In the Space of a Moment
It was a bad weekend, you say. It's the easy answer, the simple one. But not the whole one.
Spoilers: The Pilot
Rating: PG-13 for cursing
Character: Danny Tripp
Disclaimer: They belong to Aaron Sorkin, Tommy Schlamme, etc.
Notes: Thanks to Lz for repeatedly telling me this doesn't suck (even if it does) and to the rest of you (you know who you are) for just being there. *g*
How did it happen? You've been asking yourself that for the past eight days and you still don't have a good answer. It was a bad weekend, you say. It's the easy answer, the simple one. But not the whole one.
Friday, your best friend tells you he's going in for back surgery. Not a big deal, he says. Except you've seen those medical documentaries. You know things can go wrong with the simplest of procedures. You saw it first hand with your own uncle. He died when you were ten.
There are no guarantees that Matt will be ok.
You're still processing this news when you get the invitation in the mail. Not the one to the big awards thing next week – you've been expecting that -- but to Amanda's wedding. You don't love her, not any more, and you're not even sure if you ever really did. But she's getting married and it hits you that you're forty years old and you've never been in anything resembling a serious relationship and you wonder if you ever will be. Shouldn't you have been in love at least once by now?
Meanwhile, your best friend is going in for surgery.
The movie's been approved by the studio, but there's still testing, casting and everything else that needs to be done. It's not like your last project, it doesn't own your heart and soul like that show did, but it's good. It's very good. And you're doing it with Matt. What could go wrong?
Only everything. Especially if Matt's not there to share it with you.
The urge to call your sponsor is strong, the urge to call up your guy and buy some coke even stronger. You don't do either. You convince yourself you can get through this. You've been clean for years. You won't fuck it up. Not this time.
You go to the bar down the street to have a drink and shake it off, but one drink turns into two, turns into five. And when the woman at the bar – girl really, she couldn't have been more than twenty-five – shows some interest, you invite her back to your place. You're smart enough to turn her down when she offers you the blow the first time. You just want to drink some more scotch and then take her upstairs and fuck her. And she's just as eager to get to the main event as you. So you pour the drinks, knock them back quickly and then stumble upstairs, shedding clothes as you go. It's the best fuck you've had in a while.
But afterwards, you look at her lying there, dead asleep in your bed, and you wonder what the hell you were thinking. You don't know anything about this girl. For all you know, she just wants a part in the movie. The movie. Which still needs so much work. Work that can only be done if Matt's there with you. And the more you think about the girl in your bed and the movie and Matt, the more agitated you become. You can't do this. You'll fuck everything up.
That's when you remember the coke. It's downstairs in the girl's purse. One floor down, so close, so tempting. Getting up, you pad naked down the hall and down the stairs, finding the purse on the living room floor. You rummage around inside it until you find what you're looking for. The years fade away and suddenly you're the same guy you were twelve years ago, expertly setting up a line of coke on the living room table and taking a hit from it.
Only you aren't that guy from twelve years ago, not really, and you immediately regret your actions. You push everything off the table and rest your head in your hands, sobbing.
And you wonder how the hell you're going to tell Matt and you wonder how the hell you could jeopardize the movie like this. And then you do what you should have done hours ago – you pick up the phone and you call your sponsor and he talks you down. Eleven years reduced to one hour, but one hour is better than none and you know it, so you take a deep breath and you try and figure it out.
And then it's the next day, and the girl is gone and the coke is gone with her. You still don't know how to tell Matt, but it doesn't matter anyhow because you barely get a chance to see him before you're being called in for the insurance tests and he's being admitted to the hospital and everything becomes a blur. And you're nervous as hell – and scared too – but you're on the phone with your sponsor every hour and you're going to get through this. You have to. Because the alternative is unthinkable.
And then all hell breaks loose, and now you're sitting in a taxi at the back of the set and Matt is looking at you with such concern and you know that you've fucked up the movie, but you've gotten a second chance with this show. And maybe that's all you need right now.
Eleven years. Eight days. It doesn't matter. Because you're only forty and there's still time to meet the woman of your dreams, you've got a new project, one that's means more to you than any movie possibly could, and your best friend is right here by your side. And you know you can do this.
*End*
Posted by Cassie on 11:39 AM