“Really, it’s fine. People drop by all the time, trust me,” Marta said, seeing Lornette’s perplexed expression.
“Alright then.” Marta herded the women in. “I’d better introduce you to the first half of the powers that be. It’s those two, Luna, and not me, that you’ll be needing to impress. They’re the gatekeepers. Wait right here, alright, the chairs are comfortable. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Lora shuffled papers in Jake’s office and pointed vaguely as Marta approached the desk. “That’s her? She looks the part, a bit bigger framed than Dol’rez, I think. Mind you, that was one rack of bones, so who isn’t?”
“Luna’s friend’s closest to the door. You’re right, though”— Marta mimed the pretense of a Solomonic evaluation—“but she’s in work clothes. Blanketed in the maid’s caftan, she’ll be a match.”
“This is really doing things back-asswards, you know.”
“Oh, I thought you were agreeable to a trial run.” Marta felt the creep of anxiety about an impending marathon conference call and unbearable voices transmitting hardball attitude from Vancouver and Los Angeles.
“I am, honey. I’m just fretful. Naturally. You should see my family reunions. Mama hands out Prozac with Abilify chasers!” Lora gathered supplies for the meeting. “I’m surprised you haven’t picked that up by now, Doctor.”
Marta smiled, tongue locked in place.
“Okay, let’s take a look. Jake can sell the penny-pinching and the time-saving agendas in his sleep, so no worry there,” Lora said. “It all comes down to being a good fit.”
The waitresses sat politely—legs crossed, hands folded on laps—as Marta approached to make introductions. “Luna and Lornette, this is Lora,” she said. The women stood to shake hands.
“Gee, where’s Laverne?” Lora asked with a giggle. “Before we get the show on the road, we need the big cheese. After that we’ll shoot a few lines and then upload them to other bigger cheeses. And then after that it’s all in the hands of fate.”
“Here are a few pages to look over while you’re waiting. I’ve highlighted germane lines.”
“Ladies, don’t believe that Miss Manners routine for a minute,” Lora quipped, expertly putting them at ease. “I swear she’s after my job.”
2.
Marta watched Luna pace and rehearse variations on lines; comfortable playing the sounding board, Lornette sat, listened, and commented in murmurs. They froze, startled, as Jake strode in with Chaz and Nicos in tow. The boisterous men herded toward the back office, barely nodding to the visitors. “Curly and Moe here need a junk food stop,” Jake said.
“Hey.” Chaz veered toward Marta. “We gotta grab some snacks for the road.”
“I left the O-K’s breakfast special on the counter by the microwave. It’s a bit past its prime now. I’ll show you.”
“Who’s the tourists hanging around out front?” Nicos said.
“One’s a stray Marta here dragged in off the street,” Lora said. “And her friend.”
“And?” Babysitting locals didn’t fit on Jake’s agenda.
“Oh, the professor’s acting out Hollywood mythology,” Lora said. “Just call her Maximillan Carey.”
“What?” Nicos checked his phone.
“No idea. Lora loves her golden age melodramas, though,” Jake said.
“A Star is Born, is that better? Showgirls? Um, Glitter? You know, a small town nobody becomes bigger than life, tragedy ensues? Marta thinks the local will be a good—convenient, that is—replacement Lizzie,” Lora said, “so Luna—she’s the one in that lovely nylon waitress slash nurse’s uniform—is prepping to read. It’s okay, I figure. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?”
“Sure, why not. As long as she’s paid her union dues, we’ll be fine.” Jake reached across the desk, jerked open the centre drawer, and switched on a camcorder. “Good, the battery’s still charged. Okay, you guys can hit the road any time, give us some room to work.”
“C’mon, Jake,” Nicos said. “If it’s a go, she’ll be acting in front of the entire crew, not to mention a camera. We’ll be helping her out.”
“Good point, but you and the Chazster need to be somewhere, like five minutes ago, right?”
“Okay, boss.” Nicos shouted toward the kitchen, “I’m already waiting behind the wheel, Big Boy. Let’s get the show on the road.”
