"The Producer"

It was late evening when The Producer walked into VideoTron, the last remaining DVD rental store in America. At nearly fourteen square miles, the store had enough room for 9000 football fields or the world’s entire collection of DVDs. It was manned by a single employee, Ralph. I can’t remember the shmuck’s last name, so let’s say it’s Kaninski. Ralph Kaninski. And if you were duct-taped head-to-toe to the ceiling above the Tarantino section—someone has to keep an eye on him—you would see Kazinski organizing it from best to worst: 1994’s Pulp Fiction to 2005’s Hateful Eight. The first things people noticed about Ralph were his last remaining curls, which grew only out of the side of his head, as if someone dropped a running lawnmower onto his scalp.

He was in the middle of switching the third-ranking Jackie Brown and fourth-ranking Django when the Producer rang the front desk bell. The Producer was seven feet tall with the shoulders of a linebacker, a long overcoat falling from them like an arrowhead, ending at two narrow ankles. His black hair, practically painted on, was slicked back high and tight.

“Hello?” The Producer rapped his giant knuckles on the glass counter in the middle of the store. The aisles were spread around the front entrance like the semicircle starting point of a maze. Ralph appeared from an aisle with a cardboard cutout of Tarantino.

“You, sir,” The Producer said, pointing at Ralph.

Ralph took off his wire-framed eyeglasses, squinted, and put them back on. “Yes?”

“Do you work here?”

“I do,” Ralph said, shuffling closer.

“And you sell films here, do you?”

“No, we rent them.”

“What do you mean by ‘rent’?”

“You pay a small fee, take the movie for a few days, and return it to us.”

“And why would I do that?”

Ralph scratched his scalp. “Do what?”

“Why wouldn’t I just buy it?”

“It’s cheaper.”

“What could a movie possibly cost? A few hundred dollars?”

Ralph’s upper lip moved towards a smirk.

“Is something funny?”

“No, it’s just—no, not a few hundred dollars. Fifteen or twenty tops.”

“And the cost of this—what did you call it?”

“A rental. $2.99 for 48 hours.”

“My god. How do you make money?”

“We don’t.”

“And who do I return this movie back to? You?”

“To anyone who works here.”

“But it could be you.”

“Sure.”

“And you rent a lot of these movies?”

“Hundreds a day.”

“Which makes you an expert?”

“I guess.”

“Then you can help. I’m in need of a recommendation.”

Ralph cocked his head slightly while waiting for further instruction. Rain clattered off the front windows. “Do you know what genre you’re interested in?”

“Genre?”

“Horror, RomCom, Suspense?”

The Producer rolled his fingertips on his chin and stared up at the man taped to the ceiling. “Not a clue.”

“Is there a film you’ve seen lately that you’ve liked?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Ralph bit his pinky nail. “Your favorite movie?”

“Don’t have one.”

“Something memorable?”

“Nothing comes to mind.”

“Just give me the name of a movie you’ve seen before.”

“Can’t do it.”

“You can’t do it?”

“I—and this is uncomfortable to admit, given my line of work—haven’t seen a movie before, which is why I’m here. Which is why I need an expert’s help.”

“What do you do?”

“I produce films.”

Ralph dropped the Tarantino cut-out.

“Are you okay?”

“You produce films?”

“That’s what I said.”

“And you need me to recommend you a movie?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I have a golden touch, there’s no doubt about that, but those who work for me haven’t got a clue. The firm hasn’t had a hit in a month. So, I’m going back to the basics, to the commoners, to the men who actually watch the damn things. See if there’s any untapped talent out here.”

Ralph stepped closer and held out a hand. “I’m Ralph Wakinski and I have a graduate degree in film. You’re in good hands here. I’ve worked my way up to a wall of recommendations that I’ve handpicked for just this type of scenario.”

“Show me.”

They walked through a quarter-mile of DVDs, The Producer pulling from the shelf every RomCom with cleavage that caught his eye and asking Ralph for more information. If anything sounded of interest, The Producer threw it into a black garbage bag he’d produced from a hidden pocket. When they got to Ralph’s Wall of Recommendations, The Producer instantly reached his long fingers out for How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

“Intriguing,” he said. “I’ve paid for this man before.”

Ralph snatched it from his hands. “That’s Lucy’s side of the wall.”

“Who is Lucy?”

“My arch-nemesis. She’s got the worst taste in film of anyone I’ve ever met—and she’s a sixteen-year-old girl.”

