The Jerk Who Saved Me: A Romantic Comedy

by Ellie Rowe

“Gun?” the fisherman shouts. He and his two mates react, ready for a fight. The pirates flinch. Instead of taking the heat off Veronica, I’ve nearly started a bloodbath.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” I call out, raising my hands to everyone. I smile wide to the fisherman, flashing him as many of my whitened teeth as I can. “They’re not real guns.” The fishermen loosen up a little. “Just props that fire blanks. Nothing to fear.” I look at the tense pirates. “Relax, guys, we’re holding.”

  I shoot Green Scarf a meaningful stare. He lowers the gun he had trained on Veronica. That’s a start.

  “What the hell is all this?” the fishing captain demands.

  “Welcome to the picture, matey,” I say as jauntily as I can. I shake his hand.

  “Whatcha mean ‘picture’?” he asks.

  “We’re shooting a movie. Directed by moi.” I let him give me a long look. I am a little more tanned and unshaven than normal, but…

  “Holy shit, you’re Hank Wilder!”

  There we go.

  “Guilty as charged,” I say. Quickly, the other fishermen gather round. I shake all their hands. I notice Veronica’s eye roll from all the way across the boat. Sue me for being famous.

  The captain introduces himself as Quinn, then quickly interjects, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. You say you’re shootin’ a movie?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where’re the cameras?”

  “Quinn, pal, it’s the twenty-first century! There’s cameras all over.” I gesture around the yacht at the ‘hidden cameras’ that aren’t hidden. “Little digital ones, all over. Built into the mast, the bar, the railing.” I wave at the railing like an idiot, pretending there’s a camera there. Quinn reluctantly does the same. Good. He’s biting.

  “But the lady sent out an SOS, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. We’re going cinema verité,” I say. Then, seeing he doesn’t get it, “Reality-style. We wanted to get an honest-to-god bunch of sailors coming to the rescue. I wanted authenticity. Real sailors like yourselves, not a punch of sissy actors, y’know?”

  “So… her SOS was just…?”

  “Acting,” I finish for him.

  “I’ll be.” Then he calls out to Veronica again. “You’re a darn good actress, lass! Had me fooled!”

  “Oh,” Veronica calls back flatly. “Thanks.”

  “She famous, too?” Quinn asks.

  “Not yet.”

  “Gonna say. Little old to be a movie star.”

  I swallow my guffaw. Instead, I say. “OK. I guess the last thing we need is for you to sign your waivers and be off.”

  “Waivers?”

  “Agreeing to be in the film,” I smile. The fishermen light up. Everyone wants to be a damn star. If they only knew. But since that might be what gets us out of here…

  I whistle at Scar. “Gimme the waivers.” Scar stares stupidly at me. “You have the waivers, don’t you?”

  Another stupid look. Then he looks at Green Scarf. Back at me. Improv is obviously not his forte. “I do not have the waivers,” he says.

  I can work with that.

  “Fucking dammit!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I stomp on the deck. The outburst takes everyone by surprise. I storm over to Scar and grab his shirt collar. He wants to fight back, but out of the corner of my eye I see Green Scarf gesture for him to be cool. Smart.

  “You moron!” I shout in Scar’s face. “How many times have I told you to bring the waivers? These guys were doing great work and now it’s all for nothing.”

  I let Scar go, enjoying the stunned look on his face. He actually apologizes! “Sorry.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it, schmuck.” I turn on the Kid. March across the yacht to him, shouting, “And you! Are you gonna tell me the camera angles were all screwed up? Huh? Huh?” He doesn’t answer, so I slap him on the back of the head. He looks suitably apologetic.

  Now for my piece de resistance. I grab Green Scarf by the elbow. I march him over to Quinn while shouting at him, “What kind of crew did you put together for me, huh? I told you how important this movie was, didn’t I? Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You – you did,” Green Scarf stammers.

  “Damn right I did. And yet you get me this sorry bunch of losers? You really shat the bed, my friend.” We stand in front of Quinn. I bark at Green Scarf, “Apologize to the man.”

  “I… I am sorry,” Green Scarf mutters.

