by Woody Allen
“I think I got something for you, kid,” Pontius Perry told me as I faced him in his office, which had been decorated by two très chic new Hollywood designers in a combination of postmodern and Visigoth.
“If it’s the part of Josh Airhead, I want the director to know I’ll be using a prosthesis. I see him with a miser’s hump, embittered from years of rejection and perhaps even with some layered wattles.”
“Actually, they’re talking to Dustin about Airhead. No, this is a whole nother project. It’s a thriller about some wino who looks to boost a moonstone-type rock from betwixt the eyes of a Buddha or some such idol of that nature. I only gave the script a perfunctory read, but I managed to glom sufficient gist before merciful Morpheus did a number on me.”
“I see, so I play a soldier of fortune. A role that gives me a chance to utilize some of my old gymnastic training. All those classes in theatrical swordplay stand poised to bear fruit.”
“Let me level with you, boychick,” Perry said, peering out the six-foot picture window at the molasses-colored smog that the citizens of Los Angeles favor over actual air. “Harvey Afflatus is playing the lead.”
“Oh, then they see me in a character role—the hero’s best friend, a trusted confidant who propels the plot from within.”
“Er, not exactly. See, Afflatus needs a lighting double.”
“A what?”
“Someone to stand on a mark for the tedious hours it takes the cameraman to light the scene, someone who vaguely resembles the star so the lamps and shadows won’t be too far out of whack. Then, at the last second, when they’re ready to call action and make the shot, the zombie—er, the double—takes a hike and the money comes on and plays the part.”
“But why me?” I asked. “Do they really need an actor of genius for that?”
“ ’Cause you vaguely resemble Afflatus—oh, you’ll never be in his class lookswise, but the morphology meshes.”
“I’d have to think about it,” I said. “I am up for the voice of Waffles in a puppet rendition of Uncle Vanya.”
“Think quick,” Perry said. “The plane leaves for Thiruvananthapuram in two hours. It’s better than minesweeping the used enchiladas off the tabletops in some Tex-Mex tamale factory. Who knows, you could get discovered.”
• • •
TEN HOURS LATER, after a delay on the runway while the flight crew turned the aircraft upside down to retrieve an escaped cobra, I found myself skying toward India. The producer of the film, Hal Roachpaste, had explained to me that due to the last-minute decision of the leading lady to bring her rottweiler along there would not be room for me on the charter flight, and so they had booked me passage as an untouchable with Bandhani Air, India’s equivalent of Crazy Eddie. Fortunately there was room for me aboard a return flight carrying a convention of beggars, and though I couldn’t parse a word of Urdu I was fascinated as they compared afflictions and examined one another’s bowls.
The trip was uneventful save for some “light chop,” which caused the passengers to ricochet off the cabin wall like boiled atoms. By dawn’s early light we deplaned at a makeshift airstrip in Bhubaneshwar. From there it was a bit of a jaunt by steam train to Ichalkaranji, on to Omkareshwar by tongas, and we finally arrived at the location in Jhalawar via dhooli. I was given a hearty welcome by the crew and told not to unpack but to go stand directly on my mark so lighting could begin lest we fall behind our schedule. A consummate professional, I assumed my place on a hill in the noonday heat and did yeoman’s work, buckling only with the onset of sunstroke at teatime.
The first week of filming passed with predictable mood swings. The director, it turned out, was a spineless yes-man who repeated every utterance Afflatus made, deeming each worthy of inclusion in the works of Aristotle. In my opinion Afflatus had missed the central core of the lead character and rather than risk audience displeasure by giving Colonel Butterfat the dimension of self-doubt, he changed his profession from colonel in the military to Kentucky colonel, owner and breeder of Thoroughbreds. How he won the Preakness in the Vale of Kashmir puzzled me and apparently disconcerted the writer too, whose belt and necktie had to be taken from him. As acting is 90 percent voice, I must add here that Afflatus is cursed with an adenoidal whine that hatches in the throat and reverberates off his septum like a kazoo. I tried speaking to him during a break about some ways I thought he could flesh out his character, but it was too radical a shift in concentration from the book that he had vowed would teach him all about Smurfs before the end of shooting. In the evenings it was my habit to keep to myself, dining at a café on murg and chai, though in my third week I miscalculated the sincerity of one of the comely locals who answered to Shakira and in true Indian fashion embraced me with her two arms while the other four rifled through my pants.
