[TV Heaven is a satirical fantasy novel about the television industry. The paperback is available on Amazon. For now, the ebook version is available exclusively to paid subscribers of this Substack. Time Zone Weirders can also access free downloads of my other books, Trick or Zombie Treat and Work for Idle Hands. Read more about TV Heaven on my blog. Below is a sample of the first five chapters. Full ebook downloads follow after the paywall.]
Chapter 1
Filman Bardoner lay unconscious in a hospital bed surrounded by seven sad faces plus a preponderance of flowers and ‘Get Well Soon’ cards. Though just thirty-nine years old, the thick beard and shaggy hair he’d grown during his five weeks in a coma had made him look double that age. Filman was the creator and showrunner of the cult television series, The Showrunner, based largely on his own life working in the film industry. The grizzled look was not just from the coma—Filman looked like that before the accident. He had grown out his hair and beard in a deliberate attempt to elicit the vibe of an eccentric director like his idol, Stanley Kubrick—a filmmaker more focused on his artistic production than his physical appearance. But after three and a half seasons, all pretense had dropped, and his affected “costume” had become real. Filman truly was too consumed with running his show to care about cutting his hair or shaving. That was a waste of precious time that could be better spent working on The Showrunner. He normally wore a Philadelphia Foxes baseball cap to support his hometown team (and to avoid having to comb his unkempt hair), but the hat currently sat on the nightstand next to the cacophony of medical equipment keeping him alive.
The visitors in the room consisted of core members of the cast and crew from the TV show, all with varying vested interests in seeing Filman wake from his coma as soon as possible. Thad Falconer was the star of the show who played a fictionalized version of Filman. Though without his costume, including a Foxes hat, fake beard, wig, and glasses, Thad looked little like the showrunner. A former model, Thad had blond hair, a perfect smile, and a chiseled frame with six-pack abs. The only six-pack Filman ever had was composed of IPAs.
“Filman?” Thad leaned over the bed, careful not to get too close, as if a coma was contagious. “Can you hear me?”
“Even if he can hear you, he can’t answer you,” said Syd Goldstein, a late middle-aged man in a slick designer suit with gold cufflinks. Goldstein was an executive at TBC (the Television Broadcasting Company), the network that produced The Showrunner. In all the time Filman had spent with Goldstein, he had never seen the exec not in a suit. That included courtside at a Lakers game and on the treadmill desk in his Sunset Blvd office. Filman liked to imagine Goldstein lifting weights, doing yoga, sleeping, and even showering in a three-piece suit. He could picture Goldstein being that one kid in public school who showed up to class everyday in a tie—but he was so affable that the other kids didn’t bully him about it. In fact, Filman could envision the exec coming out of his mother’s womb in an Armani suit and immediately making deals for more breast milk.
“If Filman’s in a coma, does that mean I’m gonna be in a coma on the show?” asked Thad.
“There’s not going to be a show without Filman,” said Emma Ward, a beautiful brunette woman with blue eyes and a green blouse. Emma was the co-star of The Showrunner, playing Thad’s love interest—though like Schrödinger’s cat, they remained in a constant superposition of ‘Will they or won’t they?’ Emma seemed considerably more concerned about Filman than Thad or Goldstein, both of whom cared more about the show than the showrunner.
“There most certainly is going to be a show,” Goldstein said. “I already sold ads for the rest of the season.”
“Yeah? And what are you going to air?” asked Damon Moss, another middle-aged man in an expensive suit. Moss was Filman’s long-time agent and close friend. He could easily afford gold cufflinks, but always wore silver when meeting with Goldstein. The two Hollywood bigwigs had a bit of a rivalry, stemming from their many heated negotiations over the years. “I’ll remind you that my client is the only person in the world who knows how the show ends.”
“I’ll hire another writer to finish it,” Goldstein said dismissively. To him, writers were a dime a dozen, completely interchangeable, and easily replaced. Perhaps on a related note, no narrative television show Goldstein produced had yet won an Emmy. “Hell, we can even get AI to write it for him.”
“No you cannot,” Moss said. “My client has final cut in his contract.”
“Your client is a vegetable!” Goldstein said. “The only final cut he’s getting is when they cut him open to donate his organs.”
“Syd!” Emma scolded the exec, whispering, “His parents are here.” She nodded at Filman’s elderly mother and father sitting by the bed weeping, more focused on their comatose son than the conversation going on around him. His parents still lived on the East Coast, but immediately flew out when they heard about their son’s accident and planned to stay by his side until he recovered—if he recovered.
“Of course we all hope and pray Filman wakes up soon,” Goldstein said rotely as if reading from a script. “But it’s not my fault he went snowboarding on a mountain full of ice. The network can’t wait forever, you know. We have ratings to maintain.”
“The entire premise of The Showrunner is based on Filman, the actual showrunner,” Moss said. “It’s the story of Filman making a TV show about himself. How can there be a show without the showrunner?”
“We can do a spin-off as a medical drama here at the hospital, starring Thad and Emma,” Goldstein suggested.
“But we’re actors on the show,” Emma said. “Why would we be working at a hospital?”
“You’d be acting,” Goldstein said, “making a television show about a medical drama.”
Moss immediately objected. “That’s not—”
“Filman can even be on the show,” Goldstein said. “We’ll film him in his coma.”
“—not a bad idea.” Moss instantly changed his tune. While he and Filman were ‘friends,’ business always came first.
“Thad, you and Emma can play doctors,” Goldstein said.
“But I don’t know anything about medicine,” Thad said.
“Don’t worry, neither do most doctors.” Goldstein noticed the nurse changing Filman’s IV bag. “No offense.”
