Quicksand

"You just need to relax," Alison said. "I'm going for a run. Why don't you take a break and come along?" She smiled. "I'll pace myself so you can keep up."

"Because a pulled hamstring is a well-known cure for writer's block?" Steve asked, too tired and frustrated to care if he was being a bitter, sarcastic jerk. He had been up all night, sitting at the small desk in their bedroom, watching the cursor blink on a blank, white, virtual page, wondering if his big chance would become, in a tragic third act reversal, his last, lost chance.

I said I would pace myself," Alison said. "You know I feel really bad about last time."

"That would be easier to believe if I couldn't hear you laughing on the inside," Steve said.

Steve and Alison might be a Hollywood power couple. Someday. For now, they were still just one big break away from being too big to actually show up at the Oscars. One big break away was a place they'd called home since forever ago. It had been five years now since they'd moved to Los Angeles. 

Alison Miller was the aspiring actress; an inch taller than Steve, lithe, athletic, green-eyed, a redhead by choice, and she was sure she could've been Miss Montana 2018 if it hadn't been for that failed drug test. She leveraged her beauty contest talent between auditions and acting classes, gigging on weekends in hotel lounges playing piano and singing standards for drunken businessmen on expense accounts and studio functionaries pretending to be producers. They sent her drinks and phone numbers scrawled on napkins. Her personal best was having three martinis and a mint julep all lined up on her piano at one time. More and more lately, she thought about returning to college, finishing her degree, getting a job, and yes, leaving show business. Leaving show business might be a bold statement, she thought; she was, so far, only show business adjacent.

Steve Donovan looked like he'd been born and raised in SoCal. He had the sun bleached look of a surfer but in a writerly twist he was deathly afraid of the water and with some justification. He'd almost drowned taking swimming lessons when he was 11 years old. It made for a funny story. "Comedy isn't always Tragedy plus Time," he would say, "Comedy is sometimes Tragedy missed by inches." Steve listed his occupation as screenwriter on his taxes but it was yet to be the source of any reported income. He had produced seven unproduced feature length scripts over the past five years. He had made some contacts along the way, other struggling writers, indie directors looking for material. His work was apparently too commercial to be indie but too indie to be commercial. His agent, the onomatopoeic Zane Zee, assured him he was being read. Zane Zee was a good fifty pounds overweight, which would've been a good sign if this was Medieval France. He had a business card with the tagline of "Last Name in the Book, First Name in Representation." Steve thought about firing him after every meeting but their relationship had led - finally - to a meeting with a supernumerary at Lighthouse Studios and this, his latest big break waiting to happen; a script for a Tarzan franchise reboot.

And now he was blocked. His latest big break waiting to happen was stuck in quicksand.

He'd watched every Tarzan movie he could get his hands on and seized upon the Johnny Weissmuller movies as his template. There wasn't as much of the Edgar Rice Burroughs backstory in those films but Steve had found "Tarzan's New York Adventure" much more to his liking than the Christopher Lambert "Greystoke" or any of the more recent takes on the Lord of the Jungle, none of which had become a franchise. For Steve, Tarzan movies, at their best, were always love stories. Tarzan gets Jane. Jane gets kidnapped. Tarzan gets Jane back. They were exotically staged action adventures, too, where the good and the bad often found themselves stuck in quicksand when trying to avoid a stampede of elephants wearing ear extensions.

And that's where he was. Stuck. The black and white world where you could die in quicksand was a well documented myth; he needed something that wasn't quicksand but somehow still was. Could he turn that on its head? Use it for comic relief? 

"I need to keep working on this," Steve said. "I think I've got an idea. I need some comic relief," he said, contemplating Tarzan as a rom-com. "I need a part for Charlie Day, or that guy who's in all those Stephen Sommers' movies. I need a court jester or a tricky servant."

"Charlie Day?" Alison asked. "Or somebody like Charlie Day?"

"A young Charlie Day," Steve answered.

"He's too old to play himself?" Alison asked.

"No," Steve answered, briefly taken aback by her question. "I mean, I don't think so."

"So, why not Charlie Day, then?" Alison asked.

"You were the one who asked if it should be somebody like Charlie Day!" Steve said.

Alison shrugged. "I was just asking the question." She made circles with her hands. "Thinking out loud. Working things out in real time," she said. "Are you sure you don't want to go for a run? You might get an answer to your Charlie Day question."

"You mean your Charlie Day question," Steve said. "And no. Thanks. Have a good run. Bring me back a donut from that Donut Hatch shop on your way back."

"A donut," Alison said.

"Two," Steve said. "Chocolate frosted, please. No sprinkles."

"Right," Alison said.

"I hate sprinkles," Steve said.