“Yeah, yeah, Hootie, I’ll be two shakes.” Paper plate in hand, Chaz rushed for the street.
Jake turned the lock and waited at the front door. “Alright, ladies, let’s make this happen.”
Luna grasped the photocopied pages Marta had pulled and read the lines in a monotone: “‘My dear Sultan, you are too kind indeed. Verily, I cannot accept so extravagant a gift. That you hold me in such high esteem is surely enough! You insist? Such a wealth of gems could only attract the covetous eyes of my impudent servants.’”
“That’d be great if you we were making The Jetsons and you were playing Rosie the robot maid.” Lora ignored the persistent ringing of the phones and waved Don’t bother when Marta moved to answer.
“I just needed to say the lines at full volume, not in my head. Okay, I’m ready now.” She spoke the lines at Jake.
“Better, but it’s not a race. Third time’s the charm?” Lora winked at Marta—You gotta be tough with the talent. “And remember: you’re an English servant, not a Canuck.”
“Okay, here goes,” Luna said. Seated but rapt, Lornette offered silent encouragement with raised eyebrows and two thumbs up.
“Not bad at all. We need to try a different scene,” Jake said, “to see how she emotes on cue.”
“How about the death scene at the crash site.” Lora reached for a script.
“Professor, you ready for your close-up?” Jake grinned, swinging the lens in Marta’s direction. “Can you stand in for the alien?”
Marta stepped back, her first impulse to scurry off. The flight response of a marmot, she thought. “Yes, certainly. What do you need me to do?”
“Nothing much. Just stand there, the wall’s green screen basically. You’ll give Luna something real to focus on.”
Eyes seeming panicked, Luna shuffled through the pages.
Marta explained. “You’ve just ridden a horse to the crash site because you are planning to negotiate a deal with the alien.”
“For real?” Luna asked. “That sounds kinda weird.”
“Oh it is, absolutely.” Lora handed gestured cosmic resignation. “But we’re here to make it happen, my dear, not write a movie review.”
“Just run with it, okay?” Jake said.
“Then what happens?” Luna read the page.
“Pretty much what you’d expect: you try, you fail, you get decapitated, you pay the price for fucking with a bad customer, end of story.” Jake adjusted the lens. “Let’s get a move on, folks.”
“No second act for her, I guess. I thought maybe I’d become the alien’s queen or something.”
“No such luck,” Lora said. “Ready?”
“Okay, it says, ‘Lizzie walks toward the spacecraft,’” Luna flipped through the sheets, “but she doesn’t find anything. Then she sees a cavern and goes toward it. Okay, got it. If the professor stands right there, I’ll come in from outside and then begin.”
“Go for it,” Lora said.
Marta stood with her back to the side wall and watched as Luna struggled with the door and crept in.
“‘Is there anyone about? Good sir? Please, we must speak at once,’” Luna stopped, awaiting direction. When none arrived she read further lines. “‘I am in possession of valuable intelligence.’”
“‘Silent, the alien steps closer to Lizzie,’” Marta read, unsure whether to move.
“Stay put, professor. Basically, after that Lizzie realizes that her time is up and that the alien’s not going to play by her rules,
so she decides to go out in a blaze of glory,” Lora said.
“‘O charcoal fiend, begone. Vile insect, I implore you to retreat,’” Luna tried out the words. “‘Abhorred monster. Treachery!’ ‘Charcoal fiend’? Man, that’s a mouthful.”
“The camera is on,” Jake said.
Luna read the lines tentatively.
“Will you let me do that one more time? I’ve got the rhythm figured out now.”
“Sure thing, honey.” Lora adopted her occasional persona of maternal encouragement.
“Yeah, but we don’t have all day. Once more and we’ll edit it down, load it up and send it out.”
Luna paused to regard Jake scornfully. “I’ll come in again, and begin with ‘Is there anyone about?’ Are you ready, Mar?”
“Yes, certainly. Any time you are.”
3.
“Alright, it’s a go,” Lora shrieked halfway through hanging up. “Marta, go snare your waitress and tell her everyone thinks she’s a bona fide soon-to-be-cable-TV-star. That’s not the wording, but it’ll get her stoked. We need her here, then shuttled over to Costume and Hair.”