“Taste belongs on your plate,” The Producer said. “It has nothing to do with making a hit.”

Ralph pulled from the wall Martin Scorsese’s After Hours and handed it to The Producer. “Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, Scorsese. All producers know him. He can make a studio a lot of money.”

“This is one of his best. Extremely underrated.” Ralph leaned into The Producer’s space, hoping to see excitement in his eyes.

The Producer turned the DVD over and read the back. “Hmm. Yes,” he said, nodding his head, his black pupils going in all directions except left to right. “Excellent. I see. Right.”

“Interested?”

“Very,” he said, throwing it in the garbage bag. “What else you got?”

Over the next hour. Ralph gave The Producer a short lecture on the history of film. The Producer learned about D.W. Griffith and Orson Welles, French New Wave and the Golden Era of Hollywood, modern directors like Charlie Kaufman, Wes Anderson, and Tarantino.

By the end, after Ralph had rung him up, The Producer stood with his now-double-bagged garbage bag on the verge of bursting.

“You’re quite the talent,” The Producer said.

“Thank you, sir.”

“We could use someone like you over at The Building.”

“You could?”

“Oh, sure,” The Producer said, looking over his shoulder.

Ralph was stunned. This was the opportunity he’d been waiting for, and all he had to do was ask. But he didn’t know what to say, and so he said nothing. He handed the receipt to The Producer.

“I hope I find these picks satisfactory.” The Producer slung the garbage bag over his shoulder, turned on his wingtips, and walked out of the VideoTron like a sharply dressed tramp. Waiting outside in the rain, holding an umbrella a few inches from his own head, was a driver of a white stretch limo. Ralph watched his chance to make it into the industry get into the limo and drive away.

With forty-three minutes left until the store was supposed to be closed for the night, he flipped an industrial-sized switch and the warehouse lights went off, the womp of each row cascading down the length of the store as it went dark.

The next day he walked into the store with a different bump to his step—and not just because the radiator had burned holes in his only good pair of socks. It felt like a rain had come to wash the scum off the streets, only to leave filth at the edges of wherever he looked. It was  relatively busy in VideoTron, with small pockets of disgruntled customers meandering through the aisles, and Lucy smacking her lips, blowing Hubba Bubba, as she rang in two elderly women.

“Mr. K?” She handed a bag of DVDs to one of the women. “Some tall freakazoid was looking for you today.”

“Oh?”

“I think he was like some sort of producer or something.”

His heart raced. “The Producer.”

“He left a card,” she said, giving the elderly couple their receipt and flicking them away with her wrist. When they were gone, she slid the card across the glass counter. “He rented How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and told me to tell you that your choices were satisfactory.”

“He used the word ‘satisfactory’?”

“I think so.”

Ralph hovered above the card. It appeared to float on the tempered glass, its shadow across a collector’s edition of the Godfather Trilogye. He realized he was smiling so hard his face hurt. His break had come after all.

“He was a real weirdo,” Lucy said. “Doesn’t even have his real name on the card.”

She was right. It was an off-white eggshell, “THE PRODUCER” in Roman print. There was no name, no address, and no number. He picked it up and turned it over. The back of the card had a black outline of the city’s skyline with an orange building towering over it.

“The Building,” Ralph said.

“What’d you say, Mr. K?”

“I said he’s in The Building.”

“The one where movies are made?”

“I took a tour once,” he said, turning away, his voice getting quieter. “But they didn’t take us past the first floor. We were supposed to walk through the studios, to see where the movies were actually made, but something was wrong with the elevator. We stood waiting at those doors all day, the guards telling us about all the stars that walk through there, but we never got to go up. It was the best day of my life.”

“Excuse me?” a woman said from behind him. He turned around. She had three kids with her—no, a fourth, who I couldn’t initially see from this angle and who was punching Ralph in the backs of his knees. “Do you have Toy Story 3?”

Ralph looked from this tired woman to Lucy, blowing a bubble so big it might suffocate her when it inevitably popped, to the little hellspawn, covered in chocolate. He didn’t belong here.

“Lucy here can help you ma’am.”

Lucy rolled her eyes and sucked the gum back into her mouth. “I have a break soon.”

Ralph ignored her. He had failed to seize the opportunity last night but had been given a second chance. He would not fail again. Without responding, he left the store and everyone in it.