"Yes. I know," Alison said. Her mental stick count was now at 309 times Steve had told her that he hated sprinkles. 309. Could that really be the count? He really needed to cut down on the donuts. She needed to stop counting. There had been a time when Steve's idiosyncratic tics had been cute, or so she'd told herself. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather have an anadama bagel with veggie cream cheese or one of those breakfast burritos with eggs, goat cheese and bean sprouts?"

"I need the sugar," Steve said. He consulted his empty coffee cup. "The caffeine alone just isn't doing it for me."

Alison gave him a kiss. "All right, two chocolate frosted donuts. Should be back in 30."

Alison spent her run as she often did, listening to music, wondering how Kacey Musgraves knew so much about her life, her inner life, her hopes and hopelessness. When she and Steve had found the apartment in Laurel Canyon it seemed like a cottage in a fairy tale. Now she felt the weight of it's walls and its leaky roof. They never mention the rent in fairy tales. 

Steve spent most of the time Alison was gone procrastinating; Googling for "actors who look like Charlie Day." Christian Slater and Charlie Day as comic relief father and son? Given the seven year age difference, maybe comic relief brothers would work better?

He returned to the script. The cursor was still there, right where he'd left it, blinking, mocking; the staccato comedy stylings of Charlie Day or somebody like him doing stand up in his head. So, you say you're a writer? Right? I got that right? A writer. Don't writers actually - I don't know - write? Isn't that why they call them writers? What is it you're doing again? Oh, that's right. You're not writing.

The cursor blinked.

He wondered why Alison wasn't back yet. 

He discarded Christian Slater.

He decided to make a fresh pot of coffee in anticipation of the two chocolate frosted donuts.

It doesn't have to be quicksand, he reminded himself. It could be one of those pits dug to trap an animal like a lion or a wildebeest. Except those pits usually had sharpened sticks set up to impale and kill the unsuspecting lion or wildebeest that fell into the trap. Could Charlie Day fall into the pit and avoid being impaled? It seemed somehow less believable than drowning in quicksand. Also, not funny. 

Steve thought about it. It is a Tarzan movie, after all. A willing suspension of disbelief is free with the purchase of an extra large popcorn. Nobody goes to a Tarzan movie hoping it will be a documentary on African jungle ecosystems. 

So…

Why not quicksand?

Not quicksand, Steve thought. Not quicksand.

Think!

Maybe a snare with a net big enough for a monkey or a leopard, set off in mid-sentence by our unsuspecting comic relief? Ah, yes! The snare gag! Hilarious! That one hasn't been done to death, has it? Wait! What? Oh! It has been done to death! Then that should be right in your wheelhouse, Steve! It's like the "Weekend at Bernie's" of jungle adventure gags! It's dead but you're still dragging it around with you!

Steve heard the door opening and turned to see Alison come in, holding a paper bag from the Donut Hatch like she was holding a lantern. "Donuts!" she proclaimed. 

Steve walked over to her, took the bag and gave her a quick kiss. He opened the bag to check. Two chocolate frosted. No sprinkles.

"No sprinkles," Alison said.

"Thanks," he said, with a sheepish smile.

"Because I remembered - somehow - that you hate sprinkles," she said.

Steve nodded. "I do hate them," he said, oblivious to Alison's gentle sarcasm.

"How are you doing?" she asked.

"The same," Steve said. "Still waist deep in quicksand."

"Well," Alison said, "Maybe you'll be right about the donuts and the inherent power of inspiration found in fudgy, chocolate frosting. And I wouldn't give up on Charlie Day too soon. I think you may be onto something." 

He held up the bag of donuts. "Thanks," he said. "Yeah. I'm still thinking about it. Charlie Day. Comic relief."

"Good. I'm going to hit the showers," she said. "You know, I've got a gig tonight. Why don't you come? Relax. Have a drink. Take your mind off things. Very low risk of pulling a hammy."

He nodded. "I'll think about it."

"Okay," Alison said, leaving it at that, deciding she didn't want to make a fight of it.

*****

EXTERIOR.TARZAN, JANE and CHARLIE are walking a well worn path through the jungle and enter a clearing. CHEETAH follows along in the trees around the path, occasionally dropping down to the ground to walk along with them.

CHARLIE

So, I've been wondering. You were raised by apes. How, exactly, did you get your name, anyway?

TARZAN

I am Tarzan.

CHARLIE

Yes, right, of course. But - maybe you help me out here, Jane - how, or who, gave him that name. Tarzan doesn't sound like something an ape would say.

JANE

How do you know what an ape would say? Are you a zoolinguist? Have you considered the possibility that apes learn to sign because humans can't understand their language, not the other way around.

TARZAN

[pinching the skin on his left forearm with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand] Tarzan. [pointing at CHARLIE] Charlie. [pointing at JANE] Jane. [pointing at the path ahead of them] Dirt Water.

