Country had all but forgotten last night’s incident. He stayed awake well past midnight sorting through data packets and secure socket layers and other things that are probably just made up by a writer under a deadline. Frederick Jackson, the security guard, waved Country on set without a hassle and thanked him for the half-dozen doughnuts and coffee.
“Black. Just like I like it,” Frederick said. “The missus won’t be so happy about the doughnuts, though, so let’s make it our little secret. Tip number two: what the little lady doesn’t know won’t kill you. Although, these might be the exception to the rule.” A splotch of raspberry jelly spurted out the back side of the fried, filled cylinder.
Ken, Country’s co-star, who had a love of high fashion and showed an unnatural fear of just about everything, met Country on the way to his trailer.
“We’ve gotta be on set in twenty minutes,” Chic Ken (Country’s fitting nickname) said. “Paolo’s already upset with Elena about the ad-libbing. You can bet he’s gonna take it out on us.” Ken’s silk-clothed arms flapped about as the panic started in.
“Calm down,” Country said. “You’ll be alright.”
Country’s attempt to put Ken at ease had the opposite effect, so Country left him there. Fifteen minutes and a quick makeup session later, he passed by the still squawking Ken, who was now begging the gaffer to build him a laser to protect them from the alien invasion.
“You know it’s just a movie,” Country overheard the gaffer say.
“I’ll give you my fedora if you make me one,” Ken offered as a bribe. “It’s made with loving care by seven-year-olds in a Chinese factory using nothing but the softest dissident skin.”
Country kept going and arrived on set. As Ken surmised, Paolo was in a foul mood.
“Nice of you to show up, Marvin,” Paolo said. “Next time, try to make it on time.”
Country looked at the clock on the wall. “You said be here by nine. It’s eight-forty.”
“What I say and what I mean are two different things,” Paolo said. “Learn to distinguish between the two.”
Country nodded. “Got it. From my brief experience, that seems to be standard operating procedure in Hollywood,” he added to his assistant, Brenda.
Brenda looked up from the script. Her face had the blank expression of a person who just found out she was a ghost. She honked Country’s nose to make sure.
Nope. Still alive, she thought. She handed Country the script. “You’re working on scene sixty-five,” she said. “I highlighted your parts so you’d know what to read.”
You mean the parts that say, ‘Brock Cabajhed,’ my character’s name? he thought. I can’t tell if she’s the idiot or she thinks I am.
Brenda took his nose and gave it a few more honks. After each toot, she held her arms out and looked them over. He figured that answered the question.
By nine, Country had his part memorized. Still, in contrast to Paolo’s angry assertion that he had arrived late, Country’s scene didn’t start filming until well after eleven, which gave him plenty of time to make conjectures about the nature of the film. As best he could tell, it was a spoof of a film that sat in the disaster/apocalyptic genre. His friend, Bart, neither agreed nor disagreed but occupied himself with his nacho and frijoles plate.
“Want one?” Bart offered Country. “I got it off the set of ‘Beans. The Musical.’”
Country shook his head. “No thanks. I’m not much of a singer.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. Well, maybe one.”
Country dipped a nacho into the mushed mass of black beans. Between muffled crunches, he spoke to Bart.
“You’ve been hanging out with me for the last half hour,” Country said. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Bart shrugged. “Not really.”
“What do you do here, anyway?” Crunch, crunch.
Bart shrugged again. “Nothing.”
“Why are you here, then?” Mush, toot.
“I come for the free nachos.”
It was Country’s turn to shrug. “Can’t argue with that.”
“Brock! On set.” The director’s voice rang out.
“Gotta go,” Country said, taking the opportunity to grab a final bean-dipped nacho and shove it into his mouth. “Thanks for the energy.”
Brenda dabbed Country’s face with a soft cloth. Her other hand reached out …. Country shook his head. The hand dropped to her side. Her eyebrows remained in a puzzled expression. As he walked off, he noticed her constantly bumping into a wall as if she could pass through it.
Paolo arched a cheekbone when Country stepped onto the set. “Nice of you to finally show up,” he said.
