The Big Bamboo (8 page)

Mark pointed at the pages. “Where’d you learn this screenwriting stuff, anyway?”

“Wannabe screenwriting magazines full of ads saying they’ll get your script produced and then request five hundred dollars for copying and postage every few weeks as long as you’re stupid enough. But if you stick to the articles, you’re okay.”

Mark read the current page over Ford’s shoulder. “It’s just talking.”

“That’s how it’s done. All dialogue. Once you’re familiar with your characters, it flows. Most of mine are people I know.” He marked through a nonagreeing pronoun. “A minute of talking, a page. Hundred pages, you got a movie. You need a setting, just give it a label and the movie people figure the rest.”

“Label?”

“Say you need a busy city street at night? Just type: ‘busy city street at night.’ They’ll come up with the honking Checker cabs and neon cocktail glasses and Latin kids in white tank tops and Saint Christopher medals spilling out of a pizzeria. All that detail stuff is for books. I just need a label.”

“What about a space station?” asked Mark.

“Or a space station,” said Ford. “Or the food court of a nondescript mall in Burbank.”

“What are these abbreviations, O.S.? P.O.V.?”

“Off stage, point of view. Like, ‘Character reacts to noise O.S.,’ or ‘Switch to killer’s P.O.V.’”

“Can I see?”

Ford handed the stack to Mark, who slowly became engrossed. “Say, this ain’t bad. Like I’m not even reading, just turning pages.”

“Based on true events. Wrote most of it since I got here and bought that cheap typewriter at the pawnshop.”

“What are all these dollar signs?”

“The capital
S
doesn’t work.”

“You put me in here. You changed my name to Mark.”

“For legal reasons…”

“You made me stupid.”

“…In case you sued.”

A group of blue-collar young men strolled through the food court, trying to decide.

“Oh, no,” said Mark. A minute till ten, said the clock.

“They’ll probably eat somewhere else,” said Ford.

“Go to the Magic Wok,” said Mark. “
Please
go to the Magic Wok.”

“See?” said Ford. “They’re heading somewhere else.”

“They’re turning around!” said Mark. “They’re looking at our sign. Fuck, fuck, fuck!…”

The young men approached the counter. Ford stepped up to the register and smiled. “Can I take your order?”

“Just a sec.” Their eyes angled up at the menu board. “Okay, wait.” They read some more. They talked it over among themselves. They came to a decision. They decided against it. The first customer pointed up over Ford’s head. “What’s the Orient Express?”

“Slightly tangy. Comes with Chinese mustard.”

“Can I get extra packets?”

“Sure.”

“What about the Rock Island Line?”

“Rock salt,” said Ford. “Not really rock salt, but they tell us to say that. It’s just big salt.”

“Is it salty?”

“Pretty salty.”

Background:
“…Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Ford briefly turned his head: “Shhhh!”

“The Grand Central Station?” asked the customer.

“Our largest,” said Ford. “Feeds two.”

“I don’t know.” The customer looked at his friends. “What do you think, guys?”

“…Fuck!…”

The customer quickly spun back to the counter.

Ford smiled nervously.

“What was that?”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Ford.

“Not you. That guy back there.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” said Ford. He noticed a blue Navy anchor on the man’s forearm.

“Yeah, he said something all right. Was he talking to us?”

“I’m sorry,” said Ford. “He’s had a hard day.”

“
I’ve
had a hard day. And now all I want to do is eat a pretzel, but somebody’s got a
fucking attitude
!”

“You ever work retail?” snapped Mark. He tapped the face on his wristwatch. “It’s four after closing now. But no, we can’t go home ’cause you can’t pick a snack!”

Mark thought his eyes were playing tricks the way the man vaulted the counter from a standing start. Ford jumped in front of the enraged customer and put his hands up in surrender. “Free pretzels! Your friends, too! Anything you want! We’re just going to throw them out anyway!”

The customer was still breathing fast. “If he apologizes.”

“What!” said Mark.

“Mark! Shut up!” said Ford, then to himself: “Dammit, all I wanted to do was go home and watch
Training Day
.”

“
Training Day
?”

“Yeah, I saw
Bad Lieutenant
last night so I was going to follow up.”

