The actors sat in their customary seats on the flanks of the oblong table. At the head of the table, the director, Paolo, and the screenwriter discussed the latest changes to the script. A bowl of decorative fruit held court in the middle, somewhere near the spleen. Everyone waited for the final cast member to arrive.
Country read his lines again. They wouldn’t stick. He knew why. Summoning up his full powers of concentration, he tried to block out the fears and worries which had tiptoed into his brain during the night around the same time the earwig did. A sixth sense warned him that something was amiss.
The sound of a struggle broke into his internal dialogue.
“Fighting over who has more lines again,” his thoughts assumed.
His eyes wandered toward Sandy and Elena, who had already left the polite debate stage of the disagreement and had entered the brawl phase. Clumps of hair lay on the ground beside shards from the end of a bottle. A pair of teeth clattered on the table, still spinning from the force of the blow which knocked them out. Angry sneers and vile curses spilled from split lips. Sven and Ken stood between the two actresses, their outstretched arms held in opposite directions in a futile attempt to prevent the warring parties from reaching each other. A second later, the two guys stepped aside and brought their hands together as though to say, ‘Proceed. Just leave me out of it.’
A no-holds-barred grappling match ensued. Sandy and Elena took turns in top position as they rolled along the floor, neither one gaining an advantage until Sandy, who had better technique but worse stamina, ran out of gas. Seizing her opportunity, Elena clambered to full mount and pummeled her opponent, raining down hammer fists and hay makers while wheezing out, “It … is … mine!” A badly battered Sandy finally submitted.
Paolo lifted his head from the script. A mass of disheveled fur and bruises under formation greeted his gaze.
“Makeup,” he yelled over his shoulder.
Elena returned to her seat with a look of triumph that would make Napoleon appear humble. Reaching out, she took hold of her prize, a golden pear with a red blush, and sank her teeth into it. A dry, chalky, styrofoamy substance dribbled down her chin. She continued chewing. Sandy took her place and dejectedly grabbed an apple.
A delicate and angelic, yet somewhat annoying, voice broke the silent tension.
“I’m here,” it said. “We can get started.”
“It’s about time she showed up,” Country thought.
“Thank you for gracing us with your presence,” Paolo said without the slightest smidgen of either irony or corruption.
“Yeah, yeah,” Cherie said. “Let’s get on with the reading.” She turned to her assistant. “Be a dear and bring me a glass of water. No ice, with a sprig of mint plucked within the last hour. Make sure it’s cool, between five and eight degrees Celsius. Any cooler and I won’t enjoy it properly. And this time, make sure you wear gloves. I can’t stomach the thought of other people’s fingerprints adorning the glass.” Turning back to the director: “Well? You ready?”
“Yes, Ms. Bubb,” Paolo said and smiled. He held up the script for everyone to see. “Did you all get the latest draft? It’s the one on sky blue. Good. In that case, let’s turn to page two-twenty. We’ll start in the middle with Brock’s line. This is a scene where subtlety, nuance, is the key, so keep that in mind.” He paused for effect. “OK. Ready … and … action.”
“If I ever see you messing with her again, I’ll kill you too,” Brock/Country said.
“Cut!” yelled Paolo. “Try it again. This time, say it as if you’re being secretly recorded by the police. You know. Angrier. Louder.”
“I thought you said subtlety was the key,” Country said, suspicion fomenting in the corner of his brain where paranoia lounges with a virgin daiquiri waiting to turn twenty-one.
“Just do it. And … action.”
“If I ever see you messing with her again, I’ll kill you too!”
“Excellent!” Paolo said. “Keep going.”
“Oh, thank you Brock, for saving me,” Elisabetta said. Cherie’s blonde curls jiggled with each word. She imagined Brock’s foes fleeing in disgrace.
“It was my pleasure, young miss Juarren,” Brock said. “Now, we can live in peace.”
The sound effects guy growled, pretending to be a pickup engine rumbling towards them.
“I think you shpoke to shoon,” Sandy whistled through her missing teeth. “Look.”
“Who is it?” Elena cried with subtle fear.
“It’sh them.”
“It can’t be,” Elena said. “After their defeat at Gettysburg Two, the Sequel.”
“That’sh what I thought. But look shome more. They’re baaa-aaack. Like the tv repairman in Poltergeisht.”
