by Rick Detorie
Meanwhile, Sam was yelling at somebody on the phone and acting all mad. Then he slammed it down on the seat and said, “Those stupid kids have screwed up everything!”
It turns out that Sam is a director of TV commercials and he was about to begin work on one, but two of his teenage actors bailed on him to go to a skate competition in Ohio. So now he needed two young actors to be in a commercial he was shooting for a donut place.
“How about these two?” said Ivan, meaning me and Dalton.
Sam twisted around and looked at us. “Do either of you dudes know how to use a skateboard?” he asked.
“Well, yeah,” I said, rolling up my pant leg to show him the scar on my knee that I got when I hit a crack in the pavement and skidded facedown thirty feet across the parking lot of Downy Woods Middle School.
He explained that the commercial was for Farkus Family Donuts, that he could only pay us $100 each, that we’d need written approval from a parent or legal guardian, and that the shoot was nine o’clock Saturday morning at a place downtown. I got Sam’s business card and wrote down a whole bunch of other stuff he told us.
After they dropped me off at the bus stop, I walked the rest of the way home, and I kept thinking that this was some kind of a dream. Yesterday I was just a nobody, and two days from now, I could maybe be starring in a TV commercial.
I imagined myself going from this commercial to more commercials, then a TV show, then feature films. Once I became a big movie star, I’ll have it written into my contract that I get to direct the movies they want me to star in, and even produce them. By the time I’m nineteen, I could be the most powerful person in all of show business!
Awesome.
When I got home and told my dad about the donut commercial, he didn’t seem all that impressed. He said he’d have to speak to this Sam guy, so I gave him all the information, and he went into the other room to call Sam.
Kelly just sat there and didn’t say a word. I could tell she was jealous that I was going to be a big TV star.
“Maybe I could ask the director if there’s a part in the commercial for you,” I told her. “I imagine there are trolls who eat donuts.”
When my mom, who was just getting home from work, walked in the room, Kelly jumped up and said, “Mom, Larkin was hitchhiking today and got a ride with a deranged maniac who wants to put him in a sleazy movie!”
“Oh, Larkin,” my mom said, sounding all disappointed, “you were hitchhiking?”
“No,” I said, but before I could explain what really happened, my dad came in and said, “It seems to be on the level. I spoke to the director and checked out his Web site, and although he’s strictly local and low-budget, his work does have some merit.”
Then my dad said some of the greatest words I’ve ever heard. “Larkin,” he said, “I’ll accompany you to the shoot on Saturday.”
“That is so typical of the way things work around here,” said Kelly. “Larkin always gets whatever Larkin wants, and it’s not fair! What about me? What about my needs?”
“What needs are you talking about?” asked my mom.
“Well, after going through this entire ordeal,” she said, “at the very least, I think I deserve a new leather jacket.”
And the sad thing is, she meant it.
SHOOT!
I made my dad get to the studio where they were shooting the donut commercial an hour early, just to make sure we weren’t late.
Nobody was in the studio except a guy with a ponytail who told us the crew was shooting another segment of the commercial about two blocks away and they’d be here shortly.
“That means they’re on location,” I told my dad.
Soon Dalton and his dad, Jack Cooke, arrived, followed by Sam the Director, his crew, and an old man with a cane. Everybody introduced themselves, and a girl with a clipboard gave my dad and Dalton’s dad a bunch of papers to sign.
Director Sam showed me and Dalton the set and explained that the scene was supposed to be taking place at a skate park. We would be performing in front of a green screen, but on TV it would look like there were skaters zipping around behind us.
I had about a million questions, like where were our scripts, and what about wardrobe, makeup, and hair, and did he want me to get my own personal skateboard out of the car?
He said that there was no budget for hair or makeup, he would be providing the wardrobe and props, and because we only had one line, there was no need for a script.
He described the scene for us. Dalton would be sitting on a park bench, about to unwrap a granola bar, but he has second thoughts and says, “Why would I want a dried-up old granola bar?” He tosses it over his shoulder, and I catch it as I ride by on my skateboard, and Dalton continues: “… when I can have a delicious Farkus Family Donut?” Dalton next takes a big bite out of a donut he pulls from the bag on his lap, and he goes, “Mmmm …”
“When do I say my line?” I asked Director Sam.
“You don’t have a line,” he said. “You just skate by, catch the granola bar, and skate off.”
This was kind of disappointing and not how I thought it would be. How was I going to be discovered if I didn’t have any lines?
“Denise!” Sam yelled. “Get the board, the helmet, and the shorts for…?” He looked at me like he’d forgotten my name.
“Larkin,” I said.
“For Larky here,” he said.
Larky?!
A crabby-looking woman handed me a helmet and shorts and said, “Put these on.”
“Where’s the dressing room?” I asked.
“Dressing room?” she said. “Get real. You can go put them on behind that crate.”
I ducked behind the crate, pulled off my pants, and put on the shorts and helmet. I returned to Sam and said, “Excuse me, but aren’t these shorts kind of big?”
He looked at them and yelled, “Denise, what’s with these shorts? I’ve seen smaller circus tents.”
