Jump Cut

by Ted Staunton

  “Spare me.” GL holds up a hand. “Your cousins. What do they have to do?”

  I tell her about Spain and France and Africa and Bunny’s tattoo. Which reminds me, I should text him.

  “You must have been thrilled with this assignment,” GL says drily. “Why you?”

  I can’t say, Because he didn’t like me much, so I say, “I guess because I like movies. I’m going to film school in the fall.”

  “Film school. Hmph. So’s AmberLea, if she ever… Never mind. In my day you only called it film if you wore a beret. We called it pictures and you worked in them. Nobody did film studies. Never mind that either. What are you thinking?”

  “Huh?”

  “For our scene. Profiles? Tight two-shot? How do you want to frame it? You light me from the right and only shoot my left side, clear? And I’m closer to the camera, it’s my scene.”

  “Oh, uh—”

  “Cut or fade?”

  “Well—”

  “And let’s be clear right now: no tongues and I don’t do nudity.”

  I almost drive off the road.

  “Easy there. Just kidding. Peck on the cheek; your right, my left. How do you set it up? What’s your establishing scene?”

  “My—?”

  “What comes before? You can’t just shoot a two-second cheek buss. Who wants to watch that?”

  “I don’t know, I—”

  “I thought you said you wanted to make pictures. I’m giving you the chance of a lifetime here, and you should damn well appreciate it. You’re working with a Hollywood star on your first feature. What have you shot so far?”

  “Uh…nothing.”

  “Nothing? Why the hell not? Listen, Quentin Maraschino or whatever your name is, what did your Grandpa David tell you to do?”

  “Make a movie?”

  “I’ll do the asking. Of course, make a movie. Of what?”

  “Us kiss—I mean, me getting a kiss from you.”

  “Well, that’s not a whole movie. Set up, intro, action, climax, clinch, fade. What’s wrong with you? Get shooting.”

  “Shooting what?”

  “This. Your grandpa said, Make a movie. Look at what I’m giving you here. What more do you want?”

  “But this is just…stuff. Real life. It’s weird, but there’s no story or anything.”

  Her painted-on eyebrows go up, and I can tell she’s probably rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses. “No sto—You really don’t know anything, do you? It’s all in the editing. Life is a movie with no jump cuts. It’s the cutting that makes the movie.”

  “But—”

  “Skip it.” GL sighs. “Just my luck for my last picture; the story of my career.” She flicks ash from her cigarette, takes a deep breath. “How did your grandpa die?”

  “He just died. In his sleep.”

  “Good exit.” GL nods. “I should be so lucky. I don’t have a history of smooth exits.” She throws the cigarette away. “And watch your driving. You follow too close. I can’t exit yet.”

  FOURTEEN

  After that, GL clams up and pretty soon she’s snoozing. That’s fine with me, even though she snores. I’m still pretty steamed by that “you don’t know anything” crack. I mean, what has there been worth filming? GL shooting the gun maybe, with Al tied up? Yeah, right. I can imagine how happy Al would be, all over YouTube. I’m still a little sore from the last time he grabbed me.

  The traffic gets really busy and I have to concentrate. It’s too weird for anyone to believe anyway. Life is not a movie. A movie is heroes and hot girls and special effects and adventures and excitement, not real life. AmberLea is not Hollywood hot. Driving old ladies up to cottage country to get a kiss on the cheek is not Fast and Furious. Al—well, I’ve got to admit I still don’t get how Al fits in. If he’s for real, then he’s the one thing that could be from a movie.

  And then I get it: what we’re doing. What we’re doing is Gloria Lorraine trying to make her life into a movie. Of course. She just said, My last picture and Look what I’m giving you here. This is her little fantasy, and she’s dragging me and AmberLea along for the ride. I bet Al is a washed-up actor too. Probably even his mustache was fake. I bet she’s hired him to act this out.

  And then I really get it, and it’s even worse than I thought. What if Grandpa worked this out with Gloria Lorraine, to give me a fake adventure, one that I could handle, instead of a real adventure, like climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. I guess a tattoo and a road trip are all he figured Bun and I would be up for. I’m surprised he didn’t just have Bunny order a T-shirt. Oh, man. And to think I really got into it there, blowing off Jer and acting like a character in a B movie at the border and in the Tim’s parking lot.

