TWENTY-FOUR
The afternoon sun was warm, however the temperature was still a good eighty degrees shy of the all-time summer record of 145F, as the windblown sand whistled out of the sun-blasted chasm across Route 190 into the unpaved parking lot of the small hotel, which might not have been the epicenter of nowhere, but it was pretty damn close. The blistered landscape was devoid of the color green, since only shriveled bushes, palms, and spiky cactus could grow without any water. To the south the dry ravine emptied into Death Valley, whose shimmering expanse created an almost surreal sense of space. Someone had once told Sean that during cowboy movies the Japanese laughed enviously at such a sublime emptiness, however anyplace, whether it be Tokyo or Death Valley, could become too crowded with just the right number of wrong people.
"I want to go to MacDonald’s.” The fat kid in the baggy clothes stamped his feet on the ground like he was preparing to launch into a practiced tantrum.
"There’s no MacDonald's in Death Valley, so we either eat here or you starve.” The father tried to grab his son's arm, but the eight year-old was too quick for him. "You touch me and I'll scream."
"Don't do that, honey,” His mother hushed and the red-faced kid taunted her, "And why not? It's not like you're going to hit me or something."
Coming from a generation where that type of talk would have earned you a whack, Sean was impressed by the young boy's challenge, but he was also irritated by his whining and stood up from the bench in front of the motel's restaurant. The father sneaked a glance at Sean, as if he might smack some sense into their kid for a price. Strangely enough the kid regarded the dusty man to serve up the same to his father.
It was only a thought in their minds and like most people that was all it remained, for the parents caved into their little terrorist's demands and drove off toward Lone Pine. As jealous as Sean was of people with families, there were sometimes he was very happy to be on his own, although that was only a temporary situation, since at the far end of the dusty parking lot, the film crew was readying Sherri's Skylark for the first scene. Not one of them looked his way and neither the two butch grips, who had driven him here, the camerawoman nor the other two crewmembers had spoken a single word to him, despite his being the star of the film.
This unexpected persona non persona treatment might have angered him, except from what he had seen, heard, or read how his half of the species treated the other team, womankind was fully within its rights to rise up one night and murdered every man on the planet. Still his being only available target was unsettling, mostly because of his total ignorance about acting.
Everyone has imagined being a movie star and Sean had asked himself how hard acting could be. Just smile a little, look angry, or run with terror, yet confronted with reality of being filmed, his body shook with the first tremors of stage fright, as he dropped in over $2 of coins to call Vic Granollers again. His friend had been in over twenty films and should be able to give him a few pointers. Unfortunately the no one answered the movie star's phone, so he rolled up the script, he walked over to where Lena was being worked on by a septuagenarian make-up woman, who asked in exasperation, "What now?"
"I was just wondering whether I needed any make-up?"
The older wrinkled crone smirked wryly, since no make-up artist could top the bruises on his face, yet she humored him, saying, "You are looking a little shiny."
"Yeah, you might be right,” Sean said without any idea what she meant.
"Yes, but I can fix that.” The old woman sprightly picked up a handful of dust, which she artfully applied to his face and suit. "Much better, don't you think?"
"A thousand times better,” Lena responded with a giggle.
No one ever had treated Marlon Brando in this manner and he stormed away to the motel's empty swimming pool, where he contemplated just hitchhiking out of there to teach these women a lesson that they couldn't live without men. Before he could go, a hand gently touched his shoulder and Sherri asked, "Sean, are you okay?"
"Yeah, I guess I am,” he answered coolly through the simmering coals of his anger. "But I'm still puzzled by why we're shooting the lat scene first. It's not because of the light like you told everyone last night."
"No, I said that, cause I didn't want 'them' to know the real reason.” With her brown hair slicked back and wearing a leather motorcycle jacket over a pair of loose blue jeans Sherri looked twice the man he would ever be. "You know nothing about being an actor and this last scene is the easiest way to get your feet wet. All you have you do is stand there and cast a shadow."
She was on his side and he sighed with relief, saying, "I was getting really worried about that. I mean, no one was telling me what I should do."
"Very few people on a film set know what they should do. That's why they have a director, although some people in the crafts think we should be called a dictator. Anyway a long time ago a director told me five rules for being a film actor and I'm going to tell you them. Number one, stay within the lenses' field of vision. If you can see the lens, then the camera can see you. Two, don't move or speak too fast. Three, don't turn your back to the camera or look into it, unless I tell you to. Four don't stop, until I say, "Cut.” And finally, don't think too much and make yourself scarce, when the crew is setting up. You got all that?"
"One hundred percent," Sean replied gratefully.
"You do all that and the camera will take care of the rest, Mr. Tempo.” She motioned for him to join her at the cars. "You ready?"
"Never readier,” Sean proclaimed, buoyed by the director's advice.
Sherri returned to the Skylark, which had the 16mm camera strapped on the hood, and Sean went to the equipment van, ready to get in the back like on the trip up from LA, however Sherri yelled "Mr. Tempo, you sit in the front. You're a star now."