It was a weekday and the sun was out and the sidewalk was packed with working men and women, likely on their lunch break. They swarmed the sidewalk in front of the VideoTron, moving along it like Ralph was at the edge of a river. He held up the card to the skyline, the sun shining through the thin cardboard. He lined up the orange building on the card with the real building. He’d done a satisfactory job on the recommendation, which he took to mean he’d passed some kind of quasi-interview, and had now been offered a job, a job in The Building, a job in film. He’d put in his time at VideoTron, written a million terrible scripts in his head, and it was all finally about to pay off. He wanted to grab the next person who walked in front of him by the collar and scream that he’d done it, that his day was here and he had the proof. It was all in the card. With it, he could go anywhere and do anything. He had The Building on his side. When he produced it, people would look at him differently. He could use it to take a cab straight there, free of charge. It was his ticket to a new life.

Right before he was about to step into his new life, he heard the door chime behind him. Too quickly for him to react, by the door smacking him between the shoulder blades and the card slipping from his hand. He pawed at the air desperately, but each snap of his fingers was a quarter second late, and the card landed in the river of feet. He watched as it was kicked back and forth like garbage.

“Look, if you can’t choose a movie, you won’t get any.” The mom from earlier said as she led her children down the steps without an apology.

An errant high heel, clasped so tight that the reddish-blue meat of a foot spilled over the edges, kicked the card just out of view. Ralph’s heart dropped, and he shoved the woman and children out of the way, diving headfirst into the river. It swayed this way and that, as he pushed his way through the legs, men and women yelling out insults like “you absolute imbecile!” or “get away from me mongrel!,” and followed just behind the card. But the current of the legs became, before long, too great, and pushed him in the opposite direction of the card until he lost sight of it. When he did, he gave up and let the current take him. It spit him out three blocks away. He had no card, his only good pair of slacks were ruined, and he was covered in dirt. The Producer would never receive him in this way. But what if the card wasn’t vital? He tapped his forehead. What if what The Producer recognized was in here? He looked back at the VideoTron, the ‘T’ having fallen off ages ago, then at The Building. That was his future. He would carry on.

He walked three more blocks to a packed bus shelter. There were people standing on top of it, to the side of it, packed ear-to-ear within it, and he took his place near the sign hoping to get a good seat. When the bus appeared from around a corner, Ralph was first in line. The doors opened, however, and he stepped aside to let an elderly woman go on first. The person behind her forced their way on as well, and Ralph was suddenly—everyone understanding Ralph Raminski wouldn’t speak up—forced to the back.

He held onto the rubber bus straps by the back door with two hands, a bend in his knees, and the profound knowledge that at any second he could embarrass himself if the driver should hit the gas or brake too hard. A woman sat facing the door, her acned cheeks inside the worn dust jacket of a book. Ralph thought about asking her what she was reading, showing her how much he knew about the world of storytelling, and maybe, casually, telling her that he was on his way to his new job at The Building. If he’d had the card, he’d have done it. But he didn’t, and so he didn’t. A few minutes later, the bus stopped and two seats opened up at the back, still within view of the woman.

One last man got on the bus as the door was closing. He was wearing a cut-off jean vest, no shirt underneath, and his bare skin was splattered in the tattoo equivalent of bathroom graffiti. He wasn’t particularly large, but he seemed large, cave-like, a neanderthal with a forehead that bulged out into a double prominence. Ralph hoped he wouldn’t take the seat beside him, but like a homing missile, he careened right into the open space, smelling of sweet vermouth and sweat. They were so close Ralph could count the hair follicles on his arm should he want to.

“Get a load of the broad,” the man said, his tongue sloshing against his salivating gums. He jabbed an elbow into Ralph.

Ralph’s smile was empty, as if to say I hear you but I would prefer not to.

“I bet she’s got some grade A knockers under that nun’s uniform.”

He tried to fold himself into the corner of the steel chair.

The man whistled. “Hey lady.”

The woman looked up from her book without lowering it, then went back to it.

“What are you reading?”

She didn’t look up again.

“A bit of a stuck up bitch, hey?”

Ralph frowned, but the man kept his eyes on the woman.

“Hear that?” The man said. “My friend here thinks you’re a stuck up bitch.”

The whole bus turned to look at them.

“I did not say that.”

“Yeah,” the man said, turning slowly towards Ralph, “you did.”

“I wouldn’t say something like that, and especially about a woman like her.”

