Hollywood Ending

by Tash Skilton

  “You guys are both, like, obsessed fans, right?” Ennis asks. “What’s the best part of working on the show? I don’t watch much TV myself, but I remember what it was like to be into something.”

  “Like the Rocky and Bullwinkle show?” I mutter under my breath.

  Ennis either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care.

  Then the weirdest thing happens. I can’t answer his question about the best part of working on the show. I rack my brain for pleasant anecdotes, but all I can see is Rob in the men’s bathroom during my first visit to the studio, my ponytail being chopped off by the hair and makeup department, that obnoxious AD telling me he was more British than I am, and the endless hours driving back and forth on the 405 and never seeming to get anywhere. I drop Heather’s hand and rub at my wrist, which is perpetually bruised and sore from being handcuffed to the heavy briefcase three times a week.

  “Was it something I said?” Ennis jokes.

  “There are so many great things, who can even begin,” I reply in a bright voice.

  Nina tilts her head at me. Something about her expression prompts a genuinely good memory from my job.

  “I met Westingland’s Wiki when I had to drop off a script page at her house. That was cool,” I say.

  Ennis looks to Nina for a translation.

  “J. J. Westingland is the author of the books the show is based on, and she created such a rich and detailed world she had to outsource her research to this woman named Olive,” Nina clarifies. “We call her Westingland’s Wiki.”

  Nina clears her throat, and anticipatory joy sparks up my spine, because that’s the noise she makes when she’s about to launch into an impression: “‘As you know,’” Nina says, in a pitch-perfect parody of Olive from a behind-the-scenes clip we saw once, “‘J. J. only came up with five words for the Ageless language: ‘ancestor,’ ‘honor,’ ‘duty,’ ‘love,’ and ‘slop.’”

  I laugh so hard I start coughing.

  Nina doubles down: “‘Using my advanced degree in linguistics, I extrapolated outward from those sounds and meanings to construct a guidebook of terms and phrases using a combination of Old English, Latin, and the sound my cat makes when she would prefer not to go on a walk.’”

  I slap the table, startling Heather. “I saw the cat! Or at least, a cat, staring at me from on top of her bookshelf, with a leash and collar dangling from its neck.”

  “And you didn’t liberate the poor creature?” Nina says.

  “That’s a question that will haunt me the rest of my days, Nina.”

  “Anyone up for dessert?” Nina stands to clear the dishes.

  “Does the Yiga Clan like bananas?” I reply and Nina guffaws.

  Ennis and Heather look at each other. Heather shrugs.

  “Is this more TV stuff?” Ennis asks.

  “Sorry, it’s from Breath of the Wild,” Nina replies. “Legend of Zelda?”

  Heather’s smile is strained. “I’ve actually got to be up early tomorrow, so I’m going to head out, but thanks for the offer.”

  Ennis meanders to the couch—aka my bed—and stretches out on it. As predicted, he didn’t bat an eye at the Kingdom of Six quilt, but when I steal a look at Heather, she’s squinting at it, perplexed.

  I suddenly feel self-conscious, and move to block her gaze. “Sorry you have to go. Can I walk you to your car?”

  “Sure. Nice seeing you again, Nina, and nice meeting you, Ennis.”

  We ride the elevator in silence and emerge from the building onto Third Street.

  “Have you been to the Farmers Market at the Grove yet? I love having it within walking distance,” I remark.

  “Mmm, I bet.”

  “Also, Molly Malone’s is a block away and has decent live music, according to Sam, anyway. I’m all, ‘They sure sang and played those instruments, didn’t they?’”

  She nods but doesn’t take the conversational ball and run with it. The air feels heavy with something and I don’t have to guess what it is. Nina and my Fugue-GetAboutIt state is alive and well, despite going missing for five years. A familiar apology, honed from past conversations with Matty, rises up my throat.

  “Sorry that Nina and I got a bit hyper back there. The show tends to bring that out in us, but it was rude and I should’ve been more aware of it.”

