Death of a Movie Star

by Timothy Patrick

  Micah said, “OK, thank you, Cassandra Moreaux, for reading the phone book to us. The whole world is now truly inspired. Hopefully, Walter will be able to choke back the tears long enough to give us your score. Walter?”

  The cameras focused on Walter. He looked different. For some reason the grumbling drudgery had suddenly ceased. He now stood at attention and appeared agitated. His white knuckles shook as they choked the life out of the mop handle. Then they released their grip, and the mop fell to the floor with a loud bang. He looked at Cass with piercing eyes and said, “Listen, young lady, I got something to tell you. You got a lot of things most of us can’t never even dream about, and maybe you deserve them, but that don’t mean you can take what don’t belong to you. You dance, and you sing, and you pretend. And we pay money to see you do it. And we work hard for that money. Harder than you’ll ever know, and I don’t care if you put in eighteen-hour days or twenty-four-hour days. It don’t compare. I hated your speech because you tried to take what don’t belong to you. One Budweiser, and I’m done with this shit.” And then he walked away, exiting through a swinging door by the bar counter.

  Both Steadicams immediately surrounded Cass. She held up her head and looked straight ahead but could feel the other actors staring at her. Micah stared at her. Her emotions had been raw all night, and she finally broke. She said, “Really? I said I worked hard, so he storms out. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t exactly sound like the crime of the century!”

  Nobody said a word. The cameras zoomed ever closer, hoping to capture any little nuance of guilt, begging for a full-blown meltdown. After a few seconds, in a quiet, hesitant voice, Micah said, “Cass, when a person gets paid millions of dollars for a two-month job, most people aren’t going to be interested in hearing about how difficult the work was. But you’re right, there is no crime here. You made an innocent statement that someone, for some reason, didn’t want to hear. Nothing more than that.” He then disconnected his body mic and said, “That’s it for me, guys. Let’s do the rest back at the ranch.” He looked sad.

  On the drive back, Cass tried to let it go. She told herself that she had done nothing but hit a sore spot on a man who was probably excessively prickly. The real blame belonged to StarBash, but, of course, they didn’t care. Their exploitation bullshit had boiled over, and the cameras had scooped it up, just the way they had planned. And then Cass got an idea. She’d turn the tables on those shitheads and give them something really special to scoop up, and she’d give it to them Hollywood style. She unbuckled her seatbelt, stood up in the aisle, and yelled, “Stop the van!”

  ***

  Micah got a call from the first AD, who had hitched a ride in one of the production trucks. She said, “Uh…Micah…I think we have a problem. Cass Moreaux jumped out of the actors’ van and looks like she’s heading back to the bar.”

  Micah, who’d been the director for that night’s segment, said, “OK…get a camera on her and trail her…and make sure she stays safe. I’ll get everyone turned around.”

  Micah and the lighting truck that carried him caught up with Cass about a half mile from the bar. She walked quickly and had a dozen strangers following along. At first this alarmed Micah—Cass had chosen to pull this stunt late at night and on the bad side of town—but then he watched her dart into a twenty-four-hour gasoline mini-mart and come out with six more people who seemed to happily follow along. Over the next several blocks, and after quick forays into another gas station, a taco stand, and a twenty-four-hour veterinary clinic, she steadily added to the group so that by the time she pushed into Joe’s Jingletown, Cass had rounded up a party of thirty or forty people.

  “Does anyone have a knife?” Those comforting words greeted Micah when he reentered the bar. Cass had said them, and she now stood onstage with the old guitar in her hands. The Steadicams had the scene covered, and the rest of the crew had everything under control, so Micah relaxed against the back wall with the rest of the actors.

  One of Cass’s posse, who had taken seats at the bar and around the tables, stood up and whipped out a large hunting knife.

  “Mister, I said a knife, not a machete,” said Cass.

  “Ah…this ain’t nothin’. You should see my other one,” said the knife wielder.

