by Paul Slatter
“Just one of the guys at Slave,” Sebastian replied modestly.
“Slave?”
“Yes, they’re the ones paying you to be here.”
“Never heard of them. What pictures have they done?”
“None, this is their first.”
“Well when they’ve done 135 like me then come see me and tell me how to behave on a film set, until then go back to film school.”
Sebastian smiled and, without the slightest hint of upset, said straight back, “Perhaps you should remember that not everyone in this world cares about the fact that you’re an actor as much as you do.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Some people don’t care how many B movies you’ve done.”
“Fuck you.”
Sebastian laughed to himself. This prick who’d just done nothing but walk around in a space suit for half an hour and had been applauded for doing so by a director who was full of shit, was now telling him to fuck off. He said, “How’s the hotel room?” He waited for an answer that did not come. Then he asked, “How’s your trailer, squeezing into it okay are you?”
At this, he did get a response and it was Rock Mason turning to him and telling him straight, “Fuck you, get the fuck out of here—you’re fired.”
Sebastian looked at the man who’d just fired him off the film he was financing and laughed inside. Without the slightest display of emotion, Sebastian simply said back, “My good man. You need to realise something. I don’t work for you—you work for me. You can’t fire me—I am the one who fires you, if and when I want too, and I can do that anytime I wish—should the fancy take me.”
And then Chendrill arrived and, without a word to Sebastian, sat himself down between the two in Tricia’s director’s chair—the chair’s cloth and wood straining as he settled. He waited a moment, looking at the monitors, then at the green screen, and then at the guy on the edge in the space suit with the fogged-up helmet. Looking at Sebastian he asked, “Why’s there an astronaut standing out there?”
“It’s a space movie, Chuck,” said Sebastian.
“Well where’s the space ship?”
“It’s computer generated, ask Dan about it. He’ll know more about it than me—it’s more his generation.”
Chendrill looked around, then asked, “Where is he.”
Sebastian pointed to the screen, curving his index finger right on top of Dan’s head. “I think he likes looking at everything through the helmet.”
Chendrill looking back up at the huge lights pounding down onto the set realized it was Dan standing there with the helmet on, he said, “Isn’t he getting hot in there?”
Piping into the conversation that had nothing to do with him, without looking up from his crossword, and turning the conversation around to himself, Rock Mason said, “Yeah we get pretty hot out there but it’s what we do.”
Chendrill stared at him, smiling as Rock Mason looked back. And just as Rock Mason was about to drop a huge bullshit story about the time he’d played a fireman back in the 80’s and found a puppy in the set of a burning building and walked out with it in his arms and how it had looked so cool they’d kept it in the movie, Chendrill said, “Who are you?”
Rock Mason smiled and held out his hand. It wasn’t the first time he’d not been recognized straight off, but almost always after he’d introduced himself and the realization set in as to who he was, the return was worth the modesty, “Rock Mason. Movie Star.”
Charles Chuck Chendrill offered no hand in return and instead said back, “Chuck Chendrill. I hear you like word play. Let’s see how quick you can make a sentence out of these five words, “We – weren’t – talking – to – you – so – fuck – off.”
“That’s eight words,” Rock Mason said straight back.
“That’s right—the last three were to see if you could count.”
*************
Rock Mason paced about in his Airstream Classic trailer, which he had refused to set foot in because it was two feet shorter than Adalia’s. He wanted to call his agent, but he couldn’t because he didn’t have one. Nor did he have any money in the bank anymore, hence getting rid of the agent. There had been a day when he’d have told that pompous Brit and his big fucking friend to go fuck themselves and got on a private jet back to his pool in Hollywood. But now all the pools were gone, along with the four wives he’d decorated them with over the years.
Now he was here doing stupid space films with other A-listers who were holding onto their careers better than he could, along with some stupid kid who couldn’t get his helmet off and had a sensitive mother. Now at the very same time he was trying to claw back something that may very well have been gone forever, he was being disrespected by mouthy boyfriends. But no one had to know that. He could keep it together and pretend he still had it all while he was here—same as Errol Flynn had until he’d died in this same goddamn awful city where it rained all the time.
