Elevator Pitch
Photo Credit: Mioi (Flickr.com)
“What floor?” Kevin asked as the fat tourist stepped in to the elevator.
“17,” the tourist said, and then did a double take. “Oh my god,” he said. “Are you Kevin Sears?”
“Um, yeah,” Kevin said as the doors closed.
“All right, look,” said the tourist excitedly. The elevator begin to ascend. “So, imagine that there’s this planet, right, where humans touch down, and they start this space colony, and they’re trying to make the place, you know, livable. And the whole time, they keep searching for alien life by cutting through these thick branches in these woods that cover the whole planet, right. Except, they find out at the end of the movie that they’re not branches at all; they’re neurons in a giant, planet-wide brain, and it’s actually God. But they’ve destroyed the part of the brain that has any sort of compassion, and so the planet destroys them. And then… and then! There’s a sequel where the people back on Earth have to wait and be judged while God returns to destroy them for what happened.”
“What, is that, like, a book you’re reading or something?” Kevin asked.
“No, that’s my elevator pitch,” said the tourist. “What do you think?”
The door dinged. “17th floor,” said Kevin. “Your stop, right?”
The tourist moved towards the door, but sort of leaned his back up against it to keep it from closing. “So, c’mon, what do you think?” he asked. “Is that something you’d want to be in?”
“Honestly?” asked Kevin. “I just want to go to bed, man.”
“But…” the tourist said. The door started to close, but he pushed on it with his back, and it went back in. “I mean, this thing could make a lot of money with you directing it. I’ve got some great ideas for casting, too.”
Kevin yawned. “Sorry, man,” he said. “I’ve got my own projects, you know? But good luck with yours, though.”
An alarm went off. The tourist stepped back into the elevator.
“I’ll ride up with you,” he said. “Let me give you my contact information or something.”
Kevin shook his head and pushed the “open door” button. “Look, man, I’m kind of sick right now,” he said. “There’s this big party going on downstairs, and it was just too much, and I sort of need to just call it a night, you know?”
The tourist was silent for a moment, and then nodded. “All right, I understand, Mr. Sears,” he said. “Tell you what… I’ll leave a packet for you at the front desk, and you can pick it up when you check out, OK?”
“Sounds great,” Kevin said. “Take care.”
******
Kevin woke up with a start. His phone was ringing.
“Yeah?” he said into it. He felt terrible. This illness was really coming on strong.
“Hey Kevin,” said his agent. “Look, I know you weren’t feeling well, but you’ve gotta be more careful about sneaking out like that without taking someone with you. This guy you ran into on your way up is down here killing the party, man.”
“Fat guy, looks like a tourist?” Kevin asked.
“Yeah, you know who I mean,” said his agent. “He got in saying he was a friend of yours. Gave them your room number and everything.”
“I don’t know him,” said Kevin. “He gave me some lame elevator pitch.”
“Oh yeah. He’s tried to give it to everybody here, too,” said the agent. “Most of the people down here are so wasted they’re just sort of looking at him.”
“Well, have security get him out of there,” said Kevin.
“I’m going to to. Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t actually a friend,” said the agent. “You think I should have him thrown out of the hotel, too?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Kevin. “I don’t want to have to see him again.
*****
The tabloids had a field day with the story — Kevin Sears, famous director, banned a fan from his hotel just for having the nerve to talk to him. Kevin sighed as he put down the National Enquirer. It was too much. Why did these people feel entitled to treat him badly just because he was a celebrity?
He sat there thinking about it for awhile, and suddenly, an idea struck him. Not about a brain planet or anything stupid like that. No, a documentary about a hapless man who had a dumb idea for a film and who made nothing but enemies by talking about it. A cautionary tale about how not to work your way into the film industry.
Smiling, Kevin picked up the phone to call his agent. This fat tourist was going to get way more than he’d bargained for.
Fiction, Writing Scraps | SeanJJordan | 
January 16, 2010 1:10 am
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