  The crowd laughed. Cass said, “No thanks. That will do. Come up here and cut open my dress.”

  The crowd hooted. The man came up onstage, and Cass showed him where to cut a slit in her evening gown. He smiled deviously for the crowd and obliged. Then she pushed him off the stage. Now Cass had some room to move. She put one foot up on the seat of a chair and straddled the guitar on her knee. She also exposed a portion of leg in the process. The crowd hooted some more. Shortly after this, the alternate judges at the bar abandoned their pledge of stoicism and turned around to watch the action. Walter, the prickly bartender, watched suspiciously as he scurried back and forth with foamy glasses of beer and shots of whiskey.

  Cass calmly tuned the guitar and chatted with the audience.

  She said, “What do you call a debutante with a broken nail? Depressed.”

  The crowd offered up some groans and a few laughs.

  “What do you call a debutante with five broken nails and a black eye? A prostitute.”

  More groans and laughs.

  “What do you call a debutante with ten broken nails? A car payment for Trang Nguyen.”

  That one got mostly laughs.

  “Hey, did you hear about the cowboy who rode his horse into the saloon?

  “The bartender said, ‘Get that damn horse outta here.’

  “The cowboy said, ‘But he’s a seeing-eye horse.’

  “The bartender said, ‘Who you bullshittin’, mister? You ain’t blind.’

  “‘Yeah, but I will be in about three hours.’”

  More laughs. Cass gave the tune-up a final strum and said, “I’d like to play an old Johnny Cash song for you. It’s called ‘Don’t Take Your Guns to Town.’ The audience responded enthusiastically, including the six wise men at the bar. Even Walter flashed something that resembled a smile. Micah reached over to a small bank of light switches and dimmed the house lights. Cass gave him a quick wink, and Micah marveled at her composure. Seriously, how long has it been since this lady played a Johnny Cash song in front of an audience? he wondered. And now she’s up there like it’s just the next stop on a six-month tour.

  Cass plucked a single note on the guitar. The audience quieted. The easy humor on Cass’s face became sober and reflective. She plucked another note, and another, and then she sang the ballad about a gun, a cowboy, and a mother’s love. The audience leaned into it, following every step of the way, until Cass finally strummed out the mother’s sad plea one last time as her son lay dead on the floor. And then it ended, but the audience waited one beat, two beats, three beats before applauding. Nobody wanted to break the spell, so they waited until the dam burst under its own weight.

  “How ’bout if we add a little pepper sauce to this party?” asked Cass.

  The room responded with cheers and whistles and applause.

  “The song is called ‘Jackson,’ and I need some help with it. What about you, Walter? Do you know that song?” Cass looked at Walter, and so did everyone else.

  “That song’s been in the jukebox for fifty years, and I ain’t a moron, so what do you think?” said Walter.

  “Good, then get your ass up here, and help me out!” said Cass.

  Walter threw down his bar towel and hustled up to the stage.

  And then they sang, and they sang like the moment had been made for them. Two people from worlds so far apart that it hardly seemed worthwhile even acknowledging each other’s existence. But here they were now, side by side, ignoring reality, creating a new existence that fit perfectly into their current time and place. Micah saw this, and for the first time in his life he recognized a different kind of human connection that was intimate and fleeting, senseless and void of expectatio
n. It drank the wine of here and now because tomorrow the intoxicating moment would be long gone. Two people had stepped onto a ledge together, bolstered by nothing more than a willingness to take a chance on an opportunity that promised to quickly disappear forever. To Micah it felt vulnerable, admirable, and unfamiliar.

  And who had been the instigator of this unusual brand of brotherly love? Cass Moreaux. Granted, after the earlier problem, maybe she thought she had a point to prove, but she didn’t have to throw herself out there like this. And then she actually pulled it off. She connected, not just with Walter but with Walter and everyone else she had packed into the place. Micah had caught a glimpse of this geniality before, when Cass had been goofing around with the guys in the shop, but now he saw it more clearly. She had once again turned his expectations upside down.