  “It’s not that. You guys are friends and of course you’re going to be laughing together about your favorite show when you both work on it. But when I asked you to cook dinner for me, I thought it would be the two of us. We didn’t get to catch up as much as I was hoping.”

  “Then we’ll make it you and me next time. If you’d like a next time, that is.”

  Her shoulders relax. “That sounds great.”

  “Okay, I’ll plan something. Does next weekend work? Oh, wait—my sister’s going to be here, but I’d love to see you after she heads out.”

  “Of course. Mindy, right? In England?”

  “Close. She’s called Millie, but yeah.”

  “Enjoy your time with Millie. She’s quite a bit younger than you, if I remember correctly?”

  “Yes. My parents like to birth a child in one country, raise it till the age of seven, and then bugger off with it to the opposite side of the Atlantic. We were both raised as only children, in a way.”

  “Like some type of social experiment.”

  “So that’s why a documentary crew was always following us around.”

  Heather smiles and this time it looks genuine. Crisis averted.

  “Do you really have to get up early tomorrow, or were you trying to escape?” I ask gently.

  “No, that was true. I’m hiking Kenter Canyon.”

  “Oh, cool! Have fun. I still haven’t made it out there, but it’s supposed to be really scenic.”

  Heather and I hiked a lot during our summer together, and I know it’s important to her that she have that outlet.

  She climbs in her car and I do that thing where I smack the top of the vehicle before she drives off, which I’ve never understood but have seen in countless movies. I should ask Nina where it comes from.

  No, actually, I should not ask Nina anything. She’s trying to spend time with her boyfriend right now and I need to make myself scarce. My phone’s in the apartment so I don’t have any way of knowing when she and Ennis will be—ugh—“done” with each other, so I walk around the Tar Pits for a while, empathizing with the woolly mammoths and dire wolves who got sucked into a deadly morass from which they’d never climb out.

  Eventually I find myself back in my building, knocking on Sam’s door. He greets me with a pizza slice in hand and an action flick on TV.

  “Hey, how’d the noodles turn out? Did you bring me any?”

  “Shit, I should’ve made extra. I’m sorry.”

  “I’m joking, I didn’t expect you to. How’d it go with Heather?”

  “Iffy. I wasn’t a good host.”

  “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “Anyway, Nina and Ennis need space.” I spread my hands open in a helpless gesture.

  “Mi couch-bed is su couch-bed if it comes to that.” He makes room for me on the couch and we watch the movie to the end, and then through every credit, which is something I never did until I moved to LA. It’s the respectful thing to do when you work in a one-industry town.

  “Is it possible to have the Sunday blues on a Saturday?” I ask.

  Sam frowns. “The name suggests no.”

  “Right.”

  Sunday blues stemmed from my childhood. After I moved to New York and started second grade, every Sunday afternoon brought with it an insidious feeling that struck around four p.m., asking me if I’d truly finished my homework, and casually dismantling whatever pleasant feelings I’d managed to accrue from not being at school the past day and a half.

  I haven’t felt this sensation in ages, and I can’t pinpoint why it’s hitting so hard now. Killer job? Check. Awesome roommate? Check.

  Maybe if I focus on the next movie Sam c
hooses, I can pull up the drawbridge before the blues slip past my castle walls and take the throne.

  * * *

  My “Sunday” blues lingered for days. By Tuesday, the sensation had grown rather than abated. It didn’t help that I woke up Tuesday morning to the sight of the Burger King crown on Cardboard Lucinda’s head, indicating that Nina and Ennis wanted privacy tonight. Nina was long gone already, and now Ennis would learn about her day before I did. He was completely unworthy of that honor. I craved a cigarette, and I could’ve channeled my misery into a gym workout, but instead I channeled it into baking a masterpiece seraphim food cake. The briefcase wouldn’t be ready at Vasquez until eleven a.m. today, so I had extra time before I had to leave.

  When I drove past the security gate of the studio, cake in tow, there was nowhere to park; the lot was overrun with Star Waggons (trailers for the actors), as well as a brigade of aluminum buses I’d never seen before. The air rippled with tension and an unpleasant smell as I trudged a quarter-mile to the studio entrance from the alternate lot.

