Hits and Misses

by Simon Rich

  Clara walked Yoni through her present circumstances. She couldn’t leave the soundstage (“standard ghost rules”), but she had a lot of power within its crumbling walls. “I can move stuff with my mind and fly around and shit. Comes in handy when people piss me off. But after a while, believe me, it gets old.”

  The worst part, she said, was that God probably thought he was “winning.”

  “I bet he’s looking down on me right now,” she said. “Laughing on top of some dumb cloud.” She put her hands on her hips and launched into a God impression. “Oooooooh, I’m God. I don’t think Clara’s ever gonna be in pictures…”

  Yoni glanced nervously toward the sky as Clara continued her impression of the Lord. Her God voice had started off as only subtly gay, but as she spoke, it grew more aggressively flamboyant.

  “Oooh, I’m God, sitting around with my tutti-frutti angels…”

  “Clara.”

  “…getting fucked in the butt all the time…”

  “Whoa.”

  Clara flicked her wrist. “Relax. There’s nothing he can do.”

  “It seems like there’s a lot he can do,” Yoni cautioned. “I mean, he turned you into a ghost.”

  “Big whoop. I’m still gonna be a star.”

  “How?”

  “You’re the director,” she said. “You figure it out.”

  “We’ve tried everything to get rid of her,” Nikki explained as Yoni climbed back into the golf cart. “Mediums, exorcists, sage spells. Nothing works. She just gets mad and starts killing people.”

  Yoni nodded. “She seems pretty determined to make it as an actress.”

  “We’ve consulted with several ghost experts,” Nikki said. “Clara won’t go to heaven until she’s accomplished what she sees as her ‘unfinished business on this earth.’”

  “I’m sure I can find something to direct her in,” Yoni said. “I mean, makeup will be a challenge, but I’ll figure it out.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Nikki said. “We can’t reveal Clara’s existence to the world.”

  Yoni nodded. “Mankind would panic if they learned that ghosts were real.”

  “There’s that,” Nikki acknowledged. “But mainly, it’s a liability issue. By concealing Clara’s existence all these years, Paragon Studios has enabled countless deaths. According to our lawyers, the class action potential is significant.”

  “How can you keep Clara a secret and make her a movie star at the same time?”

  Nikki parked her golf cart in front of an unmarked storage unit. “I’ll show you.”

  A musty smell hit Yoni’s nose as he followed her into the cramped storage locker. He was starting to feel claustrophobic when the fluorescents flickered on overhead. Instantaneously, his anxiety gave way to childlike wonder. He was surrounded by ancient film equipment dating back to the silent era.

  “You’d be working with this crap,” Nikki said, gesturing at a hand-crank camera, plated with silver and gold.

  Yoni laughed with geeky amazement. “Holy shit! Is that a Bell and Howell?”

  Nikki shrugged.

  “I think this is what Chaplin used!” Yoni said, patting the old machine with reverence. “I can’t believe this thing still works!”

  “It doesn’t,” Nikki said. “There isn’t even a lens.” She jabbed her finger through the hollow cylinder. “See?”

  “So how am I going to shoot with it?” Yoni asked.

  “You’re not.”

  Yoni’s posture slumped as the situation dawned on him. “So you don’t actually want me to direct anything. You just want me to pretend to direct something. So you can trick a ghost.”

  Nikki nodded. “Is that a problem?”

  “I mean, it’s a little disappointing.” He looked up at her with hope in his eyes. “Unless you think this project might lead to something! Like, if I did a good job, do you think you might consider me for other jobs? Like, directing real movies, without ghosts?”

  “We see this as more of a one-off gig,” she said.

  Yoni gave a disappointed nod.

  “Look,” Nikki said. “It’s easy work. All you have to do is point the camera at Clara for a few hours. We’ll hire some nonunion crew to run around and look busy. She’ll sashay around, you’ll spin the crank, and then a week later I’ll come in with a fake copy of Variety. ‘Clara Ginger is a star.’ She’ll see the headline, fly up to heaven, and that’ll be that.”

  “What would I tell her she’s starring in?”

  Nikki handed him a script, and he read the title out loud. “Mr. Ching Chong and the Orphan Girl?”

  Nikki nodded. “It’s the one-reeler Clara was auditioning for the day she died. Fun fact: it was considered racist even for its time.”

  “I’m not sure I can do this,” Yoni said. “I mean, it doesn’t seem very creatively fulfilling. Also, I’m concerned that Clara would find out I was tricking her and then murder me.”

  “If you get her to leave,” Nikki said, “we’ll pay you one hundred thousand dollars.”

  Yoni picked up the camera and tested out the crank.

  Yoni stood outside the soundstage, waiting for his crew to finish signing their confidentiality agreements. Nikki had briefed them about Clara, but they still were understandably afraid. Yoni cleared his throat and launched into a pep talk.

  “Okay!” he said. “So we’re about to go inside, to encounter the ghost we’re attempting to trick. It’s going to be weird, but we’re gonna get through it. Does anyone have any questions?”

  A handsome, out-of-work actor named Charles raised his hand. Yoni recognized him vaguely from a local commercial for yard furniture.