Now he was roughing it in this tiny 31-foot rented Airstream Classic with its tiny wardrobe and a bullshit executive suite at the Sutton, living on a grand a day expenses which he had to use as wages instead of blowing it at the bar every night. Fuck, how had things gotten so bad? But you’re still here doing it, he told himself, as he laid himself out on the sofa of the Classic and wondered if he’d be able to get the girl with the headset on into the Airstream with him for a bit of fun. In his day, yeah, there’d been magic with more than a few when he’d had them in the trailer to watch him masturbate. But up here, now, where everyone wore black and cross trainers and abbreviated their sentences more now than they ever had before, times had changed.
He looked around, there had to be something that he could find that he could moan about for a while instead of that big fuck being rude—get the people in the office worried that he wasn’t happy. He couldn’t get drunk like he used to—that had always worked, but not these days, not like in the 70’s when it was pretty much expected of you. Back in the day when they’d call for Rock Mason and find him lying on the sofa of a proper Airstream trailer out in the desert somewhere he or anyone else could never find on a map again, he’d be there with his top off for good measure, with a bottle of Jack on its side on the coffee table and a crowd around him trying to wake him up—when inside he was fine, just playing the part. Acting. Always acting. Acting, acting.
He walked around the trailer and looked at the drawer space in the wardrobe. He’d looked it up, the Classic XL was better. It was bullshit, him having less draw space than Adalia Seychan, the fucking skank. Fucking bullshit, that and the fucking skinny bitch uber sensitive mother of that skinny retard kid and her big fucking small dick boyfriend getting all bent out of shape because he didn’t fancy chatting about fucking crosswords. And who the fuck was that guy at the monitors, getting all high and mighty telling him he can’t be fired? Well guess what pal—you can. If Rock Fucking Mason wants you gone, you’re gone—done. Get the fuck out and get the fucking bus home. And if you don’t like what you’re hearing, go try acting, go try and be a fucking master pastry chef one minute and a spaceman the next. Try that and see if you’ve got the concentration needed. You know how much concentration I’ve got? More than anyone here has—that’s how much.
Then he opened the door to his stupid fucking poxy top of the line Airstream Classic trailer and screamed it all out in a tone that would have even put Mazzi Hegan to shame on a bad day, “More concentration than you fucking lot!—Your gone pal!—If Rock Fucking Mason says you’re out, you’re gone—done. Get the fuck out—get the fucking bus home!”
Slamming the door, he paced once around his coffee table. He’d done 135 films and he was stuck here in a fucking piddly ass 31-foot trailer with no fucking wardrobe space. He’d tell them that as well, he walked to the door, opened it again and screamed out, “No fucking wardrobes!” and slammed the door shut again. 135 fucking films over 40 fucking years that’s what I have and I’m being treated like some kind of cunt, he told himself as he paced aroun
d the 31-foot executive trailer which was bigger than the one he’d had on his last film, when he’d spent all day in the kitchen pretending to be a pastry chef, then after, spent all his money bankrupting himself on six restaurants pretending to be a pastry chef. Muttering under his breath, he said, “135, me. These fucking idiots, 1—and they haven’t even finished that yet. So that makes zero. Zero!” He’d tell them that as well. Let them know he was angry, let it get all the way back to LA, to Hollywood, to Century City, to Paramount, Universal, Netflix, Dreamworks. He’d let the real people who made movies see what a fucking farce he was stuck on up here. He’d let them know and let them know right fucking now, and opening his trailer door again with a bang, he screamed that one out as well, “135 movies for me—fuck all for you—the best actor in the world—ME—you lot, you guys, you fucking loser cunts—Zero!—Zeee Roooo…. Zerrrroooo! Because I’m Rock Fucking Mason—Rock Fucking Maaaassssooooonnnn!”
