The Big Bamboo (20 page)

“Show some respect,” said Serge, grabbing his video camera and iPod. “You’re on holy ground, like Lourdes or the Presley crèche in Tupelo.”

They opened the front door. A group of people at a corner table saw them and waved. Serge lit up with recognition and waved back. “Coleman, best behavior. These are future friends.”

“Serge!”

“Grab a seat!”

“We’ve heard a lot about you!”

Serge pulled out a chair. He stopped and looked around. “Where is he?”

“Not here yet, but any minute.”

Serge began videotaping the restaurant’s interior. “Can’t tell you how excited I am to finally meet him. It’s the only thing I’ve been able to think about since I got the letter. Well, not the only thing. My mind tends to jump around. The U.S. mint just released the Nevada state quarter. Photos from the Cassini probe have top NASA scientists scratching their heads. You’ll always be disappointed by shampoo from a convenience store. The Dutch are now the tallest people in the world. I haven’t been bowling in years.” Serge aimed his camera down at a place mat. “So, you got
the table
.”

“We got
the table
,” said the man with dreadlocks. “Knew you’d insist.”

Serge turned off the video. “The table was pulled out from the wall.”

“What?”

“In the movie,” said Serge. “It was out from the wall. Remember that famous circular panning shot? They laid tracks around the table for the camera dolly.”

“Everything they said about you is true,” said the woman sitting to his right.

“Let’s pull it out from the wall,” said Serge.

“Please,” said the dreadlocks. “Just relax.”

“You’re right,” said Serge. “I’m the guest. Besides, I have all these new friends. That’s the most important thing in life. I should count my blessings. I’ll bet we could scoot it out just a tiny—”

“Serge!”

“I’m good.”

“You sure?” said the ponytail. “Because something big is about to happen in the next few days. We wanted to see if you might be interested—…What are you doing?”

Serge quickly folded his hands on the place mat. “Nothing.”

“You were nudging the table out from the wall.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Serge, this is important. We’re putting this thing together and could really use the help. We need to know if you’re in…”

Serge placed his iPod on the table and connected it to tiny external speakers. He started the L.A. soundtrack.

“Serge?”

“What?”

“Are you listening?”

“Sure. You were saying something.”

“…‘Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right’…”

“Is that ‘Steeler’s Wheel’?” asked the woman next to him. “I loved that song in junior high.”

“Me, too,” said Serge. “The perfect track for the movie…”—Serge turned to the man across from him—“…that had the table out from the wall.”

Five minutes and a ten-dollar tip to the waitress later, Serge was smiling at a table pulled out from the wall.

“Happy now?” asked the dreadlocks.

“You’re the one who’s tense,” said Serge. “Go ahead. What were you saying?…”

“Coordination and timing are crucial…”

Serge reached in his pocket and unfolded a square of paper on the table.

“What’s that?” asked the woman.

“Screen capture from the movie. Printer quality wasn’t too good, but still works for historic comparison. The clock up there’s different, but those two planters next to it—who’d have thought they’d still be here? Some of the chairs are also the same, like the red jobs we’re sitting on. They got new curtains…”

Someone on the sidewalk walked by the restaurant’s windows.

“Serge…”

“Hold on. See up there on the wall?” He tapped his printout. “The spot was right over Joe Capa’s left shoulder when he asks Mr. Pink why he didn’t tip. It’s the only thing that would ever tell you the classic scene was shot here…”

“Serge…”

“You have to look hard. There are two little black-and-white movie cards over the cinnamon roll sign. The bottom one’s from
Reservoir Dogs
, and the top is the 1947 noir thriller
Born to Kill
. That completely makes it for me. Esoteric homage to Lawrence Tierney, may he rest in peace…”

“Serge…”

Bells jingled. The front door opened. The man with the dreadlocks pointed. “There he is.”

Serge grabbed his video camera and turned around.

Soundstage 23. A man with a long, untrimmed beard sat in a director’s chair. Stitched on the back:
Potemkin.

A younger man entered the set through a side door. He shook out an umbrella and hung up a dripping raincoat. He came over and sat in the first assistant director’s chair. “Thought we were shooting outside this afternoon.”

