by Derek Milman
“I want this to be truly great!” says Oren. “Different from anything we’ve ever done. So I ran upstairs and crouched. I crouched under a table in a sewing room and I started rewriting the whole script. Why? Why did I do this?”
I feel like my wax face is starting to melt. “Oren. You’re hysterical.”
“I did this,” he says, taking great heaves of breath, “I crouched there because I wanted this script to be perfect, and it’s not perfect yet.”
Hayley and I look at each other.
“I ate a salad,” says Oren, spreading out his hands, really setting the scene for us.
“What?” says Hayley, frowning.
“Yes, for lunch, about a year ago,” says Oren. “I looked in the salad, and there were some tomatoes and sprouts, lettuce of course, and this single lone cauliflower, this little fellow. And then it just hit me. There’s a film in this.”
The world will never know what might have been if Oren had eaten a meatball sub or some cottage cheese that day. He’s totally adrift from reality, and sinking under his own whacked-out ambitions.
The second A.D. approaches Oren and makes him sign off on tomorrow’s call sheet, forcing him to confront a schedule someone else had to make for him. “So tomorrow,” says Oren, “we’re going to make up for today. Promise. We’re going to shoot two major scenes in quick succession. Juston Bieberman’s return to his farm and then Stanhope rising out of the earth and giving his speech about civilization.”
“What speech about civilization?” I say.
Oren looks baffled. “I didn’t give it to you?”
I shake my head; a cauliflower floret hits me in the eye.
Oren starts madly flipping through pages. Then he hands me a stack of rumpled, tea-stained paper. “You only need to learn the first twenty pages for tomorrow.”
I snatch the pages. “Oh, is that all?”
“I guess we’ll have to wait on the lasers. I really thought we had a Laser Man.”
I clap my hands together. “Oren, look, I’m sorry, but—”
“Dario. I wasn’t sure at first how this could work. It’s hard . . . being a visionary—lonely, in a sense. But it is nice to have you back, supporting me. We all grieve in different ways. I didn’t expect, after all that prep and fanfare, how shocked I’d be by Dad’s death. How much it crushed me. Working on this script, preparing my directorial debut is the only thing that’s kept me sane over these last weeks.” He lays a hand on my arm. “Maybe, finally, we’ll truly become the brothers we were always meant to become.”
Oren exhales, dramatically, and runs over to talk to Jip. They point at the farmhouse, having a heated debate. Oren continues the conversation while looking through the wrong end of a viewfinder.
“I can’t believe he pronounced debut with a full-on French accent,” says Hayley.
“I don’t know how to take this away from him.”
“Look, Dario.”
“What?”
“No, look.”
She points at everyone on set—they’re all breaking for the day. I hear the sound of children. A few crewmen are reunited with their wives (who must work in different departments). Two of them have newborn babies. I watch these dudes put down their equipment and rock their wailing babies. A little boy, maybe five or six years old, finds his dad, one of the carpenters; the guy picks him up and lifts him in the air.
“I get it,” I tell her, feeling the pressure. “There are kids and families here.”
I guess I always knew, growing up here, that kids live here. But seeing it now, from the other side, is a totally different story. Whole families depend on this place. Every decision I make matters.
Hayley crouches down and ruffles the hair of a little redheaded boy. She looks up at me. “He knows how to press your buttons. He knows how to manipulate you, and he does it well. He’s more devious than you think.”
“He’s just a little kid.”
Hayley rolls her eyes. “Oren, you twit. Oren.”
“Oh.” I duck to the side as two crewmen walk past, carrying a skeletal wooden doorframe, a piece of the set, I guess. “Yeah, I know.”
“Just don’t fall for all that impish guile,” says Hayley.
I suck in my lips. “Is it an act?”
“Not totally,” she says, “but he knows what he wants and how to get it. He knows you came back here because you’ve been yearning your whole life for a real family.”
I take a step back, sawing my arms through the air. “Whoa. I’ve been purposefully avoiding all that crap for the last six years. Is that what you really think?”