“No objection here,” she said. “We nurses know more about medicine than some of the doctors in this place. They just leave the room and look it up on Google.”
“We can call it The ER.” Goldstein motioned his hands as if displaying the title on a marquee.
“ER was already a show,” said Moss.
“I know,” Goldstein said. “But this is ‘The’ ER.” He stressed the definite article.
“It doesn’t matter what the title is,” Emma said. “We’re not doing a medical spin-off without Filman.”
“I told you he can be in the show,” said Goldstein.
“As a coma patient? Damon…” Emma looked to Filman’s agent for support.
“Filman always said he wanted his show to emulate his life…” Moss nodded at the unconscious man in the bed. “So when life gives you a coma, make a show about a coma.”
“But what about the fans?” Emma opened the blinds to reveal a group of two dozen people standing outside the hospital in the street below, holding signs such as WAKE UP, WE LOVE YOU FILMAN, WE WANT ANSWERS, and HOW DOES IT END?
“Don’t worry about the fanboys,” Goldstein said. “They’ll continue watching the show no matter what. A roomful of monkeys could be writing the dialogue as long as the same pretty faces are on the screen.” He put his arm around Thad’s shoulder and grabbed his cheek. “We’ve still got our most important ‘Filman’ right here, don’t we, Thad?”
Thad chuckled, flashing the charming smile that launched his career (it surely wasn’t his acting ability). Filman was initially against hiring Thad for the role, but Goldstein kept pushing for it, believing the heartthrob would help bring in higher ratings. They went back and forth, Filman wanting a more versatile actor, until realizing the role actually required Thad to be an air-brained bimbo. Why hire an accomplished thespian to pretend to be a meathead when he could just get the real thing?
“I’m not making the show without Filman,” Emma insisted. “A conscious Filman.”
“What if he never wakes up?” asked Thad.
“Then the show ends with him,” Emma said.
“Need I remind you that you are all contractually obligated to appear in the episodes,” Goldstein said. “So unless you want to forfeit your salaries—and residuals—the show must go on.”
Emma frowned, feeling conflicted. She’d grinded for years in Hollywood, doing bit parts and commercials while waitressing on the side for money. This was her first starring role, which allowed her to act full-time, join the union, and get health insurance. The last thing she wanted to do was make enemies with the network and risk becoming blackballed from Hollywood. She couldn’t go back to waiting tables after glimpsing the limelight.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “But visiting hours are ending soon. I’m afraid you’ll all have to be leaving now.”
“Okay.” Goldstein clapped his hands together. “Dinner at the Chateau?”
“Bill’s on you, right?” Moss slapped his shoulder.
“Bill’s on the network.” Goldstein winked as he and the agent walked to the door. Theirs was a friendly rivalry, more like brothers trying to outdo one another than any real animosity between them.
“If the show airs with Filman in a coma, he’ll still get his full fee, right?” asked Moss.
“He won’t have any lines,” Goldstein said.
“But he’s still the star,” Moss said.
“Non-speaking roles get paid like extras,” said Goldstein.
“No chance.” Moss continued negotiating with Goldstein as they exited the room.
Filman’s mother kissed her son on the forehead then left arm-in-arm with her husband. They would head back to Filman’s house in northeast L.A., where they were staying for the duration of his coma.
Thad followed the Bardoners out then paused in the doorway, looking back at Emma who remained standing by the bed. “Are you coming, Em?” he asked.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” she said.
Thad darted out of the room, not wanting to miss a ride in Goldstein’s limo.
Emma sat beside the bed inside the quiet hospital room and stared at the comatose man lying before her. “Filman, I don’t know if you can hear me, but…” She held his immobile hand and whispered, “Please come back. Forget about Goldstein, the network, the ratings, the cast and crew, and everyone else. I don’t care about the show. I… I just wish you knew how I really felt.” A single tear dripped from her left eye. “Filman, I—”
“Cut!” A voice shouted through a loudspeaker.
The comatose patient’s eyes popped open as he sat up in bed. “What happened?”
“Was it me?” Emma stood up to stretch.
“No, the camera lens got fogged up.” A man stepped out from behind a set of cameras and a lighting crew. He looked just like the man in bed, each with the same Kubrick-esque unkempt hair and scraggy beard. The only difference between them was their clothes: the man in bed wore a hospital gown, while the man standing before him wore round wireframe glasses, a gray blazer, brown slacks, a white dress shirt with the top unbuttoned, and a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap (his actual hometown team, as opposed to the fake ‘Foxes’ hat they had to use on the show to avoid violating the MLB trademark). It was Filman’s usual wardrobe when directing, an attempt to look both professional and casual at the same time. He had headphones draped around his neck and a script in his hand. The ‘Filman’ in bed was actually an actor named Bradley Thesker. The man behind the camera was the true Filman Bardoner, the writer and director of the television show being filmed. The hospital room was a set on a sound stage. Bradley, Emma, Thad, Goldstein, Moss, Filman’s parents, and the nurse were all actors on a TV show—a TV show about a TV show, both titled The Showrunner.
“Don’t get too close to his nose on the close-up,” Filman said to the camera operator.
“Sure thing, boss,” the operator said. “Sorry about that.”
“And Bradley,” Filman said to the patient in bed, “try not to breathe so heavy.”
“Yeah, what’s your problem, Bradley?” Stacy Lynes, the actress playing Emma, said with jovial sarcasm. “Breathing while we’re trying to shoot a TV show here...”
“Hey, I’m supposed to be in a coma, not dead.” Bradley pulled his fake beard off to scratch his chin. “People in comas still breathe, right?”
“What about zombies?” Thad stepped back onto the hospital room set. “Do they still breathe?”
