The Actor's Guide To Adultery

by Rick Copp

  “Sounds simple enough,” I said.

  “Excellent. We can wrap this scene up by lunch,” Larry said as he jogged back over to the camera and slid into his director’s chair. As the makeup and hair people rushed in for final touchups and the cameras began rolling, I tried again with my new costar.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

  He didn’t answer me. The goofy face of Elmer Fudd simply stared at me. And the open slits in the eyes weren’t big enough for me to see anything behind it.

  “Quiet on the set, please!” said the assistant director.

  “We’re rolling,” said the cameraman.

  “And action!” roared Larry.

  Maggie the script coordinator, a been-there, done-that, bored veteran in her late forties, who had worked on countless productions, read Simon’s lines.

  “Daddy, look out, he’s right behind you,” she said flatly, with all the enthusiasm and dedication of a DMV lifer.

  Looking at empty air in front of me since the boy playing my son was absent, I shot out my hand and shrieked, “Run, Joey, run!”

  “No, Dad, not without you,” Maggie read directly from the script. A coma patient would have given more of a performance.

  I turned to see Elmer Fudd raising the rubber machete over his head.

  “No, please don’t!” Shoot. As the words came out, I realized the correct line was “No, please, no!” and I hated disrespecting the writer’s words, but Larry didn’t yell “Cut!” so I kept going.

  Elmer pressed the heel of his boot on my chest and shoved me down so I was on my back, struggling and wriggling like an upended cockroach. The guy pressed harder with his boot to the point where I could barely breathe. Either he was truly in the moment or he just didn’t like me. I did what the script called for and covered my face with my hands and released a guttural wail. Elmer slashed down seven times with his rubber machete. He was supposed to stop a couple inches short of my head, but instead he managed to whack me five out of seven hits. Since this was a master shot, Larry had decided not to use the blood squibs that would illustrate my head coming apart. He was saving those for the close-ups.

  “And . . . cut!” Larry said. He leapt up and excitedly ran over to us. “Beautiful! Just beautiful.”

  I was happy he was pleased. It would make up for some of my blunders so far, such as my disruptive cell phone and my call time tardiness.

  Larry threw his arms around Elmer Fudd. “I love you, man. You’re so fucking scary.”

  I waited for Larry to compliment me, but he was too preoccupied showering praise on my costar. “Man, I believed you were a nut job. I really did. You’re a natural.”

  I tugged on Larry’s sweatshirt. “Need me to make any adjustments for the next take?”

  Larry threw me a cursory glance, suddenly aware of my presence. “No, Jarrod, that was fine.”

  I had come to the set totally unprepared so it shouldn’t have bugged me that I was all but ignored. But it did. Actors live with so much rejection they crave any kind of positive reinforcement. We want everything we do to be adored and we have a need to be constantly showered with accolades as if every day we were the special guest on James Lipton’s Inside the Actor’s Studio series.

  “I want to watch the playback on the monitor and then we’ll go again,” Larry said as he hustled back over to the phalanx of cameras and film equipment.

  I turned to Elmer. “Nice job.”

  “Thanks,” he said in his low, barely audible, raspy voice.

  “For a minute there, I thought you were really having fun killing me.”

  Elmer removed his mask to finally reveal himself. Wendell Butterworth stood there, leering at me. His grotesque face was decorated with a sick, disturbing smile.

  Chapter 21

  Wendell Butterworth just stood there grinning as I sent all the furry little creatures of the forest scattering with my yelling. The startled crew descended upon us, and after I explained just who the man in the Elmer Fudd mask was, Larry marched up to him, poked a finger in his face, and with a quiet authority said, “You’re fired. I don’t ever want to see you near this set again, or I’ll call the cops.”

  A couple of burly grips escorted him off the set.

  “Can’t we have him arrested?”

  “For what?” Larry asked.

  “I don’t know. For impersonating an extra or something.”

  Larry put a comforting arm around my shoulder. “I don’t think so, Jarrod. He gave us his correct name and social security number when we cast him.”