  “Tell him you’re sorry to have wasted his time but you’re just an idiot who doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”

  Green Scarf glares at me the whole time he repeats it, then flashes a smile at Quinn. Good boy. He starts to step away, but I grab his elbow again. He’s not going anywhere. I’m mining this thing for all it’s worth.

  “Look at this guy,” I say to Quinn. “Cast himself as the Captain of the pirates who hijacked this ship.”

  “Oh. Uh. Congratulations,” Quinn offers.

  “Don’t congratulate him. Look at him. Does he look like a convincing pirate captain to you?”

  “Well… he’s a little scrawny.”

  “He is a little scrawny, Quinn, isn’t he?”

  “Short.”

  “Even for a movie actor. Agreed.”

  “The scarf’s kinda stupid-looking.”

  I slap the pirate captain across the arm three times. “I told you the scarf was stupid.” I take it off him and throw it on the deck. Then I stomp on it several times. Then I spit on it.

  Look, it’s very likely that I’m gonna get shit-kicked for this display. It’s totally worth it.

  Finally, I let out one very big sigh. To Quinn and his boys I say, “You guys, I’m sorry. If there’s footage we can salvage, we’ll be in touch. Right now, we’ve got to set up for another scene. How about we all get some pictures together as a consolation prize, then you can be on your way?”

  Quinn and the fisherman are more than pleased to take some photos with me. As I pose with them all, I try to think of a way to secretly alert them to the danger Veronica and I are in. Green Scarf, meanwhile, stands with Veronica. He makes sure I see his gun digging into her ribs again. So I do nothing except bid Quinn and his men farewell.

  I want out of this mess. There’s just no way in hell I’m risking Veronica’s life to do it.

  Twenty-Seven

  Veronica

  If I thought life under the protection of creepy Captain Nemo and the ‘nice boys’ was too much, this certainly took the cake. Any special treatment Hank had scored us from previous schmoozing was nowhere to be found. No more nice food, barely any water and the threat of big brother lay just outside the door 24/7.

  I can hardly pee in peace without someone smashing the door in and thinking I’m drilling a hole out to sea. With what you morons, my nail file? The staple from Hank’s script? I want to shout this isn’t a fucking movie! But for all intents and purposes we really were stuck in the world’s shittiest adventure flick.

  And I wasn’t even the leading lady. Too old. Hank’s older than I am for chrissake! We’re back to before. Putting as much distance between ourselves in the tiny cabin as humanly possible which is not saying much. I could reach out and slap him from any point in the room. As a matter of fact, that’s not such a bad idea.

  “What’s the matter with you?” I grumble.

  “Oh Christ, what now?” Hank looks up from his light reading to give me a withering look.

  “What now…” I scoff, folding my arms across my chest, while also allowing the motion to push my breasts up. I’m willing to play dirty here. Anything to hurt him. He glances down at my lifted cleavage and I turn away as a reminder he will not be groping his way out of this one.

  He frowns and opens his arms in a pleading motion. He looks like an old Italian mobster dealing with his eyeroll of a golddigger. It pisses me off.

  “We could have been rescued by Captain Ahah who, might I remind you, showed up because of my SOS call you said was stupid!” I’m spitting mad now. Not only was that our chance
to escape, that was my chance to even the score. For me to get us out of here.

  “Instead you’re out there glad handing everyone, overdoing it if I may add, adding insult to injury only pissing people off and for what?!” Hank stands up in a passion. It’s not threatening, if anything it makes me want to turn back to him. To direct that passion elsewhere. But I hold my ground.

  “Lookey here Veronica, I’m not willing to do anything if it’s gonna get you shot. You got that?” There’s a real hurt in his eyes. His throat got tight at the end, like he had a hard time saying the word ‘shot’. But that Hank Wilder he’s a famous actor! Even Ahab recognized him! I’m not buying it.

  “If you had just done something, anything! Everything would have worked out! I’m sure of it. There’s no way Green Scarf was gonna shoot me in front of all those people!” Hank’s expression changes for a minute.

  “Wait, you call him Green Scarf, too?” It’s my turn to look incredulous.

