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*****
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| Jack Klugman |
* * *
"Don't point that finger at me unless you intend to
use it." (Jack Klugman in The Odd Couple.
* * *
We were pounding away on sample chapters for Sten, when the phone rang.
It was Larry Grossman, our brand new agent. (I'll tell you how that happened
down the line.)
Chris hit the speaker button in time for me to hear: "Guys, I've
been thinking about our problem, and I may have come up with an avenue to explore."
The "Problem" was a series of no sales for movie scripts we
were churning out. It wasn’t that the scripts weren’t any good. On the
contrary, they got us noticed all over town. They not only landed us Larry as
an agent but opened the doors to many production offices where the scripts were
being optioned on a fairly regular basis.
But after that - Nada. And there
they languished in Option Hell, waiting for somebody to say, "Let's shoot that
sucker!"
Chris said, "Sure as shit hope you so, Larry. This keeps up and
the IRS will declare our work area a fucking Hobby Zone?"
"Two words," Larry said. "Television."
I automatically blurted, "That's one word, Larry."
Chris rolled his eyes at me - Cole, the stickler for detail.
Larry said, "In this Town it's two words: Fucking Television. But
the 'Fucking' part is understood."
Chris said, "What're you suggesting."
"Just that," Larry said. "Write for television."
"What about our movie scripts?" I said - a little stunned.
Television? What the hell?
Larry sighed. "Guys, don't get me wrong. They are all wonderful
scripts. But, you have to be realistic about this. The odds against actually
selling a movie script without a track record are enormous. And even after you
sell it, the chances that it will ever be made into a movie are even greater.
And even then, even with recognized pros the average time between a script sale
and a movie being made is ten years. Sometimes more."
Chris was getting hot. I wasn't far behind. He said, "What're you
suggesting, Larry? That we pack it the fuck in?"
"No, no, not all," Larry hastened to say. "All I'm
saying is that if you guys want to make a living at this, that you ought to consider
working in television."
"I hate fucking television," Chris said.
"Everybody does," Larry agreed. "But that's where most of
the employed people in this Town work. Also, the employment - although seasonal
- is fairly steady."
"What about our movie scripts?" I demanded.
Larry said, "Right now they are your best chance of getting a job
in television. Any producer who reads them is going to know right off that you
have the talent and the dedication." He paused. "But you're going to
need to do something more than just show them a good movie script."
"Like what?" I asked.
"Write a spec script for their show," Larry said.
"You mean write for fucking free?" Chris asked, outraged.
Larry said, "You're already writing for free. All those movies.
And what about you book? Colt? Or Derringer? Or, whatever it is called."
"Sten," I said. "Which is also a gun. A machine gun,
actually, that happens to be the name of our hero."
"Right… Sten," Larry said. "You're writing that for
free, true? All in the real hopes of a sale down the road."
* * *
PAUSE SCENE FOR SHORT BACKSTORY
As usual, Larry was right on the money. Or lack of same. We'd talked
him into letting us use his letterhead when we blanketed all the science
fiction houses in New York with a query letter pitching the Sten series - which
we saw as twelve novels back then, instead of the eight it turned out to be.
Last episode I told you about the format we used for query letters.
Three graphs. No more than one page. And the last graph said: "May we send
sample chapters and an outline of our novel series."
But, using Larry's letterhead we could change that to read: "May
we have our agent send sample chapters and an outline of our series." A
big damned difference - even though Larry wasn't a book agent - which we'd have
to get later on - he was a legit agent, with a sterling reputation.
Anyway, that query letter had drawn maybe eight or nine positive
replies. One thing: There were no sample chapters, much less an outline. We
hadn't written them yet. Now, we had to deliver, and deliver fast. Thank the
Gods Of Ink-Stained Wretches And Other Fools that we were fast writers. Because
we had to get the chapters and outline in the mail PDQ before they forgot all
about us. An editor's attention span in circumstances like that are about the
length of a fruit fly's life span.
* * *
RETURN TO SCENE
Where Larry's words were sinking in. Way, Way In. To get through the
gates of one of the studios, we were going to have to hold our noses and-
"Wait a minute," Chris said. "I don't even watch fucking
television. Shit, my folks didn't get one until I was twenty years old and in
the Army."
I confirmed this. "He's right, Larry. And the only reason they
bought the set is because I sold it to them for twenty five bucks. Chris was
home on leave and we had spent all our money on - you know - and his dad felt
sorry for us."
"Damned thing was half dead," Chris said. "My dad said
he'd buy the sucker if it worked, so Cole stuck the antennae in his mouth and
bingo, the picture came in clear as… well. Anyway, there was a picture."
He chuckled at the memory. "Next day it died for good, but now my old man
was determined to show he hadn't been taken so he bought fifty, sixty bucks
worth of tubes and fixed it."
"He still barely speaks to me," I said.
"And then only when he's in his cups," Chris added.
Larry was only half-listening. He said, "What about you, Allan?
What are your favorite shows?"