Midway through the filming is when everything hit the fan. We had finally gotten over the internecine clashes of temperament, including the hiding of Hal Roachpaste’s blood thinner by the author, and the project had begun to sprout wings. A rumor came back that the dailies were good, and Babe Roachpaste, the producer’s wife, claimed the footage she had seen rivaled Citizen Kane. Seized by manic euphoria, Afflatus suggested it might be time to begin planning an Oscar campaign and lobbied for a flack to ghostwrite his acceptance speech.
I remember standing on my mark as usual, trying to give the cameraman a target to line up on, my face held high, jaw jutting out at much the same angle Afflatus’s does, when from out of left field emerges an exultation of rag-heads who charge the set screaming like Apaches. They coldcock the director with an ashtray lifted from the Bombay Hilton and scatter the panic-stricken crew. Next thing I know, there’s a bag over my head, which is then adroitly knotted, and I’m being carted off in a fireman’s carry. As the martial arts were part of my acting background, I suddenly snapped to the ground and uncoiled, sending forth a lightning-power kick, which fortunately for my abductors hit air and caused me to fall directly into the open trunk of a waiting Plymouth, where the door was promptly locked. The combination of the fierce Indian heat and the force with which I hit my head on a purloined elephant’s tusk in the boot of the van knocked me senseless. I came to sometime later in an inky black void as the vehicle bumped and rumbled over the jagged terrain of what must have been a mountain road. Using deep-breathing exercises that I had mastered in acting class, I managed to retain my composure for at least eight seconds before emitting a medley of bloodcurdling bleats and hyperventilated into oblivion. I dimly recall the bag being removed from my head in the mountaintop cave of a wild-eyed bandit chieftain with a twirling jet-black mustache and the psychotic intensity of Eduardo Ciannelli in Gunga Din. Brandishing a scimitar, he had apparently gone ballistic over some shoddy abduction work by his trio of simpering myrmidons.
“Worms, vermin, beetles! I send you out to snatch a cinema luminary, and this is what you bring me?” the hash-high CEO ranted, nostrils flaring like sails that had caught the wind.
“Master, I beg you,” groveled the Dalit hailed as Abu.
“A stand-in, a supernumerary not even—a lighting double,” the grand fromage bellowed.
“But you will agree there’s a resemblance, master?” squeaked one trembling plaintiff.
“Crab! Lizard! You’re telling me this midden of offal could be mistaken for Harvey Afflatus? It’s like comparing gold and mud.”
“But exalted one, they hired him exactly because—”
“Silence, or I’ll cut your tongue out. I’m looking here to score for maybe fifty or a hundred large, and you deliver up this zero-talent potzer whom I guarantee, or my name’s not Veerappan, will not fetch a lead rupee.”
So this was he, the legendary brigand I had read about. A master at cruelty perhaps, and quick to slaughter, but clearly a philistine when it came to evaluating talent.
“I’m sure, sire, we can get something for him. The production won’t just walk if we threaten to dismember one of their own. True, we’ve all heard tales of the major studios
not returning phone calls, but if we send back an organ at a time—”
“Enough, you slimy jellyfish,” the evil dacoit leader hissed. “Afflatus is currently running very hot. He’s coming off two features that did solid business even in the smaller markets. For the rodent we’ve got stashed we’d be lucky to make back our chickpea nut.”
“I’m sorry, magnificent one,” wept Veerappan’s errant minion. “It’s just that when the light hits him a certain way, his face exhibits the basic contours of said movie idol.”
“Can’t you see he lacks all charisma? There’s a reason that Afflatus sets marks in places like Boise and Yuma. It’s called star stature. This trombenik is the type that drives a cab or works at an answering service waiting for that one big break that never comes.”
