THE GREATEST ADVENTURES OF MIGHTY WOMAN - BOOK 1

CHAPTER 2 - PILOT

Amy waited in the cavernous, marble lobby alone. The echo was Gothic as people with dress shoes strode in and out. She glanced at her phone for the time. 3:57pm. Rick was late. Or not coming. Did she have the wrong address? Amy checked the email again, a sudden spray of panic dousing her. An agonizing minute passed before he arrived and her pulse slowed from a nervous gallop to a steady trot.

Rick was all agent, all business, full of energy, swinging his arms as he walked. She hadn't seen him in person in almost two years. He was still trim and fit.

"Hey, stranger," he said, quickly drawing her into a platonic embrace. "Good to see you."

They parted. "Great to see you too, Rick," she said.

"So," he began, "did you read the synopsis?"

"Yes. I mean, I glanced through it before I drove over."

"You glanced through it, or you read it?"

"Yes," she said smiling.

#   #   #

Amy and Rick sat at a long wooden table in a glass conference room. Seated directly across from them was Don Blitz, a bulky man in his fifties with round rimmed glasses and a full head of silvery hair. Don seemed incapable of smiling, even when he laughed at one of Rick's jokes during small talk.

Jumping in for a chance to impress, Amy said, "You know, I was the one that came up with the 'Mighty Powers' line."

Don stared at her vacantly.

Clearing her throat, Amy said, "I mention that because I'm very creative. Originally my character was supposed to clap her hands together three times to transform into my costume—and I thought that was pretty lame...."

Don interjected, "That is lame."

Amy cleared her throat, and restarted.

"So, anyhow, I came up with the whole 'mighty powers unite' line. Anyhow, the producer just loved it and so did the fans! It became a classic catch-phrase."

Rick chuckled nervously and said, "Miss creative here... she's very collaborative."

Without cracking so much as the slightest reaction, Don asked Amy, "I read somewhere that you got struck by lightning when you were a kid. That true?"

Amy said, "Yes. And—interesting story—that ties in with the mighty powers unite phrase. You see, I was in second grade, riding my bike outside during a storm. My mom was—"

Don said, "That was the name of your series, right? Lightning Girl?"

"Mighty Woman," Amy said.

Don glanced at his watch. "Well, let's get to it and see if lightning strikes twice."

Having no idea what he actually meant, Amy said cautiously, "Sure."

Asserting all the power in the room, Don said, "Okay. We have a new pilot we're shooting and, after talking with Rick, had a part in mind for you. You'd be playing Sarah. She's an alcoholic mother of an autistic teen. Sarah is harsh, intolerant, and a habitual, hopeless drunk. You know, typical middle America white trailer trash. Anyhow, the reason I think you'd be right for this part is that your character is passed out most of the time."

Amy scooted up in her chair.

"So I'd be... unconscious on screen... most of the time?"

Don said, "It's a challenging part. Not as easy as it sounds."

Frustrated, Amy said, "That sounds really great, but, just hear me out... what if Sarah is actually a genetically enhanced superheroine that cares for her daughter during the day and fights crime at night. And after she saves the life of a Government official, she's asked to join a secret agency to help save the world from an otherworldly invasion."

Don folded his big, meaty arms and shot Rick a look.

"Did you actually give her the synopsis for this?"

Rick nervously leaned in. "Of course I did. Amy, what are you doing?"

Amy smiled at him. "I'm just making a suggestion about the character. I think it'll really punch the whole thing up, rather than me just... laying splayed out on a torn up couch with my eyes closed."

Don said, "Yeah, well, that's not going to happen. Alcoholic, passed out mother of said teen. That's the part. That's the pilot we're shooting."

Amy said, "But my idea is more interesting. I mean, I'm much better suited to play a hero. Super powered."

Don knifed Rick with a furious glare.

#   #   #

Back in the lobby, Rick leaned in toward Amy as they hurried toward the exit.

"What was that all about, Amy?"

"Rick, come on, I was trying to save his pilot."

"No," he said, tension in his jaw, "You were insulting him and embarrassing me. I had to work hard to get you this meeting. Now I'm going to have to apologize my ass off."

Amy said, "Rick, come on, this is me we're talking about here—you know what I'm good at! I can't spend all my screen time sleeping like a drunk, beached whale on a torn up sofa with gaff taped corners! What kind of role is that anyway? It's stupid! It's a caricature, not a real person. Look, if you talk to the Mighty Woman movie people again about me, Im sure they'll...."

Rick lifted his palm, blocking her.

"Amy, I like you. I do. And I've gone to bat for you a full nine innings here. But this... this just isn't working. The lightning ain't striking again. I'm sorry."

Amy felt a ball made of lead form in her stomach.

"Are you... are you dumping me, Rick?" she asked.

Rick straightened his tie and said, "I can't be your agent anymore."

Amy felt heat in her eyes and the sudden sting of impending tears.

"Rick, wait. Just wait a sec—"

"Best of luck to you, Aim. I hope you get what it is you really want. Or at least something realistic."

He spun expertly on his heel and walked off, exiting the building. Amy hovered in the middle of the lobby—a rowboat lost at sea. Her phone rang loudly, the Mighty Woman theme song blaring awkwardly in the cavernous space. Taking a deep breath and muscling back tears, she answered.

"This is Amy."

"Amy, can you hear me? You have a shift tonight. Or are you still sick after five days?"

The voice belonged to Kelly, the buxom blonde shift supervisor at the Bootys sports bar in Burbank. It was a job Amy took six months ago as she grew dangerously close to not making her rent on time. Bootys was a Hooters knockoff planted just a few blocks from the mall.

Amy quickly coughed and said, "Having a hard time hearing you. It's this ear infection."

Kelly said, "I said you have a shift tonight! Gotta know if you're coming in. You were supposed to call me this morning, we are slammed here!"

Amy coughed again for effect, then blew her nose. A tall, slender woman in a tight fitting executive business suit glared at her as she passed.

"Sorry," Amy said. "I was unconscious this morning. I threw up and hit my head on the toilet. Just... just one more day and I should be fine!"

Kelly said, "That's what you told me four days ago."

Amy hacked and said, "I thought I was going to be better, but... my spleen—"

Kelly said, "Be back here Thursday at two-thirty. You don't have any more time off."

The call ended and Amy dumped her phone into her purse. She held motionless, taking in the Italian marble, the floor-to-ceiling glass, the gleaming brushed steel doorhandles, the parade of exotic cars pulling in and out of the valet station, the clicking sound of expensive shoes on the mirror-like tile. All the things she'd had a small taste of a long time ago, now seemed unattainable—she'd have an easier time leaping to the roof of a ten story building or bending steel with her bare hands than getting her career back. The urge to cry was overwhelming. In order not to break down into gut wrenching sobs in the middle of the lobby, she hurried for the parking garage.