“I’ve been here for … ah, never mind. Where do you want me?”
With a dismissive wave, Paolo indicated that Country should stand by Elena.
“Good morning, Elena,” Country said.
“Good morning,” Sandy said.
“I was talking to Elena,” Country said, pointing at Elena.
“I’m Elena,” Sandy said. “That’s Sandy.”
“Did you call me?” Elena asked. “I heard you say Sandy.”
“Yeah, Elena,” Country said. “I said good morning.”
Elena looked at Sandy. “Brock said good morning.” Then, she turned to Country. “Aren’t you going to say good morning to me, too.”
“Uh … sure. Good morning, Elena.”
“I’m Sandy,” Elena said
“Scene sixty-five,” Paolo yelled out. “Top of the page, starting with Elena. And … action.”
“The air is so heaty,” Sandy said. “I don’t know how much more of mother nature’s wrath I can take. I’d be dead already if it wasn’t for my lovely, dark skin soaking up the rays. Frankly, I don’t know how you’re still alive, Sandy. This punishment is being wrothed upon us for the sins committed by your colonialist ancestors. Today, Karma, god of retribution, has spoken. He brings his sometimes instant justice upon your freckled and pasty head. Tomorrow, Rick, god of ironic statements will finish us off, unless ….”
“Unless what?”
“I … I don’t know. If only Brock were here ….”
“We don’t need no man to save us!”
“Cut!” Paolo yelled. He rubbed his face with his left hand. “That was terrible.”
Yeah, it was, thought Country.
Paolo looked at his watch. “This is going nowhere, and we don’t want to waste any of Brock’s time,” he said.
If Country believed in Rick ….
“Let’s just move forward to page one-hundred seventy-two where Brock comes in,” he continued.
Paolo sat impatiently in his chair with one hand on the armrest, watching as Sandy and Elena raised their fingers one by one and mouthed some numbers. Pulling of their shoes, they continued the process. Paolo’s face fell into his hand. Country recited the Constitution backwards in its entirety.
“Our scripts only go up to twenty,” Elena alerted Paolo. “Unless, you consider Elena’s double pinky toes.”
With a groan of resignation, Paolo motioned to his assistant to find the correct page for them.
“Ready?” he asked.
Sandy and Elena smiled.
“Great. And … action.”
“Come on,” Brock said. “The water’s up to the embankment. Pretty soon, it’ll cover the roads. If that happens, we’ll have to swim out.”
“How did we ever get to this point?” Sandy said.
“They tried to warn us,” Elena said. “All the models show that the hole in the ozone layer is increasing exponentially. The scientists at the NIH told us white colonialism would kill us. That and the greenhouse gases from the farting employees at meat-packing plants. The two forms of toxicity combined would be enough to poke a hole in the heartiest of ozone patches. What a waste of money and resources it was to send the rocket ship up there without considering the cause. If only we had listened. If only we had converted to veganism and solar power when Jimmy Carter told us to, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
A tune from Beans. The Musical. escaped from Country’s shorts.
“It’s even worse than we thought,” Sandy said, looking at her prop radio. “Apparently, Mount Everest is gone. The original models were wrong. New data shows that the mountain was ninety-nine point nine percent snow. The snowcap has melted away, leaving only six-foot-eight of rock underneath.”
“Oh, no,” said. Elena. “Does that mean?”
Sandy nodded. “Yes. The icy waters have plunged into the oceans. All the bikini-wearing fish have perished. The coastal regions have flooded, and the elites are dead. The only ones left are the midlanders, but without the intellectuals from Harvard and Yale telling them what to do, it’s utter chaos. Everyone is firing their semi-automatics indiscriminately.”
The sound effect of machine guns came from off stage.
“See,” Sandy said. “You can hear them. Pretty soon all of us will be dead too.”
“Cut!” Country yelled.
“What are you doing?” Paolo asked.
“You’ve got a few flaws in the script,” Country said. “I realize it’s a satire, but you still want to get the details correct.”
“A satire?” Paolo asked. “We’re not making a satire.”