  “Yeah. I mean it’s obvious isn’t it?” Hank nods then shrugs.

  “Fair enough. But you don’t know what his intentions are Veronica, he’s mad as hell we took his boat—”

  “Oh for the love of God enough about that fucking BOAT!” I stand up and push past him to retreat to the bathroom. I hear him say something to me, something pleading and annoyed all at the same time but I slam the door shut with all my might. Wouldn’t you know it. It finally closes.

  Hank starts to turn the handle but I lunge for the lock and shut myself in. Not my most mature moment. Certainly not my most “self-assured”. God what am I doing? I sit down on the toilet lid and bring my knees close to my chest.

  Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. I hear a gentle knock at the door. Hank sighs loudly and I can only imagine him pressed up against it, his forearm on the door, his forehead pressed into his arm. If this really were a movie, he’d say something sweet. He’d beg me to come out. To talk to him. He’d apologize.

  And stupid movie me, I’d wipe my tears and unfurl my legs. I’d timidly (it’s a movie) walk to the door and slowly unclick the lock. When I turn the knob and open it, his face will be a whisper away from mine. And movie me, although I’d been pouting and crying would look wildly attractive. And we’d…well you know the rest.

  But this is a Hank Wilder’s movie isn’t it? I wouldn’t make the cut to be cast as my own goddamn self. They’d probably hire one of those golden goddesses from the yacht party, you know, the ones that are at least 10 years younger than me. The thought boils me up even though I have quite literally concocted it in my head.

  There’s the gentle knock at the door. That’s real though, isn’t it? The real deal honest to God Hank Wilder is out there knocking politely on his own bathroom door and I’m in here pouting like a petulant 8-year-old kid. I wipe my eyes on my sleeve and stand up to look in the mirror.

  Yikes. My sandy blonde hair looks like it’s seen a war. In a lot of ways, it has. I’m not sure I could get a comb through it without losing half the hair on my head. Not exactly the movie star look Hank probably goes for. Could I even blame them if they cast me younger?

  The knocking is so loud it makes me jump. What the hell? What happened to my gentleman caller? Another bang and some shouts alert me to the fact that there’s some sort of scuffle going on in our little matchbox room.

  I fling open the door, ready to help. The first thing I see is the door kicked in, there’s two men holding a very angry looking Hank and before I can say “what the fuck” one of them has got me by the wrist, hard. They drag me out of the bathroom, ignoring my stream of eloquent profanities.

  “You alright?” Hank asks me as they push us through the door. What is it with this man?

  “Fine.” I mutter as one of the cronies shoves his barrel against my spine. God, I hated that. It unlocked something visceral inside me. Like an animal being poked in a cage. One of these days I’m gonna shove that barrel so far up his ass—

  I’m thrown so hard up the stairs I almost trip and fall but Hank grabs me at the last second. It feels remarkably good to have his arm under mine, if only for a moment.

  “Move.” The crony shouts behind us and we scuttle up the steps to avoid any more trouble. Having been tossed up on deck, we get our first look at our destination. Holy fuck.

  We’re headed to Garbage Island.

  No, I don’t know that it’s been coined that. I can’t say for certain that some scholarly gentleman with a map would point to this spot and say indeed madame that is in fact ‘Garbage Island’ but there’s no other word to describe it.

  The first thing that hits is the smell, it’s faint above the salty breeze but it’s fucking there. It makes me want to hurl. It's like piss and dead animal and moldy peaches. Fuck I’ve got to stop describing it before I really do vomit.

  It’s sprawling, which might be a nice change of pace if it wasn’t absolutely filthy and crawling with pirates. Even larger shapes are clamoring around the place, loading what looks like more trash and rotted chests across the coastline.

  The hustle and bustle make it look unreal. Like we’ve stopped off at a theme park. A garbagey, smelly, revolting, terrifying theme park. Which isn’t terribly far off come to think of it. But I can’t imagine any of these lot bursting into song and looking to share some good pirate cheer.

  No. There’s no way there’ll be a friend for us here. No kindly Captain Ahab to take pity on us and sneak us off in the middle of the night. No this is not one of those places. It’s quite possible Hank may not even be recognized.