The smaller of the lesbian grips opened the van's passenger door. It was a small gesture, but a big step in right direction bolstered by the heavily tattooed driver asking earnestly, "How you feeling?"
"Good.” There had definitely been a shift in their demeanor, though neither woman spoke to him on the fifteen-mile ride through the tortured valley to a long straightway disappearing into a range of arid mountains. Only a distant grove of Joshua Trees broke the monotony of the scenery and Sean broke the silence, saying, "Looks like no one's been on this road for years."
"Guess that's why we're using it,” the driver responded, carefully steering the van onto the crumbling shoulder. The heavier grip slid open the rear door and within minutes everyone was busy setting up the shot, except for Lena and Sean.
They obeyed every one of Sherri's commands, as if they had been together for years. From what he had overheard during the trip from LA, most of these women worked on lesbian porno films with Sherri as director and Lena as the star and seemed to worship both women. Sean would have too, if they would let him.
On the Skylark's hood Lena posed like a runaway baiting a pimp. Her legs apart created a creamy canyon up her dress and she smiled saying, "See something you like?"
"Er___just caught me off-guard.” Sean admitted, as an alkaline dust cloud blew across the set.
"You don't talk much,” Lena commented, shielding her eyes.
"It's not like anyone around here wants to talk with me."
"Yeah, these girls are pretty angry.” As the wind died down, Lena brushed back her hair in a timeless gesture inviting intimacy.
"And what about you?"
"I've met some bad men in my life. A few good one, but only a few."
"And where do you think I fall in?"
Lena tilted her head to the side and put her finger to her chin before saying, "I'd have to guess you fall in between. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. I like that in a man."
"Why?” Sean felt completely at ease with her and demanded, "Why?"
"Because I couldn't ever fuck with a saint,” she answered bluntly, but before he could respond, Sherri shouted, "We're ready, whenever you are."
The camerawoman climbed on the car's hood. Sherri sat behind the wheel. The rest of the film crew clambered into the other vehicles. As the camerawoman focused the 16mm Aaton camera, Sean licked at his lips, for the wasteland was already taking its toll on his body, but when Lena took her mark with a shiny revolver by her side, Sean took a step back and demanded, "What's with the gun?"
"Calm down, Mr. Tempo, it's only a prop.” Sherri said calmly, though it was actually her unloaded .38, for paying $100 a day for a prop gun they would only have to fire once was out of their budget.
"The script says nothing about a gun."
"Scripts change. Two women. One man. The end of the world. The gun works.” Sherri waved for the other vehicles to leave. “Simply stand there. Lena leaves the bag and water on the road. She returns to the car. We drive away, then you run after us. You got it?"
"Like a fly ball,” Sean answered.
"Good, just don't drop it. Our light's going, so the fewer takes the better.” Sherri said before starting the Skylark's motor.
"Good luck.” Lena said with a smile, as she raised the revolver.
"Camera.” Sherri raised her and hand and yelled, "Action."
The woman in the cotton shift instantly changed into a killer, aiming the gun between his eyes. It was the same view the old man in Las Vegas had seen. He was involved in pornography. These girls might even know him and who would have wanted him dead. He resisted raising his hands and waited for Lena to say the scene's single line.
"So long, Mr. Nowhere."
Sean believed every word.
Lena ran to the car and crawled across the trunk into the backseat like Jackie O in Dallas in reverse. The Skylark's tires pealed rubber and he chased the moving car at full speed, as the Skylark swiftly became a distant dot on the two-lane road.
"They're not going to stop.” flashed through his mind and joined the paranoiac thoughts that this had been some weird feminist plot to murder him by stranding him on the edge of Death Valley in a raggedy-man's suit.
"Bitches." He should have seen it coming all along, instead of buying that line about a movie. They hated men and would do anything to hurt them. After regaining his wind, he tramped back to the bottle of water and leather bag, squinting in the sharp light to make out how far away the mountains really were.
A walk off the road would give him a handle on being the man from nowhere. A few days of exposing his body and soul to the elements in this blistered wilderness would be a thousand times more severe a purification rite than any vow of silence in New York. He was about to take his first step toward salvation, when he spotted a black spot rushing toward him.
Their abandoning him had just been a hoax, but the only way practical jokes are any good is, when you aren't on the receiving end. When the Skylark pulled up, the three women inside fought to contain their laughter, but Sean wasn't going to let them know how deep the hook had been swallowed and asked sincerely, "So how'd I do?"
The women glanced at each other, the camera on the hood, and at the man in the black suit. Without a punchline to fall back on, Sherri said, "That take worked for me, but let's do a safety?"
"Yes, sounds good to me,” Sean replied, unfamiliar with what a 'safety' was.
Lena crawled out of the car, her dress hiking way up her thighs, and said, "A star is born."
The dry wind blew through his hair and the setting sun warmed his face. The camerawoman readied for the next shot with the director whispering in her ear. They were talking about him. Lena stood behind them with the gun evocatively against her belly and smiled at him as few women had in the past years.
Sean told himself, "This is the life."
Truthfully he was pretty close to being right for once.
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