“You’re not?” Country asked. He ruffled his fingers through his neatly trimmed hair and took a moment to get his words right. “Well, then, the plot’s ridiculous. Hole in the ozone? How many times has that theory been debunked? No one’ll believe it.”
“They’ll believe it if we sell it long and hard enough,” Paolo said. His eyes had a cold, distant, futuristic look. “And if not, we’ll invent an even more devastating truth.”
“Uh … I see.”
Paolo’s disgusted snarl made his already dimpled chin acquire a bunch of tiny cousins. “I need a break,” he said. “Everybody. Take five.”
The best time of the day! Country headed to the caterer’s table and picked at a cluster of grapes. “Crazy scene, huh Sandy-Elena?” he said as he shoved a handful of green orbs into his mouth.
“I’m Elena-Sandy,” Elena said.
Why did they cast Elena as Sandy and Sandy as Elena? Country thought. Shouldn’t they have switched the names … or the roles? Ahh. Never mind.
Country chewed on the fruit. A few drops of Protestant wine dripped down his chin. “Would you like some?” he offered Elena. “They’re really good today.”
Elena turned her head slightly as she lifted her nose into the air. “No, thank you,” she said in a way intended to convey her indignation.
“What’s with the attitude?” Country asked. He didn’t really care and wished he had asked it in his mind.
A tiny snort of derision escaped her flaring nostrils. “Attitude? Me? I’m not the one who pooh-poohed the ozone hole.”
Country bit his lip when he heard pooh-poohed. The laugh circled around his belly looking for its own hole through which it could escape.
“I’ll have you know,” Elena continued, “that the problem is real. I take the care of planet Earth seriously, unlike some others I might know.” Country took it to mean him.
Sandy joined the conversation. “Me too,” she said in accidental irony. “I donate fifteen dollars a month to Save the Ozone. And I’ve given up whipped cream on Tuesday’s.”
“Fifteen.” Another derisive snort from Elena. “I donate twenty and don’t allow Sven …,” (her assistant) “… to use any more hair spray than is absolutely necessary. Isn’t that right, Sven?”
Sven pressed the spray nozzle twice to indicate his agreement.
“Well,” Sandy said, “I only donate fifteen because I mostly give to other causes.”
The brewing battle piqued Country’s interest. He grabbed another cluster of grapes and took a few steps back, wishing he had a way to record this.
“Like what?” Elena asked.
I’m glad you asked, Country thought.
“Last month,” Sandy said. “I went to an animal shelter and pet the abandoned dogs for an hour. I would’ve stayed longer, but the news crew covering the event had to leave early.”
“Ha!” Elena exclaimed. “Every Wednesday, unless I’m on set or have a nail appointment … or if yoga class hasn’t been canceled, I go to the shelters and let the homeless take photos with me.”
Sandy’s face showed signs of envy. “That’s it? Homeless shelters. Pishaw! Some Sundays, I head to the inner city where all those poor, brown children run around playing tag in the streets or sit on the stoops with their raggedy dolls and invent games with their friends, and I just sit their [sic] in my limousine and watch. I can’t tell you how much my heart breaks for them, and I think how much better off those poor souls would have been if they had never been born. You can ask my driver. He’s seen the tears.”
“Poor children?” Elena said. “That’s soooo last year’s thing.”
“Like you can do better,” Sandy scoffed.
“Easily,” Elena said.
“Prove it.”
Elena became the epitome of smug satisfaction. “I started a charity.”
“No, you didn’t,” Sandy said.
“Yes, I did.”
“OK,” Sandy said with sarcastic sincerity. “What’s it called?”
“Hugs of Reform. Formally known as Hugs for Terrorists. We take only the worst of the worst – kidnappers, slave traders, bombers, beheaders – and we show them the love they never felt. We explain the concepts of tolerance and peaceful co-existence and end our time together with a hug. After which, we set them free to live as productive citizens.”
“What’s the recidivism rate?” Country asked.
“Ninety-nine percent. But that’s only because we don’t know Achmed’s whereabouts. Rumor has it he sells Medjool dates from the trunk of his car now. Makes a few hundred thousand a month from what I hear. And that’s living up near the Gaza strip, right by the place where they launch the missile attacks.”