Elena (or Shandy-Elena – I can’t keep track) pretended to peer into the distance. A drop of blood trickled from her gazing orb. “Oh, my. But what are they doing on the coast? I thought the white supremacists promised to stay on their plantations.”
Shandy’s face contorted. “Liarsh. Desheitful shcum.”
Country rummaged around on the floor. He stood up, and with a quick, forceful shove, Sandy’s missing teeth popped back in place.
“Thank you,” she said.
Country nodded in acknowledgement.
“Can we get back to the reading?” Paolo asked.
“Of course,” Sandy said. “Where was I? Right. Deceitful scum. Just like every white person that has ever lived. But what are they doing here?”
The sound effects guy sang a honkytonk for atmosphere.
“Haven’t you heard?” Elena asked. “They blame us minorities for making the world all heaty and giving their sunburns sunburns. They think the only way to establish their racially pure kingdom and to chill the atmosphere is to eliminate people of color, who absorb heat only to radiate it later, thus, according to their backwards worldview, making the world unbearable. Selfish bastards. That’s why they’ve come here from the country innards with their semi-automatic handguns …,” Rat-a-tat-tat went the machine gun sound effect. “… and their confederate flags flying from the back of their lifted pickups. They’re here to kill us and fill the land with ski lodges and Barry Manilow concerts. Oh, Brock. I’m so scared. So very, very scared. What are we going to do?”
“It’s your line.”
“Brock. It’s your line.”
“Marvin!”
“Seriously?” Country said. “You don’t actually expect me to say this, do you?”
“Cut.” Paolo fumed. Tiny whorls of steam radiated from his forehead.
“What now?” Paolo asked. “What could you possibly have against the script this time?”
“Well, for one, white supremacists getting all heaty, driving pickups, flying confederate flags, singing honky tonk. Sounds like you copied it straight out of Sharpton’s Big Book of Global Warming and Racial Stereotypes.”
The screenwriter quickly shut the book he was reading.
Country continued. “Two: all of you are, shall we say, of the pasty persuasion. Milky in complexion. Pale as a Scotsman’s netherlands. Pallid like … well, you get it. White. Especially, Elisabetta. Doesn’t it seem like the characters are a little bit … what’s the phrase I’m looking for … oblivious to their translucence?”
“Excuse me,” Cherie said in a huff. “My character is 1/1024th Mexican.” Snapping fingers zig-zagged through the air.
“That was embarrassing,” Country thought. “Not to mention,” he said, “only a racist would determine a person’s character solely by the color of their skin, regardless of what that color is. As civilized, thinking people, we should no longer be perpetuating stereotypes of any kind. Except, of course, how Asian people know how to drift.”
“Are you finished?” Paolo asked.
“For now,” Country said.
“Then. If you don’t mind. Just say the line.” Paolo plopped back into his seat and gave the ‘action’ order.
Elena started again. “They’re here to kill us. What are we going to do?”
Country cleared his throat. “Let’s run, people of color, before the Republicans ….” He stopped. “I can’t do this. I’m just not feeling it.”
Paolo’s glare could have frozen the snakes on Medusa’s head. “Let’s take five,” he said. “Give Marvin, here, a chance to ‘feel it.’”
“What’s with him?” Elena whispered to Sandy, her newfound best friend. “Why won’t he say the line? Is he a white racist?”
Sandy looked him over real good. “I don’t think so. Although, he does have a resemblance to LBJ.”
Country ignored the rest of the banter and headed to the buffet table. He slipped past Cherie, who returned the glass of water to her assistant with an, ‘Unacceptable. The mint is at least two hours old.’ The sound of grapes squishing between his jaws drowned out all other chatter.
Two bunches later, he checked his watch. Take fives usually took thirty, so he headed to his trailer for a quick round of calisthenics, followed by some nervous pooing. Having finished and with nothing else to do, he went for a stroll around the set.
Country liked this area the best, mainly for the solitude it provided. Occasionally, a crew member would walk across the empty set, carrying tools or lighting equipment or a broken stuntman, but for the most part, Country had it to himself. This was where he did his best thinking, where he took a moment to talk with God. Today, though, he couldn’t find the words and simply sat on the curb and stared.
The breeze blew from the east, carrying the odor of charred pine, oak, and walnut. The fiercest winds had died down, and the emergency crews had contained most of the wildfires threatening the city. One more week and they hoped the worst would be over. Country lifted his head and inhaled deeply. A reminder of another place and time floated past his sinuses and into his lungs.