"I'm not so far off from Chris on the TV-watching front," I
said. "I grew up overseas in places where you could only get radio. And
half the time the Russians were jamming it."
Larry's voice took on an insistent tone. "However you do it, guys,
my best advice to you is to watch a few programs. Really study them. Then write
a couple of spec scripts. If you really want to work in This Town, that's the
price you'll have to pay."
After some moaning and groaning, we grudgingly agreed we'd try, then
got off the phone. We dragged the morning newspaper out of the trash, found the
TV guide and picked a couple of shows. We agreed that Chris would watch one and
I'd watch the other, and that we'd discuss them the following afternoon.
I should mention that we at least both owned TV sets: Chris because his
Ex-Wife liked to watch television and didn't take it with her when she left,
and me because I needed one for when it was my turn to have my kids over for
the weekend. (They came up once a month by train from San Diego, where my own
Ex had moved.)
That night, after Kathryn and I had dinner, I dutifully switched on my
fugitive from a pawn shop - staying well back during the warm up stage, since
it tended to shoot sparks. When things steadied out, I turned to the assigned
show and started to watch.
An hour or so later Kathryn shook me awake and I sat bolt upright on
the couch. Other than the Fade In and the first commercial, I'd slept through
the entire program.
Shit.
"I tried to wake you, sweetie," Kathryn said. "But you
just kept saying, 'In a minute, in a minute,' but the minute never came."
The problem was that I had to get up at three every morning to make my
job as Wire Editor of the Santa Monica Outlook. It was a tough shift - 4 a.m.
to noon - but it gave me from 1 p.m. to 7 p.m. to work with Chris. We banged
away Tuesday through Friday. I got a break on Saturday - I only had to work at
the newspaper, not with Chris. I had Sunday and Monday off from the newspaper.
Slept Sunday. Worked a full eight hours with Chris on Monday. So, that's 40
hours at the newspaper and 32 hours with Chris.
Which equals…
Well, never mind. I get tired just thinking about it. Bottom line: I
was always on the edge of complete exhaustion and would fall asleep - suddenly,
and deeply - at the slightest pause in the action of living. If there was a
wall to lean against, I'd learned the trick every swabbie and grunt the world
over knows, and catch a nap standing up. Fortunately my sole transportation was
a motorcycle, or I might have nodded off while driving.
Shamefaced, I reported my failure to Chris the following day. But, he
was no better off. He'd been reading, he said - had even set an alarm so he'd
know when to stop and switch on the TV. Unfortunately, the book was so
interesting that when the time came - and the alarm buzzed - Chris had absently
shut it off.
Several days passed - all without success. And then Chris put his
finger on another problem:
"We really ought to be watching this shit together," he said.
"But I'll be damned if I'll drive to your place just to watch TV, and if
you were stupid enough to do the same I'd take back my introduction to you."
"What we need," I said, "is one of those video
recorders. We could record the programs at night, then speed through them
together at work the next day."
Chris sighed. "Yeah, but I'm so broke the Eagle on my Last Quarter
is flying on one wing."
He'd just had to pay out a bundle to his Ex, who had demanded a half
share of everything he'd written - or any notion he'd put on paper - since they
got married. In the end, our very clever attorney - Marshall Caskey -
negotiated a buyout settlement. Even so, it would be a while before Chris had
any spare money in his jeans. (More about The Amazing Possum-Eating Caskey down
the road.)
Buying a VCR was no quick trip to Wal-Mart in those days. The cheapest
version - made by the Singer Sewing machine company, or something ridiculous
like that - went for $300. (About $1,336 in today's dollars.)
Fortunately, I'd just done a manual for the Yamaha trail bike for
Peterson Publications and for a change had a few bucks to spare.
I sprang for the VCR.
Every night I'd set the timer, tape a likely show, and the next day
Chris and I would zip through it at high speed, noting premises, regular characters
and the type of stories they told.
Even so it was wearisome.
Chris would sigh and say, "I’m getting warts."
And I’d reply, "Big deal. My warts are getting warts."
And he’d say, "Tell me about the yachts, Cole."
And I’d say, "If we can crack this nut, Bunch, we’ll be farting
through silk."
And he’d look insulted and say, "I was talking yachts. Why’d you
go all scatological on me."
And I’d end the gripe session, saying, "This is the last one. When
we finish, I’ll pour us a Scotch." (We hadn’t invented Stregg yet.)
That would be on a Monday. On a Tuesday, the positions would be reversed
and I'd do the griping and he’d pour Scotch on troubled waters.
Finally, one show in particular caught our attention - Quincy, M.D., starring Jack Klugman, a great character actor
who had blown us both away years before in Sidney Lumet 's 12 Angry Men. There
were many more great roles after that, including a couple of Twilight Zone episodes
even Chris and I had caught, as well the TV version of the Odd Couple, with
Klugman and Tony Randall.