Rock Mason, having a tantrum like a 2-year-old, screaming so loud that he hoped he could be heard over a thousand miles away in California and that the people down there would somehow care and be shaken up enough to rush to talk to whoever was in charge. But Sebastian, the one person who was truly in charge was already there and listening, standing in the crowd next to Dan and Chendrill watching as the self-proclaimed best actor and pastry chef in the world ranted and raved, and all he had to say after the man’s throat went hoarse and the trailer door had shut for the final time was, “I always thought he was taller.”
**********
Come the afternoon, Rock Mason hadn’t come out of the trailer he’d refused to go into at the start of the day, and he wasn’t coming out until he’d spoken to someone in charge, someone with clout, someone from Hollywood.
At just after two in the afternoon, Patrick was knocking on the door and after a short while, without waiting for a reply that was never coming anyway, Patrick stepped right in. Rock Mason stared at him, this man with a million-dollar smile, standing there in the doorway with his arms spread wide, saying, “Rock my man, looks as though I got here just in time. Trust me, they were about to shut the show down. And we don’t need that.”
Rock Mason sat there taking in what he’d just been told and for a moment wondered if someone had jumped in a private jet and headed up north to sort things out. He said straight back, “Got here from where, Hollywood?”
“Yaletown!”
“Yaletown?”
“Slave’s offices in Yaletown.”
“Really?” said Rock Mason as he now remembered meeting the guy first thing in the morning, along with the limey cunt with the shiner, but couldn’t recollect his name either. He said without standing, “And you are who?”
“Patrick De’Sendro, executive producer.”
Patrick, Rock Mason thought, forgetting his surname almost as soon as he’d heard it. How many pictures have you produced? he thought, as he looked at the man’s teeth, knowing he could look at a call sheet later and check the guy out. He said almost with an element of pride, “They were almost shutting the show down hey?” He liked that, contracts stated that if a show collapsed he’d get fully compensated for the whole show. Then he could just get the fuck out of here and collect the measly million they’d offered and he could get on with his life.
Patrick nodded, then said, “Yep they were shutting the show down for a day or so until your replacement could get in.”
“Sorry?”
“But he’s not signed yet, so there’s time still to make this whole thing work out. No one wants you to lose this property,” said Patrick still using one of his timeless tried and trusted real estate quotes but forgetting again to adjust the phrasing to his new career.
“Property?”
“Movie.”
“Who’d they have in mind?” Rock Mason asked, wishing he’d not gotten greedy and fired his agent before he’d signed the show, knowing this was not good. If a show went down because it was badly put together he still got in the news; if he was replaced, he was in the news, but for the wrong reasons. This early into a show it was easy for anyone to achieve—even this mob.
“Buffy just scored a three-picture deal with Tom Cruise, she got quite the package. I’ve heard he loves it up here. Adalia loves Tom, she’s really happy.”
Of course she is, the fucking dumb slut, Rock Mason thought wishing now that he’d not made such a fuss in the first place. She’d be on top billing alongside that prick of a superstar, and all she’d have to do was these piddly few weeks to get the accolade. He said, “Well as soon as I get an apology from that big guy and his buddy, we’ll be getting on with making this movie.”
It wasn’t going to happen, not with Sebastian—who’d already given up on the show—and especially not with Chendrill. Patrick knew this. Not in a million years, so he said, “Sure Rock, they were just saying they wanted to apologize to you, no one here wants you to leave—you’re the man! They sent me over to see if you’re ok, that’s the reason I’m here. Trust me.”
*************
Sebastian sat as his desk and wondered again what the fuck was going on. He’d opened up a can of worms with this whim of Patrick’s and now they were all over the kitchen. He called his old friend Roger who he knew was smoking outside again as he could smell the cigarette smoke drifting through the window, a minute later the man was in his office.
He said, “Did you hear about today?” He had, the man was at the top of his game and he had his spies everywhere. He even knew that Rock Mason did the same on pretty much every show and had budgeted for it accordingly. He said, “It’s all cool. He’s back now on the set. Dan’s there too with Adalia.”
