by Bill Myers
I was glad he wasn’t talking about me. Who did I know that was all that rich? Come to think of it, who did I know that was all that poor?
Then I got to thinking about Melissa Sue Avarice and the way she’d been treating me, all special and everything—ever since I got a part in the movie. Come to think of it, she wasn’t the only one who’d been treating me special. Everybody from Reptile Man to Brock to Wall Street . . . even Dad had been treating me special.
True, I wasn’t rich, but wasn’t being famous kind of the same thing? Weren’t they getting all buddy-buddies with me for the same reason— ’cause suddenly I was a “somebody”? I mean, they used to treat Wally the Dorkoid like a bad case of the flu. But now that I was Wally the Superstar I was everybody’s friend.
The thought kinda made me mad. It’s like they weren’t treating me nice because of me— they were treating me nice because I had a part in the movie.
But I didn’t get too worked up about how they were acting because pretty soon I got to thinking about how I was acting. Not how I’d been acting toward them, but toward Opera.
Wasn’t I kinda doing the same thing? Wasn’t I treating Opera like one of those poor people Pastor Bergman was talking about? Oh, sure, he wasn’t poor, at least when it came to money. But when it came to popularity, Opera was flat broke.
And while we’re on the subject, what about Melissa Sue? Wasn’t I treating her special because she was rich—maybe not in money, but definitely in looks and popularity?
Pastor Bergman kept preaching, and I kept feeling more and more uncomfortable. It had nothing to do with the color of my hair or the tattoos on my arms. It had everything to do with that still, small voice . . . That still, small voice that kept saying something was wrong . . . That still, small voice that kept getting louder and louder the more Pastor Bergman preached.
But it would take a lot more than a small voice to get me to change. Tomorrow was my big day. My real big day!
Chapter 7
And . . . Action!
“All right, everybody settle in, please. This is a take! Places, people! PLACES!” A little man with a big megaphone and an even bigger mouth marched back and forth behind the cameras shouting at everyone. “This is an expensive shot so let’s get it right the first take! Heads up! Everybody look alive!”
I couldn’t believe it. It had finally come. My big moment. It was Monday morning . . . a week later (It had taken a whole week to get Gertrude repaired) . . . and here we were about to film my famous scene.
I stood with two other actor kids (a guy and a girl) on the make-believe corner of the make-believe street in front of a make-believe billboard. Gertrude had been rolled behind the billboard out of sight. Chad and Laura Lottalips (who looked about twenty years older in person) sat in an idling convertible about a hundred feet away.
We were all set. If everything went right, the scene would go like this:
There would be a big flash of light behind the billboard. That would be the Martian spaceship landing. Next, Gertrude would crash through the sign and grab me in her mouth. I would scream as the other two kids ran off. Gertrude would grab me in her mouth, start to raise me in the air, and then, at the last minute, Chad would race to my rescue in his fancy convertible.
“Couldn’t be simpler,” the director assured us. “If everything goes right, we’ll have you out of here by noon.”
“Noon of what day?” the boy actor smirked.
“Of what month?” the girl actor double smirked.
Both of the actors were from Hollywood (which probably explains the smirking). The guy was a big star in a big TV sitcom a couple years back. But that was a couple years back, so now no one knew who he was anymore.
And the girl? She was somebody’s niece.
An hour earlier I had been yanked out of the limo by the makeup and wardrobe man and woman (I still didn’t know which was which). We took exactly two steps before the director spotted us and shouted, “What the blankety-blank-blank did you do with his blankety-blank-blank hair, you blankety-blank-blank-blanks! ” (The guy must have been nervous. His blanks were in rare form that morning.)
“You said you wanted a punker,” the first man (or woman) explained.
“That was Saturday before last!” the director cried. “Today punk is out! Geek is in!”
“Of course, Bernie, anything you say, Bernie,” the second man (or woman) apologized.
“Until I know what kind of movie I’m making, I expect you to be f lexible!”
