Like Melvin

By Jonathan Vars

What if your dream come true turns into a nightmare? That is the crisis Jack Thomson must face when he gets the chance to star in a new medieval TV show. What appears at first to be the opportunity of a lifetime dissolves into a labyrinth of secrets and deception when he discovers a dark conspiracy at play in the studio. Now Jack is in a race against time to discover the truth before his future is destroyed forever. Along the way, he must come to grips with his own dark past and a God who might prove to be his only salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512791143

Jonathan Vars

Jonathan Vars is a Christian fiction writer from New England, publishing his work in novel format for the very first time. His works on story craft and writing techniques can be found on his website voltampsreactive.com. In addition to writing, Jonathan is an avid runner and outdoorsman. He is currently working on the sequel to Like Melvin.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

We’ve got a problem.

The producer sat expressionless in his huge brown leather chair as director Daron Scythe paced up and down in front of the desk. It was well past midnight. The single light in the room cast elongated shadows throughout the vast interior of the secluded office, giving the various exotic plants in the room an eerie jungle effect, and accentuating the agitated director’s angular features. The awards which lined the wall, testimonies to years of accomplishment in the daylight, were rendered nothing more than vacant black holes in the darkness. In the vastness of the office no sound could be heard but the clicking of Daron’s designer boots on the floor.

It’s Jack, Daron continued, finally pausing and leaning against the bookcase, putting a hand to his throbbing temples. I don’t know what to do with him. I’m quickly losing any control I have over him. When I threatened him with exposing White, it seemed to rattle him for a while, but lately he’s becoming harder and harder to intimidate. Worse, he’s getting others involved. I can force him to finish the series, but you know how it is; if his heart’s not in it, the final results suffer. I can’t figure out how we’re going to get him to stay for next season.

Have you made it clear that we’ll demolish White’s reputation? The producer’s voice was a low monotone as he stared out the window, his eyes travelling past the concrete labyrinth which was Wall Breacher Studios, finally settling on the distant hills, some miles off, which shimmered in the California moonlight.

Yes, said Daron, breathing through his nostrils as he ran a hand through his hair, but he’s smarter than I gave him credit for. He knows we’re bluffing.

Bluffing?

Daron slowly raised his head to see the producer rotating methodically side to side, fingers pressed against his lips as he stared off at the side wall, his ample waist bulging against his rumpled white dress shirt.

Well, yes…I mean, he must know that if we drag White down we drag Jack right down with him. We’d kill the show.

Daron, said the producer slowly, I thought I gave you explicit instructions. Once we air on the 15th, you will leak White’s story to the press. Every last sordid detail.

Daron stared in disbelief, the ever-present sunglasses around his neck two black holes in the shadowy room.

The media will have a field day of course, the producer continued, as if dictating a memo, Jack’s name will be everywhere—

And Wall Breacher’s, Daron interrupted impatiently.

And Wall Breacher’s. But we’ll simply be an association, an ‘innocent bystander’. We’ll be right in the thick of it, but still above it. First rule of production Daron: No publicity is bad publicity, assuming you know how to manipulate it.

Ok, so what about Jack? Daron questioned, folding his arms, picking at the folds of his suede jacket in agitation, Your little Melvin is going to sink the whole show.

No, said the producer quietly, no, I don’t think so. They’ll get too wrapped up in the character. Audiences always do. They won’t even care about Jack. He’ll be ruined personally, of course, but Melvin will be untouched. Result: the biggest promotion campaign we could ever hope for without even spending a dime.

Daron shook his head, sighing. Even if what you say is true, he said, this is going to destroy Jack. You’re going to kill your Melvin.

The producer turned slowly in his huge chair until he was facing the web of television monitors mounted on the wall, even his own large body totally concealed by the chair’s width. You never learned to understand actors, did you Daron?

The producer leaned back, letting his watery gray eyes rove over the countless screens, the black and white footage reflecting off his placid face. When we leak White’s story, it will burn the last bridge Jack has to his old life. He won’t be able to go back. Work at any other studio will be out of the question; they wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. He can’t go backwards and he can’t go forwards. All that will be left for him is Wall Breacher Studios. Sooner or later, he’ll realize that. And once he does, he’ll bury himself in Melvin.

The producer turned till he was once again facing his sullen director. So you see, Daron, he said softly, after the 15th, we won’t have to worry about Jack anymore. There will be no Jack Thomson. There will only be Melvin.

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

One year earlier

Mr. Thomson?

No response.

Mr. Thomson?

Still silence.

Mr. Thomson!

What?