“Kudos on the good work,” Country said.
“Yeah. Kudos,” Sandy had to begrudgingly admit.
Elena smiled with pride.
“Hi, Country,” a deep, booming voice called out.
Country turned around. “Good morning, Mr. Ivel.”
“Please. Call me Roger.”
“I’ll do my best,” Country said.
He couldn’t help but feel a little nervous as he watched the owner of Harbinger Studios walk over to Paolo. Even though they were a little way off, Country’s acute hearing allowed him to pick up on the conversation. Paolo’s cheeks had taken on the color and temperature of a steamed beet.
“How’s it going with our new star?” Roger said.
Paolo turned his face and looked as if he wanted to spit on the ground. “Why’d you make me hire him again?”
“He’s going to be a star, Paolo. Can’t you see? Besides, having black lead actors is all the rage.” His lungs cackled as he let out a few coughs.
“I understand,” Paolo said, “but couldn’t you have found someone like Denzel Washington? Or that guy from Virginia … Ralph Northam? You can tell he’ll be a star someday.”
“You sure he’s the black guy?” Roger asked. “And not the guy in the hood?”
“Does it matter?” Paolo asked. “Star material.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Roger said. “Still, Marvin’s the man for the job.”
Paolo kicked at the ground like an angry horse who found out the hay’s not fresh.
“Play nice,” Roger said. “If you want to keep working in Hollywood.”
Paolo let his grimace linger just a bit. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Excellent,” Roger said. “Now, how much longer before you start up again?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Perfect. That’ll give me a chance to talk with our star.”
Country turned back to the fruit basket. Apparently, Sandy and Elena had also overheard the conversation, because fawning admiration (and hands in uncomfortable places) had replaced their previous antagonism for him. Country brushed their arms off his body and scooted towards the oncoming owner.
“Marvin!” Roger called out. “Just the man I wanted to see.” A flabby yet deteriorating arm draped around Country’s shoulder. A meaty palm gripped his nipple. “How’re things going for you on the set?”
Country looked at Roger’s hand, then, back at him, and made a gesture which meant, You want to remove your hand now?
Roger released his grip but not before giving Country’s nips one last friendly honk.
Is he a ghost, too? Brenda thought.
“Going as well as expected,” Country said.
“Great! I’m glad you’re feeling comfortable on the set.” He paused, held his head up, and nodded a few times. “Look around, Marvin.” He stretched out his arm and rotated it around the room. “You’re going to be a star someday. Someday soon, I might add. And all of this will be yours. The food.” He laughed. “The money. The women. Fame. Everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Or at least, it can be. If you have the right person on your side, of course. Hollywood can be a tough town. You’re going to need a friend to help you navigate the politics.” He paused again. “I’d like to be that friend. If you’ll let me.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Country said, “but I’m not concerned with fame or fortune. It seems to damage people more than it helps.”
“Spoken like a person who has neither,” Roger said. His laugh carried across the set. “I admire your convictions, though. Tell you what. I’m hosting a party this weekend. Why don’t you come as my special guest. I’ll introduce you around. Put in a good word for you. Give you a taste for the good life. If you don’t like it, no worries.” He patted Country on the shoulder. “You won’t know if you like it or not until you try.”
“I’m not really interested,” Country said. “Besides, I don’t have any time this weekend.”
Roger’s laugh wasn’t pleasant this time. “I think you should find time.”
Country thought about it for a moment. A voice crept into his head which said, ‘It’s not like it’ll hurt to take a look.’
“Alright,” Country said. “But on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“I get to bring a date.”
“All the better.” Roger slapped Country on the backside. “Now, go get ‘em, tiger,” he said.
As Country walked back to set, feeling slightly nauseous, he couldn’t help but think of Genny.
I’m doing it for her, he thought. She’ll get a kick out of meeting the celebrities.
Yes, she will, a creepy voice said. Ha, ha, ha, it added.
“I can see you, Brenda,” Country said.
Brenda’s hand went towards Country’s nose.