by Rick Copp
“Why don’t we write it into the script?” he said, snapping his fingers for emphasis.
“Brilliant idea,” said Stella, an obvious kiss-up who wanted to be hired on future Larry Levant films.
“We’ve already established that your son Stevie is a troubled kid. Gets into lots of fights on the playground and that kind of shit. Where does he get it from? Dad! You’re a drunk who gets into all kinds of bar brawls, and one of the reasons you went on this camping trip was to recover from getting the shit kicked out of you by some yahoo redneck you mouthed off to when you were liquored up!”
He looked at me for a reaction. I paused. “I thought Stevie and I were on the camping trip to get over the fact my wife deserted us to go find herself.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I stole that from Kramer vs. Kramer. Great movie! Changed my life! I was that kid. But this is far more fucking original, don’t you think?”
“Um, sure,” I said, not wanting to argue with my director on the first day.
“I love it!” Stella chirped as she started scraping the mounds of makeup off my face. “It totally works with his black eye.”
“Perfect. I’ll get you some rewrites by tonight. See you on the set,” he said as he flew out of the trailer.
As Stella worked her magic on my face, I wondered if Juan Carlos had arrived yet. After I had been knocked down in the lobby of the Ritz Plaza, Rudy Pearson had beaten a hasty retreat. He was afraid I might press charges or something. Juan Carlos watched him scurry away, and then reached down and hauled me to my feet. He looked at the swelling around my eye.
“Jesus, that’s gotta hurt,” he said. Not exactly a warm truce, but at least he didn’t sock me in the other eye so I’d have a matching set. Juan Carlos steadied me, and then strolled out the glass door toward Ocean Avenue to kick off his own night on the town. Dizzy and disoriented, I swayed a bit as the concierge, a tall, slim Colombian, raced to my aid and escorted me back up to my dismal and depressing room. A bellman arrived with an ice pack, and I crawled into bed, calling it a night.
It seemed as if only a few seconds had passed before Coldplay was blaring through the CD alarm clock. I stumbled back downstairs, where the impossibly perky Amy Jo quickly greeted me and then, before I could request coffee, whisked me out to her maroon transport van, and we began our twenty-minute journey to the set of Creeps in a wooded park just outside Coral Gables.
Stella finished dabbing up the sweat that had formed on my brow, and then wheeled me around so I could get a good look at her handiwork. I was pale, haggard, my hair was matted and dull, and my eyes were bloodshot. But none of it was noticeable because all attention was drawn to the large purple-and-black shiner that was now taking up a quarter of my face, and was getting bigger by the minute.
“I look terrible,” I said weakly.
“Well, you heard Larry. You’re a mess. Your wife just ditched you and you were in a bar fight.”
“But don’t you think this might be overkill? Maybe you went slightly overboard with the whole death-warmed-over look.”
Stella bristled at my pointed criticism of her artistry.
“Honey, I didn’t do a damn thing,” Stella said. “This is the real you.” She saw the horror in my face and decided to mollify the situation by adding, “Besides, this is an independent film. We want to go for realism.”
I pulled myself up out of the chair and left the trailer. Outside, the mood was a bit ebullient as the crew prepared for the first shot on the first day of production. People were a lot more cheerful on Day One when inclement weather, blown-out klieg lights, injured actors, and overexposed film were still days, perhaps even weeks, away from having to be dealt with.
The first scene on the schedule was a simple-enough one to kick off the five weeks of principal photography. At this point in the story, the intrepid hero, a park ranger played by Juan Carlos, has gathered a group of campers to warn them that a homicidal maniac may be loose in the forest, and that it is vital we stay together as a group until he is caught. Of course, in the following pages, various circumstances occur that split us all up so the methodical killer can pick us off one by one.
In addition to my character and the boy playing my son, the other endangered campers included college students paired off into three couples, a retired Army general and his son, and the script’s leading lady, a psychoanalyst, who would later prove useful in providing a disturbing psychological profile of our adversary. With her was her mother, a doctor, who would later on offer medical assistance to those lucky few who escaped the killer with their lives but nevertheless nursed dangling limbs and knifed torsos.