“Our mistake, Bernie,” the first man (or woman) said, “we should have known better.” They rushed me back to the trailer muttering a few of their own blankety-blanks at the director.
“What does he mean, he doesn’t know what type of movie he’s making?” I asked.
“The poor slob hasn’t found the theme,” the first man (or woman) answered. “He has no vision for the film, no handle, no statement . . . not yet, anyway.”
“Well, when will he?” I asked.
“Soon,” the second man (or woman) sighed. “We hope very, very soon.”
After an hour of trying on wigs, smearing makeup all over my rub-on tattoos to cover them, and putting me back in my regular clothes, I suddenly looked like . . . well, after all that hard work, I wound up looking exactly like me.
Amazing. No wonder these people make so much money.
So, there I was, Wally McDoogle, “All-American Geek,” standing on the corner playing . . . well, playing Wally McDoogle, “All-American Geek.”
“Stand by!” the voice shouted through the megaphone.
This was it. All of the days of preparation; all of the hassles at school, at home, with my friends—it all came down to this moment of glory.
In a matter of seconds I would be immortalized forever. I took a deep breath. I’d been practicing my scream for days. I had it down pat. True, I’d been getting a little hoarse lately, but that was okay. One healthy scream is all it would take.
Everybody waited:
—Gertrude as the monster behind the billboard.
—Chad and Laura Lottalips as the heroes in the convertible.
—And me, Wally McDoogle, as the monster bait.
“SOUND?” the megaphone man shouted.
“Speed!” someone called back.
“CAMERA?”
“Rolling,” the man behind the camera yelled.
“SLATE IT!”
Another guy with a little blackboard cut in half raced in and shouted, “58-C, Take One!” He slapped the two pieces of wood together with a loud CLAP, then disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.
“AND . . . ACTION!” the director yelled.
It was now or never. I took a deep breath and let out the world’s longest and loudest scream. It was unbelievable. I mean, if they had Olympic events for screaming I would have picked up the bronze, silver, and gold medals.
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH . . .” I was amazing. I was incredible. I was about to pass out when suddenly the director screamed, “CUT!”
I looked around, grinning, pretty pleased with myself. . . . Until the director stomped up to me and roared right into my face, “WHAT THE BLANKETY-BLANK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING? YOU DON’T BLANK BLANK SCREAM WHEN I SAY BLANK BLANK ‘ACTION’! YOU SCREAM WHEN THE BLANK BLANK MONSTER BREAKS THROUGH THE BLANK BLANK BILLBOARD!”
“Oh,” I sorta squeaked, “sorry.” I know I could have had better comebacks, but when a man is throwing those kinds of words right in your face, it’s pretty hard to think of anything too witty. Besides, he had a point. I wasn’t supposed to scream until after Gertrude broke through the billboard.
“Okay,” the director shouted as he turned and headed back behind the camera. “Let’s get it right this time!”
“Okay,” the little man with the big megaphone shouted. “Let’s get it right this time!”
The director crawled back onto his chair and nodded.
Megaphone Mouth shouted, “Stand by, people, thi
s is a take! SOUND?”
“Speed!” came the answer.
“CAMERA?”
“Rolling!”
The man with the clapboard raced in. “58-C, Take Two!” he said, clapping the board and disappearing again.
“And . . . ACTION!” the director yelled.
This time I kept my mouth shut. No way would I scream until Gertrude broke through the billboard.
There was a bright flash of light behind the sign just like there was supposed to be.
“What was that?” the boy actor cried.
“Don’t worry,” I reassured him, “that’s just the special effects people. Remember, there’s supposed to be a flash behind the billboard and then—”
“CUT!”
Everyone was silent. Real silent. And everyone was staring . . . at me.
“What’d I do now?” I croaked.
“That’s my line, stupid,” the boy actor sneered.
“What?” My heart was somewhere in my throat with the sneaking suspicion that I’d messed up again.
“I’m supposed to say, ‘What’s that?’” the boy scoffed. “It’s in the script.”
