Hollywood on the Danube

Chapter Fourteen

If Rodney ever were happy, the evidence would be arresting. His lips would curl upward when he greeted people on the fly. But the Rodney everyone knew was more prone to hop out of his taxi and head inside the building, eyes directed towards the writers' office. He rarely stopped to talk or smile a how do you do, and if someone said hi they'd be lucky to get a nod. 

This wasn't a happy fellow and it showed in his work. There was little humanity or warmth or astereotypical humor. That was Rose's observation when Billy first expressed concern. "It's not as if it's not workmanlike," she said of Rodney's writing. "It's just that it doesn't appear he's lived any sort of life." It was a bolt of lightning revelation and while it helped lift Billy's spirits, the fact still remained that Rodney was calling the shots. 

Too many perhaps, since Rodney was further behind with Helsinki and hadn't been able to convince the Italians about a new series. More pressure from Cal in the form of, "Rodney, boy, what's the problem? Why don't you spend less time in Budapest?" It was because Rodney was a one-man band and loath to step aside. If he hadn't been on top of Billy, that American would have mucked things up. 

He was tired of Cal's ranting but felt powerless to confront him, and with no release, either sexual or social, he was wound up and ready to snap. That was his mood as he came back to town, immediately summoning Billy and Des to a meeting. His manner was subdued, perhaps trying a different tack, but the net result was they had to start all over. 

"I figured as much," Billy said, admitting they'd done nothing while awaiting him, which annoyed Rodney a bit, though he did his best not to show it. 

"Couldn't you come up with some new beats?" he asked. 

"It seemed pointless," Billy suggested softly, "until we got your input." 

Here it was again, Rodney thought. It was all up to him. It didn't occur to him that this was due to his one-track mind, which wasn't too good at sharing what was on it most of the time. He felt disdain for people who were paid for doing nothing and it didn't bother him if they performed work they knew was a complete waste of time. He didn't care or even realize that to do so was demoralizing. 

"Well, let's just start," Rodney said, and they bandied around stories for a little more than three hours. There was a good deal of give and take, with Billy very respectful. This was critical. It was vital. It was key to his survival. He couldn't explode or show contempt if he had any chance of hanging on. However, he believed he could, in a controlled tone, suggest problems with Rodney's ideas, and it worked, with Rodney agreeing it was important to explore Billy's objections. 

Eventually the session ended with some semblance of consensus. "Boy that was really exhausting," said an extremely wide-eyed Des, who from Billy's vantage point was still bursting with energy. 

"I quite agree," Rodney said, "and let's hope it doesn't become the norm." It was a crack Billy sensed was aimed squarely at him. 

Rodney had other things to involve himself that afternoon, including a studio inspection with Csaba, Frieda and Manfred. "Good God what's that monstrosity?" Rodney declared during a tour of the sets, when his eyes spied a purple couch and red chairs set against walls of yellow. 

"You don't like it?" Csaba asked nervously as Manfred and Frieda chuckled, and Jeremy smiled devilishly from the sidelines out of sight. 

"Whoever chose it is obviously colorblind," Rodney exclaimed loudly, "and if he's not, someone please shoot him and put him out of his misery." One by one Rodney assessed the new settings. "Out!" "This one's all right." "Okay." "Putrid." "Hurray, finally we've got something perfect." These were his pronouncements. A mixed bag actually, which for Rodney was terrific. But the big loser was Csaba who supervised the construction, overruling the poor art director, who long ago stopped arguing.