Taking the Edge Off Who: Andy What: Releasing Frustration Where: Highway & Home When: present Content Warnings: allusions to violence
“You got it in for me, Gail?” Andy asked, pressing down a little harder on the accelerator than was strictly legal, but it was not like anyone else was on the highway this time of night. He’d woken his agent up with his call, but his irritation had been steadily growing to the point that he could not hold off any longer.
She groaned over the line. “Andy? Really? Do you have any idea…”
“Yes, I know what time it is, we’re in different cities, not different time zones,” he snapped. “We gotta have a conversation about the work you’ve been getting me lately.”
“And it can’t wait until morning?” Gail asked with a yawn. Andy could hear the bedclothes rustling as she moved, probably sitting up in bed. So he had woken her -- good.
“No, Gail, it can’t, not if you want to keep skimming that ten percent off the top of what you negotiate for me on this garbage you’ve been sending me lately,” Andy told her, careful not to grip his phone too hard in annoyance. He much preferred going hands free, but the Porsche Boxster he had been driving as of late was a ‘93 model, pristine as it was, and didn’t have all of the necessary gadgetry for it.
Gail sighed. “I take it you got the script I had sent your way?”
“Script?” Andy said with a snort. “You mean that pile of horseshit in a manila envelope you had sent to my door?”
“Andy… Andy, we’ve been over this. We don’t always get to pick and choose the best projects, you know that. They’re offering a good price for you to work your magic on this one.”
Andy damn near growled. Another day, another shitty horror reboot. They never offered enough for them; even though they were almost all trash, they still made box office bank, even if the streaming numbers and disc sales never amounted to much up against the originals. They could give him more -- they should give him more.
“Fuck,” he grunted. “Look, go back to them and tell them to drop the screen credit and throw some more cash on the pile, and I’ll get it done. And try and do something better next time around.”
He flicked a thumb across the screen of his phone to end the call and threw it onto the seat beside him in a huff. People in his line of work didn’t make nearly as much money as Andy was often able to pull off, but it ground down on his ego when he was asked to put lipstick on a pig. The studio would cough up the extra cash; they always did.
It was frustrating. Andy had once found his perfect niche, and the world had moved on without him. He’d been left behind in the dust -- sawdust, really, as his dreams of being a silver screen star had been dashed and he’d been relegated back to odd jobs on film sets, building scenery and running errands for the new stars. It had taken time but he’d found his place again, this time as a writer, but the respect he received was no better than when he’d been an errand boy.
He couldn’t even take credit for most of his work.
He punched the accelerator; he had been content to have a quiet evening, until the script had arrived via courier and spoiled his mood. Andy had hoped a nice long drive would take the edge off his irritation, but the phone call with his agent had only made it worse.
He would need to work it off.
A few hours’ time found Andy sitting in his living room, the blinds drawn, the lights off, and the television running an old Buster Keaton film. The flickering silver light of the screen made the blood spattered across his white dress shirt look almost black; it was ruined for certain, but Andy couldn’t be bothered to care.
The bigger issue would be the dead woman on the floor. He’d have to break out the bleach to deal with that mess, but it could wait until morning.
For the moment, Andy’s head was quiet. All he needed was the screen, and the silence.