A story shining light on No light from Heaven.

I was way too old when I got the urge to go back to my early love of creative writing and decided on a kind of Proustian project of remembering my past things and creating stories out of my lived experience from first days to near death.  And so I began, doing book after book covering different phases of my life through my early forties and then beyond.  Some of my friends liked my work as I found a way to publish my books, but with an obscure publisher who couldn’t do much for them.  And what can one like me do?–an unnoticed writer who’s been around for years but obviously won’t be around much longer, with no agent or real publishing house willing to invest their energies in him, and so it goes and there’s not much one can do about it when the years pile on and your energy begins to dip and you still haven’t found your way to get the attention you (and at least a few others) think your work deserves.

            But if you can imagine this at all, you might also be able to imagine how this writer felt when a new and yes much read play and film writer acquaintance began to read through my opus, found much to admire and even found one of my books, one with a fancy title, No Light from Heaven  an absolute knockout worthy of  being brought to the screen.  “My god,” he wrote, “this book simmers and boils, and the woman you write about is really a memorable man-killing marauder worthy of Lady Macbeth or Hedda Gabler.”

            “Thank you,” I said, so pleased by his words. “But what can I do? You’re one of the few people who’ve noticed. … And I wouldn’t know where to begin to make something happen–no one’s even reviewed it.”

            “Well, if you can find someone who’d show some interest, I could help you write a screen treatment.”

            “Really? You would help?”

            “Yes, it might turn out to be good for both of us and I think there may be a way. First, let’s think of who could play the woman… She’s a striking Italian American. So how about Lady Gaga?”

            “Yes, she’d be perfect!” I exclaimed having just seen her in The House of Gucci and beginning to live the dream.

            “Well, I’ve had some contact with Tony Bennet’s ex-agent, and he might be able to carry the ball, especially if we agreed he’d have at least some kind of finder’s fee and maybe more, if he made the connect with her.”

            “Wow,” I said, eager to take the bait. 

            He then offered to give it a try and get in touch with this blessed ex-agent, and sure enough a few days later he calls to tell me, the agent’s agreed to approach Lady Gaga, and he gave me the guy’s number to call.

            “Hi,” I said when he answered. “Dick G. told me you might be able to help me out with Lady Gaga.”

            “Sure,” he says.  “I don’t deal much with literary properties, but I can skim over your book and see if it’s something she might want to look at.”

            So, I get his address and send him two copies, and not by media mail either.  And under a week later, he calls to say he thinks the book’s damn good and offers to take a copy to Lady Gaga to see if she’d give it a look.  Now more than another week goes by and then he calls to say, “She likes it,” he says without a word of small talk.  “Can you come to New York to discuss it with her?” 

            “Sure,” I say “In fact, I’ll be in New Jersey for my high school reunion and I’m planning to cross over for a week in Manhattan.”

            “Great,” he answers  “Text me your dates and I’ll see if I can set something up.”  

            I call up my friend Dick and tell him the news. “Great,” he exclaims, “But don’t blow this. She’ll probably want you to sign an option, and you should sign it because it’s maybe the only shot you’ll ever have.”

            “Yes,” I agree, and I ask him to send me his CV so I can try to nail him at least a trial  shot working with him to develop the screen version.

            Soon enough, I hear from the agent again, saying Lady Gaga’ s is wondering if I c​ould come by her place on such-and-such a day and hour.  “Yes, of course,” I say. “And is it ok if I bring my wife?” 

            “That should be fine,” he says, “it’ll make the meeting all the more human.”

2.

            Before you know it, Amelia and I are in New York walking around  to some haunts old and new, going to museums, the Met, plays, and jazz sessions–having a great time, but with me all revved up about our upcoming meeting.  Sure enough the day comes, and we go to the designated address, which is a few blocks east of Fifth Avenue some blocks north of the Metropolitan Art Museum.  We arrive at the apartment building’s front door, and I announce us to the porter, who makes his call, clearly gets an ok and escorts us over to the elevator that soon drops us off on the right floor.  I then ring the right bell, and a maid ushers us into the living room, where there she sits, as fine as a picture, the woman who’d become Lady Gaga.