  I nodded, completely shaken. Now that he was sprung from prison, Wendell was never going to leave me alone.

  “Jarrod, I’m so sorry,” Larry said. “I thought he was a local. I hired him because of his intimidating bulk.”

  “It’s okay, Larry, you couldn’t have known.”

  Juan Carlos had arrived on the set just in time to witness the whole messy scene. He took great pleasure in watching my meltdown. Not even Viveca’s little kisses on his shoulder or playful butt squeezes could draw his attention from me. After the initial flurry of drama had died down, Juan Carlos sauntered over and said with a self-satisfied smile, “Well, well, well. Jarrod has a stalker.” He took a long sip of his coffee. “Maybe now you’ll get a little taste of what it feels like to have someone following you around, watching your every move. How ironic.”

  “You know what amazes me the most, Juan Carlos?” I said, red-faced but remaining calm.

  “What’s that?” he said.

  “That you actually know the definition of ironic, and can use it in a sentence.”

  He didn’t like that one. He almost hurled his cup of coffee in my face. But he thought better of it, and strutted off in a huff.

  Larry declared the campground a closed set for the duration of the shoot, and security guards were hired to patrol all access routes into the wooded park. Shooting resumed without incident, I finished my death scene with a strapping young grip filling in as Elmer Fudd, and we were wrapped by five-thirty in the afternoon. Larry was impressed with my performance (I didn’t have to dig deep to find a lot of fear to play), and as the cast and crew dispersed for the day to various restaurants and bars, I was left alone in my trailer to change clothes and head back to the Ritz Plaza alone.

  My cell phone rang. I pressed the talk button and cradled the phone between my left shoulder and ear as I stuffed my script and spare shirts into a gym bag.

  “Hey, babe, just checking up on you,” Charlie said. “Have a good day?”

  I didn’t want to run crying to Charlie every time something scared me. I had been standing up for myself since I was a little kid on the playground cornered by a gang of bullies, and I certainly was not about to become one of those whiny, victimized boyfriends who always rely on their better half to get through everything. On the other hand, this was the third time Wendell Butterworth had shown up, and I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “He’s here, Charlie. He’s here in Florida.”

  “Who?”

  “Wendell Butterworth.”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  I told him the whole ugly scene on the set with Wendell pretending to split my head open with a rubber machete while wearing an Elmer Fudd mask.

  “Christ, Jarrod, why didn’t you call me the minute it happened ?”

  “Because I didn’t want to disrupt shooting. We’re half a day behind schedule as it is.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know. They tossed him off the set immediately. He could be anywhere.”

  Charlie took a deep breath, and then said, “Okay, I don’t want you going back to that hotel by yourself. I want you to stay with someone tonight.”

  I wasn’t sure who that someone could be. I had been so single-minded in my mission to expose Juan Carlos as a philanderer and connect him to the Austin Teboe murder that I hadn’t exactly made a lot of burgeoning friendships on the set. Amy Jo was ticked off at me for being late
this morning. Stella had already mentioned she was going up to Palm Beach to pal around with some friends. Juan Carlos despised me so it was safe to assume his two female lovers, Viveca and Dominique, were in the same camp. Larry was my boss, and not about to do me any favors after I’d mucked up two takes of his movie with my cell phone. And Simon was the spawn of Satan and more dangerous in my mind than Wendell Butterworth. My parents were too far away. After racking my brain, there was really only one person whom I would feel safe staying with tonight and who would be open to putting me up.

  “You got somebody you can crash with?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Good. I want you to call me when you get there so I know you made it.”

  “Okay.”

  “The chief is on the other line. I’ve got to go. Call me.”

  “Charlie . . . ?”

  But he was gone. And I was alone again.

  I finished packing up my gym bag, and hurried down the wooded path toward the parking lot. The Taurus was the last vehicle left. I was surprised no one had offered to stay with me until I was ready to leave given the dramatic events that happened earlier, but I wasn’t about to win any popularity contests on this job.