“Well, when you told me to get a small,” she yelled back, “I didn’t know you meant a boy’s small! How was I supposed to know he was so tiny?” She looked at me like it’s my fault I’m short.
Thanks a lot, Denise, I thought. Yours is one more name I can add to my Least Favorite People List. I’ll move you right up to the top, above Dalton and Kelly.
Director Sam had us do two run-throughs—you know, rehearsals—and everything went fine.
Then we started rolling, and on the first take I sort of missed catching the granola bar because Dalton threw it too hard. On the second, third, and fourth takes, Dalton messed up his line.
I could see his dad pacing back and forth behind the camera.
On the fifth take, as I skated out, my shorts fell down, tripping me up. What made it even worse was I was wearing my X-Men underpants, and everybody saw them. Well, hey, when I put them on that morning, how was I supposed to know they were going to wind up on TV?
On the next take, Dalton threw the granola bar so hard it ricocheted off my helmet and smacked him on the back of the head.
On the one after that, we got it right until the very end, when Dalton reached into the bag and came up empty-handed. He’d eaten all of the donuts.
During the break, when they were refilling the bag, Dalton’s dad got right in Dalton’s face and talked to him like a boxing manager talks to his fighter, but instead of saying stuff like: “Come on, you can do this! I know you got it in you! Get in there and prove it!” his dad was telling him he was an idiot and a loser and using some pretty serious cuss words.
Then Sam pulled Dalton’s dad aside and told him to “take it easy, man.”
I was feeling kind of bad for Dalton and went over and told him there was a bottle of water under the bench if he was thirsty. He reached under, saw the bucket, and said, “What’s this for?”
“That’s where you’re supposed to spit out the donuts,” I said. “Didn’t you read the instructions? You weren’t supposed to eat anything before you came here this morning, and you�
�re not supposed to swallow the donuts.”
Dalton said something I’m not allowed to repeat, and we did the next take.
Dalton blew his line again, but this time his father went ballistic, yelling and cussing at Dalton in front of everybody. Sam told Dalton’s dad to put a lid on it, and the old man with the cane (who I found out later was Theo Farkus, the president of Farkus Family Donuts), started swinging his cane around and knocked over a lamp.
Then everybody started yelling, except my dad, who calmly walked up and put his arm on Mr. Cooke’s shoulder. Dalton’s dad turned and took a swing at my dad, who quickly blocked the punch with his arm like he was a ninja warrior or something.
It was awesome.
My dad led Dalton’s father over to the corner, where they talked quietly for a while. Then my dad said they were going to take a little walk, and the two of them left.
Things settled down and we did another take. It all went perfectly until the very end, when Dalton shoved the donut into his mouth. He stopped. His face turned kind of green, and about a dozen Farkus Family Donuts erupted from his stomach out his mouth and into the bucket under the bench.
“Okay, that’s a wrap,” said Sam.
“But we didn’t get one right,” I said.
“There were a couple of halfway decent takes that I can edit together to make one that will work,” he said.
A girl dressed as a ballerina and an older lady were standing by, ready to film the next segment of the commercial.
I put on my pants and went outside. Dalton was in the car with his dad, who pealed out like he was in Gone in Sixty Seconds and roared down the street.
On the ride home my dad and I didn’t say anything until we got onto the highway. Then I said, “Dalton’s father is a real jerk, isn’t he?”
“I haven’t heard that much cursing,” said my dad, “since your grandmother found out Guiding Light had been cancelled.”
“Dad,” I said, “where did you learn to fight like that?”
“I didn’t hit anybody!” he said.
“No, but you got all ninja warrior on Mr. Cooke when he tried to hit you,” I said.
“Ah, that’s just one of the many defensive maneuvers I learned while studying under the esteemed ninja masters in Japan,” he said.
“No! For real?” I asked.
But it wasn’t.
RAINY DAY BLUES
It had been raining for the past two days.
My mom and dad were out someplace, and the only one in the house besides me was Kelly.
I felt trapped. I couldn’t ride my bike anywhere because of the rain and mud. And even if I could go someplace, like the mall, to see a movie or get something to eat, I’d have to spend money that I don’t have because I’m saving every penny for that camcorder.
If I were an adult, I wouldn’t have these problems. I could just get in my car and drive anyplace, even to the airport to get on a plane and fly someplace where it wasn’t raining. When I got there, I could rent a car and drive to the beach and buy a hat and rent a Jet Ski and later go parasailing, then spend the night in a nice hotel that had a TV with four hundred channels and a mini-bar with twenty different kinds of candy bars.
So that’s one more thing I want to add to my Ten Things I Hate about Being 14 List: I hate being fourteen. It’s like my life is one big hostage situation, and I’m the hostage.
That sounds like something Kelly might say.
I was so bored that I decided to check in on Kelly and ask her if she wanted to watch a movie or bake cookies with me or something.
Her bedroom door was open, and she was on the phone. I heard her say, “I love that sort of thing! It’s so romantic, even if it is on one of those phony reality shows.”
She sounded like she was in a good mood, so I knocked and said, “Kelly?”
She whipped around and barked, “WHAT?!”
Suddenly, her mood wasn’t looking so good anymore.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, “I was wondering if you wanted to bake some cookies …?”