  “Is this makeup really necessary?” he asked.

  Yoni nodded at Charles sympathetically. “Unfortunately, the part of Mr. Ching Chong calls for full yellow-face makeup. If you don’t wear it, Clara will get suspicious.”

  Charles shut his eyes. “This is rock-bottom for me,” he said to no one in particular. “Playing a racist caricature to trick a ghost.”

  Yoni could tell the day would be an uphill battle. But what was the alternative? He pictured himself declaring bankruptcy and flying back to Queens to join the mulch trade. He could see his parents standing on the porch, his mother sobbing with relief, his father savoring his vindication.

  “So it didn’t work out in Lala Land,” he could hear him saying. “Well, at least you’re finally back on Planet Earth.”

  Yoni knew his film career was over. But with a hundred grand, he could at least avoid that nightmarish homecoming. He could pay off his debt, flee LA forever, and start a new life somewhere else, doing anything but this.

  He opened the door and led the crew into the darkened soundstage. A few men screamed as Clara floated into view. In general, though, they managed to remain professional-looking.

  “Who are all these guys?” Clara asked suspiciously.

  Yoni bounded toward her and held up a copy of the script. “Congratulations!” he said. “You got the part!”

  “Which part?”

  Yoni grinned. “The lead!”

  “Bullshit,” Clara spat, her pupils burning like a pair of embers. “This is some kind of trick, and I’m going to murder everybody!”

  Yoni swallowed. He could hear one of the crew members behind him vomit with fear.

  “It’s no trick!” Yoni assured her. He pulled out his Bell and Howell. “See?”

  Clara’s jaw was clenched with rage. But when she saw the gleaming camera, her expression softened. She inched toward the machine and peered into the lens-less aperture, her lips slowly parting. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and hopeful.

  “I’m really the lead?” she asked in a small voice.

  “Yeah!” Yoni said. “Big-time!”

  A tear rolled down Clara’s pale cheek. Within seconds, though, she’d suppressed any trace of vulnerability.

  “Well then, shit, what are we waiting for?” she said. “Let’s get to work.”

 
The plot of Mr. Ching Chong and the Orphan Girl wasn’t particularly complicated. An orphan girl visits the shop of Mr. Ching Chong to pawn her beloved silver locket. Mr. Ching Chong tries to cheat her, but she hypnotizes him with the locket and gets him to jump out the window. The rest of the nine-page scenario called for Clara to face the camera and cycle through a series of popular 1920s dance crazes, none of which had any relation to the story.

  Yoni explained to Clara that they were going to shoot the movie in one take. It all took place on a single set, so continuity wouldn’t be an issue. Furthermore, since the film was silent, there was no need to learn or practice any lines.

  “We can start right now,” he said cheerfully. “And we’ll be finished in under ten minutes.”

  Clara looked worried. “Shouldn’t we rehearse a little first?” she asked. “Or at least block it?”

  If this were a real film, Yoni would pull his star aside to reassure her. But given the circumstances, he didn’t see the need.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to Clara. “You’re gonna nail it.”

  He checked to make sure that the camera was pointed in the right direction. Then he spun the crank around and called out, “Action!”

  Clara pointed at the locket and held her hands together in a pleading gesture.

  “Great acting!” Yoni said. “Let’s move on to the hypnotizing part.”

  Clara swung the locket back and forth. Charles dutifully jumped out the window.

  “Great!” Yoni said. “Let’s wrap it up.”

  Clara turned to the camera and energetically cycled through her dances: the Mexican Tamale, the Irish Jig, and the Jewish Shuffle.

  “Wow,” Yoni said involuntarily. “Okay! Great work, Clara. That’s a wrap.”

  Clara looked around the room as the crew members silently dispersed. “Really?” she asked. “That’s it?”

  Yoni gave her two thumbs-up. “That’s it!”

  Clara looked down at her feet.

  “What’s wrong?” Yoni asked.

  She gestured at the crew. “They hated it.”

  Yoni forced a laugh. “What are you talking about?” he said. “They loved it! Right, guys?”

  The crew members nodded fearfully.

  “Don’t fuck with me!” Clara shouted at Yoni. “It fucking died and you know it!”

  Yoni fell backward as she flew up to the ceiling and slipped into the shadows. The air was so cold he could see his own breath. At this rate, he knew, Clara wasn’t going anywhere.

  Yoni spent the lunch break trying to teach his crew to feign praise more believably. But no matter how loudly they applauded, Yoni knew it wouldn’t persuade Clara. She was a performer. And anyone who’s ever been onstage can tell when they’ve lost the crowd. It was something you could physically feel—the knot in your lungs, the sweat on your neck, the gnawing panic in your gut.

  There was only one way to convince Clara that her film was working.

  Somehow he would have to make it work.