  I jumped behind the wheel and drove straight into the glittery lights of South Beach. I didn’t stop until I reached a parking space marked VISITOR in front of a boat slip off Ocean Avenue occupied by the QE3 houseboat.

  As I approached the front door, I suddenly felt foolish. What was I doing? I was a grown man who could take care of myself, and here I was about to ask a complete stranger to put me up because I was too afraid to spend the night alone. Despite Charlie’s orders, I wasn’t going to be some kind of damsel in distress. No. I would go back to my hotel room, order a nice big juicy steak so I would have a sharp knife to defend myself with, and tough it out. I walked back to the Taurus and was about to get in when the door to the houseboat flew open. Bowie stood there wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. The lights from the marina illuminated every contour of his muscular torso. Damn. It was going to be a lot harder to leave now.

  “I thought that was you. I was making some dinner and saw you through the kitchen window,” he said, a warm smile on his face.

  “I . . . I don’t want to bother you. Go back to what you were doing.”

  “I’ve made enough for two. Why don’t you come in?”

  I wanted to. I really did. But it didn’t feel right. No. I had to leave now.

  But then again, I would just be doing what Charlie wanted me to do. Right? He was adamant. He didn’t want me by myself tonight. I would be openly defying the wishes of my boyfriend. And what would that say about our relationship? I had gone against Charlie enough lately. It was time I started to listen to him. At least that was how I convinced myself it would be okay to spend the evening with Bowie Lassiter.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  Bowie opened the door wide, welcoming me inside.

  After a feast of seafood pasta, spinach salad, and warm chocolate cake, Bowie and I settled down on his couch to polish off the last of our third bottle of Chardonnay, our bellies stuffed and our eyes drowsy. Over dinner I had told him about the Wendell Butterworth drama, and he was happy to know I trusted him enough to put myself in his hands. Figuratively, of course.

  As we sat on the couch, our knees slightly brushed against each other’s. I felt woozy and naughty and none of that was good. I had to go to bed. Alone.

  “Bowie, I really appreciate you letting me stay here,” I said, as I yanked my knee away from his so they were no longer touching.

  “I have to admit,” he said with a sly smile, “I was pretty stoked when I saw you loitering outside the houseboat.”

  “Loitering?” I said, feigning indignation. “I wasn’t loitering.”

  “Yes, you were. You were debating with yourself about whether or not you were going to come in.”

  How humiliating. He was completely aware of my attraction to him.

  “But I’m glad things worked out the way they did,” he said as he reached out and planted a hand on my knee, drawing it back closer to his. Then, using my knee to steady himself, Bowie leaned in slowly. His lips were about to touch mine when suddenly I jerked back, spilling my wine all over his couch.

  “Oh, damn, I’m so sorry,” I said, wiping the already stained upholstery with my hand.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s white wine. And the couch is pretty much trashed already if you hadn’t noticed,” he said with a chuckle.

  Our eyes met, and he took my hand. “Hey, I’m sorry if I was moving too fast for you. I just really like you a lot.”

  “Bowie, I’m so sorry. But I have to tell you, I’m in a relationship.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  “I’m not going to say you got the wrong impression. I gave you the impression I wanted you to have. I didn’t mention it before on purpose, and I feel lousy about that.”

  “It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.” He was trying hard not to look disappointed, but was having a difficult time of it.

  My cell phone chirped from inside my coat pocket.

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Sure.” He stood up and carried the empty bottle of Chardonnay into the kitchen. I fumbled through the pockets of my coat before finding the one storing my cell phone.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hey, babe,” Charlie said. “Did you get to your friend’s safely?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m here now.”

  “Good. You don’t know how much better that makes me feel.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow from the set.”

  “No need to do that. I’ll be there by then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m at the airport now,” Charlie said. “I’m taking an overnight flight to Miami that arrives in the morning. I’ll be there by six.”