Jack Thomson sat up with a start, drawing chuckles from the other students in the class room.

So nice of you to join the living, Mr. Thomson, came Professor Harding’s icy monotone, as he tossed the obligatory board marker up and down in his hand, I hope my teaching hasn’t disturbed you. Perhaps now that you’re with us, you wouldn’t mind completing this equation?

Jack rose from his desk, disoriented. He couldn’t tell if he had dozed off or not. He should have known that pulling that all-nighter to cram for midterms would catch up with him. Squinting up at the board, his heart sank. From the looks of things, Harding had set him up again.

We’re waiting, Mr. Thomson.

Walking across the classroom, Jack took the marker from his teacher’s hand and faced the white board. Signs, numbers, and figures were scrawled across the board in red ink, web-like and disjointed, as was his professor’s infamous style.

Glancing back at the class of about twenty five, Jack was met with the predictable sight of a back row of sleepers, a middle row of doodlers, and a front row of spectacled eggheads, several barely trying to conceal smirks. He looked desperately around the spacious classroom, as if somewhere in the white-walled expanse lay a means of escape. His eyes travelled quickly from the faded map of Texas, to Harding’s poster of torturously corny math puns, and finally up to the clock on the far wall, hoping against hope that he could stall long enough to get out of his predicament. No such luck.

Turning back to the board, Jack willed himself to focus. He felt Harding’s cold stare on him, and heard the pointed throat clearing as the man once again cinched up his tie, which already appeared strangulation-tight. Jack tried to make sense of the equation, but it all seemed to be going in several different directions at once. His nerves tightened as he heard suppressed chuckles behind him.

You don’t seem to be making very much progress, Mr. Thomson.

Taking a deep breath, Jack uncapped the marker and began working the problem. He had no idea if what he was doing was right, and judging by Harding’s soft laughter he was miles off. Finally, he capped the marker and handed it back to his teacher.

Thank you so much, Mr. Thomson, the math teacher growled, running a hand over his slick gray hair, you’ve made my point better than I could myself. Now everyone should see the sort of careless errors that are made when people don’t apply themselves. With a flourish, he scribbled a string of unreadable figures on the board, circling one with a wide oval. It doesn’t get any clearer than that, he chuckled.

Jack walked down the crowded hall of Fennley Wing, backpack flapping behind him, a low boil in his stomach. He had been Harding’s whipping boy since the first day of the semester. The calculus professor seemed to take some sort of secret pleasure in humiliating him in front of the class. Rounding the corner, he pushed open the door to the auditorium and hurried down the darkened aisles.

Hey, Jack! a tall, skinny young man with wispy brown hair called to him from onstage. Squinting in the stage lights, Jack could make out Art Jamison, a fellow classmate. Old Hardboiled sure laid in to you today! What’s he got against you anyways?

Jack faked a laugh and replied, Not sure, I’m just lucky I guess. Art laughed and began pulling on his costume as he walked backstage. Yeah, Jack muttered to himself, walking towards the stage, that and the fact that he hates us orphan low-lives for ‘compromising the integrity’ of the school.

Jack hurried onto the stage and made his way to the back, the smell of spray paint and makeup hanging thickly in the air. Noting with irritation that the green room was still closed off for renovation, he grabbed his costume off his peg and began changing in the hallway.

Hey baby, Jack whispered, touching the walls, did you miss me? He was where he belonged now: the theater; that warm, safe, familiar cocoon of make-believe where even the most complex problems somehow always worked themselves out by the final scene.

You make it all possible, baby, he said, letting his eyes wander out of the room to the lights and rigging in the rafters high above. The place was like a second home. Almost a salvation.

It sounds like a play, Jack thought ruefully, adjusting his wig in the mirror as fellow cast members swarmed by him, Homeless street punk wins an acting scholarship to a prominent university. Sounds cheesy.

Jack emerged from the claustrophobic hallway, giving his tunic one final tug, letting calculus class and Professor Harding fade into the background. He knew somewhere in the back of his mind that he eventually would have to face them again, but for right now, right here, they did not exist.

Director Martin Hughes clapped his hands. Very good guys, very good!

Jack and Art lowered their swords as they and the rest of the cast gave mock bows.

I think we’re gonna to be in good shape for Saturday, Martin said, motioning the cast to the edge of the stage and using a towel to wipe his forehead, Art, you need to make sure you’re bringing that blade up in time. I don’t want to see y’all losing an eye on stage. Jack, bit lighter on your feet. I know you’re right out straight, but we’ve got to keep things lively here.

