Somewhere In Paris

(pandemic reflections)

A six-foot four giant dressed in black, a Hermes belt slung across his high waist like a trophy, walks towards me. His head is rather small-olive shape, and his jet black hair is styled in a puff. Justin Krapps is a famous network producer who made a TV series deal for my new and latest novel, Rats.

“I can’t stay long. A cold,” he sniffs, his beady dark eyes averted. He gives me two air kisses, blown through his long thin fingers. It’s the night of my book launch at this swank LA bookstore. I’m decked with fake eyelashes my long hair blown out with this shiny stuff, red lips, four-inch ankle boots. Anyway, I say how excited I am about the TV series and the contract I just signed. “Wowie.” His small lips are pressed. His eyes are still averted and he says he has to go. “I have a cold.” He sniffs. He leaves quickly before my reading. Something fishy, but the lights dim. I’m at the podium and I begin my read to the audience of industry people. After thirty-five years of being an author, struggling, everything is happening. Everything is possible.

I wake. It is just past dawn. Triangles of light wobble along the walls.I blink, the dream still with me. I’m remembering the magical night at the book signing, the party afterwards — the week before signing the contract for lots of money, afterwards at a Beverly Hills cocktail lounge, drinking martinis, Justin Krapps and I talking about Daniel King the famous writer I’d pitched to write the script and he’d agreed. How excited I was. How high.

Thump. I’m fully awake. I feel the sudden reality that everything changed. Not that long ago — a couple of months, the pandemic changed everything. Bookstores closed, dreams put on hold — production stopped.

I click the remote and CNN reports the rising Covid cases and deaths. Every morning I awake at dawn. I plan the day…an hour walk, wearing my black mask I beaded butterflies on, social distancing, and taking pictures of the roses in bloom. Then home the rest of the day writing, painting, teaching my writing workshops on Zoom, podcasting.

Slowly I get up, put on the tea kettle, and open the shutters. A sultry humid San Francisco August day.

After I dress in my usual black, I brush my much longer hair now into a twisted ponytail. Next, I wear my red high tops, on which I painted black roses, black off-the- shoulder T shirt… turquoise jewelry, yes. I need to wear rings on every finger. I’m ready, imagining that I’m somewhere in Paris. I begin my day.

Amazing how time passes . Even faster, time passes when I’m sedentary, w before I know it, shadows elongate along the oval tall windows facing the Golden Gate Bridge. When the phone rings, at first I don’t answer it — I hate talking on the phone, but I recognize my TV agent’s number — I haven’t heard from Edwina Miller since that night in LA, and I answer. Before I can ask how she is, she’s shouting, “Something terrible has happened! Terrible!”

“Oh my God! What? Do you have Covid?”

“Daniel King doesn’t want to use your title Rats. He says it’s too angry. Nor does he want to use your characters or story.”

“What does he want!” I yell.

“The rat scmuck wants your concept and to ace you out of the money! She screams, “Hold on! I’m getting Justin Krapps on the phone. Stay on. I’m patching you in.”

My heart is beating fast. As the rage slowly spreads into my bones, I hear Justin Krapps snooty assistant answer in her valley girl voice that ends every sentence in a question. After a long moment, Justin is on speaker.

“Hello,” he says. He sounds like he’s underwater.

So then Edwina starts her litany of fuck you’s, shouting and yelling “How do you people sleep at night! Why didn’t you tell schmuck face no, that he can’t have the project and that you’d take the project elsewhere! Instead, like a true rat, you went to his side! You’re not going to steal Barbara’s project and get away with it. Barbara has the e-mails from, you, the writer, and a contract!”

All this time he’s silent, the kind of patronizing silence a stern parent has when waiting for a child to finish her tantrum.

“I signed a contract! “I interject my voice rising above Edwina still yelling at him. “You can’t do this. I won’t allow it. It’s been years on this project. Rats is a great title. The novel is exactly about what you’re doing to me right now! You think because I’m 80 I’m going to go away and you won’t have to pay me. For my work! My work!” I shout, “You’re an ageist!”

“I’ll pay you out of my money,” he says softly.

“No you won’t!” I say. “I’ll get paid what I’m promised in the contract. What I deserve. I got the writer. It’s my project. Not using my title won’t sell my books.”

“Daniel King is willing to give you an inspired by line at the bottom of the credits.”

I shout: “Fuck inspired by! I want based on the novel by my name on the top, and the terms of the contract. Obviously, you had it planned all along, treating me like I’m an old lady. Ageism! Betrayal! I’ll sue you! Like a rat you went with him. He used you too! He’ll dump you too! Now I know why you ran away from my book signing. You’re a rat.”

“Edwina and I are yelling at once, only Tony Krapps has ended the call.

It’s dark now. The day seems long ago. Rain begins. I’m sitting by the window. Thunder. Lightening. Unusual weather. I don’t know for how long I sit by the window, marveling in the beauty of the flashes of lightening. I refuse to engage in this mess, to go back to the rage I felt years ago at the years of close calls, failed options, Hollywood betrayals, and disappointments. Been there, done that. Over disappointments, when I look back I realize that I had held on to anger.

No. The Covid is telling us something. There is no time left for rage, resentments, and more lawsuits. Justin Krapps can own his betrayal. I don’t want it. Only our moments, our subconscious that fills with our thoughts, memories, regrets and joys truths live infinitely. Only the next moment counts. Only fate brings us forward, and along the flat long road of fate, there are twists and turn. Yes, the pandemic is an opportunity for reflection, and enhancement..

Another streak of blue crawls startles the silent gray sky. I inhale the smell of rain from the open windows. It is beautiful. Nature is omnipotent.

A moon is forming in the sky. I dress for the evening. Every night I dress for imagined outings. I decide to wear a black silk turtleneck and then I twist a scarlet silk scarf three times around my neck — scarlett lipstick, gray eye shadow, and yes, long pearls. I turn on Billie Holiday.

I’m somewhere in Paris.

Barbara Rose Brooker is an author/journalist/podcaster. Her 2020 TV appearances, podcasts are on you tube and on www.barbararosebrooker.com

Her latest novel, Love, Sometimes, published Feb 2020 is published by Post Hill Press/Simon Schuster. She is working on a new book.