“Had to scrap it because of the rain,” said Potemkin.

“But it was a rain scene,” said the assistant.

“We can’t use the rain machine in the rain.”

“Why don’t we just use the regular rain?”

“Doesn’t look as real.”

A crew member with a clapboard stood in front of a camera. At great expense, the movie set had been made up to look like a movie set.

“Scene four hundred and twelve. Take sixty-seven.” Clap.

Potemkin raised a megaphone. “Annnnnnnnnnd…action!”

On stage, an actor sat in another director’s chair.
“Annnnnnnnnnd…action!”

Ally Street threw her arms around the male lead’s neck and tried to kiss him. He pushed her away.
“It’s over. Has been for a long time, but I was too blind…”

“You don’t mean that. Not after everything.”

The actor picked up an old brown suitcase.
“I’m taking the train back to New York. There’s a war on.”
He began walking toward a non-opening door painted on plywood.

“Put down the suitcase!”

“Where’d you get that gun?”

“I can’t live without you…”

“Cut! Cut! Goddammit!” Potemkin was out of his chair. He slammed the script to the ground. “What’s the matter with you? Can’t you act? How did you ever get in my movie!”

“What did I do?”

“You were supposed to blow your line and start arguing with the coldhearted director. If there’s one scene I thought you could handle, it’s where you’re supposed to act
badly
!”

“Sir,” said the first assistant director. “That’s the hardest kind of acting.”

“Shut up!…I think we can save it till she pulls the gun. Cut in with camera two. Places everyone…”

Tori Gersh stood by the craft service table, mumbling under her breath: “Come on, Ally, you can do it…”

“Annnnnnnnnnnd…action!”

“Where’d you get that gun?”

“I can’t live with you, uh, I mean…”

“Cut! Cut!”
yelled the actor playing the director on the set.
“What are you, stupid? Can’t you remember a simple goddam line?”

“I’m doing the best I can!”

“Cut! Cut!” Potemkin was out of his chair again. “You call that emotion?”

“I was full of emotion,” said Street.

“But you’re supposed to be so overcome with emotion that you don’t know how to feel. I’m not getting that! Instead I’m getting emotion!”

“I’m supposed to cry?”

“You’re not listening! This is about how the old studio system mistreated everyone! It’s the climax where all your frustrations come to a boil and you finally snap. You have to convince the audience that an otherwise sweet girl could be driven to murder. Then you raise the blank gun from props and fire it at the director. Except you secretly loaded it with real bullets between takes because you’ve had it with his insults, you stupid moron!”

Ally raised the gun and fired a blank at Potemkin, then dropped the pistol and ran off crying.

Potemkin looked in astonishment at the crew. “Did she just fucking shoot me? Has the whole world gone insane!” His lip began to quiver. Tears rolled down the director’s cheeks, and he fled in the other direction.

The set was stone silent. Potemkin and Street weeping in opposite corners.

Tori Gersh closed her eyes and felt a headache coming on.

The first assistant director eventually stood up. “Okay, everybody, I think that’s a wrap for today.”

All That Glitters
used to be behind schedule. Now, there wasn’t one. Set 23 had been booked for the next day to rehearse a reality show reunion, so the crew was dislocated to 17, where they jumped to another scene earlier in the movie that Potemkin had since rewritten.

The cast began taking their places. Tori stood off to the side, holding Ally by the shoulders. “You’re a great actress. Just remember, he yells at everyone. Now go knock ’em dead.”

A clapboard clapped. A megaphone rose.

“Annnnnnnd…action!”

Ally was in an ultra-snug vinyl jumpsuit. She tossed a grappling hook aside and pulled a spy-tool off her utility belt. Soon, the cover was off the nuclear bomb. A digital display ticked down…
1:01, 1:00, :59, :58
…Ally held snippers to the green wire, then the red, the yellow, the blue, the green again.

“You don’t have to stay,”
she told the male lead.
“This only takes one person.”

“You know I’d never leave. My love for you is eternal.”

“You’re just saying that because you can’t outrun the blast radius in less than a minute.”

“That, too. Which wire do you think it is?”

“I feel lucky today. Red’s my favorite color. Kiss me!”