  The duet had been a good finish to an eventful day, at least that’s what Micah had assumed. The clock on the wall read 2:00 a.m., alcohol curfew, and the time had come to clear everyone out. But then again, Cass was a performer, and every performer has to have a big finish, so what happened next shouldn’t have been much of a surprise. As the clapping and stomping and whistling died down, Walter leaned into the microphone, jabbed his finger at the camera, and said, “I want to change my vote. This lady here gets six Budweisers, and in my book, she deserves every one of them!”

  “Thank you, Walter, that means a lot to me, and I’ll cherish this moment for the rest of my life.” She gave him a kiss on the cheek, fuzzy sideburns and all, and then said, “I also have something to say, to the people at StarBash. I want you to take a good look at what happened tonight because this is exactly what actors around the world do every day. We give people something to sing about. We give them something to look at besides problems. And when we’re done, sometimes their problems don’t look quite as big as they did before. And sometimes that’s all it takes to make it through another day. We’re not perfect, but we try our best, and we deserve some respect. There, now you heard it, but I’m sure it won’t do any good because as far as I’m concerned, you are nothing but a bunch of ignorant assholes.”

  ***

  Cass won that week’s contest. Micah announced it to the world but not until after the producers had huddled with her to explain that the official rules had been clarified so that winning actors were not permitted to fire themselves. And, furthermore, firing Brandi Bonacore had also been taken off the table because she had been granted a StarBash “death voucher”…on account of her win the previous week. It didn’t take a great imagination to see through all this: Cass had her eye on the exit; the producers had to stop her at any cost, so they “clarified” the rule. And then they invented the handy-dandy “death voucher” to protect their other asset. Neither Cass nor Brandi would be going home anytime soon.

  And the big insult that Cass had hurled at StarBash—the sincerity of which Micah admired—probably didn’t have the effect Cass had hoped. Not only did it survive the cutting table and make it into the episode, but they even used snippets of it in the weekly television commercial to promote the episode. The audience loved it, and the ratings climbed even higher. Cass had poked the beast in the eye, and the beast had turned it to gold.

  Chapter eight

  One evening, a few days after they had shot the bar episode, Cass found the door to her trailer unlocked even though she could have sworn that she had locked it. She muttered Micah’s name under her breath and flung it open, expecting to find the tinhorn terminator sitting in the swivel chair. He wasn’t there. She felt disappointed. Then she felt weird because she felt disappointed.

  She did find an unfamiliar laptop opened up on the dining table. It had a note taped to the edge of the screen. Cass sat down at the table and read the note. Then she smiled. It seemed Mr. Bailey wanted to play a little game of dueling videos, and Cass couldn’t think of a better way to ease the pain of doing hard time at Rancho de Fresas.

  She read the note again. It said, I liked Planes, Trains, & Automobiles. It made me think about loneliness and friendship and accepting others who are different. The scene in the airport with all the f-bombs hit the ears a little hard, but who hasn’t been in a spot like that? We might not go berserk, but we sure feel like it. Anyway…I really liked it. Thanks for sharing. Now, I have something for you, and no, it’s not a movie because there are plenty of great things to watch that aren’t full of degenerate actors (smiley face). It’s a documentary called The Last Waltz, by Martin Scorsese, and it’s all cued up. I don’t want to give anything away, so I’ll just say it’s sometimes difficult, and offensive, but mostly just plain beautiful. And there’s music. Wouldn’t it be great if we could describe everyone’s life with these exact same words? Love, Micah.

  Cass liked the way Micah had described Planes, Trains & Automobiles: “…loneliness…friendship…accepting others.” She felt those few words really captured the essence of it. And, of course, his signoff with the word love didn’t escape her notice either. What the hell? she thought; at least the guy’s not bashful. Besides, with the daily stress of the show and her uncertain struggles with Lenora, Cass felt like she could use a little uncomplicated love right about then. And who better to deliver it than an uncomplicated guy like Micah Bailey? But then she came to her senses and made do with a substitute that only a good movie, or, in this case, documentary could provide. She pulled the shades, grabbed the laptop, and curled up in bed. She wondered, would The Last Waltz be just as Micah had described?