My only line in the scene, which I had already committed to memory, was, “Forget it. I’m going to take my chances and try to get out of here with my son!” At which point, the ranger (Juan Carlos) would shake some sense into me, and impress upon me how important it was we all stick together, or risk certain death. I refuse to listen until my son, a child with wisdom well beyond his years, looks at me with his big brown eyes and says, “Daddy, please. Do as the nice man says. I don’t want to die.” I stop cold. Look at everybody. And then my eyes fall back down to meet my son’s pathetic gaze. After a long beat which I planned to milk of every last ounce (and to ensure extra screen time), I muss my son’s hair with a smile, deeply affected by his words, and nod silently. The boy throws his pudgy little arms around my waist and sobs, “I love you, Daddy.” Not a bad scene for a first day.
I spotted Larry hugging a brunette, presumably our leading lady, who had just arrived on the set. My involvement with this picture had happened with such speed, I still had no idea who my costars were besides Juan Carlos. When the brunette pulled away, I was in for a big bombshell. It was Dominique.
Larry clutched her hand and dragged her over to me. “Jarrod, I want you to meet Dominique. She’s playing Sarah the psychoanalyst.”
Dominique looked at me with empty eyes. She had no memory of who I was.
“We’ve met,” I said.
“We have?” she said incredulously.
“Twice. Once at the Hearst Castle and once out in Malibu,” I said, refraining from adding, “When I fished your ass out of the surf following your attempted suicide drowning.”
Her eyes flickered at bit, trying to come to life, like a pair of waning headlights sucking the last juice out of a dead car battery.
“Oh, right,” she said.
“I have to set up the master shot with the DP. I’ll let you two get acquainted,” Larry said as he hustled off toward his Panavision camera, the one top-of-the-line piece of equipment on this shoot.
“I didn’t know you were an actress, Dominique,” I said, studying her face for any signs of animation.
She nodded.
“So, are you doing well? The last time I saw you, you were a bit . . . down.” That was putting it mildly.
She perked up ever so slightly. “I’m fine. I’ve put the past behind me, and I’m moving on. I want to put my career first for a while.”
I was ready to believe her until I saw her notice something. Her face fell, and she let out an audible gasp. I turned to see what had caught her so off-guard, and spotted Juan Carlos sweep in, his arm around a stunning older beauty in her mid-forties. She carried herself like a queen and was blessed with a porcelain face, immaculately styled hair, and a slim, statuesque figure. She was in a smart white pantsuit, and laughed while resting her head on Juan Carlos’s broad shoulder. They were sharing a private joke.
The stunning woman’s eyes met Dominique’s, and she gave her a halfhearted wave. Juan Carlos, barely able to contain himself, bussed the older woman’s cheek with his hot passionate Latin lips. And then he slapped her playfully on the behind as she scampered over to the hair stylist and commandeered a hand mirror to check her appearance.
Juan Carlos managed to give me a half smile as he sauntered over to the craft service table for a bagel. He gave a quivering Dominique even less attention.
“First team in, ple
ase,” bellowed the first assistant director through a bullhorn as the stand-ins who filled in for us while the lighting was set up filed off the set. I had one last chance to call Charlie. I hit the speed dial. It rang twice.
“Hi, this is Charlie Peters. You’ve reached my voice mail. You know what to do.”
Damn. I shoved the phone into my coat pocket, not allowing myself to imagine where he could be. I had already done enough of that.
I stepped on my mark next to the cherubic blond boy playing my son. He looked nothing like me. His mother, a squat, harried woman with what looked like a nervous tick, stood off to the side, watching her offspring intently.
Larry was circling the cast one last time, making sure he was happy with his blocking.
Dominique fought bravely to keep her cool. The sexy older woman sashayed on the set, walked right up to Dominique, and squeezed her arm.
“Mommy’s here,” she said with a laugh. She was clearly the actress playing Dominique’s mother in the film.
Stella rumbled onto the set for final makeup checks. She stopped at me last, her nose crinkling up with distaste at the sight of me, but then she caught herself.
“Great,” she said.
Before she could run off, I whispered, “So who is that actress playing the mother?” If anyone knows the lowdown on a film set, it’s the makeup and hair people. Nothing gets by them.
