Country was getting worried. Almost lunch time and Genny had still not arrived. A call to Franklin confirmed his worst fear. Genny had never shown up. His mood changed from foul to junkyard dog.
“Are you still with us, Marvin?” Paolo, the director, asked.
Country turned in his direction. “Yeah.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“It’s your line,” Paolo said. “Is there a chance you’re going to say it anytime soon?”
Country licked the inside of his lips, partly out of frustration, partly because someone had snuck into his room while he slept and smeared peanut butter there. He blamed one particularly bothersome pigeon. The pigeon neither confirmed nor denied it.
“If I’m being honest with you, I don’t feel comfortable saying it.”
“I see.” If Paolo was frustrated, it wasn’t noticeable. “You don’t feel comfortable saying it.” His head bobbed in understanding. “What is it this time? In the future, laser bullets won’t travel faster than the speed of light? Is that it? You’ve made your objections known already, science boy. Or is it the gender machine? You actually think a device like that won’t be created? Where you step in a boy and come out a girl. All it takes is a sharp edge and a tiny shovel. I thought I made that perfectly clear.”
“No. That’s not it,” Country said.
“What is it then?” The frustration may have begun to peek through. “Systemic racism doesn’t play a part in the world getting extra heaty, unleashing Chinese knock-off viruses which may or may not shut down society for months, longer in countries with leaders of great moral courage who only care about saving one life? Of course that’ll never happen. It’s a movie. We do make believe in Hollywood.”
“I get that,” Country said. “And I appreciate the creativity it took for the writers to come up with that nonsense. But no.”
“What then? The ACLU can’t morph into a bunch of self-righteous, hypocritical pricks?”
“Morph?”
“Hollywood won’t continue to be the epicenter of all that is decent and holy in the world?”
“Uhh ….”
“The future of mankind depends on everyone in society becoming a homosexual?”
“I’d argue that’s basic biology.”
“On demand divorce? Sex without commitment? The casting couch? Pedophilia? Destroying the patriarchy? These aren’t good and noble causes worth fighting for?”
“Calm down, Dr. Kinsey,” Country said. “It’s none of those.”
“What, then, Marvin? Tell me, because I’m at a loss for words.”
“That word. There’s no place for it.”
“Your nemesis is black, Marvin. And so are you. Your people are allowed to say it, especially if it refers to someone who betrays your race like he does.”
Country stared silently in disbelief. Or possibly in an attempt to prevent his fists from becoming knuckly hammers of ideological correction. A few deep breaths and a quick prayer for calm brought Country’s outward appearance back to conscious composure. His innards were another matter.
“My people,” he started slowly, “are what are colloquially known as ‘humans.’ And that phrase is inappropriate.”
“What would you prefer we use? Uncle Tom? Oreo? Climate denier? The white man’s flunky? None of them have that nuance, that certain je ne sais quoi, that we’re looking for.” The next part Paolo thought he muttered beneath his breath. “Maybe we cast the two roles backwards.”
Like a squashed skunk on a country road, Country’s innards became his outtards. The first blow connected to Paolo’s left cheek and sent him tumbling. If it wasn’t for Big Tony and Little Terry – two professional wrestlers who happened to be walking by – holding Country back, Paolo’s directing, and other, days might have ended right there. Even with two half-Nelsons, a whizzer, and a well-executed kneebar, Country still managed to break free for a second round of piñata punching. Or would have if a sweet girl with long, golden curls hadn’t stepped in his way.
“Marvin Bivins,” she said. “I need you to come with me right now.”
Country looked at her. The rage burned in his eyes.
“Before you do anything else you’ll regret,” she added.
She offered her hand. An instinct caused him to reach out and take hold. She led him off set and towards the dressing trailers on the back lot. When Country’s face returned to its normal shade of composure, she addressed him.
“That could’ve gone better,” she said.
“The understatement of the year,” he said.
“No. That would be: Hillary Clinton loves her some yoga.”
The caterpillar of confusion crossed Country’s cabeza. “It looks like I’m going to be looking for another job,” he said.
“Oh,” Cherie said. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I get the feeling Paolo will want to play nice.”
Country arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
“You like ice tea?” Cherie asked.
“The rapper or the beverage?” Country asked.
“Either one. I got both back in my trailer.” A muffled scream for help came from her dressing room. “Ignore that,” she said.
Country’s sixth sense kicked in. “Something I should know?” he asked.
Cherie scrunched her lips and shook her head. “Nope.”
His sixth sense felt relived. The other five had heartburn. Cherie’s head swiveled back and forth as a swarm of butterflies fluttered in the air above her.
“They sure are pretty,” Cherie said. “Probably fleeing from the fires.” She saw panic take a ride across Country’s lips. Her mistake was to assume it was the fires he feared. “You’re not from around here.”
Country shook his head.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get used to them. They rarely come through the city.”
Country’s heart pounded at the thought of massive butterfly swarms descending on him like they did in his dreams. Their scaly wings beating the air. Tongue things rolling and unrolling like unholy party horns. Collectivist evil worse than any gathering of cultural Marxists could design coursing through their wee, moth-like veins.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I think I’m going to be sick.” He was sure he saw a butterfly sneer.
Cherie held the hair out of his face as he regurgitated the better part of a bologna and peanut butter sandwich. When he finished, she offered him a moist wipe.
“Thank you,” he said as he cleaned his mouth. “Say. D’you mind if I ask you a question?”