Sure thing, Jack replied, pulling open his tunic to air out the stuffy costume.

All right, said Martin, motioning to the entire cast, y’all clear out of here, and have a good night!

Later, Marty! the group chorused, heading backstage.

Jack was in the process of leaving himself, when the director motioned for him to wait. Jack, will you stay a minute?

Sure.

The two waited until the theater had emptied. Looking around, Jack felt the slight disappointment that always came over him when the lights went down. It signified that soon he would be headed back out into the real world, a world in which circumstances were no longer orchestrated and predictable.

Martin let out a suppressed breath and rubbed the back of his neck. Man, takes more out of me than it used to.

I’m sure, Jack replied, folding his costume over his arm. The two would have no doubt appeared almost comical to a passerby - Jack even at 5’ 11 towering over his 5’ 4 director. Despite his small stature, the man had a commanding presence with his thick moustache and lively face, almost bursting with creative energy.

The director clapped Jack on the shoulder and looked him square in the face. I just wanted to let you know what a fine job you’re doin’. I couldn’t be happier.

Well thanks Marty, it’s been fun. I think Saturday’s going to go well.

Martin nodded. I think so too. Keep up the good work, son.

Jack nodded and slapped his director on the back. You too, Marty. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get all the way through before the audience starts throwing rotten veggies.

Martin chuckled. One can only hope, son. One can only hope.

Jack headed backstage, checking the time on his phone. If he didn’t hustle, he would be late for his shift at the hardware store. Coming around the corner, he began walking down the hallway when suddenly he was stopped by Art.

Hey, Jack, we’re all headed over to the Haven, said the young man, referring to the 24 hour café which was the popular hangout of the theater department, you coming?

Can’t swing it today Art, I’m going to be late for work as it is. Hey, I thought you were booked in today too?

Art didn’t answer, but merely stretched his long arms high above his head, giving him the appearance of a Caucasian Slim Jim. Technically speaking, yes… but my name says it all, man. I’m an artist; I go with the flow, wherever the mood takes me, like onstage.

Jack felt himself becoming irritated with his irresponsible friend, but he tried to keep his cool. Listen, Art, he said, folding his arms, performing on stage is one thing, but when the curtain falls you’ve got to remember you’re in the real world again. You’ve already shown up late a dozen times at the studio. A no-show would probably do you in. I don’t want to see you get laid off again.

Art laughed slowly and shook his head, causing his hair to slip down over his eyes. McAvish studio is not the only place to work, Jack. I don’t plan on spending my life shuffling paintbrushes around in bins. I’ve been thinking of getting done there anyways; I don’t even really need the money.

Jack shook his head as he began walking down the hall. Though the two were fairly good friends, Art was in the end, a rich kid. Well, I can’t tell you what to do Art, he called over his shoulder, I just think you should give it some thought. He pushed through the door of Fennley Wing as Art gave a lazy thumbs’ up and headed out the other exit, making his way to the Haven café.

Jack jogged across the parking lot, running a work-weathered hand through his loose cut, dirty-blond hair, already beginning to sweat in the intense sun. They were saying another heat wave was already making its way up from Dallas. Wonderful. Hopefully it would cool down before the performance on Saturday. The AC in the theater left a lot to be desired.

Jack couldn’t remember when or how he had become fascinated with the theater. As a boy, he supposed he’d always had a pretty vivid imagination, continually pursuing some great adventure. Striding up the sidewalk, he grinned as he thought of his many escapades as the great and daring Robin Hood of Sherwood Forest. He could still see himself creeping along the hallway, the toy bow and arrow in his hand. The sheriff and his men -- I’ll sneak up on them to learn their plans.

Suddenly, Jack’s face darkened, as a distant and unwelcome thought came upon him. Pushing it aside, he shoved open the door to Mason’s Hardware, pulling his work apron over his head as he did so, the familiar smell of sawdust and lubricant in the air. Rusty, I’m here! he called in the back.

And once again, you’re late! a gruff voice returned.

Sorry Rus, rehearsal ran over again!

A big burly man with overalls and a grizzled beard just beginning to show white emerged from behind the corner, his index finger raised. One more time, kid, just one more time, and zip, he made a slashing motion across his throat, it’s the unemployment office for you!

Thanks for the warning, Rusty, I’ll keep it in mind.