“Her name’s Viveca something,” Stella said, relieved to know there was another gossip on the set. “I think she’s married to one of the investors, which is how she got the part. Like they say, it’s who you know.”
“She and Juan Carlos seem chummy,” I said.
“That’s the understatement of the year. Amy Jo told me she dropped her off at the hotel last night, and helped her up to her room with her bags. Before the elevator came back up, she saw Viveca dash down the hall to Juan Carlos’s room with her toothbrush. This morning when she picked them up, they came down together. You do the math.” Stella bounded off the set, and watched from the sidelines.
“Okay, quiet, everybody. We’re rolling,” screamed the assistant director.
“And action!” Larry hollered, thrilled to have this much authority.
Juan Carlos, wearing a green park ranger’s uniform, launched into his cautionary monologue about the dangers of camping while a killer lurks about. He displayed all the gusto of a bad soap actor desperately trying to branch out. He was awful. But the rest of us reacted gamely, as if we were listening to one of Martin Luther King’s speeches, and waited for our turn to speak and steal the spotlight.
That’s when we all heard an incessant ringing. Juan Carlos kept going, not about to be deterred by some muffled annoyance.
Larry’s face went beet red, and finally he screamed, “Cut!”
Everybody fell silent. All we heard was that damn ringing. I looked around, an exasperated look on my face, anxious to identify the idiot who forgot to turn off his cell phone. That’s when it hit me. It was coming from my coat pocket. Oh God. The first shot of the movie. And I’d ruined it. I debated on whether I should ignore it, and keep the exasperated look on my face in place. Maybe no one would notice it was me. But all eyes were fixed upon my coat pocket, and I finally had to fess up.
“I am so sorry,” I said.
Larry tapped his foot angrily as I yanked the phone out and pressed the talk button. I would’ve just turned it off, but I was afraid it might be Charlie.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Jarrod, it’s me,” Laurette said. “Is this a bad time?”
“Um, yes, actually it is,” I said, as I slowly became unglued under the glares of my fellow cast and crew.
“Then just tell me quickly. How’s Juan Carlos? Is he behaving himself?”
“Yes,” I lied. Now was not the time to divulge the truth. There would be plenty of time to fess up, since every fiber of my being was telling me things were about to get much worse.
Chapter 14
After my rather inauspicious first day on the set, I decided it was best to leave my cell phone in the trailer I shared with two other supporting actors in the cast while shooting my scenes. My relationship with Larry Levant, our esteemed director, improved dramatically after that. As for the rest of the cast, I got along famously with almost everyone. Even Juan Carlos and I managed to keep things professionally civil. We just stayed out of each other’s way. Juan Carlos wanted the film to be a success. It was not in his best interest to stir up conflict with other cast members, so he cut a wide berth around me.
However, there was one notable cast mate I did not get along with right from the start. I despised Simon, the little spawn of Satan who was playing my son in the picture. On the first day of shooting, he demanded that I surrender the last Jell-O Pudding Pop, so he could suck on it between takes. Not accustomed to being ordered about by an overindulged child actor, and having always respected my fellow adult costars when I was in his shoes, I adamantly refused. He screamed at the top of his lungs for his mother, the director, and his agent. The first to arrive on the scene was Caitlin, his thirtysomething stage mom. Once alerted to what was bothering her little star, she tried appeasing him with a measly box of raisins. The screaming just got louder, piercing the air with such force I thought for a moment I’d blown out an eardrum. No wonder the mini-asshole’s mother had a nervous tick.
“How about if you shared it with him?” Caitlin said with a pleading look. I was about to lay into her about her decidedly lax parenting skills when I spied a production assistant summoning Larry on the walkie-talkie. After ruining the first shot of the movie with my ringing cell phone, I thought it best to drop the matter. I didn’t need to tick off the director twice in one week. I peeled off the plastic wrap, and handed the Jell-O Pop to Simon. He swiped it away from me with his piggish little hands and started devouring it without even a thank-you. I looked to his mother, who shrugged, as if to say, “What can you do?”
I was going to say, “I can strangle the little bugger until his fat ugly face explodes,” but didn’t want to risk social services swarming down on the set armed with whistles and restraining orders.