  Now I’m totally bummed. I drive up Highway 427 and then crawl along the 401 to Highway 400, where we go north again. All the time I’m wishing I could just pull over and walk away. That would be tricky on a major freeway. Besides, even though Toronto is my town, I don’t exactly know where I am. Then I do start to recognize stuff, because this is the way to Grandpa’s cottage too. By now it’s about two thirty in the afternoon, so it’s getting crazy busy here too, on a summery Friday. It would take me forever to get home from here. I keep driving.

  Before we get to Barrie, I pull into a highway service center. We gas up, then park. I take Mister Bones over to the rest area, which is a patch of grass with some picnic tables under a few trees. The others go inside. I don’t really want to deal with them right now.

  Mister Bones does his thing, and I check for messages while I think over what to do. There are two from Bunny. The last one reads, did u look yet? tel me. I flip back through his messages, and there it is: a photo of his tattoo. It’s a weird one. Instead of a mosquito with a cigar and a machine gun, there’s a striped number fifteen and, beside it, a birthday candle that I guess is supposed to be blown out. What the…? Maybe Bun chose it instead because he’s fifteen. Who knows? Right now I’m so bummed I don’t really care. I text back, very cool what will u get when u r 16? I skip the messages from Deb and Jer and shut off the phone. Having my whole pretend “adventure” stage-managed by Grandpa is bad enough; I don’t need parents looking over my shoulder too.

  I stare at Highway 400 and wonder if I should just try hitchhiking home. Maybe that would be an adventure. Then I get a better idea: if GL wants a movie, she can have one. Only this one is going to show the whole thing for the load of bull it really is.

  I lug Mister Bones back to the car and get my new video camera from the trunk, where it’s nestled between the icing sugar—or whatever—and the gas cylinder. Mister Bones and I head back to the shade. When I take the camera out of its case, Grandpa’s second envelope falls out. I stuff it back in. It hardly matters now. Anyway, it’s probably a ticket to a Disney movie and money for an ice-cream cone.

  At least the camera is very cool. It has HD and an extra powerful zoom. I take off the lens cap and hit the Power button. The battery is charged up; I’d done that to get ready for this morning. On the view screen, I see the toes of my Converse One Stars. I raise the camera, bend over the screen and do a slow sweep around the parking lot. Cars pulling in and out, people stretching, taking little kids by the hand, a couple of other people with dogs.

  I keep going until I get the Caddy in the shot, way across the baking asphalt. Then the whole scene is blanked out as a black Lincoln Navigator with tinted windows rolls past my lens. So I track it all the way to the far bay of the gas bar. I try the zoom, just a little. The driver gets out and goes to the pump. He’s superskinny, in a preppy navy blazer, khakis and a pink shirt. He looks like Adrien Brody with boat shoes. Then a guy who looks like King Kong in a polo shirt gets out of the passenger side and helps a little old man out of the backseat. I zoom in more. The old dude is wearing a red blazer and a yellow shirt with a green tie and a snappy white straw hat. His shoes match his hat. Down by my ankles, Mister Bones begins to growl.

  FIFTEEN

  As King Kong and the old man s
huffle in one door of the service center, I pull back and pick up AmberLea, GL and a bulky guy coming out another. The guy’s in a Toronto Maple Leafs cap and a green T-shirt with white blobs that spell Ontario Rocks. Mister Bones stops growling. I zoom in tight this time. Ontario Rocks is Al. What was left of the mustache is gone. Mister Bones perks up right away and starts yipping. Al’s head swivels, and they come over to us.

  “Whattaya filming?” Al asks suspiciously.

  “Is my hair right?” says GL. “Never shoot without setup, Stanley.”

  “Just getting some real life.” I make it sound as sarcastic as possible.

  “Lemme see.” Al peers at the screen. GL crowds in with him. I play it back. Al’s eyes widen as the black Lincoln comes into focus. As the old man gets helped out of the car, Al blurts out some foreign words that I’m pretty sure are obscene.