“You calling me a liar?” He jabbed a finger into Ralph’s sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t say it.” Ralph’s foot tapped the ground at irregular intervals.

“Then what did you say?”

He looked out at the bus, hoping someone would stick up for him. “I just don’t think.”

“Think what?”

He could feel the man’s hot breath on his face.

“I just don’t think you should talk about women that way.”

He imagined the whole bus was about to break out into applause, but instead it was silent and the man palmed Ralph’s head. “Don’t like that. Don’t like you.” The man applied a surprising amount of pressure, pushing Ralph hard into the windowpane. He saw stars in his right eye and the arms of his glasses were digging into his scalp. The man didn’t say anything. He simply went to work, pushing harder, until Ralph thought his head might be crushed like a ripe watermelon. Then, when Ralph’s humiliation was complete, he pulled the cord and got off. Ralph could feel the handprint still on his face, and would feel that handprint in his dreams, late at night, for a long time to come. Every other person on the bus was silent. They all pretended they didn’t see it, or had other things to do, and that was alright with Ralph. He didn’t want anyone to ask if he was okay—because he wasn’t—and so he avoided any eye contact. Instead, he looked down at his hands and picked away at his nails.

“Are you okay?”

He looked up. The woman was standing in front of his seat, her fingers curled around a pole. She had a soft, round face, and was slightly older than Ralph originally expected.

“Did he hurt you?”

Ralph adjusted his bent glasses. “I’m okay.”

“That was brave, what you did.”

“It was nothing,” he said.

“Mind if I sit down?”

She waited for a response, but when none came, she sat down beside him. She smelled like lilacs.

“What are you reading?” Ralph finally said.

She held it up and there was a jagged castle on the front. “Kafka,” she said.

His eyes widened. “Have you ever watched Orson Welles’s movie, The Trial?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s old. 1962, I think. Based on a short story by Kafka. Have you read that one?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You really should. It’s excellent.”

“A friend recommended this to me, but it’s really good so far. Do you like books?”

“I’m more of a film guy.” He sat up straighter, puffed out his chest. “I have to be, you know, for my work.”

She turned slightly towards him, her face opening up. “You work in film?”

He thought about telling her about VideoTron, but that was the old Ralph. What he did for work was now something greater. “I work at The Building.”

“Wow!” she said. “What do you do there?”

“I’m a script reader. I approve scripts I think will sell well, then hand them to a producer—and not just any producer. I only work with The Producer.”

“Geez. That sounds really important.”

“It’s not that important, you know, for the world and what not. But I like it, and I think it’s important to those that think it’s important.”

She slipped the novel back into a miniature auburn backpack. “Do you have a favorite movie?”

“I don’t pick favorites, but I am told I have excellent taste. I can tell what someone should watch just by looking at them. It’s what got me the job at The Building.”

“Oh?”

“Take you, for example.” He rubbed his chin and counted her freckles. She had sixteen. “Your favorite movie is Sixteen Candles.”

“Close! Ferris Bueller’s Day Off!”

“Dangit! My second guess.”

Her body was fully turned towards him now. “Can I try to guess yours?”

“You could, but—”

“Synecdoche, New York.”

“Jesus.”

“Did I get it?”

They spent the next twenty minutes talking about their favorite movies, television shows, books they read as children, the theater with the balcony, the best place to eat soup downtown, and how they both liked to walk along the river at night. It was a sudden and immediate connection unlike anything he’d experienced before and he nearly forgot why he was on the bus in the first place.

“My stop is coming up.” He said it slowly, as if he were trying to think of an alternate option.

“Oh,” she said, looking down at the ground.

“I could, I don’t know, show you around The Building sometime?”

She looked up and blinked three times.

“I’d love that.” She took a plain leather clip wallet from her backpack and pulled a card from it. “My number is on there.”

Ralph Kavinski took it from her and got off the bus. She watched him from the window, and he watched her leave, waving at one point. When she was gone, he took the card out and held it up, The Building in the background.

Patty Collinson was her name. She was a legal secretary for a law firm that represented undecided voters. He slipped it into his wallet. He wasn’t going to lose this one.

The Building was a block and a half away. He nearly skipped as he walked, keeping his eyes on The Building with every step. It was a perfect day. There was only one way it could end now: with his job. Once he reached the front entrance of The Building, he didn’t stop to think about what to do next. He simply barged in through the revolving glass doors. Moments later, after taking one look at him, his bent glasses, his dirty clothes, a security guard escorted him out of the building, back through those revolving doors.