“Can’t believe you fuckin’ said that!”

Ford hopped back and raised his hands again. “Don’t hit me!”

But the man was smiling now. “Those are two of my all-time favorite films!”

“It’s the same movie,” said Ford.

“What do you mean?”

“Watch ’em back-to-back.
Lieutenant
was a little-known character study. The
Training Day
people must have recognized revenue potential and added the missing commercial pieces.”

The customer looked up at thin air, visualizing. He nodded. “You know, you’re right.” The customer put out his hand. “Pedro Jimenez.”

Ford shook it. “Ford Oelman.”

“I love movies,” said Pedro.

“Me, too,” said Ford.

“Come on!” Mark nagged. “What’s taking so long?”

“Shut the hell up!” yelled Pedro. “I haven’t decided about you yet!”

Mark raised his broom as a defensive weapon.

Pedro turned back to Ford. “So why aren’t you in them?”

“In what?”

“The movies. Why are you working here?”

“What are you talking about?” said Ford. “You don’t just
decide
to be in movies.”

“Not lead actor,” Pedro said with a laugh. “There’s a million other jobs. I mean, you love movies, and you’re in the film capital of the universe. But you’re working in a pretzel shop? Shoot,
I’m
in movies.”

“You are? What do you do?”

“Props department at Vistamax across the street,” said Pedro. “But I’ve been there long enough that sometimes I get to be a standby carpenter. That’s what I used to do, hammering studs under the hot sun, but now I build movie sets in air-conditioning. Pays a hell of a lot better, too. And I’m that much closer to my dream.”

“What’s your dream?”

“To act. Ever since seeing
The Wild One
. First I wanted to be a
serious
actor, so I moved to New York and started auditioning off Broadway. Three or four days a week for six months, memorizing lines, rehearsing in a cramped apartment with my roommate, but the closest thing to a real part was when I got hired as a toy soldier at FAO Schwarz. And I even lost
that
role.”

“What happened?”

“The whole time I’m working there, I’m thinking, Don’t be an ingrate. You came to New York to act, so act. I kept repeating in my head, ‘You’re a soldier, you’re a soldier…’ One day I hear these security guards yelling: ‘Stop! Stop! Shoplifter!’ This guy goes running past, and I think, Hey, I’m a soldier, so I run out the door and chase him up Fifth Avenue in my uniform and those big rosy circles on my cheeks.”

“That got you fired?”

“No. But then I caught the guy. Can you believe it? Who would have thought, running in that big hat with the chin strap? Tackled him on the corner of Fifty-seventh.”

“So
that
got you fired?”

“No. But I was Method acting.”

“And?”

“I bayoneted him. It was just a rubber bayonet, but the tabloids couldn’t resist running the photos those tourists took. The store said it wasn’t exactly the image they were going for. That’s when I came out here and took the job in props, which led to the standby carpenter gig.”

“What’s a standby carpenter do?”

“Say some spoiled director changes his mind and wants a door where there’s a window. You got thirty minutes.”

“See any stars?”

“All the time. They’re called The Talent. We’re The Crew. The people who put deals together over lunch are The Suits. On the set, The Crew isn’t allowed to speak to The Talent. In fact, it’s better you don’t even look at them. Who knows what’ll tick them off? One word from Cameron and there’s a new carpenter the next day.”

“Sounds like a nasty place to work.”

“Actually it’s not. The Talent gets mobbed all the time on the street—they just want to work in peace. What you do if you’re The Crew is act like they don’t exist. The breaks between shoots can get pretty long. They’re people, too. Sometimes they just want someone to talk to. They strike up a conversation with you, and you go ‘uh-huh,’ and keep on working, like
they’re
the pests.”

“So in a way,” said Ford, “when you’re on the set, you’re an actor, too.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“Could I get into props?” asked Ford.

“Definitely. Right now there’s a couple temp openings, but with the turnover, you’d be full-time before you know it.”

“Maybe I can show someone my script?”

Pedro laughed again.

“What’s so funny?”

“Everyone in this town’s carrying a script around with him.”

“Really?”

Pedro reached in his back pocket and pulled out a stack of pages folded lengthwise. “Here’s mine.”

