Invasive Frogs
Through the glass wall, Renee was surprised to see Nina’s assistant already busy at work. Could anyone in the world be more boring? she thought. Well if you look like he does you probably have to work hard. Renee put on a big smile, opened the glass door, walked up to the assistant and handed him the packet.
He undid the clasp, took the pages out of the envelope, and inspected the smudged and slightly skewed text.
“The Meek Shall Inherit, a Proposal for an Historical Telenovela in the American Language, by Damien di Savoia Underwood...” he said, reading out loud. “So you... found this... on Western Avenue? Above a lavanderia?”
This guy has an attitude, thought Renee. Who the hell does he think he is?
“A small production company had recently moved out,” she said. “They were near a fax machine. The pages, I mean.”
Turning those pages carefully, the guy with the attitude said:
“If we clear the rights, we’ll be giving you a call.”
“Well, uh... thanks for meeting me so early,” she said. “I... I’ve got an appointment at nine.”
“Commercial real estate, right?” he said. “Go get ’em, girl.”
The office of the vice-president for prime-time programming remained relatively quiet for the rest of the day. Nina Pagonis herself spent the day at the hospital, tending to her mother, who did in fact seem more comfortable with the tracheostomy in place, though there was still a look of panic in her eyes whenever the sedatives began to wear off. Most of the ICU nurses looked the other way when Nina used her cell phone, which was constantly, but at 7 p.m., a real dictator came on shift and banned Nina and her phone from the unit, so she returned to her office.
She found three documents waiting on her desk: the treatment of The Meek Shall Inherit as initially submitted by Bradley and Renee, the faxed pages from Western Avenue, and a detailed memo from her assistant, which cataloged the differences between the two versions, enumerating the typos, misunderstandings, and dumbings-down that had crept into the manuscript when Bradley retyped it. All in all, a sort of variorum edition.
Nina was not surprised by her assistant’s thoroughness. She had hired him... how long ago? Maybe eight months?
The interview had been brief:
“Casey Lasko...” she had said, looking over the resume. “You’re from Chicago... Is Casey short for Casimir?”
“Only if you’re speaking Polish,” the young man replied. “In English, my legal name is Casey.”
“Of course. First generation born in America?”
“On my father’s side.”
“But you’re closer to your mother, aren’t you?”
“If you’re asking me if I’m gay, the answer is yes. To both questions.”
Nina smiled. “Actually, I was scoping out your entrepreneurial drive. But thank you for sharing. Let’s see... Bachelor of Arts, double major in Theatre and Communication Studies, Wayne State University... ”
She paused briefly, but the young man did not see fit to step in.
“...followed by Juris Doctor, Columbia Law School. Why did you send your resume to me? I don’t hire for our legal department.”
“I have no desire to practice law,” he said. “Entertainment or otherwise.”
“Interesting,” said Nina.
The interview had occurred after 8 p.m., as sunset neared on a long June evening. At that time of night, that time of year, Nina could see a patch of purplish sky above her tiny Zen garden. The garden was a leftover from her predecessor, who fancied himself to be a kind of eco-samurai, and had outfitted an old patio with boulders, sand, and a pond fed by a mysterious and bountiful source of water, rumored among the staff to be their own toilets.
“So tell me about Wayne State. What did you do there?”
“Well, for three years, I jumped through the usual hoops. But in my senior year I got a chance to direct a couple of public TV productions, part of a series—you know, 20th-century classic plays. I did Mother Courage, which sucked, and Funeral Games, which didn’t.”
“What was wrong with Mother Courage?”
“The politics,” he said. “Honey, agit-prop just doesn’t play in three-camera video.”
“A valuable lesson,” said Nina. “What about the Orton? Is that on your demo reel?”
“I don’t have a demo reel,” he answered, pretending to be insulted by the question. “I said Funeral Games didn’t suck. I didn’t say I want anyone in this town to see it.”
In the garden, the frogs began to croak, underwater, a thin, unworldly sound. “They’re African clawed frogs,” said Nina. “An invasive species. It’s illegal to capture, move, possess, collect, or distribute them in California.”
“Is it okay to kill them?” said the young man.
“Someone should look into that,” said Nina.
“I will,” said the young man.
“So Casey Lasko, you don’t want to be a lawyer, and you have no illusions as to your talents as a director. But you know what’s what, and you sent your resume to the vice-president of prime-time programming. That leaves only one possibility. You want my job.”
The young man met her gaze and smiled. “Well yes dear. Of course. In the fullness of time.”
“I’m afraid we have no executive apprenticeship program,” said Nina. “The only position I might have for you would be entry-level. What would you think of becoming my assistant?”
“I’d be interested,” he said, “if you’re willing to hire someone who doesn’t look like an assistant.”
“What does an assistant look like?”
“Like a server in a good restaurant. Fit. Friendly. Good-looking. Subservient.”
“Then tell me what you look like.”
“I look like a high-school debate coach,” said the young man. “Bossy. Balding. Paunchy. The kind of high-school debate coach whose teams always win.”
Nina listened to the croaking for a moment. “The pay’s no good,” she said. “Don’t you have student loans? Columbia Law is expensive.”
“The first payment is due in nine months. I can live on bread crumbs till then.”
The next morning, Nina made a couple of phone calls, and that afternoon she hired Casey Lasko as her assistant. Casey had already found a team of organic exterminators from Temecula, with certified expertise in dealing with invasive species. The African clawed frogs were doomed, at least on the premises of the Encore!!! Network.
Eight months later, she called Casey into her office, and thanked him for his analysis of the Western Avenue treatment.
“The phone numbers?” she asked.
“Out of service,” said Casey. “Both the fax and the personal number. And no street address—just an email that bounces.”
Then Nina asked if Casey was interested in a special assignment: Go to the 812 area code, wherever that was; find Damien di Savoia Underwood, whoever he was; and clear the rights.
“Maybe we can get you an executive-in-charge-of-production credit,” she added.
“It’s Bloomington, Indiana,” said Casey. “The 812 area code. I’d love a little excursion.”
“I expect you’ve already made your reservations,” said Nina.
“Sorry, darling,” said Casey. “Trade secret.”
“Find him,” said Nina. “This Damien di Savoia Underwood. Bring back a contract with his signature.”
After he left, Nina listened for a while to the gentle gurgling of recycled water from the Zen garden. Sometimes she missed the frogs, but she would never admit that to Casey.
Next episode: Monastic Sign Language
(available when published)
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