“Didn’t you play a zombie in a movie?” asked Bradley.
“Yeah, but I’m not a method actor.” The model-turned-actor Thad Fowler played a fictionalized version of himself on the show, Thad Falconer, in which he hammed up his ‘male bimbo’ nature—though it was unclear just how much ‘ham’ was actually involved.
Syd Goldstein, Damon Moss, and Filman’s parents—or the actors playing his parents—rejoined the others on set.
“Hey Filman, was I too mean?” asked Gary, the actor playing Syd Goldstein, in a more tender tone. “I don’t want to be too cliché as some greedy egocentric Hollywood studio executive.”
“Have you ever met a network exec?” Filman raised his brow with a knowing smirk. “Believe me, you were fine. Now let’s run it again from the top.” He stepped back behind the camera, shouting, “Places everyone!”
Bradley put his fake beard back on, laid down, and closed his eyes. A makeup artist touched him up while the other actors got in their respective positions around the bed.
Filman put his headphones on then studied the scene through a viewfinder behind the camera. “Ready?”
The makeup artist scurried away as the gaffers got the lights in place.
“Three, two…” Filman began counting down, and the buzz around the set went silent. “…one, action!”
“Filman?” Thad leaned over the bed. “Can you hear me?”
“Even if he can hear you, he can’t answer you,” Goldstein said.
“Excuse me, Filman,” whispered a production assistant stepping beside the showrunner.
“Not now,” Filman whispered, focusing on the scene through the monitor.
“If Filman is in a coma, does that mean I’m going to be in a coma on the show?” asked Thad.
“But Filman,” the P.A. said, “the network needs to speak to you.”
“Not. Now.” Filman hissed sternly. He tried to keep his cool on set, but interrupting a scene while filming was a major faux pas. The P.A. should have known better.
“There’s not going to be a show without Filman,” said Emma.
The P.A. persisted, “But they said—”
“Cut!” Filman glared irately at the P.A. “What the hell! Can’t you see we’re filming here?!” Everyone on set was taken aback, as Filman rarely lost his temper. He was beloved by the cast as an actor’s director, and he was normally equally kind to the crew. But tensions had been high on set after Deadline reported another dip in ratings for The Showrunner, with rumors swirling that the network was considering a change to their primetime lineup.
“I’m sorry,” the P.A. said. “I normally wouldn’t interrupt, but Mr. Gottweld himself is waiting on a Zoom call. He said he needs to speak to Filman ASAP.”
“Which Filman?” asked the showrunner and the actor at the same time.
“The real one,” said the P.A.
“We’re in the middle of a shoot,” Filman said. “Didn’t you tell Stan that?”
“Yes, he knows,” the P.A. said. “But he said this is urgent.”
“What did I tell you about these network suits?” Filman nudged the actor playing Goldstein. “If anything, you were underplaying it.” He checked his watch then sighed. “All right, everybody take five.”
Chapter 2
“Did Gottweld say what this was about?” Filman asked the P.A. as they walked across the soundstage, passing the set for Filman’s home living room with a couch and recliner in front of a television, then a set for a small bachelor pad kitchen full of faux-dirty dishes.
“No, but he said it was urgent—‘extremely’ urgent,” the P.A. reiterated. “I told his assistant that you were filming, but she insisted I come and get you anyway.”
“Sorry I yelled back there,” Filman said. “It’s Gottweld I’m angry with, not you.”
“I know,” the P.A. said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve dealt with much worse from other directors—who never even bother to apologize.”
They passed a set for the writers’ room and a set for Filman’s office.
“How does the network expect me to boost the show’s ratings if they won’t let me actually shoot the show?” asked Filman, more lamenting to himself than expecting an answer.
The P.A. shrugged as they passed a set for a street where the extras posing as fans took a break by a snack table.
“Hey, Filman, how was I?” asked an extra holding a sign reading: WE WANT ANSWERS.
Most showrunners wouldn’t waste their time speaking to a lowly extra, but Filman stopped by to give directions—not just because he was kind, or because he was a control freak who micro-managed every aspect of the show—but he wanted to make Gottweld wait a bit longer.
“Think about it,” Filman said. “Your character has devoted years of his life to watching The Showrunner, chatting about it on message boards, theorizing how it might end. Then the show just stops mid-season, with no guarantee it will ever resume.” He grabbed a magic marker from the table and added an exclamation point to the sign. “Look angrier.”
“Right.” The extra snarled, gritting his teeth.
“That’s it,” Filman said. “Much better.”
“Thanks, Filman,” said the extra.
Filman and the P.A. walked past a set for a TV studio, complete with prop lights and prop cameras. They then exited the soundstage to a hallway, passing offices, including the actual writers’ room.
“Filman, is that you?” said a writer inside.
“Yeah, what’s up?” Filman stopped by the doorway, where inside, ten writers on laptops sat around a large table with a whiteboard hanging on the wall displaying charts of plot points and character arcs. It looked like advanced algebra to anyone outside the writers’ room, but Filman knew the complicated storylines like the back of his hand.
“How long are we going to keep Filman in a coma?” asked the writer. “I mean Bradley, not you.”
“Well, he can’t wake up until—”
“Filman,” the P.A. tapped her watch. “Mr. Gottweld is waiting.”
Filman shook his head apologetically. “Gotta go. It’s the network.”
“More notes to ‘improve’ the show?” The writer groaned. “Why don’t they leave the creativity to the creatives?”
“You’re telling me,” Filman said, then he and the P.A. continued down the hallway to an office labeled: Filman Bardoner, Executive Producer, The Showrunner.
