Blades of Grass

Hello?

Oh, hey.

I just got in.

I will have it done by the end of the month.

Yeah, of course I started it.

But you should really see

this fucking place that you put me up in.

Yeah.

Yes.

I understand that.

But if you want something that's gonna sell,

you gotta be patient.

Look, the more time I spend talking to you

in this dirty-ass motel room,

the less time I'll have to shit gold.

Mm-mm.

Yep. That's right.

Exactly.

Wait, what do you mean?

What do you think you're cute?

I think I'm damn cute.

How was the flight?

Oh, blow me.

I'm serious.

Oh, you are?

That's what I said.

You wanna know how my flight was?

Yeah. I... How much money

did I make you on that last book?

Come on, man.

How much?

You mean two years ago?

And... How much?!

And don't say last book like Colleen fucking Hoover, okay?

You're talented, but you're still a one-hit wonder.

So don't go getting a big head.

I make you millions and you fly me out here on Frontier.

Look at how you sound.

You sound like a fucking valley girl

whose dad Just cut her off.

No, no. I'm not superficial, man.

Jimmy, I'm not stupid either.

I mean, you assholes aren't even trying

to hide your contempt anymore.

Okay.

I don't mind flying coach at all.

Matter of fact, I prefer to be among my fellow man,

the average Joe.

But you dickheads only put me there

to remind me of my place.

Okay, okay. I'm sorry.

Honestly, I didn't know they were gonna do that to you.

Oh.

You're really gonna act like this?

Yeah.

You're gonna be a child?

Yeah, you're gonna keep treat me like one,

then yeah, I am.

Dude.

I mean, you make me leave my family

and fly me out here to what?

Put me in timeout

so that you can keep an eye on me.

You haven't given me anything. Okay?

In two years.

I thought maybe bringing you back to the city

would light a fire under your ass.

I like Maine.

Well, I'll never understand that. But to each their own.

Why are you here?

Can you just stop that

- for one second? - Stop what?

You know I'm on your side, right?

Okay.

I take shit from the partners every single week

because you give me nothing to show

that you're works keeping up. - Well, that's your job,

- isn't it? - What?

Taking shit for your clients.

Christ almighty.

Jimmy, I'm gonna write something. It's gonna be great.

It's gonna sell for you.

It's gonna reassure the public

I'm still the silver-tongue devil

I've been since I was writing TV sitcoms.

What time is it?

11:00.11:01.

Okay, well, I need something from you

in 6 days, 22 hours and 59 minutes.

Okay? A chapter, page, a fucking haiku.

Okay? I don't care.

I need something or I can't defend you anymore.

The fuck does that mean?

It means exactly what it means.

Ultimatum?

Sure. Let's call it that.

You're threatening to drop me?

It won't be my decision.

You fucking asshole!

- It's in your hands. - You are something else.

Yeah, well.

How's the wife?

She's fine.

Thanks.

How's Alice?

Really good, man. Thanks.

Sarah?

Starts kindergarten in a week.

Damn.

Yeah.

She misses a godfather.

Yeah, I, I'll have to bring everyone down to the city

for a weekend or something.

Yeah, absolutely.

I'll come up with something, Jim, just gimme some time.

I promise I'll come through.

Yeah, I know, man.

Honestly, I'm not worried.

All right.

Come here, man.

Quick beer?

Uh...

One.

Real talk, man.

Do you have any idea what you're gonna do next?

I, uh, I do,

but, I don't know.

So, no.

Jimmy, I have some great ideas for stories,

but when I start putting 'em on paper,

I feel like they're not mine to tell.

Does that make any sense?

Kind of. Keep going.

I mean, that's really all it is.

My own experiences and memories I draw from,

they don't feel like they're my own anymore.

They all just blend together in this gray mush.

And every story I tell just seems the same.

Jimmy, I can knock out 250 pages by the end of the month,

and it'll be a hit.

I know that.

But it won't be some perfidious sellout

that pushes mediocre fiction on the public annually.

I need to feel a connection to it.

So that's pretty much where I'm at.

I can't remember.

Did you ever meet my dad before he passed?

Uh, yeah, once.

So smart.

Can't believe he raised such a scumbag.

Yeah. Neither can I.

The reason I bring him up

is he'd always tell me this story when I was a kid.

When I was younger it really didn't make much sense.

But, you know, the older you get,

the more relevant your parents' teachings become.

- Such is life. - Right.

- Yeah. - Hm.

You ever hear of Milton Erickson?

Mm, no.

Brilliant psychologist/psychiatrist.

The story my dad would always tell me

was about one of Milton's patients,

a man that, well, became severely depressed

for seemingly no reason at all.

He had a wife, a daughter, nice little home,

humble job that made ends meet.

He was happy for most of his life

until out of nowhere he just lost interest

with everything around him.

Hm.

So he hears about Milton

and his almost miraculous approaches on hypnosis

and decides to give him a call and schedule an appointment.

Now, it's important to note

that at this time of Milton's life,

he lived in Phoenix, Arizona,

and this man lived all the way on the East Coast.

This man was by no means wealthy.

This little voyage of his gonna cost him a pretty penny.

But he figured he tried everything else,

and Milton was his best bet.

So he books a motel, purchases a plane ticket,

and goes to Phoenix to meet this esteemed genius.

Milton was very old at this point of his life,

soft spoken, slow speaking,

often very difficult to understand

just because of how quiet he was.

Hm.

The man finally gets to speak to Milton,

and everything sort of pours out of him.

He tells Milton that he, he's so sick of life.

Every day he just feels mechanical.

Every person he met was the same.

All of these experiences are just passionless

and, and it lacks substance.

After pretty much going on and on for 15 minutes,

uninterrupted, he finally caught his breath

and just waited for Mel to say something.

And?