Chapter 21: Quentin Tarantino
Phoebe's voice drifted from outside the bedroom. "Bruce?"
Bruce pushed himself up and rasped, "In the bedroom, Phoebe."
Phoebe slipped inside. One look at him and she gasped. "Oh no, Bruce—I was at the massage parlor this morning. Rachel told me you're really sick. How are you feeling?"
"Thanks for coming." His voice sounded like sandpaper. "The medicine knocked down the headache and fever, but every muscle aches—like someone beat me with a baseball bat."
"Medicine only treats symptoms; it can't clear the negative energy clinging to you!" Phoebe declared, already gesturing dramatically. "You need a full energy cleanse!"
Head foggy, Bruce nodded. "Alright, Phoebe. What do I do?"
"Easy—lie flat, relax, and clear your mind!"
Bruce obeyed. Phoebe stood over him, closed her eyes, made grabbing motions, then whipped toward the door and hurled invisible negativity through it with a loud "Whoosh!"
She repeated the ritual—plucking from his forehead, his chest—each time flinging "bad energy" toward the door with complete seriousness.
Bruce managed a weak joke. "Hey... could you throw those a bit farther? Maybe New Jersey?"
"Shh!" she hissed without opening her eyes. "Clear your mind!"
Bruce stayed quiet while she finished. After a minute she exhaled. "Done! Most of it's gone—only a few stubborn pieces left hiding."
Bruce sat up slowly. "Honestly, Phoebe, I don't know about energy cleansing, but your company is better than medicine. I already feel better."
She beamed and pressed a warm kiss to his forehead. "Sweet patient. Need anything else?"
"If it's no trouble, could you heat up some water?"
"Of course!" She returned moments later with a kettle and cup within reach. "Rest now. If you need anything, call me!" She breezed out.
Bruce sipped the water, fatigue rolled back in, and he cocooned himself in blankets.
He woke later to hushed voices. Blurry-eyed, he spotted Joey and Audrey in his living room.
"Joey? Audrey?" he croaked. "When did you get here?"
"Hey, buddy, you're up!" Joey turned, concerned. "Just got here. Feeling better?"
Bruce grabbed the thermometer and a lozenge. "Body aches eased... but my throat's killing me."
"Oh no, sore throat!" Audrey sympathized. "Last time I had one it felt like swallowing razors. You should talk as little as possible."
Bruce sighed. "But Rachel and Phoebe already made me talk..."
"Then starting now—no more words!" Audrey insisted. "For your throat's sake!"
He nodded and mimed zipping his lips.
Just then, the phone rang.
Bruce pointed to it and hit speaker.
Joey leaned in. "Hello, this is Bruce's apartment."
A gravelly, energetic male voice: "Hey, I'm looking for Mr. Bruce White."
"Uh, yeah, he lives here, but he's got laryngitis—can't talk. I'm Joey. I can help."
The caller paused. "Wait—can't talk? You sure you didn't kidnap him or something?"
"No! He's just sick! Bad cold! Why would you jump to kidnapping? Who is this?"
The man chuckled. "Quentin Tarantino."
Bruce's eyes widened. He wondered if the fever was making him hallucinate. He grabbed the phone, ignoring the pain. "Wait—say that again?"
"Quentin Tarantino."
Bruce's heart pounded. "The Quentin Tarantino? Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction—that Quentin Tarantino?"
"Ha, yeah, that's me."
Adrenaline surged. The fever suddenly felt trivial. "Mr. Tarantino, my buzzer's broken—what can I do for you?"
"Listen, I'm downstairs at the café. Central Perk. Your buzzer didn't work. I just read the Inglourious Basterds script and I have some wild ideas. Can I come up?"
Bruce inhaled. "Absolutely. Tell Rachel—the blonde server—that I sent you. She'll let you in."
"Cool." Click.
Joey's jaw hung open. "Quentin Tarantino? THE Quentin Tarantino? The movie director?"
"So... you know Quentin Tarantino?" Bruce's voice was hoarse, his gaze sliding toward Joey.
Joey nodded eagerly. "Quentin! Of course! The hottest director in the business right now! His Pulp Fiction is incredible—I saw it in October!" He paused. "Didn't totally follow how the story jumped around, but everyone says it's amazing! Bruce, is he talking to you about Inglourious Basterds? Does he want to direct?"
Bruce shook his head and sucked in a breath. "Script... belongs to Miramax. If he wants to direct, he should talk to Harvey."
"Bruce, talk less," Audrey frowned. "Unless you want to sound terrible for the rest of your life."
"Yeah, save your strength!" Joey added.
Bruce rolled his eyes. His throat was on fire, but he wasn't about to receive Quentin Tarantino in bed. He grabbed his coat and gestured toward the living room.
He'd barely sat down when the apartment door received a firm knock.
Joey darted over and opened it. Outside stood the unmistakable Quentin Tarantino, wild hair and boundless energy.
"Hey! Mr. Tarantino!" Joey switched into professional mode. "Bruce is inside, but he's got a bad flu—throat's wrecked, can't talk much. Tell me what you need and I'll relay it!"