Quincy was unusual at that time because in those pre-CSI and Bones days
it was a show about a coroner - a pretty gritty subject for the Networks back
then. The other unusual thing is that Klugman not only insisted on total
accuracy but he loved stories that were "About Something." An
injustice, revealed. A wrong, righted.
I called Larry the next day to tell him that we wanted to take a crack at
Klugman's show.
Larry said, "What a coincidence, Allan. Have you seen today's
Variety."
We hadn't. The mail came late in our neighborhood.
"Well, there's a big story about Jack Klugman and Quincy,"
Larry said. "The gist of it is that Jack is lashing out at the Studio and
Network again. He says they're sending him nothing but tired old hacks to write
for his show and he wants fresh ideas - Fresh Blood."
"Does he mean it?" I asked. I might have been a Hollywood
newbie, but I'd been a newsman for fourteen years and had waded through
bullshit my entire career.
"Not only does he mean it," Larry said, "but he's put
the word out to all the agencies that he'll consider any new young writer for
his show - the less of a track record, the better. "
Well, that was us all over. Although, at 35, we didn't consider
ourselves young anymore. (Looking back, I can see now what red ass kids we
really were.)
I reported all this to Chris, who was - if not delighted - encouraged.
All objections to TV were momentarily edged aside. We sat down and really put
our heads to coming up with a good story for a spec Quincy script.
In the end, we decided on a tale about a boxer. (For reasons that will
be clear in the next episode of this MisAdventure.) We stumbled upon an old
news story about a boxer who suddenly became violent in the hours after a bout,
and then died. Another man was held briefly as a murder suspect. But it turned
out that the man's death - and violent behavior - had been triggered by an
aneurysm in his brain's frontal lobe.
In the Bunch & Cole version of the story, an old time boxer loses a
crucial match to a kid everyone thinks is a definite contender. Quincy, a
boxing fan, is at the match. Later, the winner is at a club celebrating with
his girl and entourage. The loser enters. Gets a drink. Goes over to the winner
- as if to congratulate him - but then suddenly attacks him. The kid blocks the
punch, pushes the guy away, but before anything else happens the loser suddenly
keels over - dead.
The boxer is arrested for murder. Enter Quincy. Add more complications
- the kid's shady background, some Wise Guys, etc. And there you go.
Sent the script to Larry, who sent it over to Klugman's office at Universal
Studios.
A week later the great man himself got on the phone to our agent.
"I like your boys' style," Jack Klugman said. "Have them
come on in and meet my people."
The meeting was set for the following week, but already we could see
ourselves on our bikes, thundering up to the Gates Of Universal Studios – the
Infamous Black Tower looming overhead - ready to take on the world.
NEXT: JACK KLUGMAN AND THE KO KIDS PART TWO
*****
Here's where you can buy it worldwide in both paperback and Kindle editions:
United Kingdom ...........................Spain
Also: NOOK BOOK. Plus ALL E-BOOK FLAVORS.
Here's where to get the paperback & Kindle editions worldwide:
Here's what readers say about Lucky In Cyprus:
- "Bravo, Allan! When I finished Lucky In Cyprus I wept." - Julie Mitchell, Hot Springs, Texas
- "Lucky In Cyprus brought back many memories... A wonderful book. So many shadows blown away!" - Freddy & Maureen Smart, Episkopi,Cyprus.
- "... (Reading) Lucky In Cyprus has been a humbling, haunting, sobering and enlightening experience..." - J.A. Locke, Bookloons.com
*****
THE SPYMASTER'S DAUGHTER:
A new novel by Allan and his daughter, Susan
After laboring as a Doctors Without Borders physician in the teaming refugee camps and minefields of South Asia, Dr. Ann Donovan thought she'd seen Hell as close up as you can get. And as a fifth generation CIA brat, she thought she knew all there was to know about corruption and betrayal. But then her father - a legendary spymaster - shows up, with a ten-year-old boy in tow. A brother she never knew existed. Then in a few violent hours, her whole world is shattered, her father killed and she and her kid brother are one the run with hell hounds on their heels. They finally corner her in a clinic in Hawaii and then all the lies and treachery are revealed on one terrible, bloody storm ravaged night.
*****
TALES OF THE BLUE MEANIE
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
NOW AN AUDIOBOOK!
 |
Venice Boardwalk Circa 1969
|
In the depths of the Sixties and The Days Of Rage, a young newsman, accompanied by his pregnant wife and orphaned teenage brother, creates a Paradise of sorts in a sprawling Venice Beach community of apartments, populated by students, artists, budding scientists and engineers lifeguards, poets, bikers with a few junkies thrown in for good measure. The inhabitants come to call the place “Pepperland,” after the Beatles movie, “Yellow Submarine.” Threatening this paradise is "The Blue Meanie," a crazy giant of a man so frightening that he eventually even scares himself.
*****
STEN #1: NOW IN SPANISH!
Diaspar Magazine - the best SF magazine in South America - is publishing the first novel in the Sten series in four episodes. Here are the links:
REMEMBER - IT'S FREE!
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