  Two wonderful hours later, she had her answer. The Last Waltz turned out to be one of those movies that in some small way had left Cass feeling like she’d become a better person just because she’d watched it. And yes, it was “sometimes difficult, and offensive, but mostly just plain beautiful” just as Micah had said. But to Cass, who loved movies of all types, the experience meant something more because in many ways it affirmed the convictions and the passions of her life, the same convictions and passions that StarBash attacked week after week. A friend had discovered a magnificent treasure and had shared it with her. And Hollywood—only Hollywood, with all its faults—was the conduit that had connected these two friends.

  And if Micah wanted to argue that it wasn’t a Hollywood movie, let him argue with the wind.

  The next day Cass slipped into the workshop and left Audrey Hepburn and My Fair Lady sitting on Micah’s desk. A few days after that, the laptop found its way back to her trailer along with a documentary called Grizzly Man, by Werner Herzog, which Cass found spellbinding, even if it did give her nightmares for a week. Sitting next to the laptop, Cass also found a key to the workshop. She countered with a key of her own, to her trailer, and The Shawshank Redemption. Micah responded with In the Realms of the Unreal, by Jessica Yu. That’s when Cass realized that Micah had a great eye for movies. She also noticed that he hadn’t balked when she dropped the pretense of recommending only movies that included a museum car. He watched what she recommended, and she did the same. Maybe there might be hope for the Tinseltown terminator after all, thought Cass.

  In this manner, the two formed their own little movie club, which did wonders for Cass’s sanity as she slogged through one StarBash week after another. Eventually winter turned into spring, miles and miles of ruby-red strawberries ripened on the gently rolling hills of Ventura County, and Cass almost believed that she might make it to the end of the ordeal.

  Chapter nine

  On a rainy evening in April, near the end of the StarBash television season, Lenora sat at the desk in her home office and carefully inspected the mail. None of the letters had her name on them. They had Cassandra Moreaux’s name. Lenora had been intercepting Cassandra’s mail from the beginning. The effort hadn’t produced anything of interest…until this day. Cassandra had received correspondence from a private investigator in Los Angeles.

  The scalpel cut into the top of the seam on the ten-inch envelope and then sliced all the way to the bottom. In just a few seconds the envelope had been opened, and
Lenora had the contents in her hand: a birth certificate and a printed summary of the detective’s investigation. Lenora recognized the birth certificate. Three or four identical documents currently resided right there in her safe. She also recognized the names, dates, and facts in the report. Cassandra now had everything she needed. Time was running out.

  Lenora had encountered formidable enemies in the past, but she’d never had one who marched as relentlessly as Cassandra Moreaux. And she’d never had one who’s stated purpose had been to destroy the very thing that Lenora cared about most in the world.

  Lenora didn’t believe in self-sacrifice or any of the altruistic shackles that bound the human race. She had never known anyone who had turned ten bucks into twenty by turning the other cheek. She didn’t believe in love, which she considered an affectation that desperate people add to compensate for emotional deficiencies. Even the idea of relationship, as practiced by the masses, baffled Lenora. She didn’t understand why two people, who randomly converge at a place in time, felt the need to embellish the occurrence and call it something special. She called them affiliations and used them all the time. And when they lost their usefulness, she discarded them. Lenora understood self-sufficiency. She understood discipline, focus, and sacrifice. Most of all, Lenora understood the necessity of a person to change the world by living up to their full potential. And if that potential had enough power behind it, and if that person dramatically exceeded their potential by a wide enough margin, then that very same person had the rightful privilege of changing the world long after they had died. That’s what Lenora believed in. She believed in legacy.