re-arranging considerations

Author's note: A result of listening to Eminem's "Lose Yourself" for 3 hours straight, babysitting 3 kids all under the age of 8, and bugging from my so-called friends for a new Mira-Story. Not all at once, mind you, but pretty damned close ;)

It was a stupid script.

It was the stupidest script I’d ever read.

In fact, the script couldn’t have been stupider if the writer had followed every rule in “Stupid Script Writing for Dummies, Wankers, and One-Celled Life-Forms,” ripped the finished work through a woodchipper then let a chimp on Prozac glue the whole thing back together. It had no originality, no challenge, and no indication that the cliches were going to end. It was the kind of stuff that looked good in the trailer then, after an abysmal week in the theatres, died gruesomely on the rental shelves where it would henceforth collect dust bunnies the size of Aunt Margie’s warts.

But they’d give me a pretty hefty cheque as soon as I signed on the dotted line.

I dropped my head back, rolling my shoulders, ignoring the twinge in my shoulders and the fire at the base of my back. My sinuses didn’t feel too well either. Fucking LA smog; they couldn’t even do pollution right, bloody stupid Yanks. I'd been at these scripts for the past week and a half and quite frankly none of them were worth this pain. It didn't help that Mira's teeth chose to erupt from her gums a few days ago.

She fussed in her carrier. I rocked her with my foot, half-heartedly humming a jingle from a commercial. A hundred dollars in CDs guaranteed to lull a baby to sleep and forge numerous links in her brain and the little rosebud wanted bad synthesizers. I settled on the Goldfish Crackers one although Mira preferred Pepsi commercials. I drew the line at singing Britney Spears; lovely to look at, better to snog, but not the type of thing I want an impressionable young lady to listen to.

I tried to find something salvageable about the Script-From-Hell. Still no success.

A green "1:26" blinked at me. That made it a grand total of thirty hours since I last slept if you can call a three-hour nap sleeping. The clock blinked "1:27." I decided then and there that I hated green. I would burn everything green in my closet. The next time I saw Billy, I'd carve his eyes out with a tree branch. It's a good thing LA was in the middle of a desert.

Mira’s whimpers got louder. She kicked at her blanket as her eyes and mouth opened to let out a high-pitched squawk.

"Mira, no, please!" I jammed my palms into my eyes. "You've been at this for days; let us both rest, for the love of all that's holy."

She ignored me, stiffening up in preparation for a good, stubborn tantrum.

God, what the hell had I been thinking doing this whole fatherhood shit? I hadn’t gone out for fun for so long, I’d forgotten where I was. I knew how many paces it took to get all over the apartment. I smelled like every nasty thing that ever came out of a human body. I was even too goddamned tired to wank off, never mind have sex. I was fucking re-arranging bloody furniture for fucking fun! I was too bloody young to be trapped like this!

Mira let out a snuffle, her round fists closing and unclenching rhythmically, her mouth gaping wide as she took in a ragged breath. Out came the hundred-decibel howl.

Fuck me blind, she wasn't going to stop! I’d been bloody destroying everything I’d ever worked for in my fucking life to make bloody sure she was happy and she never stopped fucking crying and if she started up again tonight, I swear to God I would drop her off in someplace across town and let someone else worry about--

Christ.

She was out of the carrier in a second, propped up on my shoulder. Her head wasn’t any bigger than a grapefruit, the bones fragile in my hands. Her entire body was shaking so hard I just... Oh, God...

“I didn’t mean it, love,” I whispered in her down-like hair. “I swear, I didn’t mean it. Papa’s just a little tired, yeah? Tired like you’re tired of me fucking up this whole thing.”

She cuddled closer, sniffling pitifully. Her fists grabbed and held tiny wrinkles of my shirt like her life depended on it. She smelled so damned good. Like... like baby powder and sour milk and something else that just...

“Shhhhh.” I bounced lightly on the balls of my heels. “Shhhhh, love, shhhh. Papa’s here, darling, I’m not going anywhere. Shhhhh. Go back to sleep, beloved, shhhhh.”

The script’s bright blue folder snuck back into my field of view. I thought of Christopher Lee. Two hundred some-odd films and not all of them were Oscar material, yeah? I thought of a teacher, Mark, from the first year at Guildhall who turned down numerous roles because he wanted steady income for his family. I thought of the way Ian stole every scene he was involved in no matter how insignificant.

I kissed the side of Mira’s head and nudged that stupid excuse for a script in the “Considering” pile.