  Arms shaking, legs sore, sweat gathering along my temple and spine, I couldn’t shake the sensation of dread that increased with every step closer to my destination.

  So that’s what this is. Not Sunday blues; dread.

  I dreaded my sojourns at the studio.

  If I hadn’t been so perplexed and disturbed by this revelation, I might have been aware of certain noises surrounding me.

  What noises? Oh, just hoofbeats and a scream of “Loose horse!” before a galloping destrier in blinders and medieval armor thundered past within a foot of me, causing me to holler, jump backward, and drop my cake.

  Heart bashing against my rib cage, I windmilled pointlessly with my arms before landing squarely on my shoulder on the asphalt next to the smashed cake, all of which was witnessed by six horse trainers and David Sherman, the show’s resident three-time Emmy winner for his portrayal of Jeff the Warlock.

  * * *

  “So then, when I’m convalescing with an ice pack in Dominic and Daniela’s office—have you met the siblings yet? They run the place—Janine calls and goes, ‘Before you leave, I have a quick, easy task for you. A charity auction needs a hundred and fifty signed scripts by the weekend, so try to get as many cast members as possible to sign them—the more signatures, the more they’ll be worth.’”

  “No,” Nina groans sympathetically, as I recount the incident to her that evening at home.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “In what universe is that task ‘quick’ or ‘easy’?”

  “Agreed. I hobble outside to the set, with the briefcase attached, of course—I swear it gets heavier each week, and I still don’t know what’s inside it. I’m also carrying a pile of scripts and trying to figure out how I’m going to fulfill Janine’s command, when David Sherman comes to my rescue again.”

  Nina grins ear to ear and claps her hands. “Yessss! Tell me!”

  “He goes, ‘You took quite a fall earlier—are you okay?’ in the nicest voice, and I was struck mute.”

  “The most evil character on the show. . . .”

  “Was the only person to inquire about my well-being. Yep.”

  I sink back into the memory. David stands four feet eight inches, but I’d never realized until meeting him how he always hunched himself even further to play Jeff. Also, he looked completely transformed with a smile on his face and his signature goatee shaved off. I’ll remember our interaction the rest of my life.

  “You’re my favorite character!” I’d blurted out. “I mean, your character is my favorite character. You’re my favorite actor.”

  “That’s very kind. Are you with craft services?”

  “No, I’m a PA. I made the cake on my own time, because I wanted . . . anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m still feeling my way around.”

  “Young blood,” David said in his creepy, croaky Jeff voice before giving a hearty laugh. “The show is lucky to have you, making cakes for everyone like that. Better luck next time; what was it, three layers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Mr. Sherman, that’s a wrap for you, see you tomorrow,” the AD called out.

  David nodded at me and walked away.

  I came to my senses before he got too far.

  “Wait! Would it be—could you mind . . . I mean, would you mind signing a few of these?”

  I set the enormous stack of script title pages on a table.

  David stared at me, deadpan. “A few?”

  Between my embarrassing fall, my throbbing shoulder, my ruined cake, and my fanboy flailing, I felt reduced. Utterly, crushingly reduced.

  “Any amount would help. It’s for a charity auction.”

  He considered this, then pulled over a chair and sat down. “I’ll do fifty. How about that?”

  “Brilliant, thank you.”

  “Then what happened?” Nina asks, pulling me out of the memory. I stare into space, barely cognizant of her question.

  “Let me get you some water.” She returns with a glass filled to the top. She places it carefully in my hand, but even so, it nearly slips from my grasp.

  “Thanks. Yeah. It was a long day.”

  “You drifted off there for a sec. Take a moment.”

  I scratch the hair at the nape of my neck, stalling, uncertain how I can possibly finesse the next part to spare her the truth about Roberto. “Right. What happened next was, I noticed Rob squinting at us. He seemed curious about what David and I were up to, so I waved him over, trying to be friendly, hoping that if he saw his castmate signing scripts, he might feel inclined to join us, or even slighted if I didn’t ask him, too.”

