Rooster Q was too much. The mockup repulsed me. It wasn’t that it was bad—and it was bad—it was all that uncanny valley shit. This wasn’t my friend. This wasn’t the rooster I recognized. I felt like they already butchered him, before we even agreed on a deal. I wasn’t happy. All of these studio meetings have been a total bust. Everyone who told me to go out to Hollywood was wrong, absolutely wrong. People said the roosters weren’t interesting; people said the roosters were annoying; people said the roosters weren’t real; people said I was crazy, and you know what? They were all wrong, totally wrong. I might not make any money, but I’d rather write an original screenplay; that’s why I’m here in the first place, they think my draft of Rooster Quibbits and all of “my” columns are made up of material that I generated. Completely false: Rooster, Monica, and Bennington are, as I’ve said many times over the years, real as you and me. Even you, computer. I know you are reading, too. The roosters were here before you.
“Can we just call it a day? Maybe come back tomorrow? I’m tired and I have a double feature at the New Beverly at midnight.”
“Why are you going to the movies if you’re tired?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Ever?”
“It’s very hard, and besides, midnight is early for me.”
“But you’ll be getting out at, what, 3 a.m.? 3:30? 4? What are you having for dinner?”
“Excuse me?”
I didn’t know why Suit #4 was talking like my bubbe, it was strangely comforting.
“Go to MacDougal’s, ask for the kugel.”
They all laughed. Why are they laughing at me? Why did I come out here in the first place? All I wanted was some money. You know the Liz Phair song. Can’t I just have a little bit of a ton of money? Does it HAVE to involve the roosters?
“Look, thank you for inviting me, I’ve really enjoyed my time here, and Los Angeles, what can you say. I love the palm trees and the movie theaters. Hollywood Walk of Fame, love it. Graumann’s Chinese, I’ve been there. Listen, you have a good one, okay? Okay, bye.” I started walking out, savoring an especially pregnant pause before dropping da bomb on them. “I’m not inclined to sell.”
“I’m sorry.”
I turned around. Everyone was looking at me, and no one was laughing.
“Sell the rights.”
“You don’t own the rights.”
“That’s not true,” I said, not knowing whether or not it wasn’t, in fact, true.
“Your publisher owns the rights.”
“My agent told me that I own the rights.”
“Your agent is a liar. Where is he, anyway? He’d be here if he believed in you.”
“‘Believed in me’? This isn’t Little League. I wrote the script, he liked it, he sent it to you guys—”
“We never received a script.”
“What?!”
“No, see, you were taken for a ride by your agent. He’s busy. He’s representing Lizzo. He’s representing Hawk Tuah. He’s even in talks with Kevin Spacey right now. You’re way down on that list.”
I didn’t know my agent was so into accidents waiting to happen.
“I really don’t own the rights?”
“Not for this script.”
“Which you haven’t read.”
“Right.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. THANK GOD! If the roosters found out I lost their life rights, I’d lose my life. They’ve wanted to make biopics since the peep shows popped up on Coney Island. I had to make sure I was in the clear.
“So, just so I’m made to be understood correctly, you don’t own life rights?”
“To whom?”
“The roosters. Rooster, Monica, and Bennington.”
The room got heavy. No one believed me. Still. Everyone who told me this would happen was, in fact, right. But they were wrong to be so pessimistic. I still choose to believe in Hollywood, even after they’ve mauled my soul one too many times.
—Follow Nicky Otis Smith on Twitter: @NARCFILM