This Idea Got Green Lit!?! Part 1

It was a cool morning. Unusually cool for the season. The sun was blocked by a light haze and off the coast you could see rain clouds huddling together like a flag football team planning their next secret play. The dew stood out brash and confident that it would not be beaten by the sun's warmth today. My car's windshield glistened like a bedazzled jean jacket. Today was the last chance I had with the studio executives. This was my last meeting before I ran out of money and needed to move back to Iowa. This was my worst idea yet. I didn't stand a chance.

I shake the dew from my shoes as I walk through the front doors into the lobby of the studio offices. I look down, straighten my tie, and walk with a nervous stride towards the receptionist. The oak desk stands in front of her rigid and unwelcoming, like a nightclub bouncer.

All I can see of the woman is a tower of hair signaling her presense. I almost have to look down and over the ledge to see the elderly woman sitting there. She is typing unhumanly fast, like a dog trying to dig a piece of bacon from under a hardwood floor, and keys rattle with no rest.

She then stops without warning, lowers her thin red glasses and turns her head towards me. "Are you Michael's 8:30?", she says in a voice unbefitting of her small stature.

I warble back to her "Yes", in a voice that makes you think I just crapped my pants after being chased by a feral dog and I am about to cry.

"Go ahead into the back office, he will be there in a moment", she replies, now with a look of empathy in her eyes, like she knows I have no chance. I walk back towards the giant door. I feel like Alice in Wonderland after drinking the vial of potion as the hallway seems to grow larger and more ominous as I journey towards the office. I grab the handle and glide the door open, slowly and smoothly, and take a deep breath as I walk through the archway.

The room seems so much smaller than expected. The walls are covered in photos of the actors that the studio has worked with. Posters from shows that they have produced. There is one plant stretching for a window in the corner and a bookshelf full of awards, plaques, and what looked like piles of rejected scripts in colourful hilroy duotangs. It was a monument to success bordered by colourful piles of tragic failures, like at the end of a fight to the death between two dozen clowns.

Right in the middle of the room is a long table with about 10 seats around it and a big bowl of plastic fruit in the middle. I unbutton my suit jacket and take a seat along one of the long edges, leaving the power seat, the head of the table, for Michael. My heart skips a beat as the door opens once again. Three grey suits march through it like cars on an assembly line. My hand is sweaty like a butt crack after a jog on a humid day. I wipe my hand on my pants before extending it out. I stand and greet them with as firm a hand shake as I can muster.

I slink back into my chair, sheepishly, embarrassed, and exhale a long exhausted breath. This is it. This is my chance. All three sit on the other side of the table, across from me, and stare at me like a tourist staring at Ol' Faithful, waiting for the excitement to start, but without the anticipation, as they all have been disapointed before.

I stare back at them, looking for the approval to begin. I feel like a kid who just broke something waiting to catch hell. I shift in my seat. Michael looks back at me and asks plainly, with no expection of greatness, "So what do you have for us today?"

To Be Continued...