See that you do! he replied with a growl, returning to the back room. Jack was left grinning to himself as he began tidying the counter. This ritual had been repeated countless times, and Jack knew the gruff but goodhearted store owner would sooner close down than fire any one of his employees. He glanced at the old Coca Cola clock on the far wall. 5:45. He would close at 9:30, then have to head straight out back to do inventory. With any luck, he would finish before midnight. He let out a rush of suppressed air and cracked his neck. He should’ve brought an energy drink with him. It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER 2

Director Daron Scythe strode down the hall, a pair of designer sunglasses hanging around his neck, and a thick file in his hand. As he passed by the numerous employees hurrying about, he was greeted with a chorus of Good morning Mr. Scythe, to which he did not reply.

Coming to the elevator, Daron stepped in, jabbing the top floor button. As the elevator slowly rose from floor to floor, he restlessly drummed his fingers on the folder, checking his reflection in the polished metal doors. After what seemed like ages, the elevator halted. Daron leaned forward and swiped a card through a slot by the keypad, allowing the elevator to continue to rise. The doors finally opened and he strode out into an expensively furnished suite. As Daron breezed through the dimly lit hallway, his reflection shimmered off the wall to wall display cases. Coming to the end of the corridor, he pushed open a door at the end of the hall marked Do not disturb in bold red letters.

I’m about to make your day, said Daron, striding into the office and plopping into the chair in front of the desk. I just heard back from the network. They went nuts over the video pitch!

The balding man to which he was speaking did not even turn around in his plush leather swivel chair, but simply continued to stare out the window. Daron sat for a moment uncertainly. Are you hearing this? he exclaimed. We’ve got the green light! They ordered twenty episodes. If you want the truth, I think they would have been sold even without the demo. They’ve been chomping at the bit since we pitched this thing.

The man behind the desk, which looked more like a B-22 control board than a piece of office furniture, nodded slowly, folding his large hands across his even larger stomach. They know that we have yet to cast the lead role, right?

Daron nodded. They said the chemistry of the other actors and the show setup are solid. If you want the truth, we could’ve showed them footage of cabbages growing and they still would’ve bought it. All I have to do is drop your name in and it paves the way. It’s the Midas touch.

Midas touch, the man repeated, I suppose so. After this, he was silent for some time.

Unsure if he should continue, or wait for the man to speak, Daron let his eyes rove around the room. He had always hated this office; it was like Tarzan met Star Trek with immediate enmity. The television monitors, computers, and high end camera equipment behind the producer’s chair seemed to get strangled by strange plant life once it passed the desk. Daron glanced reproachfully at one freakish specimen of vegetation to his left; he half suspected it was a hybrid specially designed to eat his five hundred dollar shoes.

The fact of the matter is this, Daron, said the producer, speaking finally. It doesn’t matter if they buy twenty episodes today, fifty tomorrow, and have us syndicated by Wednesday; we still have yet to cast the lead role.

I know, I know, he sighed, flipping open his file. I’ve got the casting director and all of his people working around the clock on it. We’ve got some good options here; Henry Warden just got freed up from Electro Pictures, Jonas Goodson has shown interest, and then there’s all the buzz about this Hudson kid.

No, Daron, no, the balding man said, leaning back, they’re all wrong. You know better than anyone the kind of person we’re looking for here. I won’t have some sitcom castoff ruin this for me. We need someone different.

Daron breathed deeply through his nostrils and closed his eyes. I know, he sighed, but what am I supposed to do here? Where am I supposed to find someone who’s still fresh and yet is talented enough to bring the life we need to this character?

The man turned slowly in his chair and stared out the window once again, as if the answer lay somewhere out in the maze of the mini metropolis which was Wall Breacher Studios. He’s out there, Daron. I know he’s out there. Don’t forget one thing Daron: as long as I own Wall Breacher, I own you. And I’m counting on you; I’m paying you, he emphasized these last two words, to find him. I’m paying you to find Melvin. Do not disappoint me.

Scythe closed his eyes again, feeling a migraine approaching. I’ll do what I can.

All right people.

Daron threw open the conference room door, causing the team of fifteen agents and assistants within to jump. Popping open a bottle of pills, he tossed two of them down and took a swallow of coffee. Change of plans. The producer has just kindly informed me that if I don’t personally find Melvin, he’ll have my head on a silver platter. As you can imagine, having to play babysitter to you all as acting cast director is going to make me even cheerier than normal. Daron looked darkly about the room. Payday is approaching. If you want to see more of them, you better have something for me right now.

There were several exchanged glances around the room. The laptops, iPads, and camera equipment filling the already cramped alcove made it look like Best Buy on Black Friday. The countless Styrofoam coffee cups strewn around the table and the floor bespoke hours of brainstorming, and the wall to wall whiteboards were covered in notes, plotlines, character arcs, and sketches.