  He opened his battered laptop. His desktop was crawling with Final Draft and QuickTime files, each icon a gravestone commemorating some failed project. There were the feature scripts he’d labored on in screenwriting class, including the earnest war epic his professor had called a “decent first attempt at comedy.” There was the self-financed short he’d paid to submit to the Sundance Contest, a cruel scam with no affiliation whatsoever with the Sundance Film Festival. There were hundreds of storyboards, pitches, and treatments for movies that never were produced and never would be. And now here he was, writing a fake starring vehicle for a ghost. His only solace was that it was the last project he would ever work on, the last time he would ever have to type out those two conniving words that built up your hopes only to dash them:

  Open on…

  “Clara?” Yoni called. “You in here?”

  Clara descended reluctantly from the ceiling. Her little jaw was locked and cocked in a way that reminded Yoni of a baby lion. He could tell from her streaked mascara she’d been crying.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t go well yesterday.”

  Clara shrugged. “It was just a little hiccup,” she said. “Just another hurdle to jump over.” She gazed off into the distance. “I remember when I entered my first dance contest. Miss Bathing Beauty, 1917. My act bombed in rehearsal. But that didn’t stop me.”

  Yoni nodded. “You rehearsed.”

  Clara shook her head. “I screwed one of the judges. His name was Lou Dunlap. He owned a sauerkraut company, and his beard smelled like rotten cabbage. But I didn’t care. I did things to him that would shock the devil. Things that would make the devil say, ‘Whoa, that’s enough. You don’t have to take it that far. Slow down. That’s crazy. Stop.’ But I’ll tell you what: it won me Miss Bathing Beauty. And the whole thing was worth it to prove them wrong.”

  “Prove who wrong?”

  “Everyone,” she said. “My teachers, my cousins, the nuns. They all used to laugh when they caught me practicing my walks in the mirror. Said I’d never amount to nothing. Well, look at me now. They’re sitting on some dumb, fat cloud with God. And I’m in Los Angeles, living my dreams.” She blinked away some tears. “You know what I mean?”

  Yoni nodded, thinking of the people who had doubted him over the years: his mother, his father, his professors, his classmates, contest judges, YouTube commentators, that busboy he’d caught smirking at his laptop that one time when he was working on a screenplay at Chipotle, his guidance counselor, his college adviser, his unemployment officer, his therapist, the Barnes & Noble cashier who had sold him his copy of Save the Cat!, and sometimes, if he was being honest, himself.

  He took out a packet of pages.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I took a new pass at the script,” he said.

  Clara squinted at the first page. “What kind of name is John for a Chinaman?”

  “The shopkeeper’s no longer Chinese.”

  “Then what kind of foreigner is he?”

  “He’s not a foreigner,” Yoni said. “The script is no longer racist.”

  She telekinetically flung the script into a trash can.

  “Can I at least pitch it to you?” he asked.

  Clara sighed. “Fine.”

  “Okay,” Yoni said. “So you know how the previous draft was a hateful attack against Chinese people?”

  Clara nodded.

  “Well, this version is more about two people coming together to achieve their dream.”

  “What’s their dream?”

  Yoni looked into her eyes. “To prove everyone wrong.”

  Yoni supervised the crew as they re-dressed the pawnshop set, transforming it into a cobbler’s empty storefront. Charles, looking more confident without his yellow-face makeup, took his mark behind the cash register.

  “Okay?” Yoni asked. “Is everybody ready?”

  The crew shrugged.

  “Clara?”

  Clara shot an anxious glance at the crew, then turned to her director and nodded.

  “Great!” Yoni said. “Action on rehearsal! Clara, you enter the shoe shop. And remember, you have a limp.”

  Clara entered the set, heavily dragging her left foot.

  “That’s great,” Yoni said. “Okay, Charles, remember, your shoe shop is really struggling. You’re sorting through your bills. How are you going to pay off all your debts? Big sigh. But then you look up and you see her. And you recognize her! She’s that famous ballerina whose leg got run over by a trolley!”

  Charles pointed at Clara in a show of enthusiasm.

  “Good!” Yoni said. “You say that you’re a fan. You praise a move you saw her do onstage. A special pirouette.”

  Charles did a clumsy spin.

  “Nice,” Yoni said. “Okay now, Clara, you don’t want to talk about your dancing days. It’s too sad to think about your accident and all your thwarted dreams.”

  Clara turned her back to Charles and huffily headed for the door.

&nbs
p; “Perfect,” Yoni said. “It’s still raining outside, but you don’t care. You’re getting out of this shop…”

  Clara reached for the door handle.

  “Okay!” Yoni shouted. “Now, Charles, you have an idea! You grab one of your shoes and beg her to try it on! Clara, you don’t want to listen. You think he’s crazy. You try to get away. But, Charles, you won’t let her—you grab her foot! You stick the shoe on her foot!”

  The crew members watched as Charles followed the instructions, grasping at Clara’s calf as she kicked at him with a realistic blend of fear and outrage.

  “You finally get the shoe on!” Yoni continued. “Clara, you’re furious. You want to run away. But as you flee for the door, you notice something—your limp is gone! The shoe fixed it!”

  Clara swiveled around and walked gracefully toward Charles, looking convincingly amazed.

  “Yes!” Yoni said. “You can walk again! Just like in the old days! But can you dance? Is it possible? There’s only one way to find out. You try the move he remembered—your special pirouette!”