“Now, just a minute,” I yelled, despite eight inches of black masking tape across my mouth, but before I could really warm to my theme I received a wallop in the sconce with a huqqa. I held my tongue as Veerappan segued into his peroration. All the crass bunglers were to be decapitated, he decreed benevolently. As for me, the group treasurer suggested they lower the ransom demand, give it a few days, and see if the production ponied up. If not, their plan was to purée me. Knowing what I did of Hal Roachpaste, I had complete confidence that the company had already contacted the U.S. embassy and would of course accede to the bandit’s most extravagant demands rather than see a colleague mistreated in any way. After five days of no response, however, in which Veerappan’s spies told him the writer had reworked the script and the film had pulled up stakes and relocated in Auckland, I began to feel uneasy. Word was that Roachpaste had not wanted to bother the Indian government with a complaint but had vowed as he blew town to do all in his power to free me short of paying a cent in ransom, which he felt could set an awkward precedent. When news of my plight appeared as a filler in the rear pages of Backstage, a group of politically active extras deemed it an outrage and swore to hold a midnight vigil but could not jimmy loose sufficient capital to purchase the required candles.
So, how is it that I’m here to tell the story given Veerappan’s deadline and lust for my carcass? Because with three hours left to go and a roomful of frenzied fanatics honing their krises and diagramming my body on a chart, I was suddenly awakened in my ropes by a pair of swarthy eyes peering out from between a turban and a burnoose.
“Quick, kid, don’t scream,” the intruder whispered in tones more consistent with Greenpoint than Bhopal.
“Who’s that?” I said, my senses numbed from a scant diet of aloo and tarka dal.
“Quick, doff these togs and walk with me. And keep calm—the place is awash with humanity’s dregs.”
“Absolutely,” I yelped, recognizing the voice of my agent, Pontius Perry.
“Let’s shake it. We got time for amenities at Nate’n Al’s tomorrow.”
And so, under the crafty guidance of my professional representative, I was sprung from inevitable dissection by Veerappan, titan of rogues.
At Nate’n Al’s the next day Perry explained over a panoply of derma that he had heard about my straits at a seder at Mr. Chow’s.
“The whole thing really stuck in my craw, and then I remembered when I was younger and used to put on one of those penny cardboard mustaches, all the kids in school would rib me over my uncanny resemblance to His Exalted Highness the Nizam of Hyderabad. Once that lightbulb went off, the rest was a piece of chocolate layer. I mean, sure, I had to do some fast talking because the nizam’s been extinct for lo these many years, but I’m an agent and fast talking’s how I set my table.”
“But why would you risk your life for me?” I queried, detecting the faint aroma of fish five days old in his spiel.
“Only ’cause in your absence I got you the lead in a feature. Heavy scratch. It’s a drug-war flick. All to be shot in the jungles of Colombia. Anti-Medellín. I guess that’s why some of the death squads took a blood oath to waste a few cast members if a film does come down there, but the director waves it off as saber rattling. I can’t believe how many actors passed, but that only helped me jack up the lolly for you. Hey, where you going?”
Outside in the smog where I had vanished like a cat, I ran to buy a newspaper and check the want ads. Maybe there was an opening for a cabdriver or answering-service operator like Veerappan had suggested. Of course Pontius Perry’s 10 percent would be a lot less, but at least he wouldn’t have to ever wake up and find my ear in his FedEx.
SAM, YOU MADE THE PANTS TOO FRAGRANT
A company named Foster-Miller, for instance, recently designed a textile with conductive properties: each thread can transmit electrical currents … so that Americans will one day … be able to recharge their cellphones with their polo shirts. … Technologically Enabled Clothing … has developed [a vest that conceals] … a “hydration system,” a back pocket for a water bottle with a straw running through the vest’s collar to the wearer’s mouth. …
Next year DuPont will introduce a fabric that can temporarily imprison offensive scents—so that, say, a shirt that spent the night in a smoke-filled bar will arrive home at 5 a.m. smelling as if it passed the hours in a spring meadow. DuPont’s scientists have also developed Teflon-treated fabric; spills bounce right off.
