weller muttered distractedly, looking over his shoulder at Marsha Henderson who looked as if she were preparing to make her exit. Can I just walk up to her and say, "Hi, you remember me, I'm Jack Weller... ?" "He was kind of impressive, wasn't he?" Annie said. "Good line of bullshit," Wallenstein woozed. "Well, it made some sense to me. According to this brochure they claim they can make you as psychically together as he is, and he's sure got charisma. If they can really teach you to project like that...." I could wander down the bar, maybe order a drink there, Weller thought. Then I casually turn, catch her eye. Say ... pardon me, you look familiar, aren't you ... ah ... er.... That would be subtle enough, it wouldn't seem too gross. I really don't have anything to lose. "They say this organization is worth hundreds of millions," Bob said. "And lotsa tentacles." 'There's no business like the guru business." Yeah, I'll do it! Weller decided. He turned his attention back to the table and started to rise. "Uh, if you'll excuse me, I'll be right back. I have to --" "Hello, I'm Tanya Blaine. May I join you for a moment?" A well-built redhead, about twenty-five, wearing a white blouse and black slacks, had appeared beside Weller and was already pulling up a chair. ''I'm one of your hosts at the Celebrity Center," she said, "and I'd be happy to answer any of your questions about Transformationalism." Her voice was professionally friendly, yet also coldly insistent. and her eyes had a repellent rodential quality. Here was a beautiful woman who gave off no sexual vibrations at all. Weller tried to ignore her and continue his move, but Annie spoke up immediately, and he couldn't walk out on her line. "Just what do you do to ... uh, process people?" "We use many techniques," Tanya Blaine said. "Role reversal. Gaming it through. Block auditing. Meditative deconditioning. It's quite a complex technology, and we're developing more every day." Marsha Henderson turned away from her party and began slowly walking toward the exit along the length of the bar. "-- demonstrations of some of the techniques upstairs --" "-- maybe later --" Damn it! Weller thought, as Marsha Henderson disappeared through the door while Tanya Blaine and Annie continued to babble about Transformationalism. I've blown it. So near and yet so far, the story of my life. "Well, it's been nice talking to you," Tanya Blaine said, finally getting up to leave. "If you want any further information, feel free to come upstairs. If you'll excuse me...." "You're excused," Weller snarled in frustration. Tanya Blaine's composure cracked for just a flash at the tone of his voice; she gave him a puzzled look, shrugged, then departed. "What the hell was that, Jack?" Annie said angrily. ''Why was it necessary to be rude to that woman?" "I was rude? That woman barged in here and screwed everything up, and I'm rude?" "What are you talking about, Jack? Screwed up what?" What's gotten into you?" Annie was looking at him as if he were nuts, and Weller suddenly felt very foolish, and he knew that he would feel even stupider having to explain it in front of Wallenstein. There was a long tense moment of eyeball-to-eyeball silence. Fortunately Wallenstein, even through his booze haze, managed to pick up on the vibrations. "If you'll excuse me," he said, ''I've got to see a man about a turkey." And he lurched off in the general direction of the bar. "Well?" Annie demanded. "Yeah, Jack," Bob said. "What the hell was all that about?" "Ah, I'm sorry," Weller said sheepishly. "I saw Marsha Henderson over there -- you know, the production executive -- and I used to be fairly friendly with her years ago when she was doing kiddie shows at CBS. I was about to go over and see if I couldn't subtly do myself some good when Little Miss Sunshine came along. Now Marsha's gone, and I've blown it." "Gee, I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't know," Annie said. "Of course you didn't," Weller said distantly. Their eyes met, clashed, looked away. "At least you're learning, boy," Bob Shumway said. "You're learning. There'll be other chances, if you just put yourself in the way of them." "Yeah," Weller said. "Yeah, you're right. Maybe this place does have its possibilities." ''Told you it did." They sat around for another hour or so, having two more rounds of drinks and talking of the inconsequential. Bob Shumway spotted two more low-level producers, but Weller's energy, or his nerve, or both, were at too low a level for him to contemplate introducing himself, especially since these were people he didn't know. They called it a night at about eleven, and the Wellers drove home largely in silence, Weller concentrating on his driving, thinking about his lost opportunity -- if a real opportunity it had been -- and Annie sitting quietly beside him, fingering the brochure she had taken from the table. As they drove down Moorpark, past eerie empty Valley sidewalks, Annie finally spoke. "Maybe we ought to go back there soon." "Yeah. I was thinking the same thing." There did definitely seem to be a goodly number of producers drifting through the Celebrity Center. No real heavyweights, maybe, but if we hung around the bar by ourselves, we might be able to strike up a conversation with someone who could put us onto some prime-time segment work. And that's certainly a step up from where we are. "What did you think of it?" "Seems like there are some useful people hanging out there," Weller said. "I mean what they're doing there," Annie said. "Steinhardt. The processing." Weller pulled up into their driveway and looked over at her quizzically. "Steinhardt? Transformationalism? I wasn't paying much attention to all that stuff. Why, were you?" Annie seemed to draw into herself slightly. "Oh, not really. I looked through that brochure while that creep was trying to come on to me. Kind of interesting." She showed it to him as they left the car. "I brought it along, if you want to take a look at it," she said. "Uh-huh," Weller mumbled, already thinking about tomorrow's shooting, another long, tiring, tedious, essentially pointless day of Monkey Business. They got ready for bed quickly, and Weller began to drift off to sleep almost immediately thereafter, going through tomorrow's shooting sequence in his head. which for boredom certainly beat counting sheep. As he dropped off, Annie lay on her back beside him, staring at the ceiling and thinking her own private thoughts.
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