“And stay out,” the man said.

“But I’m an artist, a critic, a film buff!”

“We only accommodate well-fed artists here.”

“I’m here to see The Producer!”

“Sure, buddy. We’re all here to see The Producer. Me, I’m the great painter Galileo, working my day job.”

He tried to shout “I had his card earlier!” but it was no use. The man was already back within the building. He had no proof, no appointment, and no chance. He sat down on a bench. If he still had the card, he’d be up there right now, enjoying champagne and looking down at the sharp dots scurrying around on the ground floor. He opened his wallet, as if he might find The Producer’s card, but saw Patty’s instead. He pulled it out, turned it around a few times, and looked back up at The Building. He’d stay here all night and wait for The Producer if he had to.

It took about three hours. He occupied himself by making a variety of top ten film lists, in every genre or category he could think of. He practiced his lines, played both parts in a hypothetical conversation, and repeatedly scored the imaginary job with each successive hypothetical interview.

Then he saw him, walking up the steps in a fitted grey suit, sunglasses, all sharp angles, all class.

Ralph held up a hand. “The Producer!”

The Producer stopped and looked Ralph up and down. He took a step back. “I don’t have any change.”

“Ralph.”

He took off his sunglasses but didn’t say anything.

“Ralph Rakinski.”

He bent down to get a better look at Ralph. “I’m sorry?”

“You gave me your card earlier.”

“I did?”

“Well, not directly. But you gave it to an associate of mine, at the VideoTron.”

“Go on.”

“I helped you pick out movies last night.”

“I remember.” The Producer held the gaze for a second. “What are you doing here?”

“You said you found my picks satisfactory.”

“They were.”

“And Lucy confirmed the word ‘satisfactory’ was used.”

At hearing Lucy’s name, his body language shifted. “I can’t argue with Lucy. She’s a quick wit that one, and How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days was excellent. We’re preparing to make her an offer soon.”

“You gave Lucy my job?”

“Your job?” The Producer’s laugh was a deep bellow. “What gave you that idea?”

“You did, sir. You said you could use a talent like mine.”

“That does not sound like me. I don’t go around just hiring anybody.”

“But you hired Lucy.”

“She’s a rare talent, young, untapped. I couldn’t see her go off to some two-bit University and waste away.”

“So there’s nothing for me?”

“Nothing you’d want.”

“What is it?”

“You’re too old, too experienced, for it.”

Ralph balled his fists and stood on the tips of his toes. “I’ll do anything, sir. I just need to be given the opportunity. Whatever it is, I’ll take it!”

“You’ll be working around the clock, always on call.”

“I’ll work all day and all night and more.”

“And it doesn’t pay, not right now.”

“I’ll only eat every second or third day.”

“And I can’t guarantee there’s any room for advancement.”

“When does life ever make guarantees?”

“Then you got it.”

“I did? I do?”

He went to hug The Producer, but the man held a palm to his forehead.

“There’s a bench around the side of The Building. Take a seat there and I’ll have my secretary fetch you.”

“Around The Building?”

“Around The Building.”

“I can’t wait inside?”

“Not yet. You’ll have to work your way up.”

“What’s my title, sir?”

“Just go to the bench,” The Producer said, moving past Ralph. “I’ll send someone down when the time is right.”

Ralph walked around The Building and found the bench, but a homeless man was spread out on it, sleeping. Above it was a small plaque. The words “Waiting Area” were barely visible through the rust.

“Excuse me,” Ralph said, poking the man in the shoulder. His finger left an imprint in the dirt.

As he stirred the newspapers fell from his body. “Yes? Am I up? Is it my turn now?”

“I’m supposed to be waiting here.”

“Oh,” the man said, dejected. He sat up and Ralph took the place beside him. They both were silent, waiting for the other one to talk first.

“Have you been waiting long?” Ralph finally said.

The man didn’t say anything. When Ralph looked over, the man’s head was back and his tongue was lolling outside of his head. Ralph jumped out of his seat.

“Jesus.”

He inched closer and put two fingers on the man’s neck. There wasn’t a pulse. Ralph jumped back again and looked the man over. He saw, in his hands, a card. It was The Producer’s. He looked back up at the man’s old and weathered face. Then he snatched the card from his hand, put it into his wallet beside Patty’s, and sat back down.