“That was fast,” Marta said. With luck, she’d never again cross paths with graceless Blanche, that surly assistant, or dismissive higher ups in remote production hub offices.
“The threat of money down the drain is very inspirational, don’t you think?”
“Very.” Marta drew nearer to Jake’s desk. She preferred not to yell.
Lora explained that there’d been unanimity from Los Angeles and Vancouver, one happy with a photogenic enough face and budgetary plusses and the other speaking of the time crunch, government incentives, and the virtue of thinking outside the box. Lora passed Marta a yellow sheet of paper. “Okay, here’s what needs to get done, in order of importance. Since Chaz is on a run now, I corralled a PA from second unit. They’re just out there twiddling their thumbs on establishing shots right now anyway. He ought to be here by the time you’re back here with the waitress. Got it?”
“I do, thanks.”
Marta beamed as she rushed toward the O-K Café. She’d spared herself duress and in doing so made an actual contribution; her ordinary tasks—answering calls, shuffling papers, purchasing supplies—might be technically useful, but they barely registered on her scale of accomplishment. So what if Luna’s lucky break was inadvertent, she thought. A good deed still counted even if it came from self-serving motivations.
“Eh, what’s up, Doc?” Luna stood at the till counting bills. Marta summoned a smile; she’d heard that line countless times before, although only outside of campus borders.
“We have news,” Marta said, looking around. The town couldn’t boast of a brunch crowd; the O-K was unoccupied save for the coffee counter regulars.
“Wow, time is money, eh? I’ll bet one look at me and they slammed the door shut.”
“To the contrary, they’re interested.”
“For real?”
“For real. And Lora’s asked me to tell you in person. To expedite the process.”
“Okay.” Watchful, Luna waited for further cues.
“In other words, the office needs you for paperwork and then we’ll send you to Wardrobe. How soon can you be ready?”
“Um, I gotta call Lornette again. When she offered to cover my shift, I’ll bet she thought it’d never happen in a million years. I owe her big time.”
“We’ll see you soon.”
“Thanks a lot, professor.”
“My pleasure.” Helping had cast a warm light over her stay in the valley. “See you shortly.”
4.
Facing away from the sun’s glare on the return to Joan’s, Marta noticed the efficient miracle of heat evaporating the very perspiration it prompted. The hot brisk current reminded her of lakeshore picnicking and family meals under long tendrils of weeping willow shade. While knowing that the bouncing-step mood resulted directly from the balm of total relief about solving the Lizzie and teleconferencing problems, the facile kitchen conversation during Chaz’s stop left her unsettled.
Chaz had thanked Marta for the take-out breakfast and slammed the plate into the microwave. “I hope you aren’t too bagged today.”
“It’s nothing that a full night’s worth of sleep won’t cure.” With the reply she’d strived for nonchalance, as though possessing a venerable history of sleeplessness due to bed guests.
“Cool. They’ve got me in beast of burden mode today, so I’m not going to be around much.” Nicos bellowed from the front. “Shit, looks like I’ll have to wolf this down on the road. Catch you later, okay?”
“Alright.”
A check-in conversation taking place as microwave beams singed rotating french toast and Jake coordinated an impromptu audition had been by no means ideal, Marta acknowledged as she glowered at a rumbling RV towing a small car and a trailer loaded with an ATV—people would haul entire houses if they’d fit on the road. And even if a deeper exchange had been possible, her inner jury questioned the desirability or necessity: “Um, about last night . . .” would sound neurotic at best, the dullest of womanly clichés at worst. What to say, what policy to effect?
“Let’s get the show on the road,” the intervening shout from Nicos, had been an instrumental by-product, akin to the career kick for Luna. “A self-correcting mechanism,” her smug day trader of a brother might label it to end a discussion. At equal intervals he’d fondly trot out “Everything happens for a reason” too. Marta could never fully grasp what he thought this mass-market article of faith really meant.
GREAT IRREGULARITY
1.
