The Good, the Bad, and the Cliché

By Lincoln Reed

With a Glock 17 aimed between her eyes, Judy Suarez lit a cigarette and grinned. “Aren’t you going to ask if I’m feeling lucky?”

I stood to the side, helpless, as Chelsea gripped the handgun with firmer resolve, her attention fully trained on my employer. “Shut up! For once, let me think.”

Situated in Judy’s hotel room like a three-way Wild West standoff, Judy and I were trapped. Chelsea, a sandy-haired screenwriter with death in her eyes, had followed us back to the room, slammed the door, and snatched Judy’s firearm from underneath the script doctor’s pillow. Now, our attacker blocked the only exit. Judy stood to my right while I did my best to keep my wobbling knees from collapsing.

Chelsea grasped the Glock with loose shoulders, incorrect grip, and no ear plugs. Clearly, she’d never been to a shooting range. Questions fired through my mind like the rotating cylinder of a loaded revolver. How had Chelsea known where Judy kept her gun? Could I press the emergency signal on my cellphone fast enough? Didn’t Judy know this was a “no smoking” room?

The script doctor exhaled a puff through her nose, eyes like steel on the aggressor. “Honey, what’s this really about?”

Chelsea straightened her arms. “I oughta kill you.”

“I’d have recommended the same for your protagonist. We must not be afraid to kill our darlings… darling.”

My palms started sweating. How could Judy remain so composed? Chelsea had lost her mind. Or worse, she’d become possessed by the demon that plagued even our best clients—pride.

Chelsea’s bottom lip quivered. “You ruined my career.”

Judy took another drag, moved a strand of gray hair behind her ear, and motioned for Chelsea to vent.

“My script was golden,” Chelsea continued, spittle flying with each hard syllable. “My agent loved it. The studio liked it. Then you… you!”

Judy glanced at me and sighed. “Why does monologuing always proceed comeuppance?”

“Excuse me?” Chelsea craned her neck. “Are you critiquing me?”

“If this conversation was a piece of paper, I’d have it drenched in red. For once, be original.” Judy tapped cigarette ashes on the carpet. “What’s the truth, Chelly? The heart of your story. No, not your script. The one you’re living right now. The narrative you’ve crafted every day of your life.”

Chelsea seemed taken aback by the compassion in Judy’s tone. “My dreams were coming true. A major studio wanted to buy my script. Then you cut me down.”

Judy’s brow furrowed. “When a studio exec calls and asks for my opinion, I tell the truth.”

“And destroy my one-in-a-million shot?”

“There’ll be others.”

Chelsea’s finger crept dangerously close to the trigger. “You’re no script doctor. You’re just jealous. Can’t stand to see one of your clients hit the lottery. Every patient that’s cured is a customer lost. Tell me I’m wrong!”

Judy rolled her eyes. “Once again, unoriginal.”

Sensing the need to divert Chelsea’s deadly aim away from Judy, I stumbled into the conversation. “Maybe we should—”

Chelsea swung the gun toward my chest. “Who’re you?”

Judy inhaled deep on the cigarette. “Daryl, former intern. He’s full-time now.”

I cracked a nervous smile. “Loved your script.”

The screenwriter frowned. “Go on.”

I shared a look with Judy, our eyes meeting. No, please, don’t—

“In fact,” Judy said, “he’s the one who noticed a major plot hole.”

A sinister darkness draped Chelsea’s face. “Oh, is that so?”

“Nice kid.” Judy squashed her cigarette on the TV stand as if it were an ashtray. “Still green. Learning on the job.”

Chelsea pivoted the gun back toward Judy. “An intern? My career was cratered by an intern?”

“Assistant,” I corrected. Yeah, great. Make the crazy person angrier.

“Quiet!” Chelsea snapped at me. “You don’t matter.”

“A bit of humility might be good medicine.” Judy took another step toward the Glock. “For starters, how did you know I kept a gun underneath my pillow?”

“You… Why?”

“Think, honey. Why was it your first instinct to look beneath my pillow?”

I slowly touched the phone in my pocket. Chelsea scowled. My hand retreated.

“Page fifty-two in your script.” Judy gave a slight stabbing motion. “Right at the midpoint. Your protagonist hides her gun beneath—”

“So?” The screenwriter’s eyes shot daggers. “What’s it matter?”

Judy inched closer to the gun. “Pop-culture poison. Gets into your blood.” She paused for a beat. “We use clichés because they work… but that doesn’t mean we should rely on them.”

Chelsea relaxed. “It’s a cliché?”

Judy shrugged. “Before writing, how much research did you do into people with concealed carry permits?”

“I, uh, you see—”

“Research is the screenwriter’s job, Chelly. Not your agent’s. And certainly not the studio’s. If you don’t cover your tracks, the audience will know. Then, it’s curtains.” Judy chuckled. “Ah, physician, heal thyself! See? There’s another one. Life is full of clichés. It’s our job to help you avoid them.”

“B-But,” Chelsea stammered, “why sabotage—?”

“The exec wanted my honest take.” Judy went on. “And, after reading Daryl’s notes, I couldn’t recommend the story. The characters are fresh, but the narrative… it needs a rewrite.”

“Nutjobs don’t put their guns under pillows?” Chelsea appeared shocked. “But that’s… that’s—”

“A cliché.” Judy reached out, snatched the Glock, and—in a flash—aimed the weapon back at Chelsea. I don’t think Jason Bourne could have done it faster.

“You threaten Daryl again”—Judy’s voice lowered—“I’ll end your career… permanently.”

Judy pulled the trigger.

Click.

Chelsea winced, stared down the barrel, and fainted.

I balked. “It wasn’t loaded?”

Judy tossed me the gun. “How’s that feel?”

I weighed the Glock. “Lighter than I remember.”

“There’s two types of writers in this world, my friend.” Judy lit another cigarette. “Those who know the weight of a loaded gun, and those who don’t.”

I checked Chelsea’s pulse, still beating. “What now?”

Judy breathed out another cloud and smirked. “You tell me, grasshopper. Just make sure it isn’t a cliché.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lincoln Reed is a writer, filmmaker, and professor. He holds an MFA in creative writing from Miami University (OH). More than 45 of his short stories are featured in online publications and print anthologies.

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