Ford took it and began reading.

“Just don’t be pushy,” said Pedro. “When you’re in the right place, act like you’re reading something really fantastic and make them curious. When they ask, tell them they can’t see it. That’s how this business works.”

“I have a lot to learn,” said Ford, flipping Pedro’s script back to the cover and looking at the title in big, bold letters:
Nailed!
“What’s it about?”

“This good-looking standby carpenter is drafted to act in a key scene by a desperate director after one of the stars has a fatal accident on the set. And he steals the show! Sounds far-fetched, but that’s how Harrison Ford got his break, except the fatal part. But here’s my big twist in the climax that puts it over the top: Turns out the carpenter is the one who sabotaged the drawbridge that fell on the other actor in the first place!”

“I like the title.”

“Works on multiple levels,” said Pedro. “There’s the obvious carpentry meaning, then it refers to the first actor getting killed, and finally the stand-in
nails
his role. Think it’s too intellectual?”

“Audiences want to grow.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Ford handed the script back. “Any interest?”

“Oh, sure. All the people at the parties say they’re in love with it. But I’m not releasing the option unless I get to play myself. It’s going to be my
Good Will Hunting
.”

“Sounds great.”

“Really think so? And you’re a writer, too, so that means a lot more. Everyone who reads it at the parties can’t believe it hasn’t already been scooped up. Actually, they don’t read it. They just look at the first couple pages like you did, and I tell them the rest while they eat finger food. That’s those grease spots. Everyone’s absolutely crazy about it!”

“Only one thing…” said Ford.

“You hate it. I knew it! Just like the people at the parties. They
said
they loved it, but then talk filtered back to me later. This fucking town…”

“No. You got me wrong. It’s—”

“It’s what?”

“The carpenter needs to be sympathetic.”

“What do you mean?”

“Right now he’s just an asshole. The audience will side with the dead actor, no matter how good the carpenter performs. Word of mouth will kill the second weekend receipts.”

“How do I fix it?”

“Backstory the first actor as a jerk, so the audience already hates him. Then they’ll cheer the sabotage, which is revenge for something the actor did to the carpenter in a flashback. But it has to be a really big screwing-over to justify murder. Like something involving his family.”

“Or a smaller screwing-over, and I just have him sprain his ankle falling in the moat?”

“Or that.”

Pedro finished taking notes on a Pretzel Depot napkin. “Gee, thanks.”

“Can I ask a favor?” said Ford.

“Go for it.”

“You mentioned part-time positions. Plural. You think maybe my friend Mark…”

“I knew you were going to ask that,” said Pedro, folding the napkin and sliding it into his pocket. “Oh, why not? You helped me with my script.”

Two men in dark suits and thin, dark ties sat in row 34. Most of the other passengers were asleep. The jet was over water.

An arm reached up and clicked on a reading light. The men stared again at a long-range surveillance photo of two young men with no forwarding address from Ohio.

“Where could they have gone?”

Three retirees sported guayaberas and super moods as they bopped jauntily up the sidewalk. The trio crossed Las Olas at the light and turned in a doorway. The bar had all its windows open to the bright Atlantic Ocean on the other side of A1A.

The Elbo Room.

It was barely after noon on a Tuesday, so all the stools were available except the one under another old-timer with a thick crop of white hair and a barber shirt.

The guys headed his way with broad smiles. “Roy!”

Roy. The Pawn King. Ran a Collins Avenue shop back in the day, the most dependable fence on the beach. Now he cut hair at the Deauville. Except the scene at that end of the strip had long since dried up and there were no customers. Roy didn’t mind. He spent his shifts sitting in one of the barber chairs, reading the
Herald
beneath faded photos of the celebrities getting trims fifty years ago. Or, like today, when he got a call from the old gang and closed up early for a little side action.

Roy hopped off his stool with his own smile and they all hugged. “Sergio! Chi-Chi! Coltrane! Great to see you! Been too long!”

“Roy! You look great!”

“Thanks.” He sat back down. “But why’d you have us meet up here? It’s more of a drive.”

“Ask Mr. Movie History.”

“Sergio…” Roy nodded. “Should have known.”