“Okay, okay, we’re closing up shop.” Lora unleashed a short round of claps and strutted exultantly through the office. Marta and Lora worked alone; following the seventy-minute stint as a star-maker Marta had returned to wearisome clerical duties—since nothing else exciting rolled down the pike—as Lora hollered into telephones and typed reports in Jake’s office. “After that, my dear colleagues, you are simply going to have to wait. The call centre is now closed, please leave a message at the sound of the beep.”
Lora peered through the lettering on the front window. “We need a break from this place anyhow, trade in recirculated office air for that invigorating OK Valley oxygen.” On a bee-line for Marta, Lora’s flattened hands pressed the sides of her face and pulled tight: “Dah-ling, I hear it turns back time.”
“What’s going on,” Marta said, on hold and watching Lora’s hummingbird movements. The dreaded conference call had been scrubbed, but Lora had insisted that Marta contact Blanche to give the woman a final update. With a chilly “I see,” Blanche transferred the call to the monosyllabic assistant, and she immediately sentenced Marta to on-hold exile. Metronoming a pencil in time to a medley of easy listening classics for five minutes, Marta needed a fresh distraction.
“The final scene is being shot, and we’re going to watch it up close and personal. We don’t have a lot of traditions in this biz, but that’s one of them.” Lora’s bellowing from the kitchen echoed. “Are you going to be okay with taking the wheel?”
“Yes, of course.”
Lora returned to Jake’s office, and Marta loaded paper into the photocopier while waiting for the surly voice of Blanche’s assistant. Thirty placating seconds into a love ballad from the ’70s whose streak-haired singer verged on familiar, Marta hung up. It’s not as though I’m going to get fired, she thought. Blanche represented nothing but a bridge she could afford to burn. She typed an IM to Lora: “The call is completed.”
“Okay, grab your keys and let’s get out of here before the phones ring again.” Lora slammed down the lid of the laptop on Jake’s desk. “There’s no bugs out there, right?”
Idling the engine while Lora locked up the office, Marta watched pedestrians, welcoming the speed of the AC as bracing currents wafted across her feet.
; “So much for that theory.” Lora swung open the passenger door.
“Pardon me?”
“My refreshing outdoors air theory.” She placed an index finger on her tongue and then held it in the air. “Not enough wind to rustle a goddamned leaf. You could fry eggs on the hood, though, I’ll bet.” She fastened her hat with a thick string. “Ha! We’re looking like Thelma and Louise of the ozone-hole generation.”
Marta laughed. “Do you want to use my lip balm? It’s SPF thirty.” Barry Manilow, she recalled: the troubadour with whom she’d been trapped on hold, the thick schmaltz the ideal torment for any impatient customer.
2.
Marta had not driven the route, but retraced it easily enough from the to and fro runs between locations with Chaz. She pointed toward the crash site soon after passing by the unmoving radio transmission dish monoliths; on the approach she was struck by how much the habitat had grown since that late night visit, the pattern exponential and jumbled, like a desperate refugee camp. The occupation of turquoise portable toilet rows and pell-mell white trailers flattened wild field grasses; in between, rigid tent canopies provided shade for extras and served as makeshift cafeterias for crew meals. This time next week, Marta thought, passersby will see nothing out of the ordinary except trampled grass. Such stealth reflected movie magic of a different kind.
Attended cars loitered along the roadside. “Lookie loos and local reporters playing paparazzi,” Lora said. “Probably here to catch a glimpse of Michelle Pfeiffer, and good luck with that.”
The barbed wire gate lay rolled up by a wooden post. Marta slowed, awaiting directions.
“Everyone that’s legit is over there in crew parking, thataway.” Lora’s thumb jerks directed them to a lot with tape borders rustling in the breeze.
Leaning close to Marta, Lora spoke to the PA guarding the field of vehicles. “Hi, honey,” she said tucking her chin and peering over bee-eye sunglasses. “You gonna let us into this blazing mess?”
“ID.”
“Um, hello?” Lora pointed to the sticker on the windshield, Chaz’s doing.
“Straight ahead, then make a right.”
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