The day was a dry, California
hot and the lake in San Dimas was huge, placid and inviting. Jonathan was
having the time of his life on location with WACK (Wild and Crazy Kids). He
participated in some boating adventures, jumping from one floating raft to
another without getting wet (at least not too much) was a challenge but his
team, the yellow team was winning the competition. It was the most smiling I
had seen Jonathan do since our last trip to L.A. in 1998. It was going to become
the first of three father and son trips to L.A. Donna and I agreed that a week
or two with me, one-on-one, would be a memory the boys would take with them
throughout their lives. Me too. So Jonathan, being the oldest, had set a
precedent. When Daniel turned ten and then again when Morgan reached the same
milestone, they would each experience the dad/son experience. It worked out
well except Morgan had to wait until he was eleven. He didn’t complain—he never
does. They are all such great, well adjusted kids. Must have gotten that trait
from their mother.
Jonathan
was exhausted on the ride back to Susan’s and slept most of the way there. The
next day I had a meeting with Miguel Ferrer to discuss the 50th
draft of Mulligan’s Tour, the
screenplay I had written. It’s true
most writers may indulge themselves in five, maybe ten drafts before their work
is done, but since I was a novice and was learning on the job it took a little
more effort on my part. It’s not that I’m a perfectionist, I just needed it to
be right. Miguel picked me up in front of Susan’s house at 8 a.m. in his white
Porsche Carrera GT convertible. He suggested Art’s Deli in Studio City. I
nodded my head thinking a good old lox, eggs and onions, and some strong coffee
would complement our discussion. I hadn’t been to Art’s in years, but nothing
had changed; I think the same waitresses were there, too. The breakfast was
just like I remembered, plenty of lox in the eggs and extra cream cheese on the
bagel with a Bermuda onion. I transferred some of the lox to the bagel and it
was just like Sunday mornings at the Haymer household. It made me a bit
teary-eyed to think of those amazing mornings with my mom and dad. I would pass
that torch if I could find a good Jewish deli in Williamson County. The closest
place was located in Nashville, funny enough, called Noshville. It goes without
saying that the tradition of bagels on Sunday at the Tennessee Haymer would be
far and few between. The jury was still out on the Bar Mitzvah situation. We
didn’t belong to a temple yet since the closest one was in West Nashville,
almost forty miles away. Jonathan, being ten, was already very late in his
Hebrew tutelage even if he were to start when we got back from L.A. That would
be a bridge to cross when we returned home.
Miguel
mentioned to me that the screenplay was “almost there” but needed a little
sprucing up. He had a writer friend who had agreed to look it over and help put
the project in a presentable state. As long as he didn’t change the basic
structure and story, I was not opposed to working with the guy. I knew a
screenplay, not like a book, was read by a plethora of people before it ever
got to the production stage and this would be the initial link in that chain. I
thought I’d better get used to making some sacrifices for my art.
The
next morning while Jonathan was hanging out at Susan’s, I rang the doorbell of
the condo on Longridge Drive, not more than a mile from my parent’s last house
together on Canton Drive in Studio City. As the door opened I saw a tall,
skinny guy with thin brown hair and googly eyes staring back at me. He invited
me in, made some coffee and suggested we sit out by the pool. I carried my bag
with the screenplay and leather bound notebook to take down ideas. We were
going to brainstorm in the California way—coffee, cookies and intense sunshine.
I’m glad I brought my Ray-Bans.
In this
draft, the opening scene was Mark Mulligan returning home from an
appointment—he sold life and health insurance. As he unlocked the side door, a
bolt of lightning illuminated the sign, Mulligan’s Lair, over the ingress of
the door. The writer, who I will refer to as Barney Google, thought it meant
the story should be a spoof—a comedy of sorts. I sat there listening to his
ideas with a frozen expression on my face. I am not the kind of person to mince
words and I wear my heart on my sleeve, but I knew I had to be careful not to
offend Barney Google if I wanted the project to advance. The guy just wasn’t
getting it at all. Driving back to Susan’s, I was mortified. What was I going
to do? I figured I would sit with the changes and work it out when I got back
to Tennessee. That was exactly what I did. After a week or so, I delved in.
Nothing was working. I was losing the thread of the story. Barney Google was completely
wrong about everything. I had to let him go.
It
turned out to be a moot point. That fall the movie, The Legend of Bagger Vance, came out. It had mixed reviews and a
poor showing at the box office. I thought the movie was good and might open the
door for the studios to pick up more golf movies. Wrong. I called Miguel to
apprise him of some of the changed I had made to the screenplay— a tightening
up of the story. I took out the melodrama of the lightning storm and made it
less like a Lon Chaney or Roger Vadim movie. I thought it was a good
compromise. Miguel never returned my call. Same with Barney Google. I was
beside myself with anger and depression. Miguel was supposed to be a friend,
somebody I went to high school with. He was the drummer in Silverspoon until
Mal Evans (under the influence of Larry Harrison) had fired him. How could he
just ignore me like that? I was so distraught; I put the screenplay in the
drawer and there it would stay. It was time to get back to the drawing board
with my next album. I quit the Tennessee Screenwriter’s Association and
rededicated myself to music. What was I thinking? Did I really think I was the
next David Mamet? Still, that story was haunting me and in the night I swear I
could hear knocking coming from that drawer and a small voice was saying, “Let
me out—let me out. Ten years later I opened the drawer and let it out.
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