The P.A. stepped to a laptop computer on Filman’s desk where Stan Gottweld, the head executive of TBC, waited on the screen. Gottweld wore a designer suit with gold cufflinks that bore a striking resemblance to those of Syd Goldstein’s character on the show. Filman worried he might have been too overt in the caricature, but Gottweld never mentioned anything about it. To be honest, Filman wasn’t sure the exec had ever seen an episode of the show.
“Okay, Mr. Gottweld,” the P.A. said, “Here’s Filman.”
He sat at his desk before the laptop. “I’m always happy to talk to you, Stan,” Filman lied, “but my cast and crew are waiting. You do know that it’s your money we’re wasting here.”
“Believe me, I know,” Gottweld said. “And I’m afraid I have some bad news about that.”
“Don’t tell me you’re slashing the budget again,” Filman said. “I told you I can’t—”
“Your show is canceled,” Gottweld said it bluntly with no emotion.
Filman’s jaw dropped as he stared at the laptop screen in disbelief. “Canceled, like… Cancel Culture? Did we do something problematic?”
“No,” Gottweld said. “Canceled, like your ratings are in the crapper and we’re pulling you off the air.”
“You’re kidding,” Filman said.
“This comes as a surprise to you?” Gottweld said. “How many times have we talked about this?”
“I mean, I know the ratings weren’t great…”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Well, ratings aren’t everything,” Filman said. “We’re trying to do something of artistic merit here.”
“Okay, Shakespeare,” Gottweld said. “You want artistic merit, go do theater.”
“But Stan, when I signed with the network you said you’d have my back,” Filman said.
“I’m sorry,” Gottweld said. “I fought for you—I really did—but my hands were tied. There was nothing more I could do.”
“What do you mean?” Filman said. “You’re the boss of the network.”
“I have advertisers to answer to,” Gottweld said. “And most important of all, our shareholders.”
“What does Wall Street know about storytelling?” said Filman.
“More than you’d think,” Gottweld said. “You can’t have a big IPO without a great story. All these stock price fluctuations aren’t based on economics—it’s based on the stories people tell about the future of the company.”
“So tell your shareholders a better story,” Filman said. “Hype up our show.”
“Unfortunately, no amount of hype and shim-sham can outshine the ratings numbers,” Gottweld said. “And yours just aren’t there.”
“Maybe our ratings will go up with the season finale,” Filman said. “It’s gonna be—”
“There’s not gonna be a finale,” Gottweld said. “Your show is canceled immediately—as in today. Production is officially shut down.”
“But we only have six episodes left in the season,” Filman said.
“Do you know how much a single episode costs to produce?” asked Gottweld.
“Yeah, because you keep cutting our budget,” Filman said. “Maybe that’s the problem. You gotta spend money to make money. Isn’t that what your Wall Street friends say?”
“They also say you gotta cut off a sunk cost,” Gottweld said. “Don’t put good money after bad. Take your losses and move on.”
“Don’t you want to at least wait to see how the finale does?” asked Filman. “There’s always a boost at the end of the season.”
“Your ratings plateaued in the middle of the second season, and they’ve been stagnant since.” Gottweld read from the report his team provided. “We asked you to make the show less complicated to welcome new viewers, but you didn’t listen.”
“What’s so complicated?” Filman said. “I’m making a TV show about a showrunner making a TV show about a showrunner making a TV show about—”
“Filman!” Gottweld cut him off. “How’s this for uncomplicated? Your ratings would need to triple to warrant your current budget.”
“Okay…” Filman pulled up the budget spreadsheet. “Maybe I can find some more places to cut costs.”
“Even if you cut the costs to zero it wouldn’t be enough to get back in the black,” Gottweld said.
“But we’re right in the middle of the season,” Filman said. “The characters are in limbo. I mean, Filman is in a literal coma for crying out loud!”
“I’m sorry, Filman,” Gottweld said, “but the network simply can’t afford to keep The Showrunner on air any longer.”
“At least give me a finale,” Filman said. “One last episode to wrap things up.”
“It’s too late,” Gottweld said. “We already replaced your time slot.”
“Already?” Filman’s eyes bulged wide. “With what?”
“L.A. Fitness,” Gottweld said. “It’s a new reality show set at a Santa Monica fitness center about—”
“You replaced me with a reality show?!” Filman grew even more outraged. He hated reality television with a passion, viewing the entire genre as the death of art.
“There are no actors, no writers, no costumes, no props, no sets, no special effects,” Gottweld said. “The whole season costs less than one episode of your show. Plus we can do celebrity cameos with famous people who work out at the gym: athletes, actors, singers—and TikTok stars and Instagram influencers to draw the younger crowd. Have you seen how many views MrBeast videos get on YouTube? Maybe you should take some tips from him.”
Filman did not know who this “Mr. Beast” fellow was, but he assumed he should feel insulted by the comparison. “What about another time slot? Put us on after L.A. Fitness.”
“Can’t,” Gottweld said. “There’s a live reaction show after the show.”
“A second reality show just to talk about the first reality show?” Filman’s scorn intensified.
“Says the man who made a show about a show…”
“That’s different,” Filman said. “My show was fake.”
“You think reality TV is real?” said Gottweld.
“But what about our fans?” asked Filman. “What am I supposed to tell them?”
“Tell who?” asked Gottweld. “That’s the problem, Filman—you’ve got no fans.”
“Sure we do.”
Gottweld raised his brow. “You do know those people holding the signs down the hallway are just actors, right?”
“You don’t understand,” Filman said, his voice teeming with desperation. “This show is my life.”