  “Oh, God. What did he say?”

  “Um, I’m not sure I remember.”

  Our eyes lock. “Yes, you do,” Nina says. “It was something awful, wasn’t it?”

  I swallow. “He came over, got up in my face, and whispered: ‘NEVER make me walk to you.’”

  Nina’s jaw slowly drops.

  “He was probably joking,” I say weakly.

  She looks down and shakes her head. Her jaw is tight. “No. He wasn’t. Because he’s awful.”

  We stare at each other for another long beat.

  I break first. “So awful!”

  “He’s the worst!”

  “I didn’t want to say anything because I wanted everything to be wonderful for you.”

  “I wanted everything to be wonderful for you!”

  Hoping to entertain her, I slide onto the floor and curl into a fetal position, rocking to and fro. “I hate him so much! Why is he allowed to exist!”

  She joins me on the ground, two traumatized, low-level pawns, rocking for their lives.

  “They don’t reimburse for gas,” I tell her. “So every time I drive to the studio I lose money. It’s like I’m paying them to work there.”

  She makes a sound between a laugh and a howl. “They made me stay up until three a.m. on a Saturday to announce Stu Stu’s cameo!”

  “I need workers’ comp and physical therapy from the briefcase! And now my shoulder!”

  “I had to look at Pathoro’s torture scene frame by frame to find the exact right one to meme!”

  “Roberto made me flush his toilet!”

  Nina stops rocking. “You win.”

  “That’s not winning!”

  Frenetic laughter overtakes us. The absurdity of our surroundings—CoRaB quilt on the wall, Lucinda cardboard cutout in the corner, Jeff clock glowering from the kitchen—launches us into another fit of laughter.

  I rub my eyes and sit up with a groan, unable to determine which part of my body is in the most pain. “What I’m about to tell you can never leave this room.”

  “I swear on the quilt.”

  “Picture me standing there on set, with Roberto’s rancid, entitled breath still warm on my face. Are you picturing it?”

  “In high-def, with smell-o-vision.”

  “It was in that moment I made a decision. I gathered up all the Sharpies and
script title pages and I decided I would go home and forge everyone’s signatures one hundred and fifty times. This is an act for which I will no doubt be fired, should it be discovered. Worse, I’ll be sent to fandom hell after I die. So if you want plausible deniability, I suggest you leave while you still can.”

  “Sebastian,” she jokes, her hand on my good shoulder. “We’re already in fandom hell.”

  CHAPTER 20

  NINA

  “How’s this?” Sebastian asks as he shows me his facsimile of Francis Jean Taylor’s signature. It was easy enough to find examples of all of the main cast members’ autographs online (we stuck with the three main actors and Lou Trewoski since we have to do everything times 150). Less easy is getting those signatures to match.

  Case in point: Sebastian’s attempt looks like it was definitely done by an under-five . . . as in under five years old.

  “Er . . .” I say as I look at the shaky capital F. “Maybe I should try to handle her. That’s some pretty impressive cursive. And I do have calligraphy experience.”

  He grins. “I almost forgot about your Etsy enterprise.” For a few summers in high school and college, I did some wedding calligraphy for extra cash. I had to put an end to it when tendonitis and my shoulder pain merged into one giant mess of pinched nerves and strained muscles and my physical therapist basically banned me from the surprisingly lucrative world of place cards.

  Speaking of which, I look over with a worried expression at Sebastian’s wrist. It looks bruised and angry.

  “Is that from the fall?” I ask.

  He looks down. “No. Not this. This is from the briefcase. This is from the fall.” He rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, where the upper part of his bicep is starting to turn a deep shade of purple. Even he looks surprised at its appearance. “Oh. It didn’t look like that a few hours ago.”

  “That must really hurt,” I commiserate.

  “Eh. It’s all relative. The abject humiliation was worse, honestly.”

  “Okay, new plan,” I say, as I go into the kitchen and fill a Ziploc with ice, wrapping it in paper towels before I bring it back to him.

  “Is your other arm okay?” I ask. “Can you use it to hold this on your shoulder?” I give him the ice.