CHARLIE

[looking at TARZAN] What? Dirt- [he steps into and sinks to his armpits in the quicksand] -Water! [he thrashes about in the quicksand, screaming like a little girl confronting a spider] Help! Help! Help me! Help! Oh my God! Don't let me die! 

JANE

[to TARZAN] I wonder what an ape would say right now.

TARZAN

Girl Man.

[CHEETAH comes over to the edge of the quicksand and points at CHARLIE, laughing.]

JANE

[kneeling, to CHARLIE] Thrashing about will only make you sink faster, you know. 

CHARLIE

[quieting] What? Right. Yes. Quicksand. I knew that. Okay. Okay. Okay. But dying slowly is still dying. Help me out. Please?

JANE

[laughs] Can you swim? 

TARZAN

[making a swimming motion, mimicking an Australian Crawl with his arms] Tarzan swim fast.

JANE

Do you know the backstroke?

[TARZAN mimics a backstroke.]

CHARLIE

Yes, I can swim. Why?

JANE

[standing] Quicksand is essentially, as Tarzan tried to warn you, dirty water. It isn't poisonous but it is disgusting. A watery oatmeal with sand instead of oats. The backstroke will keep your face clear of it. It can be an eye irritant and if you happen to swallow any of it, it will probably make you puke.

CHEETAH puts his hands in the quicksand and squeezes them together, squirting a thick stream of sandy water in CHARLIE's face.

CHARLIE

[frantically wiping his face with his hands] Hey! Come on! Ugh! [thrashing about again] I think I swallowed some! It's in my eyes! I can't see! 

JANE

CHEETAH! [stifling a laugh] Bad! Bad CHEETAH! Bad!

TARZAN

[CHEETAH jumps up into TARZAN's arms, to JANE] You teach CHEETAH. Funny.

JANE

[laughing] You're right! I did teach CHEETAH how to do that. Bad JANE! Bad, bad JANE!

CHARLIE

Wait! Wait! I can see! I can see but everything is blurry! I've lost my contacts! [he moves his hands over the surface of the quicksand, as if looking for his lost contacts] 

JANE

Yeah, I think you can kiss those contact lenses goodbye, CHARLIE.

CHARLIE

[putting his hands on his face] Parasites! There are microscopic worms already burrowing into my eyes! I can feel it! I'm going to die in the jungle! Blind! Killed by lions I can't even see! I'm an accountant! Accountants should not die in the jungle! I can't believe I survived a plane crash only to die like this! [pausing] Aren't you going to help me?

JANE

I've been trying to tell you; you don't need any help. Just pull yourself out.

CHARLIE

Just pull myself out. Just pull myself out. I have to guess you don't have any accountants living in a neighboring tree house which would explain why you aren't familiar with the fact that accountants aren't exactly famous for muscle tone in general or upper body strength specifically.

JANE

TARZAN. Help Girl Man out of the Dirt Water.

[CHEETAH laughs and points at CHARLIE.]

TARZAN

[reaching down with his right hand] TARZAN help Girl Man.

CHARLIE

[taking TARZAN's hand, who lifts him easily out of the quicksand and back onto solid ground] Thanks. But please. Call me CHARLIE. I've learned the hard way how sticky nicknames can be. If you enter puberty with poor hygiene habits, you can wind up being called Stinky for the rest of your life. Or until you move to a new town. Speaking for a friend. You know. But trust me. So, please. CHARLIE, okay? [pointing to himself with his right thumb] Chuck if you absolutely must.

TARZAN

[laughs loudly] Chuck! [laughs again and points] Chuck! [CHEETAH dances around Tarzan, also laughing] Chuck!

CHARLIE

[to JANE] Why is he laughing? What's so funny about Chuck?

JANE

You don't want to know.

CHARLIE

Come on. Please tell me. I'm sure my imagination is much worse than anything you could tell me. Please. I'm going to obsess about this, you know. I won't leave it alone until you tell me.

JANE

Fine. Remember, you wanted to know. [she whispers in CHARLIE's ear]

CHARLIE

[stepping back] Oh! [he takes a deep breath] Okay, then. Girl Man it is. [he laughs along with TARZAN and CHEETAH] You Tarzan, me Girl Man.

*****

They sat at their small kitchen table. Alison pushed the laptop across the table to Steve.

"What do you think?" Steve asked.

"Well," Alison said.

"I know," Steve said. "It's terrible. Worse than terrible. It's the comic relief and it's not funny." He had his laptop open. He scrolled through the quicksand scene as they spoke.

Alison didn't say No, babe, it's funny. You're too hard on yourself. She didn't say anything.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

"It could definitely play funny. I think," she said. "It's just…"

"Just what?" Steve asked.

"It's Tarzan calling Charlie a 'Girl Man'," she said. "I mean, aren't we past that kind of gender-based and subtle or maybe not so subtle misogynistic humor?" (She made air quotes with her fingers as she said 'humor.') "Shouldn't Tarzan be better than that?"

