| The 13th Floor |
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 Every writer has a "bad story" story. This is mine.Back in the day, I co-wrote, along with a friend as misguided as I, an unsolicited script for a radio show. We called it The 13th Floor, and since we didn't know what we were doing, the title was probably the best thing about it. We were young and we needed the money. My friend Mary & I, who collaborated on this brilliant piece of literature (NOT), both had small apartments in the same building. How small were they, Johnny? •They were so small that if you put them together, they might form a good-sized broom closet. •They were so small that you had to go outside to close the door. That's an old joke, and no, I don't get it either. Just trust me, these apartments weren't spacious. Anyway, we wrote this play for a new show that was trying to bring back radio drama. It didn't work: the show or the play. But miracle of miracles, the producer actually bought our script for the incredible sum of $200 ($100 clams each!) for all rights. All right! When we heard the news, we whooped and hollered and rolled around on the floor, although you couldn't do all that much rolling on a rug that was more like a bath mat. Still, we were as happy as too unpublished writers who were about to be published could possibly be. And then (dramatic organ music here) tragedy struck . . . A few weeks later, those bastards at the network (does that phrase sound familiar?) withdrew their offer. Just like that, with some flimsy excuse or other. Bankruptcy? Death? An Act of God? No explanation could possibly have satisfied us, or dulled our pain, but we were too shocked to protest very much. Things couldn't get any worse for our two young heroines, but of course they did. (Music gets more dramatic.) A few weeks after they told us they weren't buying our story (well, we weren't buying theirs either), we were listening to the show — and we heard a version of our script being broadcast on the air! Our idea! Our script, well, sorta. Okay, It might have been a better version, written by more experienced writers — but it was our idea! And don't forget, we were young and needed the money!! Alas, we were also too inexperienced in the Ways of the World (why didn't we sue?) to fight this thing. We let it go, and as we say these days, we moved on. And little by little it faded from our memories. For years, though, we celebrated Veteran's Day together, feeling that we were now survivors of a war of sorts: the Davidettes against Goliath. And this time, as in most of life as we had come to know it, Goliath most definitely won. So, after all this, why am I not bitter? Simple. (Organ music gets dreamy and upbeat.) To this day, I remember in vivid detail how happy we were to have sold that script. In my mind's eye, I can see that little apartment, the sycamore tree (the one that grows in Brooklyn although this was Manhattan) framed in the catty-corner window, the Murphy Kitchen, the red ratty rug, and especially the whooping and rolling around on the floor in pure joy.  On the other hand, I don't recall much of the bad
stuff: including the script itself or the details of how it all played out, so to speak. I don't even remember if those dastardly bastards even bothered to change the title, or if they had the gall to use that too. The other day in the elevator of my building, which ironically is just a few blocks away from the brownstone where I lived back then, someone got in on the 13th floor, and because I know he's an actor, I told him I had once written a play called The 13th Floor. "Good title," he said. Little did he know . . . Did YOU know about the rock group in the 60s called the 13th Floor Elevators? And yes, they had their ups and downs . . . but their music lives on today. Although not on elevators. Add this page to your favorite Social Bookmarking websites                 |
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Comments
In all these years of knowing you and and a few years working with Mary, I don't ever remember that story! The nerve of that big bad network. It would never happen today, everyone has a lawyer in their family.
I live in a building that does not have a thirteenth floor on the elevator board. What does that mean for the residents who live on 14? Maybe you should speak with Mary and come up with a new idea for a play. Can anyone think of a good title?
It's a sweet story and well told. And it fits in perfectly with your "I can't believe I'm not bitter."
In fact, I'll even say it, "I can't believe you're not bitter" over that one. I'd be so pissed off! You have a much healthier outlook. Good for you!
And maybe karma caught up to them. Maybe they went to the thirteenth floor just to check out a scene. They opened the windows and then the wind blew. And the script was blown out of their hands. And as they went to save it.......well........
OK, I'm just kidding. I gotta save all my karma too!
On the other hand, I like your scenario, too.
we'll call "Al" because that was his name. He was a great cartoonist and impressionist and we came up with a takeoff on Dracula. I played Renfield and he did a great Bela Lugosi. We auditioned for Steve Alllen & his entire cast and they loved it. Gave us the "Don't call us, we'll call you" routine. A week later, they began doing Dracula sketches on a regular basis. Very much like we had showed them. We were pissed, but what can you do? Stuff like that happens in the biz. Al went on to help create Bullwinkle and I went on to edit a national children's magazine (with a lot of help from the creator of this blog) and author a lot of books. So you win some, you lose some. It's called experience. As Doris Day used to sing, "What will be, will be!" Who can spell Kay sa rah, sa rah? Remember her, Kay Sarah? Never mind.
By the way, Kay Sarah married What's His Name and they had a child named Whatever.
And I bet you were a great Renfield.
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