  I’m not sure which is worse. The power of anonymity or the power to use your star factor to throw your weight around. The smell gets worse and I can’t help but put my hand up to my face. I look up to Hank for some sort of sign, or comfort, or I don’t fucking know.

  His face is stone. I want to believe it’s because he’s got a great idea and just doesn’t want to blow it in front of this lot, but the sickly feeling in my stomach tells me that’s not the case. Oh god here comes the nausea again.

  Maybe if I get off this ship and vomit all over the pirates, they won’t want me. The thought sends a chill down my spine. Hank took on a boatload of men to save me. But what will I do if things turn ugly on this god forsaken Garbage Island?

  This is bad. This is really bad.

  Twenty-Eight

  Hank

  The minute we step onto the island my designer boat shoes are ruined. I realize that’s not the sort of thing I should be worrying about right now. But focusing on that saves me a few moments from dealing with the reality of our situation. Also, the place really is absolutely, fucking disgusting. Like all the worst parts of Staten Island times ten.

  Same description applies to the island’s inhabitants. As we’re forced off the yacht onto the muddy, rubbish-y, heaping stink that is our captors’ ‘home’, I try to count how many pirates we’re up against. The answer is: too many. More than I could count on all my fingers and toes. It’s like a goddamn bottom-shelf pirate convention.

  I’ve got no plan to get us out of this one. Veronica’s gone pale and I have an urge to try and comfort her. “The first few minutes back on land are always the strangest, aren’t they?” I say nonchalantly, shaking out my legs. “I mean, you hear about ‘sea legs’, but until you’ve really experienced it…”

  She gives me a look that would make a rottweiler whimper. Fine. She wants to stay angry at me, let her stay fucking angry at me. We’re probably about to die, anyway. She wants to go out holding a grudge, that’s on her.

  Green Scarf calls out, gets the attention of the bunch of inbreds milling around. They pause in their work. “Everyone! Everyone! We have hostages!”

  There is some unimpressed murmuring from the pirates. “Not again…” I hear.

  Another calls out mockingly, “Last hostages you took barely netted us enough ransom money to pay for the gas to do the exchange!”

  Doesn’t surprise me that these guys don’t respect our captors. I mean, how many times did
we bullshit them and nearly escape? We’d have probably gotten away in that motorboat, if not for the distraction of our lovemaking…

  Green Scarf struggles to keep his cool in the face of the taunts. “That was not my fault! They lied about who they were and how much money they would be worth!” The grunts from the crowd tell me his cohorts are not convinced. Green Scarf recovers, shouting, “But this time, we are guaranteed to receive a huge payday!”

  “Who you got?” comes a taunting reply. “Jesus?”

  Amid laughter, the other pirates call out their sarcastic guesses:

  “The U.S.President!”

  “Elvis!”

  “Big Foot!”

  Green Scarf’s fuming. He elbows me in the ribs. “Tell them who you are.”

  “Go to hell.”

  For that, I receive a hard jab into my kidney. I grunt, stumbling forward.

  “He will tell you his name!” Green Scarf announces.

  “Hi, fellas,” I say through the pain. “Uh… Some of you may have heard of me. My name is Hank Wilder.”

  There’s a pause. Then several of the pirates start to cheer. There is an impressive conversation. A few of them shout the titles of some of my bigger films.

  I smile, because it’s always nice to be recognized. Then I quickly remember who it is who’s recognized me. Also, that the recognition means I’m going to be ransomed. Before which, I’ll probably have some fingers and toes cut off to be sent to my agent or somebody as proof. I stop smiling.

  “And! And!” Green Scarf waves his arms to quiet my adoring ‘fans’. “This is Veronica Swift, famous adventurer and travel writer!” He brings her forward.

  The crowd is decidedly less excited over that one. Actually, they’re stone cold silent. There’s an exchange of confused glances.

  Veronica glares at me.

  “It’s not my fault they don’t know who you are,” I whisper to her. “Probably hard to get a subscription delivered out here.”

  “Oh, but the local multiplex is doing a Hank Wilder marathon.”