  “Charlie, really, you don’t have to—”

  “I know I don’t have to,” he said. “I want to. I want to see you. And I want to be there with you if that freak pops up again.”

  I glanced over at Bowie. He was scraping a few stray noodles from the seafood pasta off our plates into the garbage can before stacking the dirty dishes in the sink. He caught me looking and I swiftly averted my eyes.

  “So where are you?” Charlie asked. “I’ll just come there to pick you up.”

  “No,” I said much too quickly. “Let’s meet back at the hotel. The Ritz Plaza. You have the address.”

  “Okay, sounds good, babe. Sleep well.”

  “Good night, Charlie.”

  I was about to hang up when I heard his voice pipe up again. “Wait. What’s the name and number of your friend so I can call in case the flight’s late or something?”

  I hesitated, but in the interest of full disclosure, I said. “Bowie Lassiter.”

  “Are you serious?” he said.

  “Yes. He lives off Ocean Avenue—”

  “On a houseboat called the QE3.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Jarrod, that’s my friend. The one in Miami who I’ve been calling for information.”

  I could almost hear God laughing.

  Chapter 22

  “You’re that actor? Charlie’s boyfriend?” Bowie said as he grabbed his wineglass, swished the last of his Chardonnay around, and then swallowed it in one big gulp.

  “Small world, isn’t it?” I said, instantly embarrassed by the lameness of my response.

  I was still reeling from the shock. So was Bowie. After hanging up with Charlie, I knew I had to disclose everything. I didn’t want any secrets coming back to haunt me. Secrets inevitably have a way of doing that.

  “It makes sense now that I think about it,” Bowie said. “Charlie called me to find out the dirt on Martinez, and then I run into you spying on him. Kind of funny we didn’t figure it out before.”

  “Yeah, it’s a laugh riot,” I said. I
wanted to get out of there. I was so consumed by guilt and confusion, and now with Charlie winging his way south, I had a desperate need to regroup. “Bowie—”

  “Hey,” he said, stopping me. “No worries. You were up front with me. You told me you were involved before anything happened. Everything’s cool.”

  “So you and Charlie are old friends?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a smile. “Just old friends.”

  “He’s on his way to Florida,” I said. “I told him I’d meet him at the hotel when he gets here in the morning.”

  “What about this Butterworth dude?” he said.

  “If I’m lucky, right now he’s waiting for me in my hotel room with a loaded pistol, ready to put me out of my misery.”

  Bowie chuckled. “Seriously, you want me to escort you back there to make sure it’s safe?”

  Handsome and chivalrous. Charlie was on his way. Charlie was on his way. I had to keep telling myself that. “No. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.” Yeah, right. The first sign of trouble, and I hightailed it over to a Navy Seal’s houseboat to hide out. “Thanks for dinner. I had a great time.”

  “Me too,” he said.

  He walked me to the door. I resisted the urge to give him a hug good night. Hugs can lead to a kiss. And one kiss can lead to more kisses. And kisses can lead to . . . well, then you’re screwed. Literally.

  “Good night,” I said.

  “Good night, Jarrod.”

  I slipped behind the wheel of the Taurus, and as I drove back up Ocean Avenue toward the Ritz Plaza, I glanced through the rearview mirror and saw him standing in the doorway of the houseboat, watching me. He was still there when I turned right onto a side street, heading for Collins Avenue.

  I got back to my hotel room without incident. Apparently Wendell had suspended his stalking activities for the night. Even delusional nutcases need their beauty sleep.

  I climbed into bed, picked up my Creeps script off the night table, and turned to an earmarked page a third of the way through it to study the scene of me arriving at the campground with my son. We were scheduled to shoot it the day after tomorrow, and I needed to memorize the dialogue. Movie scenes are almost always shot out of sequence. The order is designed to accommodate a wide variety of considerations such as location availability and actors’ schedules. So it was not unusual that my death scene was in the can before my first appearance in the movie. After reading it through a few times, my eyelids became heavy, and I fought to keep them open, but within moments I had drifted off to sleep.