Excerpt from Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

MEMENTO MORI

The backlot is humming with energy today, and I'm not thrilled about it. Rolling up to the east security gate is typically a surefire way to cruise right in and get any tedious studio afternoon over with, but I've discovered a line of five or six cars waiting for me.

It's always something with this place, and today that something is poor traffic management.

I settle in, watching April at the security booth as she flashes her welcoming smile at each producer, actor, writer, and director making their way through the checkpoint.

I can't quite see who she's talking to, the rising California sun washing my eyes in its golden glow. Even through these dark sunglasses it's hard to get a read on the driver of the McLaren with the scissor doors and obnoxious paint job, but a shock of stark white hair hints at Raymond Nelson, head of the animation department and real-deal Hollywood legend. This would make sense, as he rarely keeps the same car for more than a month and I've yet to notice this vehicle on the lot.

Ray is old-school. I used to be terrified of the guy, but have since come to appreciate his no-bullshit approach to this business after two decades of weathering it myself. Regardless of your opinion on Raymond Nelson's studio battles and legendary tantrums, there's a lot to be said for sticking around as long as he has.

A few years back I worked for him on a pitch, a cartoon concept that never really got off the ground and eventually became a live-action TV pilot, and while his ideas about certain social issues are alarmingly dated, he maintains the spark that once propelled him to the top. The guy isn't just some suit. Raymond put in the hours, hand-drawing every cell of his first animated short before I was even born. He's part of the rare handful still with us who built this studio from the ground up.

On the other hand, he's also a blowhard asshole.

Ray eventually pulls onward in his six-figure sportscar, this lime-green vehicle acting as yet another billboard for his decades-deep midlife crisis. The absurd sight of Ray's new luxury vehicles usually triggers a smile of bemusement, but as Ray leaves the checkpoint I notice a look of exaggerated distaste on April's face.

This expression quickly shifts back to her usual warmth as the next car pulls up, and the process begins anew.

I move forward in turn, the whole line shifting one space, then put my car in park again. For the life of me, I can't remember it ever taking this long.

It's also possible my nerves are just stretching my perception of time like taffy. I'm rarely tense over a meeting—I just show up, tell them to fuck off, and leave—but this one feels different.

Everything in this town feels different lately.

I lean back in my seat and turn down the car stereo, which has been blasting the snarling howl of British punk band IDLES into my eardrums at an admittedly dangerous volume, and check in on myself. Deep breaths fill my lungs—in and out, in and out—and I facilitate this moment of peace even more by cracking the windows a bit.

To my right lies the Harold Brothers backlot, a sprawling mass of offices and breathtakingly large soundstages. To my left is an empty field of tall yellow grass that leads right up to the backside of Griffith Park. The studio owns these unused swaths of land, and one day they, too, will be covered in monstrous, rectangular soundstages. For now, however, these rare natural spaces peeking through the vast Los Angeles sprawl are treating my ears to a soft, brittle rustle, the gentle wind shifting millions of dry grass blades against their neighbors.

My eyes close as the sun warms my skin.

Honk! Honk!

The sounds are unexpected, but too far away to prompt much of a reaction. This invasion of my auditory space consists of two staccato blurts from a horn, an instrument that could just as easily belong to a circus clown as it could a passing bicycle.

Excerpted from Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle. Copyright © 2024 by Chuck Tingle. Excerpted by permission of Tor Nightfire. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.