“By all means,” she said.
“Why did you choose me to be in the movie?”
“What are you talking about?”
“That day, at the audition. You were there, and when you saw me, you said I was the one for the part. That other person, the casting agent if I remember correctly, said no, but you demanded they choose me.”
“The star is always right, I suppose,” she said.
“Yeah. I suppose. But why me?”
She shrugged. “You’re what we want.”
“Which is?” He didn’t fail to notice the verb tense nor the use of ‘we’.
She reached up and grabbed his lips, bringing them down to hers for a quick smooch. “Who knows? Maybe it’s for that big, beautiful face of yours. Maybe because it’s fun to torture Paolo.” Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits. Intrigue tinted her words. “Perhaps there’s some grand, nefarious scheme, and you’re nothing more than a pawn in the game.”
A distant ‘mwah hah hah’ collectively rose from the butterfly swarm. Country used his eye corners to glance askew at the fluttering beasts. When his orbital extremities returned to view what the rest of his pupils gazed upon, Cherie, like all other nine-year-olds, had already forgotten their previous conversation and had embarked on a new thread which involved banana pudding.
“… and why does it have to be ‘Nilla wafers? What’s wrong with ‘Colate ones? I guess it’s another one of those mysteries of life we just have to accept.” She placed her tiny fingers into Country’s palm. “C’mon. It’s time we headed back. Paolo’s had enough time to calm down. You might have to apologize, you know.”
“For what? After what he said to me. I’m the one owed an apology.”
“That too.” She hesitated. “Look, I’m not saying you need to. It’s simply a suggestion.”
“I’ll take it under consideration,” he said as he let her guide him to the set.
When they arrived, it was clear Paolo had not calmed down. Country’s canvas chair lay in a heap by the catering table. Tiny pieces of shredded script continued to rain down. A nervous assistant ran by Paolo’s side, offering adhesive bandages and consolation for his bruised ego.
As soon as the director saw Country, he charged him. Hands swung and clawed at Country’s face. Vile, hateful words spilled from his mouth. For his part, Country remained as calm as one would expect, which meant Big Tony and Little Terry were pressed back into action.
“You’ll never work in Hollywood again!” Paolo screamed.
“You can take your Hollywood and shove it up your …,” Country yelled back.
“That’s a wrap for today,” the assistant director called out.
“Worst apology ever,” Cherie said.
Country didn’t hear the rest as Big Tony tried to wrangle him back to his trailer. Little Terry tried to do the same for Paolo. Both combatants broke free and the fight was back on.
Paolo turned out to be quite the scrapper and gave Country as much as he wanted. The pair tussled, tumbled, and thumped for a good fifteen minutes, neither one of them gaining an advantage. Big and Little T gave up and went on their merry way. The rest of the cast and crew whistled and turned away, pretending not to notice that anything unusual was happening.
The fight somehow ended up on the far edge of the movie lot outside Paolo’s trailer. By then, the director had tired and simply wanted to go inside. Country’s ire hadn’t subsided yet; however, his scot was on the downslope.
Seeing as how he had no choice and also catching his second wind, Paolo’s knuckle sandwiches once again commenced feeding Country’s stomach. Country fell to the ground. Paolo tried to deliver a kick to the midsection, but Country grabbed the foot and pulled the director down with him.
A grappling match ensued, the likes of which have not been seen since, not even at Wrasslemania XIV, The Bloodletting. Their bodies twisted and contorted, eventually rolling up the steps into the open trailer door, which slammed shut behind them. The sound of shattering dishes, garbled whelps, body blows, ear slaps, and what may or may not have been the whoosh of an extending switchblade escaped the walls.
And then, all was silent. Not that any of the cast or crew would’ve noticed. The minute the assistant director said, ‘You’ll get paid regardless,’ they scattered like Milli Vanilli’s fanbase.
Thus, no one was around a few minutes later to hear a battle commence once again. This time, it was decidedly one-sided. There would have been no doubt from even the most casual observer who won the latest round as cries of pain and ‘uncle’ fell from only Paolo’s lips. Soon, though, this latest fight ended, and a victorious figure emerged, looking quickly from left to right to make sure he was alone before heading into the shadows and off the lot.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Martha knocked again. The light was still on. She hesitated, remembering the last time she barged in as well as the tongue-lashing she received.
“Señor Medeiros. It’s Martha. Can I come in?”
She looked at the thin watch she received from her kids last Mother’s Day. Almost seven o’clock. She wanted to get back home before Tommy Junior had to go to sleep. But Paolo had a reputation for entertaining the ladies, especially those who needed a boost in their career, and Martha wanted to make sure no one else was inside.
She knocked harder. “Señor Medeiros?”
There was no answer. One more check of her watch.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “I can’t be here all night.”
She twisted the knob. The door opened a few inches but no more. She pushed again, putting her shoulder into it. Something behind the door held it closed.
“He left his bean bag chair there again,” she grumbled. “How many times have I told him not to do that?”
Her grousing increased with each new shove. Only after a thin film of sweat had formed on her brow was she able to open the door enough to peek her head through. The sight gave her vocal cords a high-pitched workout, a sight she would recall every day for the next fourteen years until a ruptured esophagus did her in. Lying on the floor with blood pouring out from his eyes, ears, and about forty other stab wounds was the director, dead as the career of an actor with a moral compass.
Except Denzel’s, of course. He’s just so damn good.