The Brandywine Prophet

4.3 Setting the Stage

It took six, one-hour pitch meetings for Bill Carmel to secure five million dollars for his film. It took three minutes and one line of coke to lose it.

For Sarah, everything started when Stan Bright called her house at one in the morning and told her to get to the office immediately.

Sarah ignored the seventeen-mile-per-hour Brandywine signs, ka-thunked over yellow-painted speed bumps, and fishtailed her car with a spurt of gravel into Bill’s midnight-painted yard. Stan was packing office supplies into his car.

“What’s he doing?” She asked. “What’s going on?”

Stan didn’t look up. “I’m done. He’s on his own.”

“What? Why?”

“I told him at the beginning: any drugs and I walk. Jaxon introduced us, but he also made his warning clear.”

“Stanley! What happened?”

He dropped a box of folders and spun around. The moonlight revealed a black-and-blue eye.

“Tell me Bill didn’t do that...”

“He’s been more aggressive than usual--” 

“Tell me he didn’t hit you.”

“--twitching, talking fast, rambling about things that don’t matter. He can focus on a thousand things at once, but not the business end. He chewed out our PA for buying sunflower seeds without the shells. He’s been cruel to the ladies. Our costume designer walked; I asked Bill what happened and he blamed it on stress. I told him making movies is stressful. He said he’d be fine, but I searched his bathroom and found a rail by the sink.”

“A rail?”

“Of coke. Cocaine. That’s in addition to the pot he’s smoking daily. I toke now and again, but not like Billy. And with the speed on top of that? I won’t do it.”

“Speed?”

“Amphetamine. Dexedrine. Ritalin. Whatever he can get his hands on. I didn’t care at first; I saw the prescription. But at the rate he takes those fucking pills, he must have a dozen pharmacists with a dozen prescriptions.”

Sarah didn’t believe in silly things like Big Foot or the Abominable Snow Man, but if she had to imagine what their screams would sound like echoing through an empty house in a cornfield, it would sound like Bill. A terrible crash punctuated the terrible bellow and Sarah started for the house.

Stan grabbed her arm.

“What?” she asked.

“The drugs will ruin everything. If word gets to the investors that the writer-director-producer is snorting coke and abusing speed, they’ll pull out. This isn’t Hollywood. Michigan backers are conservative and they’re skittish. Plenty of good directors use hard drugs, but even at their worst, they can hold their shit together. If Bill continues like this, he’ll lose it all.” Stan released her arm. “I took his keys, but I don’t want to see him again.”

“I’ll take ‘em.”

He reached in his pocket and tossed her the key ring. “I’d be more comfortable if you let me call the police.”

“No. I’ll talk to him.”

“Do you want me to wait outside?”

“Go, Stan. And thanks.”

“Watch yourself, pretty-girl. Take care.”

Sarah marched across the lawn, up the trio of steps, moved aside the broken screen-door, and stepped into the living room.