They embraced passionately. The camera trucked around the couple as Ally got her right breast groped. Their mouths slowly parted. Ally looked out the corner of her eye at the amber digits. Eight seconds, seven, six…
“I guess it’s time to save the world.”
Ally placed her snippers around a wire.

And she snipped the yellow one.

“Cut! Cut!” shouted Potemkin. “You fucking idiot! You cut the wrong wire!”

“I forgot which one,” said Ally.

“You just said
red
!”

“The kiss threw me off.”

The first assistant director leaned sideways from his chair. “Maybe the sound guys can dub the mix.”

“No! No! No!” shouted Potemkin. “It has to be red because of the metaphorical reference to the McCarthy hearings. Where’s the standby electrician?”

The crew stood around the coffee urn while the wire was replaced.

They were ready again.

“Feed her the line,” barked Potemkin.

An assistant read stiffly from a script. “I guess it’s time to save the world.”

“Annnnnnnd…action!”

“
I guess it’s time to save the world.”
Ally placed her snippers around the red wire. “Shit—”

The snippers fell inside the bomb, causing a short. The digital display went black. A tiny puff of smoke.

“Cut! Cut!…What the hell just happened?”

“I broke a nail,” said Ally.

“I’m not fucking believing this! Did you use to ride the short bus to school?”

Standby electricians began soldering a new digital display. Three makeup people buzzed around Ally, attaching a false nail with theatrical glue.

“Places,” said the assistant director.

The electricians and makeup people dashed off.

Clapboard man: “Take fifty-nine.”

“Forget the lines!” yelled Potemkin. “Pick it up with cutting the wire…Ally! Can your brain handle that? In case you were wondering, it’s the
red
one!”

“Don’t talk to me that way.”

“I’ll talk to you any way I want, you no-talent tramp!”

Ally and her co-star took their positions.

“Annnnnnnd…action!”

Ally reached in the bomb, ripping out all the wiring.

“Cut! Cut! Have you lost your mind?”

Ally grabbed the lightweight plastic prop and raised it over her head.

“What the hell are you doing?”

It smashed to the ground, spraying pieces.

“My nuclear bomb!”

The set was a tomb. A lonely plastic cog rolled across the floor.

Ally in one corner, Potemkin in another. Tori’s mouth hung open. She took a deep, resigned breath and walked out a side door into the bright California sun.

A rented Chrysler Sebring drove west on Hollywood Boulevard, leaving behind the Walk of Fame tourist frenzy. The road entered an established residential neighborhood with a scattering of old-growth motels. The car turned up a driveway in the lush hillside.

Highland Gardens.

Serge checked the address against his notes. 7047.

They registered without incident at the front desk. Serge carried suitcases down a hallway that needed paint.

“What do we do now?” asked Coleman, lugging paper bags from grocery and liquor stores.

“Just what they told us at the restaurant,” said Serge. “Stay out of sight until it’s time. Like Martin Sheen waiting for a mission in that Saigon hotel.”

“Now you’re talking.”

“Coleman! You have taste! I didn’t know you liked
Apocalypse Now
.”

“Oh, yeah. Sheen goes on a bender and gets really wasted and breaks shit. Great movie.”

They came to room 105. Serge stuck a key in the door.

Division of labor: Serge rapidly assembled his reference headquarters of books and music. Coleman cleared the bathroom counter and threw the soap in the wastebasket. Serge plugged the iPod into external speakers and cranked up his L.A. chore tunes. Coleman unwrapped all the plastic cups that came with the room and stacked them behind the faucet. Serge rewired the TV to his video equipment. Coleman put iced beverages in the sink and arranged munchies in a convenient semicircle for impaired access. Serge precisely stowed film and ammo in dresser drawers. Coleman made joints and rum drinks.

Serge grabbed his camera for contingency photos and snapped pictures of his buddy at work. “I’ve never seen you move so fast.”

“Time’s limited.” Coleman sliced lime wedges in advance. “Everything will soon become tricky. What’s that music?”

“Posthumous album ‘Pearl.’ Kris Kristofferson cover track. Next question.”

“Why’d you pay extra for this room?”