He stood up and brushed off his hands. Tiny pebbles, embedded in the cement, left imprints in his palms. Lightly, he traced the indentations with the tips of his fingers. Another memory. Another day he wished he could forget.
“Hey, Marvin, my friends call me Country!”
Country turned towards the voice. Frederick Jackson, the security guard, came rolling up in a golf cart. The left side of his collar stood up, and he appeared out of breath. The brakes squealed as the cart came to a stop.
“Mr. Jackson. What can I do for you?”
Frederick took a puff from his inhaler. “You seen a man running around back here? Kind of thin. Wearing dark clothes.”
Country thought for a minute. “Can’t say that I have. What’s going on?”
“He slipped onto the lot while I was talking with Mr. Washington.”
“Denzel Washington?”
“Yeah. He’s producing a movie for the studio.”
As if it were possible, Country stood up even straighter just in case the greatest actor that ever graced the screen came his way.
“Anyway,” Frederick continued, “I think he waited for me to be distracted. I caught him out of the corner of my eye before he slipped around a corner and headed this way.”
“Anything I need to worry about?” Country asked.
“I don’t think so. It happens more than I’d like to admit. They usually turn out to be autograph seekers. Every once in a while, we get a nutcase.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled,” Country said.
“Thanks,” Frederick said. “Let me go warn Ms. Bubb. Her trailers out this way, if I remember correctly.”
Country nodded in confirmation. Tires squealed in delight as Frederick floored the golf cart. Country waited for a minute and headed in the same direction.
“If there turns out to be a problem,” he thought, “I should be close by. Although, if she were to disappear for a few days … or years … I don’t think anyone would have a problem with it.”
He immediately regretted his thoughts and muttered a quick confession. Another minute later, Country walked past the golf cart, whose tires still squealed in delight. He turned to catch a glimpse of Frederick’s body hunched over the steering wheel, fingers gripping the black plastic in white-knuckled satisfaction, wind whistling through his hair like speech from a gap-toothed actress.
“Slow down there, Mr. Jackson,” Country said.
His advice (or sarcasm) was ignored.
“Cherie,” Country yelled out.
Thirty blonde curls, give or take, spun in Country’s direction.
“Hey, Cherie,” Country said again as he got within inside voice speaking distance. “There’s an intruder on set.”
“It’s Ms. Bubb to you,” Cherie interrupted. “Now, be a dear and grab my purse. My shoulder’s a little sore from tennis this morning. I think I’m going to have to fire my instructor and find someone a little more competent.” She handed Country the purse and let it drop out of her hand. It made a jangly sound when it hit the ground. “It’s so hard to find good instructors.”
Marcy, a twenty-something brunette with a smile that said, ‘I went to college so I could do this?’ (and Cherie’s new assistant), picked the purse off the floor. “I’ll put this in your trailer,” she said.
Cherie gave a half shrug and looked at Country. “What were you saying?”
“There’s an intruder on set. I figured I should come warn you.”
“An intruder? How … peasanty. Well, keep him away from me. I certainly wouldn’t want to unnecessarily sign any autographs.”
“Uhhhh, I’m not security,” Country said, regretting his earlier regret. “I’m in the movie with you.”
“Oh, I know,” Cherie said. She stared at him. Then, a little more. He stared back. The silence went on for about five minutes, only to be broken by a squealing sound.
“I already told her, Mr. Jackson.”
The golf cart continued on its merry way.
“Anything else?” Cherie asked.
“No. I think that’s it,” Country said and left her standing by herself. “Hollywood people,” he thought. “Can’t wait ‘til I graduate and get out of this town.”
He walked to the end of a row of discarded lighting stands and stopped. A deep sigh slipped from his broad, pushup-built chest. “Alright,” he said to no one in particular and went back to where Cherie still stood, putting the finishing touches of rouge on her lips.
“What do you think?” she said.
“Fabulous,” Country replied.
She mushed her lips together. “Now, it’s good.” She grabbed Country by the elbow. “Let’s go. We’re going to be late, and Paolo’s going to get in a tizzy.”
Together, they headed to the set. Behind them, a thin shadow peeked around the edge of a trailer. It waited for the two to reach the discarded lighting stands before taking a couple steps forward. A man at the end of the shadow, dressed in black, watched as the thirty blonde curls turned the corner. The shiny, metallic blade returned to its hiding place beneath his shirt.