Fiction

Diary of a Hollywood Script Reader by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Charlotte Perkins Gilman, author of “The Yellow Wallpaper”, c. 1900

It is unfair that a perfectly innocent person be punished so. There is something creepy, almost haunting, about this office. My superiors laugh at me for thinking this, but one should expect to be laughed at when he is “fucking stupid.” Their words. I’ve told them that keeping me in this room is counterproductive to their goal. How could anyone choose quality writing when trapped in an office full of screenplays for hours on end? But they insist. There’s a crazy homeless guy out there! He’s walking up and down the street swinging a tennis racket, and I cannot help but watch him from my window as he carries on. I tell you, he has a mystical quality about him. I even said so once to my boss, John, but he replied that I have Attention-Deficit Disorder and that anything would seem fascinating in the face of an actual obligation. So I take pains to concentrate on the stacks of scripts while he is here, which makes me very tired, and after he has gone I have often woken to find myself wrapped in the manifestations of the hopes and dreams of writers everywhere. On occasion, I drool on them. For this reason I have asked that all future scripts be laminated.

* * *

John has become terribly impatient with me, probably because I keep falling asleep when he’s in the room. I have asked him to take me to see the homeless man, but he is very responsible and declined, instead shouting, “That’s it!” and ordering for me a prescription of Adderall, which he administers hourly. I don’t think of the homeless man so much anymore, and with the aid of the medication, I have at long last set pen to script—and created the best doodles you ever saw. From remarkably detailed noses, to eyes, to the bubble-lettered “Hey!” I’ve mastered the craft.

* * *

While doodling one day, my eyes wander to the text of a script. Or alleged script. From the first page, it curses proper format. The trusted setting indicator of “INT.” is nowhere to be found, instead replaced by “Inside.” What does this mean? Is it inside or outside? The format is random, lawless. It bloats and throws up on itself and then eats its throw up. Or maybe that’s me doing the throwing up, but I cannot be sure. Whoa! The homeless man just bunted a guy’s sandwich with his racket! John comes in with my Adderall. Usually when I find myself making my way for the window, it’s time for a refill. John is wise. He brings me my lunch as well, but because of the medication I am not very hungry. I ask John if he can give my meal to the homeless man so it will not go to waste, but he says that a homeless man surely qualifies as such. I keep on about it and John says, “Give a man a fish, he will eat for a day. Teach a man to fish, and he will eat for a year.” I tell John that eating fish everyday for a year would be dreadful. He makes some joke about my girlfriend’s privates, and so I change the subject by confessing that I would actually not like for the homeless man to go fishing because I would miss his company. John says, “Aha!” then leaves, and I see him hand the homeless man a fishing rod before the two walk away. He cares for me so.

* * *

It’s been about 20 minutes and the medication has taken effect, and sure enough my attention has been shifted to this abomination of a script. Its font is simply atrocious! The dignified bulk of Courier seems to have been melted by a torch of hell into a silky design that I fear could ooze right off the page and onto my fingers and then I’d have wax on my fingers and look like an idiot. Hey, Waxfingers! Harry Waxfingers! That’d make a good horror movie. Scratch that—it’s taken. Anyway, the font is very condensed, so the dots of the “i’s” seem closer than normal, and two together resemble eyes. Eyes of a face that could melt right off the page.

* * *

The homeless guy’s back! He brings a bucket of fish, which he hands to his homeless friends. I am happy for him. I suppose the saying should be, “Teach a man to fish who would give another man a fish, and you have wasted your time.” Enter John with my Adderall.

* * *

This script taunts me. I’m determined to discover some sign of conscious design to it. It must have a maker. Otherwise, how could it exist? Might it have just come into being all on its own? This is a troubling thought. There are things about the script no one knows but me. Behind the text lurks a shape that grows clearer every day. The “i’s” are just the beginning, but when you focus on the right symbols, you can see the face of a man. The script is 213 pages, which I had to count myself because it’s numbered in Roman numerals. The man runs from page to page as I count them. Trying to chase him makes me lazy, and I lie down ever so much. Maybe I’ll have a nap.

* * *

Well, I spoke too soon. John has walked in with more Adderall, and now back I am trying to follow this damned script. Its pointless pattern, its repugnant font. The man seems to shake the text, as if trying to escape. And I swear to you, when the sun goes down, he does. Just last night, I witnessed him climbing out the window and accepting a fish from the homeless man. He returned smelling awful. So now the script has this rotten fish odor to accompany its many other grotesqueries. I want to leave.

* * *

Today is my last day, and I must get to work. I don’t like to look out the window. At times I think I can see fifty lurking men. I wonder if they all came out of the script, as I did. Today, I will tear the script to pieces so that I may never have to go back. I try to cut it with scissors, but it’s too thick. The script laughs at me. I panic to finish before John arrives. He will be so pleased that I am finally free! I start chewing on the script. I manage to rip a bottom corner, which I spit on the ground before going for the top. John bangs on the door. Once, twice, three times he bangs, and eventually the door gives way. He stares at me, but I keep on chewing and head for the window. Now why should he have fainted? I shall give him to the homeless man.