We Eat Our Own

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For Herbert and James

RICHARD

New York

Y
ou get the call during a rainstorm. It is 1979.

Your agent doesn't have offers like this for you often—six weeks at two hundred and seventeen dollars a week to fill in for a guy who has just quit the production of an Italian art film with American characters that's shooting right now in the Amazon rain forest somewhere in, I don't know, Brazil or Colombia or Peru, but don't worry about that. We're talking good odds on European and American distribution here, we're talking international exposure here, and we're not even talking supporting cast here, guy: this is the lead role. Plus the script's in English. Plus they've already seen your 8 x 10. And did I mention it's an art film? Because God knows I've heard enough already about how much you need to be doing
art
films, even if that commercial I got for you would have paid
SAG
union rates—but you know what, never mind now, it's water under the bridge, it's water under the fucking bridge because we have
got
this. We have
already
got this
if you would just get yourself up and out that door and onto the train and make it down to this address for a screen test right now, I mean it, kid, right goddamned now or not at all.

Yes, I said the Amazon rain forest. Colombia. That's it, I remember now.

No, I don't know anything else about the part.

Yes, I said two hundred and seventeen dollars a week. Six weeks. Do the math on the goddamned train.

Pack a suitcase. You may not have time to go back to your apartment.

The plane to Bogotá leaves in six hours.

• • •

Let's repeat some things:

You get the call during a rainstorm. It is 1979.

You live in a studio apartment in Queens with your girlfriend, Kay. She won't find out that you've left until she gets home from the architecture firm where she works, half an hour later. Even then, she won't have any idea where you've gone. She'll tug the lightbulb chain in the entryway, her wrists still stiff from the drafting table, a long stripe of charcoal streaked through her blond hair. The bulb will buzz on, hum. She'll call out your name into the single empty room.

You'll have written her a note: four hastily scrawled sentences on a scrap of drafting paper, tossed on the coffee table, where you're sure she'll see it. Three minutes after you leave for the casting agent's office, the radiator will rush on and blow the note into a cobwebbed corner just behind the couch. Kay won't find it for two days. She'll set down the broom. She'll kneel, exhaling hard as she turns the paper over and reads.

Agent called, last minute out of town job. Big deal. I'll call when I know more. I love you.

Even before she finds the note, Kay will know you've left her. She'll know it because you've left her before: fill-ins for
commercial jobs, student productions, all the times you got cast as a last-minute swing on a Midwest musical tour that paid next to nothing. She can recognize it by all the new space that's suddenly opened in the apartment. The hangers swaying on the closet rod. The clean square on the desk where you've dashed aside her pyramid of neatly rolled blueprints in search of a stray résumé. On the floor, there will be a single trail of dustless hardwood, wiped clean by your shirtfront as you belly-crawled to where the suitcases were kept under the bed.

Kay will lie down there, too. She will try to understand what she sees there: crumbs and dust and glittering change, the wide parabola of the bedsprings as they sag under the weight of nothing.

• • •

Here is something you will never know:

The name of the Italian casting director who regards you as you sprint into that glass-walled Manhattan office. You slough rainwater off your shoulders. You grin as you stammer your apologies, wipe your wet palm on your pants pocket, and thrust it out to him. You do it just like you've always practiced in your audition classes: you enunciate every syllable of your name.

But the casting director keeps his eyes on his lap. He is staring at a 8 x 10 photograph of you, printed in glossy gray-scale. You are grinning in three-quarter profile. You've always been proud of that head shot: it has a Mona Lisa quality to it, the eyes sad and coy in equal measure, a mouth that could double as a smile or a frown. The casting director tosses it to the side table with a hushed sigh. With his other hand, he draws a cigarette to his lips.

You offer him the soaked résumé.

Non importa, the man says.

A second man's voice behind you clucks: Eh. Va' là.