Hayley smiles at the little boy and then turns the same smile on me like a follow spot. “Am I totally wrong?”
I don’t get the chance to respond. More kids run over, circling her. Of course she knows every single one. While I wait for her to pull out a magical umbrella and float away, Franklin comes over dressed in a natty pinstriped suit. He leans over and whispers something into Hayley’s ear. She stands and flips her hair over her shoulder, and they converse in low voices. Hayley gestures at me. “Okay. Tell him how it works.”
“Well,” says Franklin, removing his glasses, “in order to keep the studio running, every day is scheduled down to the hour. The studio has to work on a fairly regimented schedule so we can churn out a certain number of features a year.”
“We can’t lose days like this,” Hayley adds. “Your dad would give the production staff an estimated budget and they’d make a production schedule of the entire shoot in advance—since sets needed to be built, costumes made. We would never divert from that schedule unless something went very wrong.”
Franklin explains about stripboards, and cards color coded by location. I get a headache encompassing every part of my head.
“Oren was a good A.D.,” says Hayley. “He’s a capable producer too. He isn’t so bad at the behind-the-scenes stuff—if you tell him exactly what you need and when.”
“He’s basically an Irish setter,” says Franklin.
“But he has zero experience as a director, actor, or writer,” says Hayley. “And we can’t afford to play around right now while he figures out what movie he wants to make.”
We watch Oren zoom off in his cart, waving, while everyone dives out of his way.
“He’s just so excited,” I say.
“All I can do is tell you how your dad ran this place,” says Hayley.
The way Hayley acts with the little kids, with the crew, diplomatic and balletic, makes my heart swell; she’s smart and capable, and there’s a boundless kindness wrapped around it all. I don’t want to let her down. But I don’t want to break Oren’s heart either—he’s just starting to see me as a real brother. I never knew how much that even mattered to me till now. Christ. Is Hayley right about all that?
I’m in an impossible position.
“Cassidy Blackwell from Rusty Blade Films will be visiting in about two months,” says Franklin. “He may come prepared with an offer. He had some sort of loose understanding with your father that we’re not privy to. It’s preliminary, as I said. However, if our goal is to preserve the Moldavia legacy, we want to be in as strong a position as possible . . . just so we can look at all our options objectively.”
“Jesus,” I sputter, wiggling my fingers around like mad, “that’s in no time. . . . How am I supposed to . . . ? This is so stressful. . . . How can I possibly get the studio back on track by then? How? How? I’ve inherited a sinking ship!”
“We’re here to help,” says Franklin.
“Then help!” I take deep inhales until I catch my breath. “Sorry. I have to think,” I tell them, pulling at my face. “And I can’t think in this . . . fucking . . . cauliflower thing. Where’s Jude?”
“In your room,” says Hayley. “He was lying in bed reading comic books last time I checked. Oren never told anyone when or where he was needed.”
Everything was a disaster today—day care, meals, the filming itself—because there was no sh
ooting schedule. No one knew what was happening. This is also my first official day as studio chief—a fact not lost on me or on anyone else, probably.
And I feel bad for Jude. He needs somewhere to be. He doesn’t like to be alone. I managed to let him down too. Franklin tells me everyone is heading down to supper now.
“I’m really hungry too,” I say, looking around. “And I can’t eat wearing all this makeup. I can barely move my mouth.”
At that moment, someone from the makeup crew sidles up to inform me, having overheard this conversation, that we should probably get started now, because it might take up to three hours to remove all the makeup and prosthetics.
Chapter Ten
Smithereens
WHEN I GET BACK TO OUR ROOM JUDE IS TOTALLY NAKED EXCEPT FOR his cape and gloves, glistening with sweat as he attacks the Everlast bag. He’s got his mouthpiece in, pivoting, feinting, parrying, in a fantasy match of his own creation. To him, that bag is hitting back as he pants and grunts and jabs. It’s only now I realize that in Jude’s mind he’s fighting someone specific; someone he never got to fight before. He’s not just fighting—he’s fighting back. I never looked closely enough, or watched Jude fight—he usually does it alone. But it’s a rage I recognize right away.