The South Korean company Kolon, in turn, has developed the “fragrant suit,” treated with anxiety-soothing herbs.
—The New York Times Magazine, December 15, 2002
RAN INTO REG Millipede sometime back. Reg’s a gaming crony from those piping times in Jolly Old when I stood as poetry editor of Dry Heaves: A Journal of Opinion. If the truth be known, the two of us gave as good as we got over whist and rummy at the Pair of Shoes or Lord Curzon’s Club on the street that bears his name.
“I get to your city now and again,” Milliepede acknowledged as we stood on the corner of Park and Seventy-fourth. “Mostly on business. I’m vice president in charge of customer relations for one of the biggest charnel houses on the Isle of Wight.”
I’d venture we swapped mellow souvenirs for the better part of an hour, during which time I couldn’t help noticing that my companion would sporadically tilt his face down and left, seemingly to siphon some beverage from what appeared to be a spigot discreetly camouflaged beneath the underside of his lapel.
“Are you all right?” I finally asked, half expecting the details of some unspeakable accident that culminated in a newfangled ambulatory IV. “Are you on some kind of drip?”
“You mean this?” Millipede said, pointing toward his breast pocket. “Aha—you observant rascal. No, this is merely a masterpiece of engineering slash tailoring. You’re undoubtedly up on how the entire medical profession is suddenly bonkers about drinking lots of water. Seems it flushes out the kidneys, along with myriad ancillary benefits. Well, this tropical worsted has its own built-in hydration system. There’s a storage tank in the left trouser leg with a series of pipes that run around the waist and up to a faucet tactfully hemmed into the shoulder pad. I have a digital computer stitched against my inseam that enables me to activate a pump just behind some pleats that forces Evian through this fiber-optic straw. Because of its ingenious cut I still manage to maintain a dapper line. I’m sure you’ll agree the garment speaks for breeding.”
Examining Millipede’s suit with an incredulity usually reserved for UFO sightings, I had to admit it smacked of the miraculous.
“There’s this perfectly marvelous tailoring establishment on Savile Row,” he said, pressing its address into my palm. “Bandersnatch and Bushelman. Postmodern fabrics. I guarantee you’ll want to revamp your entire wardrobe—which mightn’t be a bad idea judging from that threadbare tribute to Emmett Kelly you’re currently sporting. Be sure and tell them I sent you round, and ask for Binky Peplum. He’ll do right by your pocketbook. Ta.”
While I pretended, for old times’ sake, to double up at Millipede’s Emmett Kelly slander, I wanted to impale him on a pike. His invidious comparison with the clown’s attire lodged in my bosom like a scorpion
’s tail, and I resolved to invest in a bespoke ensemble the moment my frequent-flier miles swelled to underwrite a trip abroad. The dream became a reality at summer’s end when I at last entered the high-tech portals of Bandersnatch and Bushelman on Savile Row, where either the salesman or a praying mantis in gabardine eyeballed me like I was being cultured in a petri dish.
“One of them’s wandered in again,” he yelled to a colleague. “If I stand you to half a guinea,” he said to me in a voice reeking of the judicial bench, “how can I be sure you’ll buy a bowl of soup and not squander it on lager?”
“I’m a customer,” I squealed, reddening. “I’ve traveled from America to refresh my wardrobe. Reg Millipede’s chum. He said to keep a keen eye out for Mr. Binky Peplum.”
“Aha,” replied the seller, checking for the precise location of my jugular. “Look no further. Now that you mention it, I do recall Millipede warning us someone of your stripe might be stopping by. Yes, he spoke of you—total absence of any flair … child of a lesser god … it’s all coming back to me.”
“Certainly my goal has never been to play the fop,” I explained. “I’m here simply to be measured for a sensible outfit.”
“Are you interested in any special aromas?” Peplum asked, pulling out his order pad and winking at an associate.
“Aromas? No, just a classic blue three-button, conservatively cut. Perhaps even a few shirts. I had envisioned Sea Island cotton if it’s not too dear. Although now that you bring it up, I do detect the faint scent of frankincense and myrrh.”