“Bake some cookies?” she yelled. “Are you insane? Get out of here!”
Then she turned back to the phone and said, “Sorry, it’s my stupid little brother. He wants me to bake him some cookies. Yeah, like I’m his personal chef!”
I decided not to bother explaining what I really meant to say.
As I walked back down the hall, I heard her say: “You wouldn’t believe what I have to put up with around here, especially with him. It’s like I’m tumbling down an endless waterslide of adolescent drivel and negative energy!”
Splash.
THE REVIEWS ARE IN
The Farkus Family Donuts commercial that I worked on was scheduled to make its debut during the six o’clock news.
My mom had called Director Sam’s studio, and the girl who answered the phone said that it was going to be shown in the first batch of commercials at the top of the hour.
My mom had prepared dinner (my favorite, baked lasagna), and we were going to be eating it in the dining room with the good dishes, because this was a special occasion.
In addition to the four of us, Freddie and his mom were there, and Miss Sadie, who was all dressed up like it was a big movie premiere or something. She even had on this big flower (a “corsage” my mom called it), which was fake, but Miss Sadie had sprayed perfume on it to make it smell real, except the perfume smelled like that stuff you squirt into the toilet to kill the stank.
I was real pumped because I knew that even if I didn’t get a movie contract out of this commercial, at least I’d be the only person in my family to ever be on TV regularly—you know, the same commercial repeating over and over again until everybody’s sick to death of it.
My mom was once on the TV news complaining about the airport, but that was only one time, and for only about seven seconds, so it doesn’t count.
By six o’clock we were in front of the TV.
“This is so exciting,” said Mrs. Schnase. “It reminds me of the time your father was on Bowling for Bucks. Do you remember that, Freddie?”
“Mom,” said Freddie, “I wasn’t even born yet when Dad was on Bowling for Bucks.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said his mom.
“Diana,” said Miss Sadie, “is there any garlic in that lasagna? Because, I don’t know if I told you, but garlic gives me the indigestion.”
“No garlic, Mrs. Grubnik,” said my mom.
“We should have eaten before watching this,” said Kelly, “because I’m afraid after I see Larkin on TV, I’ll lose my appetite.”
“Shh, everybody,” I said, “the news is starting!”
We watched the news in silence, but I was so nervous that I didn’t hear a word the news people were saying.
Then the news guy said, “Up next: those beautiful yet deadly flowers in your garden, and what you should know about them.”
What followed was a commercial for car insurance.
I was holding my breath the whole time.
Then that lady and the ballet girl I’d seen at the studio appeared.
“THIS IS IT!” I shouted.
Then a mom at a breakfast table snatched a banana out of a boy’s hand and said, “Who needs a fresh banana when you can have a Farkus Family Donut?”
Next were two police officers in a patrol car. The female officer snatched the donut out of her partner’s hand and said: “Why have just any donut, when you can have a Farkus Family Donut?”
That was followed by a picture of a bunch of donuts, and a voice said, “Farkus Family Donuts now available at all Crestline Markets, Pepe’s, and Super Fast Stores.”
Then there was a fat guy talking about a mattress sale.
“Where were you, Larkin?” asked Freddie’s mom. “I didn’t see you in the commercial.”
“Maybe he was in the back of the cop car,” snickered Kelly, “in handcuffs.”
“That’s enough, Kelly,” said my mom.
I couldn’t say anything because I d
idn’t know what to say.
“How about garlic powder?” asked Miss Sadie. “That upsets my stomach, too.”
“There’s no garlic of any kind in the lasagna,” said my mom.
Finally, I said, “Maybe they made two commercials, and they’re going to show the one I’m in later.”
“That’s unlikely, son,” said my dad, “but we’re recording the entire news hour, so if there is a second commercial, we’ll have it.” “You mean they might have made another donut commercial? A cheesier one than that one?” said Kelly.
“What probably happened,” said my dad, “is the director decided not to use the footage of you and Dalton.”
“But we got paid for it, right?” I asked.
“Yes, and you can keep the money,” he said, “but, Larkin, you know that directors edit out scenes all the time.”
“Well, it ought to be against the law,” I said, and I meant it.
“How about we all move into the dining room and have dinner?” said my mom.
“I’m not hungry,” I said. “I don’t feel so good.”
Then I went up to my room and threw myself on my bed.
I decided that I hated Sam the Director and everyone who worked for him. I also hated everybody in my entire family, especially Kelly, and everybody at school. I also decided I hated every single person I’d ever met in my entire life.
I thought about it for a while, and decided I also hated people that I’d never met, famous successful people who made movies and were all somehow responsible for this terrible thing that had happened to me.
Oh, yeah, and Dalton Cooke.
I had almost forgotten about him.
Then I realized that Dalton was probably going through the exact same thing as me. He and his stupid family were probably still sitting in front of the TV waiting for Dalton’s moronic face to appear. And it had to be a lot worse for Dalton, because he’d spent the past two weeks telling everybody that he was going to be a big TV star. He’d told a lot more people than I did, and he’d even posted signs on the school bulletin boards and announced it over the P.A. system.