I lean against the doorway. “Who is it?”
Jude sees me and looks up, a liquid fury spiraling in his eyes. He takes out his mouthpiece and steps away from the bag. “Who is what?”
I point at the bag. “Who are you fighting?”
“My stepdad.”
“Who’s winning?”
“He is. He always won.”
There’s a reason why we chose each other as best friends. It was something unspoken and primal that meshed; something familiar we saw in one another that we couldn’t necessarily put into words. I step inside the room. “When are you gonna win?”
“Oh, I will one day,” he says. “Don’t worry. I know where he lives now.”
I rub my mouth with my fist. “What did he do to you?”
“It’s not what he did to me,” Jude whispers, vaguely, his eyes flickering around the room, everywhere except me, meaning he doesn’t want to talk about this.
I see a few empty dishes on the floor, and an empty glass. “You ate?”
“A while ago. Did you?”
“No.” I sit in the armchair and throw Oren’s stack of pages onto the floor; I stare at them and then gaze out the window. It’s already dark out. “I’m really sorry. I’ll make sure you’re more involved tomorrow. Today was a total shit show.”
“Hayley told me. She brought me up the food. It was good.” Jude unfastens the Velcro straps on his gloves. He lopes around the room, locating his clothes, piling them into his arms without actually putting any of them on. “You don’t need to worry about me. I’m just happy to be here. I’ll know you’ll find me if you need me.”
“Do you want to . . . box some more? Or . . .”
“Nah.” Jude waves away the punching bag like he’s dismissing some drunken asshole mouthing off in a dive bar. He takes his gloves off and throws them on his bed. “You should eat something.”
As soon as he says that, we both look up to see Gavin standing there. He’s holding a silver tray with a lid on top like we summoned him from a magical world. Gavin walked all the way inside the room without either of us noticing him standing there. Jude yelps and covers himself, running into a far corner, shrieking.
“Sorry,” says Gavin, removing the lid to reveal a steaming, mouthwatering fried chicken dinner with biscuits and coleslaw and apple pie and a glass of pink lemonade. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I have your dinner, sir.”
I stare at him. “You are human, right?”
Gavin sets my tray on the floor, stacks Jude’s empty dishes on his tray, and then carries everything out, smiling good-naturedly, without another word. Jude is cowering in the corner. “Is he gone? Is that kid gone?” Gavin scares the shit out of Jude.
“He’s gone.”
“Jesus.” Jude starts putting on his clothes, shaking a little.
I sit on the floor, the plate of food between my legs, Oren’s script beside me.
“So what are you going to do?” asks Jude, pulling up his sweatpants. “You’re the studio chief now. If Oren doesn’t know what he’s doing—”
“He’s been waiting for this moment his entire life.”
“Yeah, well. You’re not doing him or anybody else here any favors by pretending he knows what he’s doing.”
“He will feel like I’m out for revenge if I tell him he can’t make this movie. He will make this personal.” I can already see where this is going.
Although Oren doesn’t want to sell to Rusty Blade either, so it’s really him getting in his own way (and everyone else’s way too). This is madness.
“Revenge for what?” asks Jude.
I rip a hunk off a chicken leg and chew silently for a moment. “Oren wasn’t always the most protective older brother in the world,” I say, swallowing hard.
“How so?”
“He didn’t always step in when my dad would get out of control.”
Jude nods, understanding.
“I don’t know what everyone expects me to do,” I say. “There’s no one else who could write and direct a movie around here! Oren’s our only option. He shadowed our dad for years. He was the one closest to his process.”
“Guess he didn’t retain much,” says Jude. “Or he doesn’t know how to translate what’s in his head. Not everyone can do that.” He pauses, looking at me. “You were pretty close to your dad’s process too.”
I shake my head. Not as close as Oren was.