I threw a look over at the director. He was not smiling—in a big way. Come to think of it, he was barely breathing. But he was glaring. Right at me. Hard. Real, real hard.
“Sorry,” I shrugged, giving him my famous McDoogle-the-idiot grin.
But he still wasn’t smiling . . . even harder. At last he spoke. His voice was flat and calm and even . . . well, except for the slight quivering which let you know he was about to explode. “Let’s set it up and try it again . . .”
TAKE THREE
Once again they all did their shouting routine:
“Sound?” “Speed.” “Camera?” “Rolling.” “Take three,” “and . . . Action.”
Once again there was a bright flash.
“What’s that?” the boy actor shouted.
This time I kept my mouth shut.
“Look out!” the girl cried as she pointed to the billboard. “Gertrude’s hit the sign—it’s falling!”
The two actors sprinted out of the way, leaving me standing there all alone. I didn’t remember that being in the script, but I wasn’t about to move. No sir. I’d learned my lesson. I just stood there waiting for my cue to scream—waiting for Gertrude to crash through the sign.
“RUN, YOU MORON!” the director shouted. “GET OUT OF THE WAY!”
I just blinked at him. No way was I going to make the same mistake twice. That is, until a stuntman rushed in, tackled me to the ground, and rolled us out of the way . . . just as the billboard crashed to the ground right where I was standing.
I scrambled to my feet and cried. “What are you doing? That’s not in the script!”
“Neither is that billboard falling,” the stunt man chuckled, as he got up and brushed himself off.
Once the scare was over, it was chuckles all around. Everybody had a good laugh (except the director). I tell you, it felt kind of good hearing laughter again. It felt even better knowing I was the source of that laughter, kinda like being back home, or at school, or anywhere else I ever went in my life.
It took almost an hour for them to fix the billboard, and then we were ready for . . .
TAKE FOUR
Everything went perfect. The kids gave their lines. I kept my mouth shut. And Gertrude’s face crashed through the sign just like it was supposed to. It was a little scary having it come right at me, but I could see the man at the control panel off to the side. He pulled back the lever, and Gertrude opened her mouth. He pushed another lever, and she scooted toward me.
Now it was scream time. I took a deep breath and let loose “AHHHHHhhhhhhhh!” It was a little weak and a little hoarse. But no one noticed because suddenly there was that famous, “CUT!” again. Only this time it didn’t come from the director.
“WHO SHOUTED ‘CUT’?” the director bellowed. “THIS IS MY MOVIE, AND NOBODY SAYS ‘CUT’ BUT ME! WHO SAID ‘CUT’?”
“I did,” Chad whined from his convertible. “I’m out of eye drops! Without my eye drops, my eyes will be all red and icky for the closeups.”
The veins in the director’s neck began pumping overtime. It looked like he was about to pop a vessel . . . or two. I expected him to go into cardiac arrest any second or at least to let loose with a string of blankety-blanks. But neither happened. Instead, the director said just as softly as possible (which made it even scarier), “Could someone please bring Mr. Steel his eye drops?”
TAKE FIVE
They patched up the billboard and started again. Everything went perfect. Gertrude crashed through again, and I screamed. “AHHhhhh.” It was pretty pathetic, my voice was definitely going, but no one cared. They just wanted to get the scene done. Chad threw his car into gear and raced up to me, when suddenly . . . you guessed it:
“CUT!”
“What is it now?” The director’s voice trembled in rage.
“My hair’s all mussed,” Laura Lottalips complained. “The wind’s mussed my hair.”
It was pretty obvious that Laura was lying. Her hair was in perfect shape. She just wanted to say “Cut” because Chad got to say “Cut.” Suddenly, I felt like I was back in kindergarten again. I mean, these guys were supposed to be grownups, right? What was next? Somebody yelling “Cut” ’cause they didn’t have their teddy?
TAKE SIX
“Ahhh . . .” My scream was so faint you could barely hear it. But it didn’t matter.
“CUT!”