A piece of white butcher paper has been taped to the wall. You don't understand what the men are saying, but you know you are supposed to stand in front of it and you do. The casting director's assistant tugs at all the lamp cords in the room, snaps portrait lights on, fiddles with the tripod. You glance quickly around the room, rushing to get a look at them before the room goes dark: two emaciated men in gray suits, thin lips and pronounced temples, expressionless eyes. The casting director smokes a cigarillo, filling the room with a smell like burned cloth. The assistant curses in Italian, adjusting the portrait lights so they blind you more directly.

You've never done a movie before, not really. Student films and commercial screeners that went nowhere. Nothing like this. The assistant touches the lights more than he touches the camera, angling the bulbs to highlight your bone structure, your posture, your eyes. You make yourself stare straight into the lens. You try to project your thoughts silently through the air, to issue telepathic promises.

You turn left to three-quarters and think:

I will learn Italian if you need me to.

I will sleep for weeks under lean-tos in the jungle with whatever poisonous reptiles you've got.

I will do whatever you need. Just please. Please. Give me this.

You turn full forward. You don't blink. The casting director smokes and murmurs, his fingertips moving on the rim of his ashtray like marsh grasses drifting around the mouth of a sinkhole. The assistant holds a tea saucer behind the bulb and angles it to create a halo of shadow around your head.

Basta, the casting director says. Then, in English: That's enough.

The assistant snaps off the light and shuffles his camera into an equipment case. For a moment, the darkness is total: no one moves to turn the lights back on. There are zips and clatters, the smell of rising smoke. You stay in front of the square of butcher paper, and you could swear you feel it: the casting director still staring, his gaze landing like a throwing knife along your shoulder seam.

Here is something you will never see:

The contact sheet filled with twenty-eight frames of your face, none of them smiling. In some, you are a reverse jack-o'-lantern: the flash flattens the bridge of your nose and shadows clot in the line of your mouth and the hollows of your eyes. But in others, the lighting is straight on. Your dark hair falls to your cheekbones, which your modeling agent back in
LA
used to call “boyish.” Your eyebrows angle toward the fluttering pulse point between your eyes. Your mouth is tensed in that expert Mona Lisa nonsmile, the one that could lean toward agony or laughter with a millimeter's motion of the lips. You trained yourself to smile this way, to look mysterious and indecipherable, to make the casting agent hungry to hear the photograph speak. You located all the minuscule muscles around your mouth and eyes and learned how to use them.

The casting director speaks slowly, his words crowded by an accent like a thick liquid. No, he doesn't have a script. No, he has no more information. He says, You will go here—a vague gesture to a map on the side table—the rain forest. Today.

Thrill is beating in your chest and down your arms, but you try to keep your voice calm. I really don't mean to bother you. I'm sorry. I'm so grateful for the opportunity, it's just—

He stubs the cigarette out and exhales. His smile stuns you. It is full of angular gray teeth.

You tell me now, he says. What is the size of your shoe?

• • •

Here is what you do not know:

The name of the film (
Jungle Bloodbath
).

What the film is about.

What the name of your character is (Richard Trent).

Who the director is.

Anything about the script. (You haven't seen a copy.)

What is out there in the rain forest.

The name of the actor whose place you're taking. (You will never be told.)

Why he quit.

Where he is now.

And, most important, that he was your exact height and within five pounds of your weight. That he
had
seen the script, because this same casting director was the one who gave him a ride to the airport, and the actor had begged it off him on the drive. The actor read the whole thing in the miles between Manhattan and
JFK
, the pages jolting as the town car swerved onto the shoulder to pass slow traffic. The actor kept reading anyway, a heaviness gathering in his throat.

You don't know anything. No one tells you anything.

No one tells you that the first actor didn't even get on the plane. That he hung back as the rest of the crew handed over their tickets and lined up on the jet bridge, the script clenched in his hands, the last page facing up. When everyone else was through the gate, he grabbed the casting director by the elbow,
steered him over to the long sweep of window. He said, simply, shaking, Man, you've got to drive me home. I can't do this.

You weren't there.