“Again, that might be your problem,” Gottweld said. “There are more important things in life than TV, you know. Sometimes I wonder if you even know the difference between your show and real life anymore. That’s what happens when you get so meta and make a fictional show about yourself. I’ll keep my door open if you’ve got a more commercial idea, but this show is officially over.”
The reality of the situation finally hit Filman. Stan Gottweld and the TBC network had already made their decision. At this point, there was nothing he could say to save The Showrunner. “So this is really it…”
“I’m sorry, Filman, but…” Gottweld sighed and shook his head. “You have to clear out your office by the end of the day.”
“I can’t believe this.” Filman leapt up from his chair. “You’re firing me over Zoom?”
“This isn’t personal, Filman,” Gottweld said. “It’s purely a business decision. To tell you the truth, I actually kind of liked your show—or my wife did. She and her friends had a watch party at our place for every episode. Which, come to think of it, probably didn’t help with the Nielsen ratings, but—”
“Your office is upstairs!” Filman shouted at his laptop. “You couldn’t come down here and fire me face to face?! What, were you afraid I’d get angry?! Do something like this?!” He slid his arm across the shelf behind him, knocking all the picture frames, plaques, and souvenirs to the floor.
“Filman, please.” Gottweld tried to calm him down.
“Or this?!” Filman picked up his Aeron chair and threw it across the office, causing a bookshelf to fall to the floor.
“The network would love to continue working with you,” Gottweld said. “I can get you on as a guest director for some episodes of L.A. Fitness. And we’re taking pitches if you’ve got an idea for a reality show of your own.”
“Me, work on a reality show?” Filman scoffed with distaste. “There’s no art in reality. I’d rather dig ditches.”
“Speaking of ditches, zombie shows are hot right now,” Gottweld said. “We might be able to keep The Showrunner on air if your character wakes from his coma as a zombie and starts a worldwide outbreak. The rest of the cast could be survivors in a post-apocalyptic wasteland.”
“Zombies? Seriously?” Filman rubbed his forehead. “That would make it a totally different show.”
Gottweld nodded. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“Can we go to Netflix to finish the series?” asked Filman.
“No way.” Gottweld detested Netflix, viewing them as a larger rival than other TV networks.
“Hulu? Peacock?”
Gottweld shook his head.
“AppleTV? Amazon Prime? Disney+? Paramount+? Tubi?”
“I’m not selling the rights to any streaming service,” Gottweld said. “They’re the ones putting us out of business. Why do you think our ratings are in the toilet?”
“Because you air crappy game shows like Celebrity Seekers as our lead-in.” Celebrity Seekers was a reality-based competition show in which various celebrities played a high-stakes game of hide and seek in exotic locations for charity.
“Celebrity Seekers’ ratings are miles higher than yours,” Gottweld said. “The people love those quote-unquote crappy game shows.”
“The people wouldn’t know good TV if they were force-fed it like A Clockwork Orange.”
“Like a clock of what?” Gottweld looked confused. “See this is your problem, Filman. You make all these obscure pop-culture references that modern audiences don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to live in a world where Kubrick is obscure,” said Filman.
“Please don’t tell me that was a suicide threat,” Gottweld said. “That would be a publicity headache the network doesn’t need right now—unless…” He reconsidered. “Maybe a shocking suicide would draw interest to the show.”
Filman was willing to sacrifice anything for his art, but… “How can I continue making the show if I’m dead?”
“We can fake it like Tupac,” Gottweld said.
“Did he really—”
“Ah, never mind,” Gottweld said. “News of your death wouldn’t even trend on Twitter.”
“So that’s it?” Filman said. “The Showrunner is really over… Like, forever?”
“The Showrunner show is over,” Gottweld said. “But not the showrunner Filman.”
Filman doubted that. If his magnum opus was a complete failure, what studio would green-light his next project? He didn’t even have a ‘next’ project. The Showrunner was the only thing he had thought about for years. He put all his creative energy into bringing that vision to the screen.
“Oh, and before you go,” Gottweld said. “My wife is dying to know: Do Filman and Emma ever get together?”
Filman clenched his teeth. “Your wife…wants…to know…” He cackled maniacally then picked up the laptop and stared into the webcam. “You can tell your wife to go—” The video cut off as he chucked the laptop across his office.
* * *
The Zoom feed went blank on Gottweld’s screen. He looked around the office at the table full of executives and their assistants listening in on the Zoom call then shrugged. “He took it better than I thought he would.”
* * *
“I’m so sorry, Filman.” The P.A. picked up the laptop from the floor. “Ooh… I think you broke it.”
“Good,” Filman said. “If the network tries to charge me for that, I’ll—”
“Actually, Filman,” the P.A. said, “this was your personal MacBook.”
“Adding insult to injury,” he said.
“Isn’t it adding injury to insult?”
Filman felt like Arya after the Red Wedding on Game of Thrones. What was he going to say to his cast and crew—hundreds of people who depended on the show for their paychecks. He stared at the ceiling and let out a long exasperated groan.
Chapter 3
A team of production workers tore down The Showrunner sets on the TBC studio soundstage, salvaging what could be repurposed for future shows and tossing the rest into a dumpster. Costumes and clothing items were placed in a large plastic bin on wheels, bound for donation to Goodwill. Filman and his cast of actors, writers, and crew members stood huddled nearby, hugging and saying their final goodbyes. There was a mix of emotions—joy for the fun times they had, but also sadness that it was over.
“Hey, we had a great run while it lasted, right?” Filman said.
“The best!” shouted Thad.
The cast and crew clapped and cheered while wiping tears from their eyes.
“Remember that time we were filming the show about the Emmys,” Bradley said, “and you made the network think we actually won an Emmy.”
“In hindsight, maybe that wasn’t the best idea,” Filman said. “Might have contributed to their decision to cancel us.”