“Oh?” said Sebastian who was just going to pull the plug for real and take a week off while the movie people left the offices. He asked, “How do you deal with these people, I have enough trouble with Mazzi and supermodels but I feel that man takes it to another level?”
Roger looked at Sebastian and smiled, he was an old dog in an ever-changing world, much the same as Sebastian—except Sebastian was rich. He said, “If I stepped into your shoes for a bit then I’m sure it wouldn’t be a whole lot different, except the shelf life is a lot shorter with the people you deal with. For me, the older they get, the easier or harder they become, but mostly they discover if they act stupid they get left behind.”
“What about this guy then?” Sebastian asked as he habitually looked for Fluffy, who wasn’t there any more.
“Rock Mason is an exception as he still brings people in, that’s all—bums on seats, minutes watched on Netflix, you know the score. Put up with the prick for a few weeks and in the long run you’ll make money.”
But for Sebastian money was no longer a necessity, he already had it—what he didn’t need was a mouthy prick who had none himself calling him an asshole. Then before he could tell his old friend who used to cry at Alan’s jokes that he was thinking of shutting the show down altogether for real, his phone rang and it was Suzy, and from what Sebastian could tell she was crying.
They met at their usual spot on the park bench which looked out across the inlet with its view of the eastern part of Stanley Park and the float planes that came and went for as long as the sun was in the sky.
Suzy wearing tight jeans and a tight white blouse hugging her big melons, which made Sebastian wonder if they were heavy and hurt her lower back. The woman sitting there next to Sebastian asking about his eye with her legs crossed in her high heels, no longer crying but still upset about what had happened and how embarrassed and sorry she was that her husband had lost his temper and thrown Sebastian’s driver through the window.
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for us Seb, I really do,” she carried on saying as she looked at the water and leaned away, scratching her long red nails at something that was itching her right calf muscle under her jeans.
Us?—Sebastian thought, you more like, and your kids, in a round about way—even if their judgement of right or wrong was in dispute at th
e moment. He looked to the woman’s ankles as she lifted her leg up to itch it again, stretching out her leg unconsciously, pointing the toe of her slim leopard skin shoe with its thin six-inch heel. Sebastian wondering as he watched how it could hold the weight of a woman who was around 120 pounds. Sexy shoes on a sexy woman, and from the looks she was getting from the men who passed by, there was no doubt in that.
“It’s just that Malcolm, he’s been so upset about it, now he’s blaming me saying it was my fault. He’s saying your truck driver was only there because he was looking for me, and he said I needed to start growing up and stop dressing like a slut now that I can’t work my real job anymore. He’s blaming me Seb, he’s saying it was my fault I’ve got this bag, saying I entice men, that I’m oversexed and that I made him bring guys over—he said he only did it because he knew it turned me on seeing him watching me doing it with other guys. But it was the other way round, Seb I’m telling you, I could see it in his eyes, that’s why he bought the video camera.”
“Oh!”
“He’d do that Seb, and now since I can’t do it anymore I’m sure he’s been putting it online. I mean—don’t you think that says it all?”
It did in Sebastian’s mind. The man was a kinky fucker, no doubt—but who was he to talk, he thought? After all, how many times in the eighties had he gotten off watching Alan double fist a couple of cocks into his mouth? From what he’d seen, lust took you to some strange places. He said, “We’ve all done things dear.”
Suzy sat back on the wooden park bench dedicated to a woman who had given her entire life to only one man. “Now he’s saying I can’t earn the money I used to earn stripping because I’m the one who wanted him to watch me. But I’m telling you it wasn’t that way, I didn’t even like it most of the time he’d ask me to do it. We could have spent time with the kids instead, you know? Why would I want guys at home fucking me after what I had to put up with at work, with them gawping at me and pawing me when I was giving out those dances and all, you’d have thought he’d have understood?”