You couldn't have seen the director at that moment. He was six paces past the ticket collector and through the door, leaning against the jet bridge wall and studying his watch. Even if you'd been there, you wouldn't have realized who he was. He is shorter than a director should be, his nails too clean, his clear-frame aviators too cheap. When he turned and looked over his shoulder, his expression was inscrutable; you wouldn't have been able to tell that he was listening.

His name is Ugo Velluto.

You did not see the careful way Ugo set his suitcase down, or the suitcase, hard-shelled, dark green. No one in line noticed as Ugo turned and started to make his way back up toward the gate, though a few crew members leaned out from their desks and stared. The gate agent chirped, Sir, you're not allowed!
The director kept walking. Beyond the window, a plane tore through the cloud cover with a sound that shook the air.

The actor braced himself, stammered. I'm sorry, sir, I just—

Ugo walked right past him.

Ugo didn't have to tell the casting director to follow him. He didn't have to raise his voice for the actor, for everyone, to overhear. They stood in front of a newsstand, silhouetted by the frantic colors of a dozen magazine covers. He did not murmur when he spoke.

He told the casting director to find someone who wants this: someone who will take anything that's offered to him, no questions asked.

I want young.

I want unknown.

Check the acting schools.

Avoid anyone unionized.

And don't show him the script, he said. We need someone who is desperate.

The casting director nodded, his gaze avoiding the twitch in the center of the director's left cheek. The actor stared at the balding whorl of hair on the back of the director's head, until he turned around, and then he struggled to find anyplace else to look. The gate agent picked up her blue telephone and murmured something hesitant about a suitcase left on the jet bridge, but when Ugo turned back toward the line, she set the receiver back down.

And make sure he wears a size ten and a half, Ugo added, walking away. We're over budget as is, and I'll be damned if I pay for another pair of boots.

• • •

Here is how the film begins:

A black screen, white text:
What you are about to see is real.

A frizz of pink static. Then: a silent blond anchorwoman in a shoulder-padded suit jacket, pressing her third finger to her earpiece.

The footage is pixelated, a recording of a recording. You can hear the faint echo of a
PA
in the background yelling dead air, dead air, and the anchor shushes him. We have new reports incoming from Colombia, the anchor pronounces. Government officials have recovered evidence that our own reporter, Richard Trent, is—

But then she pauses again.

The ticker tape at the bottom of the screen unspools. No, the
woman says, I'm sorry—we've received evidence that missing journalist Richard Trent
may have
died. Just—hold on—

The ticker capitalizes:
CHANNEL 8 JOURNALIST RICHARD TRENT AND TWO CREWMEN HAVE BEEN MISSING FOR SEVEN MONTHS IN THE AMAZON RAIN FOREST PRESUMED—

The anchor leans forward, her eyes still jogging offscreen. Wait, wait, she says. She enunciates: While Trent remains missing, it seems his
footage
has been located. We will warn the viewers that this may be disturbing and young children are not advised to watch. Let's go to it now.

A smash cut to black.

And then we are in the jungle, and we are with you. We are with Richard, the man you will play, and he is full-screen and full-definition.

He is running as fast as he can.

It could be night or it could be day. The leaves around him are so dense. He is ducking under the overhang, razor-edged palm leaves and webs of vines, looking over his shoulder every third step. An animal screams from the canopy. The audio is full of these sounds, the rustle of running thighs, the suck of the mud on the ground, breathing. Richard's pants leg snags and he falls, facedown, palms down. He pushes himself back up and keeps running. He looks over his shoulder again, at whoever is filming him, this person who is getting so close.

There's blood in his eyes, blood running down his neck. The camera is close enough to see that now. The way it's filmed makes the wound look so real. Whoever is holding the camera sprints close, cranks the zoom, gets a tight shot of his face. The nick is on the left eyelid, no place to hide a squib, no way the actor could have struck the blood balloon right there and made a gash that looked like that, no. This is his blood. When the
people who love you watch this film, they will gasp. They will whisper to each other—Jesus, he's really bleeding.