“You should have gotten nominated for best showrunner in reality,” Emma said.
“Reality? This isn’t L.A. Fitness,” Filman said.
“I meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Filman playfully nudged her. “If anything, you and Bradley should have gotten noms for best actor and actress. You two really carried this show.”
“And my arms are killing me.” Bradley rubbed his biceps.
“Hey, don’t forget Thad,” Emma said.
“My arms are fine,” he said.
The production workers used axes and sledgehammers to demolish the set for Emma’s apartment.
“But seriously, it really was a team effort,” Filman said. “Each and every one of you here helped make The Showrunner the great show that it was. Who cares if nobody else watched it!”
“Their loss, not ours!” said Emma.
Filman half-laughed, half-sobbed as he said, “Creating this show with you all has truly been the time of my life.”
“Here, here!” Thad shouted, and the rest of the crowd cheered.
“Maybe it’s best to just leave it be,” Bradley said. “Let the audience decide how the show ends for themselves.”
“No, that’s a cop-out,” said Filman. “The creator must decide. A story is not a story without an ending. A cathartic conclusion is what makes fiction different than real life.”
“Well, this show was supposed to be based on your real life,” Emma said, “so maybe an abrupt ending like this will work. Real life often ends abruptly with no forewarning or the chance to tie up all your loose ends.”
“True,” Filman said. “But if I just wanted to copy real life, I’d have made a reality show. Art is supposed to transcend reality and give life meaning.”
“You could always just tweet out the ending of the show to the fans,” Thad said.
“Yeah, right.” Filman chuckled. “140 characters to sum up six hours of television.”
“You get 280 characters now,” said a staff writer.
“In that case…” Filman took out his cell phone and pretended to type.
“Or we could act it out on TikTok,” Emma suggested.
“We can’t afford to do that,” Filman said.
“We don’t need sets or anything,” Emma said. “We could just do a table reading with the cast and livestream it on YouTube. Or release it as a podcast.”
“No, I meant we can’t afford the lawsuit Gottweld and the network would launch against us if we did that,” Filman said. “TBC retains full rights to the IP of our show.”
“What kind of deal was that?” A writer slapped the actor who played Damon Moss.
“Hey, I’m not a real agent,” he said. “I just read the lines you writers give me.”
A security guard with a mustache and a name tag reading VINCE tossed posters for The Showrunner into the dumpster, as well as coffee mugs, hats, t-shirts, and other merchandise bearing the show’s logo: an endless regress of a cameraman on a television within a television...
“Well, if this is really it, then I’m going to miss you, Filman.” Bradley, still dressed in his Filman costume, shook the showrunner’s hand.
“I’m going to miss you, Filman.” Filman hugged Bradley. “And as good as you look like this…” He tugged Bradley’s fake beard. “…the costume’s gotta go—property of the studio, you know.”
“What a shame, I was finally getting used to this itchy thing.” Bradley took off his Foxes hat, wig, beard, and glasses.
“What about your costume?” Emma playfully tugged on Filman’s beard.
“Ow!” Filman shouted while laughing. “And what about your wig?” He reached for Emma’s hair.
“Don’t you dare!” She ducked away from his reach.
“You know, in a way it’s fitting,” Filman said. “As Bradley’s Filman lays in a coma, no one knowing how his show will end, nobody knows how our show will end either—except for me, that is.”
The crowd groaned.
“Come on, Filman,” Bradley said. “You can tell us the ending.”
“Yeah, we promise we won’t leak it to the press,” Thad said.
“Filman can’t tell us,” a staff writer said. “Because even he doesn’t know how the show will end. He’s been making it all up as he goes along!”
“Just like LOST,” said another writer and everyone laughed.
“No, actually I did have an ending planned from the start,” Filman said. “But unless we film it, it doesn’t exist.” He mimicked zipping his lips shut and locking them with a key.
“You’re taking it to your grave?!” asked Bradley.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Filman said. “There’s always hope that the reruns get popular on DVD and streaming, then five, ten years from now, the network comes crawling back, begging to reboot the show.”
“Like Arrested Development,” said one writer.
“And Futurama,” said another writer.
“And Family Guy.”
“And Community.”
The staff continued to “yes and” each other, adding more “canceled and revived” shows to the list.
“And Scrubs.”
“And Cougar Town.”
“And The Killing.”
“That one should have stayed dead.”
“Maybe we’ll get to wrap it up with a movie like Firefly.”
“Fingers crossed.” Filman held up both hands with his fingers intertwined, praying for good luck from the TV gods.
As the final pieces of the set were thrown into the dumpster, Vince the security guard approached the crowd. “I’m sorry, but y’all have to be going now. The new set is being delivered soon.”
“Time to drink our sorrows away,” Emma said.
“And look for new gigs,” said Thad.
“First round’s on me!” shouted Bradley.
“No, it’s on the network!” Filman pulled a credit card from his wallet. “They didn’t take my company card yet.”
“Then we’re all drinking from the top shelf tonight!” Thad led the group out of the studio.
Filman hung back by the dumpster, sifting through the discarded props, finding one of his fake golden Emmy awards. “I’m going to miss this place…” He tossed the plastic trophy back into the trash.
“Hey, you can have my job if you don’t want to leave,” Vince said. “I’m an actor, by the way. This is just a side gig for me. So if you’re ever looking for somebody for your new show…”
Filman scoffed. “What new show?”
“I know we’re not supposed to do this, but since you don’t really work here anymore…” Vince pulled a headshot from his jacket and handed it to Filman.
“Uh, thanks…” Filman wondered why Vince was shirtless in the photo. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Thank you, Mr. Filman.”