Daron, who had collapsed into his cream white swivel chair, sat rocking slowly back and forth, hands propped behind his head, his sunglasses making it difficult to tell whether or not his eyes were open. I’m not hearing anything, he growled.

One overweight man with thick glasses who was seated at a computer monitor turned and raised his hand like a grade school student. Well Mr. Scythe, we have come up with several possible candidates.

So, throw something at me.

Well, we were discussing amongst ourselves, and we came up with Frank Mulaski.

Oh sure, George, sure, let’s go with Mulaski, said Daron sarcastically, throwing up his hands in disgust. Should we just go downtown right now, bail him out of jail, and start shooting right away with him still in his jumpsuit?

There’s always Ben Landers, spoke up a beak-nosed woman with horn rim glasses.

Daron let out a sigh of exasperation. Yes, Connie, by all means, if we decide we need someone to play a decrepit grandfather, let’s go ahead and bring in Landers. The guy’s in his late thirties. May I remind you that the character is twenty-two? Think, people, think. Who haven’t we thought of? What about Jeremy Hunt?

Just signed with PlatinumReel.

Gabe Bronze?

Docu-drama. Zulu wars.

Daron rolled his eyes. Nice move, Bronze. Good luck with that. The director sat motionless staring up at the tiled ceiling. Listen to me, people, he said slowly, we’ve got a chance here for something big. The network is eating out of our hands. Do you know how completely absurd it is for a network to order a show which doesn’t even have a solid lead? I’ve never known it to happen before. This thing is a golden goose. We’ve got things lined up promotionally, everything’s falling into place for this. There’s just one problem: We have no Melvin. Without him, the whole thing falls apart. Time’s running out. We need to find this guy.

Scythe rubbed his temples. I’m open to any suggestions at this point, no matter how obscure.

Mr. Scythe, a voice in the back spoke up. All eyes turned to the young woman at the back of the room.

Jane, you have something?

The intern looked embarrassed as she slowly turned her laptop. I mean, it’s not really anything, just something my niece sent me, a clip from some play they did at her school, some kind of Shakespeare thing.

Reaching for the keyboard, she hit play. For three minutes there was not a sound in the room as all eyes became glued to the scene, a video of a Shakespearean soliloquy featuring a single young man in 15th century garb. All eyes followed him as he delivered each and every line with a power and conviction that caused them to forget he was an actor, caused them to forget that what they were watching was in fact a staged performance.

As the clip ended, Jane reached for the keyboard. Without a word, Daron arose and strode across the room, taking the mouse from her hand. Moving the cursor, he clicked on a queue of videos featuring the same actor. For more than forty-five minutes, everyone watched silently as Daron stood hunched over the computer.

As the final video ended, Daron closed out the window and stood erect, his face expressionless. Stan, he said quietly to a thin man to his left, book me a flight for tomorrow morning.

CHAPTER 3

Jack walked slowly into the kitchen, feeling more dead than alive. Tossing his keys on the polished counter, he slumped down on his elbows, rubbing his face with his hand. What a day. After coming back late from the hardware store the night before, he had been up at 5:30 to make sure he was at the diner by 7:00, then mowing at the church, rehearsals at the theater, then back to the diner for the night shift. He heard the soft patter of feet coming from the study and looked up slowly to see a slightly disheveled Pastor White. Hey Jack, said the pastor groggily.

Hey, Pastor. Did I wake you?

The middle-aged man shook his head, fumbling for his glasses. Fell asleep reading. I’ll pay for that one in the morning.

Walking over to the freezer, the pastor opened the door and pulled out two round yellow cartons. Standing and opening the island drawer, he slid one of the cartons across to Jack, along with a spoon. With a weary grin, Jack flipped open the lid and dug deep into the chocolate caramel.

You know, this bachelor’s diet is going to be the death of us, said White, opening his carton and taking a spoonful of pistachio.

Jack nodded, swallowing. True. But we’ll die happy.

Pastor White pointed his spoon in agreement. The two ate silently for some minutes. The room was dark, save for the pale summer moonlight which shone through the kitchen window, running across the oak floor and into the hallway. Jack let out a sigh, cracking his neck.

Long day, huh? asked the pastor, returning the cartons to the freezer.

Yeah, Jack replied, at least I’ll be able to catch up on some sleep tomorrow. Frankly, I don’t know how you can pull it off, Pastor. Getting up early on a Sunday.

The pastor chuckled, leaning on the counter and rubbing his hands slowly together. "Well, it’s simple, Jack. My body gets tired, sure, but my