            I’d thought the agent would be there, but there we. were just the three of us.  And she greets us like old friends, starting by talking mainly to Amelia–about Puerto Rico and Puerto Ricans she knows, serving us some wine and party snacks, leaning back and finally telling me she’d been fascinated by my book and by the character of Marlena, her values, her drive for adventure and passion and her need for subterfuge. 

            “I assume you weren’t the model for any of this,” she asks Amelia, clearly jesting.

            And Amelia replies, “No, I’m not Italian American.” 

            “And not a Lesbian, either,” she says.

            “Not to my knowledge,” Amelia answers coyly.

            “Well I really enjoyed the book, the way she and Mel get involved, their crazy love affair and–the betrayals–the trail of them. … But what made you think of me? “

            I all but stammer, but manage to blurt out, “Not the sex part, but the drive, the charisma, the talent, not to mention the looks.”

            “You mean I look like her?”

            “No, not much. I mean you’re both Italian women, and she was much darker, but you have her fire, her lust for life.”

            “Most of the time I’m just tired from all I have to do, but I really love the character and I can almost see myself trying to do her.”

            I don’t know what to say, trying hard not to stare at her tattoos. But she makes things easy.  “Let me talk this over with my people–my manager and all in L.A., and see where this might go.  Have you ever done a film script?” she adds.

            “No, but I’ve got a friend whose written a few successful ones,” I answer, getting out Dick’s CV.  “And I’m sure we can work up a first draft for your folks to take a look at.”

            “Well let’s see if we’re a go first,” she says, taking the CV from me.  “But tell your friend to start thinking about a screen version.  Meantime, my lawyer will do some paperwork giving me a six-month option to see if we can get it all to work.”

            She’s said all she’s had to say and before she has to make any gesture, we stand up, and we begin our movement to the door. At which point Amelia turns around and says, “I want to thank you for looking at Mel’s book, and if you have any plans for Chicago, get in touch so you can come by for a Puerto Rican dinner and a tour of Latino Chicago.”

            “And maybe Italian Chicago to boot,” I add.

            “Why, mil gracias–grazie,” she says smiling and maybe as surprised as I am with our invitations.  “I just might take you up on that offer.”

3.

            And with that we went toward the elevator, down out onto the street, with a nod to the porter, and before you knew it, we were heading down Fifth Avenue light on our feet almost tripping along like  Fred and Ginger or the dancer-singers Singing in the Rain–only the sun was shining brighter than I’d ever seen it, us going along until we found ourselves right in front of Mount Sinai Hospital, where Amelia had birthed two of her four children.  “Amelia,” I said, “Let me take your picture here.” And I took a shot of both of us looking as if we were celebrating her births and yes, mine. 

On we went, past the Metropolitan, until we came to San Patrick’s, and just to make a full day of it, I, Nietzschean believer in the death of God which I am, ushered Amelia in; and after our touristy look around, I planted a dollar in the donation box, and gave Amelia a five to light candles for her lost parents and her son. On our way out, I flipped another dollar to a woman begging at the door.

 

            Then we kept on, happily walking south along and beyond the park, when before you know it, we were standing in front of Rockefeller Center, fountain and all, and me feeling as rich as the Center’s namesake on the sunny side of the sunniest street in Manhattan and the world.

 

   “You know,” I said, “there’s Andy Warhol’s Marilyn up for auction here at Christies. Wanna take a look?”

     “Why not?” Amelia said.

     So, we looked around and before you know it, we found the number 20 indicating Christies and yes, there was the sign about Marilyn.  So in we went, and asked at the desk to see the Warhol, and soon an official-looking dressed-to-kill funeral home style guy appeared and took us in to see the famous painting.  And there she was in all her sad glory.

             “Wow,” Amelia said.  “It’s wonderful.”

            “What’s the latest bid?” I asked.

            “180 million,” he answered. “But we’re looking for 200 million.”
            “Really,” I said.  “How about 195?”

            “Well, we can give it a try,” he said, taking out paperwork and pen.

            And, in fact, we bought it.