“Actually that’s my first name.”
“What?” Vince picked up a piece of cardboard from the floor—a fan sign reading HOW DOES IT END?
“Nothing,” Filman said.
Vince tossed the sign into the dumpster, and Filman walked toward the studio exit. He stopped by the door, looked back at the empty sound stage one last time, then left the building.
Chapter 4
The repetitive sound of rattling train tracks woke Filman from a deep sleep. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself sitting inside an empty train car riding through a dark tunnel. But how? And why? He didn’t remember getting on a train. Was he still dreaming?
Filman stood and walked to the front of the train car then stepped through the door to the next car, also unoccupied. Did he drink too much the night before and pass out on his train ride home? But he had never ridden the train before. He’d heard Los Angeles had a subway system, but didn’t know anyone who ever used it, nor did he have any idea how to navigate his way home via public transit. He always either drove himself or took an Uber.
Speaking of which… Filman pulled his iPhone from his pocket and tried to open the GPS map, but it wouldn’t work—neither did the phone, texts, internet browser, or any other app. It said the phone was 70% charged and had service, but nothing seemed to work. All the buttons on his home screen were lit up, but none of the apps would open. He tried rebooting the phone, but it wouldn’t power off. Actually, it almost looked as if the home screen was not interactive at all, but a static picture, like the type of prop iPhones he used on his show.
Sunlight burst through the side windows, blinding Filman as the train exited the tunnel. He readjusted his vision and looked outside to see a bridge over a deep desert canyon. It was not an underground subway, he realized, but a tunnel through a massive mountain (not Griffith). Filman didn’t recognize where he was, but one thing was clear—he was not in Hollywood anymore.
How long had he passed out? His phone said it was 10:10 PM, which was clearly not accurate, as the sun was bright in the sky. He searched the walls for any maps or signs that might indicate where he was or what the next stop might be, but found nothing. The next train car was equally empty, with no helpful clues. As the train reached the end of the bridge over the canyon, the scenery changed from rocky mountains to vast flat plains of grass as far as the eye could see.
It reminded Filman of when he drove cross-country the first time he moved out to California from Philly. It also reminded him why he’d flown ever since then. There was absolutely nothing to see but empty fields for miles upon miles in all directions. He appeared to be in the literal middle of nowhere.
Filman continued down the aisle to a fourth train car—empty again—then approached the door to the locomotive.
“Hello?” He knocked and waited, but there was no response. “Excuse me!” He knocked harder, and again, heard nothing but the monotonous rattle of train tracks.
Filman tried the latch to the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. “I’m coming in,” he warned, then pushed the door open.
“What the—” Filman was shocked to discover no conductor inside driving the train. Worse yet, they were rapidly approaching a station. “Oh my God! Somebody!” He nervously looked around for help, but none was coming.
“How do you stop this thing?!” Filman studied the controls, full of complicated buttons, levers, and switches. Some were labeled with unfamiliar terms like “qI’taw,” which may as well have been written in Klingon. Wait, was that Klingon? “Help! Somebody! Hurry!” Filman paced around, twiddling his fingers over the buttons, unsure what to do.
A steam whistle blew loudly, startling him, then the train gradually began to slow on its own.
“Um…” Filman backed away from the controls and looked out the front windshield at the station they were headed toward. The train continued slowing until it eventually came to a safe stop.
Filman breathed a sigh of relief then opened the side door to step off the train onto the platform. The station was quiet and empty, except for three men cosplaying as Star Trek characters. They began boarding the train several cars down.
“Hey, wait!” Filman darted toward them. “Excuse me!”
The Trekkies stopped on the platform to wait for Filman. As he got closer, he was astonished at the authenticity of their costumes. Filman was always more of a Star Wars fan—he preferred the epic “Hero’s Journey” mythology of George Lucas compared to Gene Roddenberry’s hard science “problem of the week”—though he instantly recognized the characters as Data, Worf, and Geordi La Forge from Star Trek: The Next Generation.
“Can I help you?” said Data in a canny voice that was just as convincing as his costume.
“Yeah, uh…” Where to begin, Filman wondered. “Where am I?”
“The train station,” Worf said, “Duh.”
Filman admired the man’s Klingon makeup, which must have taken hours to apply. It was as good a makeup job as he’d seen done by film industry professionals.
“Though I wish it were the starship station,” Geordi said. “This old-fashioned industrial age technology is rather pedestrian.”
“If only they had a transporter station,” said Data.
“Yes, we’ve got places to be,” said Geordi. “Live long and prosper.”
The three Trekkies gave him the Vulcan salute then boarded the train.
“Wait,” Filman said. “Where are you going?”
“San Diego,” Data said. “For Comic Con.” He climbed onto the train after his Trekkie friends.
“But…” Filman was cut off by a loud steam whistle as the locomotive started up, and the train began to slowly roll away. Filman tried the door the Trekkies went in, but it was now locked. The train rolled past him, heading back toward the direction it had come, with the locomotive now pushing forward from the rear.
Filman wondered if he should hop onto the train. He had no business in San Diego, but it was at least going to California. Once back in civilization, he could find his way home to L.A. Or should he stop in town first to figure out exactly where he was and how he got there? Then perhaps he could catch a direct train home—or better yet, a flight.
Filman tried the door to the next train car, but it was also locked. Running to the next door, he found it to be locked as well. He tried opening each door along the train as it passed by with no success. Even the locomotive door that he exited from earlier was now locked—and still, there was no conductor inside.