This time we stopped because of Chad’s makeup. It was almost noon, and the heat had made his “tan” (which was really lots and lots of brown body makeup) start to run. They hooked up a long hose to some inside air conditioner and ran it all the way out to Chad’s car. Someone held it in front of him the whole time so he’d stay cool.
Which wasn’t very long because someone else suddenly shouted, “LUNCH!”
Just like that, everybody turned and headed to the nearby tables that were set up. It looked like the director wanted to go on, like he still wanted to film, like he still had plenty of blan-kety-blanks ready for anyone who wanted to listen. But no one seemed in the mood. Everyone was too hot and tired and cranky.
Later, as I stood in line for the food, I was beginning to think maybe movie making wasn’t as much fun as everyone thought. Maybe it was actually a lot of hard work. Maybe it was actually a lot of long, boring, get-used-to-people-screaming, monotonous, boring, get-used-to-people-screaming-even-more, boring, hard work. Yes sir, this movie-making stuff was about as glamorous as a bad case of athlete’s foot. If the kids at school could see me now . . .
Kids at school! Leaping Lizards!
I was supposed to get Melissa Sue a lock of Chad’s hair!
I was supposed to get Reptile Man in to see Gertrude!
I was supposed to get Dad’s boss in to see Laura Lottalips!
And what about Brock’s girlfriend?
I threw a look over at Chad. There were about a dozen people surrounding him as he headed off to his trailer—somebody wanted to do his nails; somebody wanted to touch up his makeup, his wardrobe, his eyes, and, of course, his magnificent hair. No way could I get to him. And no way did I want to get to him.
Then there was Laura. Ditto with her surrounding crowd. And ditto times two with my desire to talk to her.
Well, at least I could get Brock’s girl, Reptile Man, and Dad’s boss onto the set. All I had to do was ask the director if . . .
“What the blank blank are those blank blank clouds doing up there?”
I looked over at the director. He was staring up at the sky.
“I can’t have clouds in my shot. I want those clouds out of here and I want them out of here now!”
“But Bernie,” the man with the megaphone tried to reason. “We can’t control the clouds. The weatherman said it was supposed to rain this afternoon. We—”
“Rain? I can’t have blankety-blank rain in my shot!”
�
��Bernie, please.”
“I don’t want rain!”
“Bernie . . .”
“If you don’t move those blankety-blank clouds, I won’t shoot the blankety-blank scene today!”
“Bernie, be reasonable.”
But Bernie wasn’t reasonable. And a half-hour later, I was in my limo heading to school. It was only 12:30 P.M., and they figured I could squeeze in half a day of classes. Believe it or not, I was looking forward to it. How nice it would be to be back in school with sane, normal people again.
Or would it? . . .
Chapter 8
The Plot Sickens
I knew I was in trouble the minute the limo pulled up to the school and I saw Wall Street selling my photos on the front lawn.
“Step right up,” she yelled, waving my glossy, eight-by-ten-inch black and whites in the air. “Get your Wally McDoogle souvenir photos, only $10.95! Or get the entire collector’s series for just $39.95. This special offer not available in stores. Visa and Mastercard are accepted!” (Ever get the feeling your friends watch too much TV?)
What was even more shocking were the dozens of kids waiting in line to buy those photos!
I climbed out of the car as discreetly as possible. But being discreet is a little difficult when the car happens to be a big, black, shiny limo.
“There he is!” someone shouted. And before I knew it they were all running at me.
Now, the way I figured it, I had three choices:
A. Stand calmly and be trampled to death.
B. Walk calmly and be trampled to death.
C. Run like crazy for my very life.
It was a tough decision, but since I still had a thing for living, I chose C. I ran like a madman toward what I hoped would be safety inside the school.
But indoors wasn’t much better.
“Why, Wallace, it’s so good to see you.” It was Reptile Man. He was doing another imitation of a grin. I looked up and returned the smile. I couldn’t help myself. It was so good to see an everyday, normal person again. (Even though this particular everyday, normal person sweated like a lawn sprinkler.)
“You’re just in time.” He kept on trying to grin. I think the local TV cable crew is still here.”