Quentin blinked, confused. "But... we just spoke on the phone? I got his agent's number from Harvey—Estelle was tough to crack. Said you were sick, no visitors. I called Miramax, jumped through hoops to get your address. I'm flying to LA at dawn, no time to wait, so I came straight over. On the phone you sounded hoarse, sure, but you could speak."
Joey froze, embarrassed. Bruce was already up. He shook Quentin's hand, pointed to his throat, and rasped, "Mr. Tarantino... welcome. Sit. On the phone... I was surprised. Now... I need to save my voice." He motioned toward the couch.
Quentin sat down, leaning forward with intense eyes. "Bruce, short version. I saw the Inglourious Basterds script at Miramax. Holy shit! I've been working on a WWII idea myself—vague stuff—but your draft blew my mind! And kind of... freaked me out!"
He gestured wildly. "Chapter-style storytelling! History reimagined! Genres mashed together! And that character Hans Landa—God, he's brilliant! I'm reading it, excited and terrified—'How did he write this? How do I top it?' I had to meet you right away!"
Bruce pulled the thermometer from under his arm: 98.5°F—fever gone. He exhaled in relief.
He motioned Joey to bring over the typewriter, then typed out a message.
Joey, Audrey, and Quentin leaned in to read.
"If I told you I came back from thirty years in the future and stole your not-yet-written script, would that make you feel better?"
Quentin stared, then laughed. "Ha! Best excuse I've heard all year! If you really did steal it, I'd actually feel relieved!" He chuckled. "But forget it—I won't ask where the inspiration came from. We probably watched the same movies anyway!"
Bruce smiled slightly and typed: Inglourious Basterds—Miramax plans to greenlight after New Year. They're looking for a director. Interested?
Quentin's excitement dimmed. He ran his hand through his hair. "Man, I'm not sure about timing! Pulp Fiction foreign promo isn't done—premieres, awards season. I promised to act in a friend's film... I'm completely swamped!"
"Hey, Mr. Tarantino!" Joey seized the moment, pointing at himself. "If you end up directing, you've got to consider me! That Italian character who swings the baseball bat—practically written for me! I'm Italian! I'm an actor! I can even play baseball!"
Quentin was amused and gave Joey a once-over. "Donny Donowitz—the bat-wielding character. Alright, since you're the writer's friend, if I direct this, I'll give you an audition."
"Awesome!" Joey whooped.
Quentin's attention snapped back to Bruce, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Bruce, seriously, do you have more scripts? Anything on the level of Basterds?"
Bruce hesitated, then typed: Yes. One sold to Fine Line, three more with Estelle waiting for buyers.
"Fine Line? Which script?"
"Django Unchained."
"And the other three? Titles?"
"Love Actually, The Hateful Eight, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood."
"Can I read them? Right now! If they're half as good—hell, even a third—I'll call Harvey immediately! Miramax needs these scripts!"
Bruce met Quentin's intense gaze, nodded, and retrieved several thick screenplay folders from his desk.
Quentin clutched them eagerly, grabbed Love Actually off the top, and sat cross-legged on the floor to read. His brow furrowed as pages flipped. "Rom-com? Ensemble piece? Same writer as Basterds?" He glanced up at Bruce with suspicion.
But his pace slowed. His face grew intent. "This dialogue... this structure..." When he finished, he exhaled slowly. "Alright, I admit it—completely opposite of Basterds, but just as good. Warm and beautiful. Harvey needs to see this!"
Next he dove into Django Unchained. From page one his eyes widened. "Western... revenge story... the soul of spaghetti westerns... it's like you filmed ideas from my head!" He looked at Bruce with shock and something close to awe.
He grabbed The Hateful Eight, losing himself in the blizzard-bound paranoia, then went straight to Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, wandering through 1969 Los Angeles nostalgia.
Minutes crawled. The sky outside darkened. Joey, long since bored, slumped on the sofa and dozed off.
Bruce leaned back, throat still sore, but regret gnawed at him. Watching Quentin's mounting astonishment, he felt uncomfortable—like he'd stumbled into something that wasn't his.
Nearly two hours later, Quentin finished the final script. He set the pages down slowly and stared at the wall as though processing something profound.
A long silence passed before he turned to Bruce, his expression complex—awe, confusion, and a thread of self-doubt.
"Bruce..." His voice had lost its energetic speed, turning quiet. "These scripts... they're not just good."
He paused, searching for words. "They feel like every stylistic instinct I've had, every genre I love, even brilliant ideas I hadn't thought of yet—they're all here, in your pages!"
Quentin stood, pacing the living room, hands in his hair. "Django uses violence to explore history; Hollywood wraps nostalgia around tragedy; Hateful Eight pushes human nature to the limit—exactly what I wanted to do! Who are you?"
Bruce had no answer. He could only meet Quentin's stare in silence. The room held nothing but Quentin's breathing and distant city sounds. Bruce realized that for Quentin, these scripts weren't just impressive—they were an existential challenge.
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