Oh well, Filman thought, stepping back down onto the platform. It seemed his decision was made for him. He would not be taking the train to San Diego—which was just as well. Filman hated Comic Con. He went once to promote The Showrunner, but no one there was interested in anything that didn’t involve spandex and capes. At least it was somewhat entertaining to see the elaborate costumes fans came up with. Filman spotted one superfan (his only fan, he joked) cosplaying as his character from The Showrunner, complete with a Philadelphia Foxes baseball hat, the same round wire-framed glasses, and a fake beard. He and Thad took a selfie with the fan—which was quite surreal.
Filman watched from the platform as the #1 locomotive engine passed by, painted royal blue with the face of Thomas the Tank Engine from the children’s television show. The whistle blew again, and Filman knew it was absurd, but he could have sworn the train winked at him.
Filman rubbed his eyes then watched Thomas the Tank Engine roll along the tracks, across the horizon of vast plains, and out of view.
Chapter 5
Filman exited the train station and stepped onto a dirt road that looked like the main street of a ghost town from the Old West. There were abandoned buildings made of wood, including a saloon, general store, and sheriff’s office. Or were they abandoned? Filman noticed a pair of eyes peek over the swinging doors of the saloon.
“Excuse me!” Filman waved, heading toward those peeking eyes.
A loud gunshot echoed through the air, and Filman dove to the ground for cover behind a water trough. He heard footsteps running across the street and looked up to see another cosplayer, this one a man dressed as Angel from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Did he miss the train to Comic Con? Or was there another fan convention in town? Wait, where was this town? Was it that ranch north of L.A. where they used to film Westerns? Didn’t Charles Manson and his cult also live there? Filman had never been to Spahn Ranch before, but he knew it wasn’t too far away from Hollywood. Perhaps he was closer to home than he thought. Though that still didn’t explain how he had gotten there.
Another gunshot rang out as a man with a shotgun rode by on a horse, chasing the vampire in black leather.
“Stop!” The man in the saddle shouted. “U.S. Marshals!” The Marshal wore a brown dustbreaker with a silver star badge and high boots with spurs. He looked just like Matt Dillon from Gunsmoke, a show Filman used to watch the reruns of with his grandfather after school. If that wasn’t odd enough, both the man and his horse were entirely monochrome—all gray, black, and white, devoid of color—just like the old TV show. It must have taken an awful lot of makeup to pull that off. What did they spray-paint the poor horse? Maybe this was a part of one of those live Western re-enactments like he’d seen at Disneyworld as a kid.
“Hey, get back here!” said another voice that sounded just like… Mister Ed? No, Filman thought, horses can’t talk. Then again, you could just attach a radio speaker to the horse’s saddle.
The Marshal fired his shotgun again while riding the horse down a side alley, chasing Angel the vampire.
The entire scene was surreal. As a filmmaker, Filman knew all about “movie magic” and the kinds of fantastical things FX artists could make appear to be real on screen. But there were no cameras around—and there wasn’t even an audience, aside from himself. This Western ghost town didn’t seem to be a studio set or stage show. That only left one other explanation: he had to be dreaming.
Filman pinched his arm then slapped himself in the face, but the unworldly scene around him remained unchanged. How do you force yourself to wake from a dream? He had only ever tried to do that during nightmares, but this dream wasn’t so bad. A bit boring, perhaps. It would be nice to at least have someone to talk to.
A vintage Checker A11 taxi cab swerved around a corner at high speed, nearly running Filman over as it screeched to a stop, leaving a cloud of dust in the air (and in Filman’s lungs). The car was painted yellow with black and white checkered stripes along the sides, along with the company name: SUNSHINE CAB COMPANY.
“Sorry I’m late, pal,” said the cabbie stepping out of the car. Filman stared slack-jawed at the short stocky man who bore a striking resemblance to Danny DeVito—except much younger, more like how the actor looked in the 1970s when he was on the TV show, Taxi. He was still balding, but with a thick mess of black hair sticking out the sides of his head, matching his disheveled clothes: a gray vest, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and a loose tie around his neck.
Star Trek, Buffy, Gunsmoke, and now Taxi… Was this a Hollywood theme park like Universal Studios? No, Filman reckoned. No one could get such disparate franchise characters together in one place without being sued (unless it was parody—but Filman didn’t find it very funny so far). Taxi was a bit before his time, so he never watched the show except for clips of Andy Kaufman, one of his favorite comedians, famous for his absurdist characters, elaborate stunts, and performance art bits. Come to think of it, this entire scenario seemed like the kind of hoax Kaufman would pull. But he died in 1984—unless that was all a part of the act and he faked his death like Tupac…
“The name’s Louie.” The young Danny DeVito lookalike used his elbow to pop open the trunk of his cab then held a hand toward Filman. “And you are?”
“Uh… Filman?” He shook the cabbie’s hand.
“Got any bags, Offelman?” asked Louie.
“No, Filman.”
“Sorry, Noffelman.”
“No—”
“Good. My back is killing me.” Louie slammed the trunk closed then walked around to the driver-side door. “So where to, boss?”
“Where, uh…” Filman looked around. How could he know where to go, when he didn’t even know where he was? “What is this place?”
“First time, huh pal?” Louie said. “Get in and I’ll give you the grand tour.”
Filman climbed into the back of the cab—which smelled like it hadn’t been cleaned since the 70s—and they drove down the dirt road.
“Welcome to TV Heaven,” Louie said, as the street turned to pavement, and the buildings around them became more modern as well. But not modern modern—more like a main street from the 1950s.
“TV…huh?” Filman didn’t know whether to take the latter word literally or figuratively. After all, that was another explanation for his bizarre surroundings. He might not be dreaming, but permanently ‘asleep.’
“TV Heaven,” Louie said. “It’s where you go, when you have no show.”