"Well, I, uh," Steve stammered. "He, uh, Tarzan, I mean, was raised by apes, after all."

"So, you're blaming the ape patriarchy for Tarzan's toxic masculinity? Is the audience going to get that? And aren't you - subconsciously, I'm sure - kind of ripping off that old Saturday Night Live skit with Hans and Franz?"

"Hans and Franz?" Steve asked.

"We want to pump you up, girly man!" she said, in her best faux Schwarzenegger. "I mean, how does Tarzan even know about SNL from the 80s? Or was it the 90s? Either way. Was there a 'Best of Dana Carvey' DVD in the plane crash that killed Tarzan's parents?"

"Yes!" Steve said. "Yes! That's fantastic! A 'Best of Dana Carvey' DVD. It's like the Dude's rug. It will totally pull everything together!"

"In that case, you're also going to need a DVD player," Alison said.

"Of course, yes. Who brings DVDs without something to play them on?" Steve said.

"And electricity," Alison said.

Steve looked down at his laptop and began typing.

"What are you doing?" Alison asked.

"Googling 'laptops with best battery life'," Steve said.

Alison sighed. "You'd still need to have Tarzan - or the foster parent apes - be able to figure out how to get the DVD into the laptop."

Steve spoke as he typed. "Maybe the DVD is already in the drive. Maybe the DVD starts playing when Tarzan opens the laptop." Steve paused. "18 hours," he mumbled. "That might be enough."

"I can't believe I'm trying to save the 'girl man' moment, but," she took a deep breath, "wouldn't it make more sense to have Jane's scientific mission bring along a generator?" Alison asked. "She would certainly know how to play a DVD. You know. Some witchy woman traps German men in little black box kind of magic. Magic in that Arthur C. Clarke sense of any sufficiently advanced technology being indistinguishable from magic? She could use the DVD to help Tarzan learn English. Kind of a comic take on those Babbel or Rosetta Stone apps."

Steve smiled. "You're already the pretty one. Do you have to be the smart one, too?"

"Aw!" Alison said. "I thought you were the pretty one."

"Well, I, what?" Steve said. 

"I'm kidding," Alison said. "I know I'm the pretty one."

"Right," Steve said and began typing furiously.

"I take it you won't be coming out to hear me sing tonight?" Alison asked. "Free drinks."

Without looking up, Steve said, "Tarzan shouldn't just call Charlie Day a 'Girly Man', he should do it with a German accent, like Hans and Franz. Completely changes the context." 

"Steve?" Alison said.

He stopped, then began typing again. "I wonder if I could work an 'Isn't that special?' in the Church Lady's voice into the action somewhere. Hans and Franz. Church Lady. Tarzan was a gifted mimic, you know."

"Steve!" Alison said.

"Yes? What?" Steve said.

"Come out with me, tonight," she said. "You haven't been out of the apartment in weeks. We haven't gone out together in months. I feel like you - like we - are, I don't know. It's been five years and I don't know where we're going let alone how long it's going to take us to get there. I don't know about you but I'm not sure  how much more rejection I can take. I haven't gotten a callback in two years. My acting classes feel like a cruel joke I'm playing on myself. And I don't know how many more hotel lounge gigs I can play. I don't know how many more times I can sing 'It Had To Be You,' or 'Piano Man.' God, I hate that song. I feel like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, only I'm the one singing 'I Got You, Babe' over and over and over again."

 "Alison," Steve said. He set aside his laptop, stood and took her in his arms. She felt stiff - all elbows, balled up fists, and shoulders - and didn't respond. "Just cancel."

She pulled away from him. "We need the money."

Steve nodded. "Look, I promise I'll make some time for us but, I just, I've got so much work to do. I feel like I'm finally unstuck, my writer's block is broken." He paused. "Thanks to you." He paused again. "My muse." He paused one more time before saying, "I love you."

To Alison, it didn't sound like a dedication, it sounded like an excuse, a plea for forgiveness, and somehow, she was all out. "I love you, too," she said, and knew she didn't mean it. Kacey Musgraves was singing "Justified" in her head and she couldn't shut her up.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked.

"Yes, of course," Alison said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I should get going."

"And I should get to work," Steve said, picking up his laptop. 

Alison kissed him on the cheek. "Bye," she said.

"Have a good show," Steve said as he walked into the bedroom with his laptop to start working on his script.

Alison grabbed her bag and put on her sunglasses for the drive into the setting sun. She left her key to the apartment in the basket by the door. She wouldn't be coming back. She was going to swim out of the quicksand and get on with her life.

*****

Author's Note: I guess it's the romantic in me but I felt bad about how things ended for Steve and Alison. I couldn't help but give them a second chance on The Red Carpet.