I acted in one movie, and I’m still trying to mentally and emotionally recover from the experience. Oren has been grooming himself to take over for years. But no matter how hard he wants this and how long he’s been waiting in the wings, it’s painfully clear Oren cannot succeed our dad. I eye Oren’s new pages warily. I put my hand on the first page, splattering grease all over it in dark, angry spots.
“Go ahead,” says Jude, watching me. “Read what’s next.”
“I really don’t want to, man.”
“No. I think we need to see what comes next.”
EXT. VEGETABLE PATCH -- NIGHT
JUSTON BIEBERMAN walks home in the dark thick night under the mocking incandescent moon. When he gets to his FARMHOUSE, the patch outside is bursting open like a pregnant beast. STANHOPE GOLDSTEIN, a mutant humanoid teenage cauliflower, rises fifty feet in the air. LASERS shoot out of his eyes, destroying a nearby tractor and frightening cows.
STANHOPE
(flying)
Are you the farmer Bieberman?
JUSTON BIEBERMAN
I am him. Who is asking?
STANHOPE
I am Stanhope Goldstein, leader of the Ciller Cauliflower Revolution. We are here to ruin you, your farm, and it all.
JUSTON BIEBERMAN gasps as the black moonlit earth begins to shake and another Ciller Cauliflower emerges from the torn-open ground: Stanhope’s assistant, PETER VON LUFTIG. Peter laughs along with Stanhope, flying in midair.
PETER
(laughing maniacally)
I am Peter! I will help Stanhope destroy you!
STANHOPE
We were summoned by the shaman. It is time to deal the deathly blow to you, Juston.
JUSTON
NO, PLEASE.
PETER
(laughing maniacally)
Ha! Yes! HA.
STANHOPE
(laughing maniacally, shooting lasers)
We are all flawed creatures growing in corrupted dirt. Life is meaningless and cursed. I am revenge for your antics, for the sin of envy and stealing seeds. Humanity is base and selfish. But I wouldn’t know because I am a cauliflower mutant, which is why I am asking you -- why do you go to war against your own and eat beans and watch digital media?
PETER
(laughing maniacally)
Yes! This is
true! Yes, Stan! Why? Oh ho!
STANHOPE
(laughing maniacally)
I can only destroy what I’m destined to: you!
JUSTON
(laughing maniacally)
No. NO! This is so wrong, you are stressing me out.
PETER
(laughing maniacally)
I am going to help Stanhope DESTROY YOU!
STANHOPE
(laughing maniacally)
I only know my wicked nature. I am a teenaged cauliflower, so I like to eat and have sex a lot and play Candy Crush on my phone, but I know that I am here to cause pain even if I don’t know why. Do any of us know what we do? My parents cast me out because I was a mutant vegetable. I only know evil. My heart is full of silty scum like the pond behind your barn. Civilization won’t have me. Humanity is bleak and out of control. I am another man’s creation, and just do his bidding. I am lonely and sad but whatever. BAH!
More Ciller Cauliflowers begin to emerge from the ground, cackling and flying around like vegetable devils.
That’s pretty much as far as we get. I flip ahead and skim the rest of the pages with one hand. There are nineteen more pages of Stanhope and Peter flying around this stupid patch, questioning their existence while continuing to berate and threaten Juston.
I look at Jude. “Did Oren actually write . . . an existential cauliflower?”
“I have lines?” says Jude, trying to temper his excitement that he’s in a movie with the dawning realization that it would be the worst movie ever made.
The weird thing is, if you really examine it—and, I mean, who the fuck would—but if you look closely at what Oren wrote, there’s a genuine sadness—about being misunderstood, feeling lost, and not really knowing the world at all, or who you are. But whatever it all means, whatever he’s trying to do here, we’re in big trouble. We cannot make this film. Nonetheless, Jude and I still run around the room, playing our parts.
We can’t help it.
“‘Hello,’” I say into my phone, “‘is this my assistant, Peter von Luftig?’”
“‘It is!’” says Jude. “‘I just arrived at the Killer Cauliflower Headquarters.’”
“‘Oh good! How many farmhouses do we have scheduled to destroy this week?’”