Crisis averted, I wandered over to watch Larry shoot the last take of the day with Juan Carlos and Dominique. It was a pivotal scene in the picture where they both profess their love for each other right before setting off into the woods together to vanquish the killer. Viveca watched from the sidelines. She gazed at Juan Carlos lovingly as if picturing herself in the scene with him as opposed to Dominique.
Although Juan Carlos was stiffer than Steven Seagal in an Adam Sandler comedy, Dominique showed real promise as an actress. As she clutched the forest green ranger’s jacket Juan Carlos was wearing, the look in her eye betrayed real feelings, real emotion, and real desire. She made the stilted dialogue resonate because the delicate little flower really did love him.
Larry sat in his chair, his big round saucer eyes glued to his actors, practically orgasmic over Dominique’s performance as he mouthed the dialogue along with her.
As they neared the end of the scene, a lone tear streaked down Dominique’s face. She shyly wiped it away and said, “If we don’t get him before he gets us, I want you to know, even if that mad killer carves out my heart with a hunting knife like he did to those other campers, it will still belong to you.”
Okay, really bad dialogue. But she sold it. And a euphoric Larry screamed, “Cut! That’s a wrap for today! Everybody have a nice weekend!”
Larry sprinted over to embrace Dominique. She accepted his accolades with graciousness, but kept one eye on Juan Carlos, who bounded off the set and over to Viveca. Juan Carlos, though obviously wanting to shower the older woman with affection, restrained himself when he realized I was watching. The last thing he needed was his wife’s best friend calling her to report his onset shenanigans. He settled for a soft sweep of his lips across Viveca’s still beautiful but aging and definitely pulled-back face.
Dominique excused herself from Larry, who was still f
awning over her, and dashed off to her trailer. Once she was gone, Viveca was less apprehensive about where she put her hands. Right on Juan Carlos’s butt. She yanked him closer, whispered something in his ear, and then with a flourish, grabbed her fur coat, threw on her oversized Christian Dior sunglasses despite the fact that it was already dark outside, and said her good-byes to the crew.
Juan Carlos watched her go with an adoring smile on his face. It faded when he noticed me watching the whole scene. With a scowl in my direction, he grabbed his leather jacket, tossed it over his shoulder, and marched off the set and down a trail to the parking area, where his Kawasaki motorcycle awaited him.
I gathered up my things, and followed him. I figured since Juan Carlos and Viveca had made such a production of leaving separately, then they were undoubtedly planning a secret rendezvous later. When I’d reached the end of the trail leading to the large paved lot at the foot of the park, Viveca was not there to greet him. But Dominique was. He marched up to her and enveloped her in a hug. They spoke softly, completely oblivious to me. I walked nonchalantly toward the Ford Taurus that Amy Jo had so kindly rented for me the day before in case I wanted to do some sightseeing over the weekend.
Juan Carlos brushed aside some of Dominique’s hair to get a good look at her face. He smiled, and then kissed her gently on the lips. She quivered at his touch. This girl had practically been stalking him, and now he was acting as if she was on The Bachelorette and he was the last guy holding a rose. What was going on here? It was clear to me that Juan Carlos was two-timing Laurette. But I just couldn’t figure out whom he was cheating with. Viveca or Dominique? Or both? That was too much to think about.
I slipped behind the wheel of the Taurus, and shut the door as quietly as possible. I didn’t want Juan Carlos to know I was watching. He held Dominique in his arms, and they rocked back and forth, her head resting on his broad chest. He seemed to be whispering gentle apologies in her ear.
Finally, when Larry and his assistant director loudly pounded down the trail to the lot discussing the dailies from yesterday’s shoot, Juan Carlos pulled away. He kissed the tip of his right index finger, and then pressed it to Dominique’s lips. As she ran off giddily to her car, Juan Carlos peeked around to make sure there had been no witnesses, then put on his shiny black helmet and straddled his Kawasaki. Revving it up, he squealed out of the lot, heading, from what I was guessing, straight toward a hot night of unbridled sex with Viveca. I turned the ignition key, threw the Taurus into drive, and peeled out behind him. He headed straight for the 95 Freeway north, hit the on-ramp, and at that point I almost lost him. He effortlessly weaved the cycle in and out of traffic, getting farther and farther ahead of me.