  GL says, “Well, what a coincidence. There’s Rocco Wings. You’d think the old devil was following me.”

  It hits me that it’s the old guy from Erie Estates, only without the big glasses. Did she arrange this too? Wow, it’s getting complicated.

  “He’s not following you.” Al is practically hyperventilating as he looks over to the SUV. “He’s following me. Those are the guys who wanna ice me.” I have to hand it to him: he’s a good actor; a little over the top maybe, but good.

  “Rocco?” says Gloria Lorraine. “So you are mobbed up. I knew it. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll talk to him. He eats out of my hand. He’s seen Blond Trust eleven times.” She turns toward the service center.

  “No!” Al grabs her arm. “You can’t. It’s complicated. See, I was supposed to, uh, pick up something for him—for them—just as a favor, you unnerstand.”

  “I’ll bet you were,” says GL. “Something that looks a lot like icing sugar?”

  “Well, yeah. But the delivery guy never showed up. Only they don’t believe me.”

  “I’m not surprised, given what’s in your trunk.”

  “Aw, for the luvva—” Al smacks his own forehead. “I told them, I told you, I keep tellin’ everybody, that’s not—Aw, never mind. Point is, they think I tried to double-cross them, steal their merchandise, so they wanna ice me. Those two guys are Rocco’s sons, Vince and Tiffy; they snatched me and Mistah Bones this morning. Said the old guy wanted to do me personal. He’s extra mad because they need the classic right now. Word is, they’re doing some kind of three-way deal, with some fancy-named gang—not even a “gang,” a whaddyacallit—and a bunch of bikers, all outta state…guns, drugs, cash, the usual. I don’t know more than that and you don’t wanna. They kept me out of the loop.”

  Classic? I wonder. Maybe Al’s right; I don’t get out enough. Before I can ask what “classic” is, GL cuts in, waving a hand.

  “Rocco shakes so much he couldn’t put a bullet in a barn. He’ll be in a better mood after he uses the restroom. Prostate problems. Look, he’s coming out now.”

  Sure enough, the old guy is shuffling back out with King Kong Wings. “Get down!” Al hisses. He crouches behind me at the picnic table.

  I sigh. For a second there I was into it, but there’s a little problem with this scene. Casually I say, “So, how did they know to come here?”

  “Who knows?” Al moans, from somewhere behind my knees. “How did they know where I was this morning when I went for the pickup?”

  AmberLea lifts her shades to the top of her head and looks at me, dead-on, for the first time. “A GPS transmitter,” she says. “Like in—”

  “Red Means Go,” I finish for her. “Matt Damon, Angelina Jolie, Jeff Bridges, 2008.” I can’t help it, it’s a movie. “And they tracked the guy by a GPS attached to—”

  “The dog,” she finishes for me. AmberLea scoops up Mister Bones and grabs at his collar. He struggles and yips. I reach over and feel along the leather. There’s a bump under the metal buckle. I reach under and twist at it and off pops a button-sized something. What the…?

  “I bet it’s a magnetized transmitter,” says AmberLea.

  “Ditch it,” Al babbles. “Whatever it is, ditch it, fast. ”

  “I’ll do it,” says AmberLea. “Nobody’s seen me.”

  She takes the thing from me, puts Mister Bones down and starts across the parking lot toward an Ontario Provincial Police cruiser. Meanwhile, Adrian Brody Wings has finished gassing up. He’s moved the SUV closer to the service center doors. He and King Kong Wings are putting Rocco Wings back inside the Lincoln again.

  “Maybe they’ll just go.” Al is peeking over the picnic table. “If they get ahead of us, we’re golden.”

  “They won’t go as long as the GPS tells them they should be here,” I say. Then I remind myself not to believe this junk. For a second there, I was into it again. It’s hard not to get sucked in.

  Sure enough, KK Wings scans the parking lot. Now AB Wings heads for the service center. In his navy blazer he scuttles through knots of tourists in bright summer clothes like a cockroach in a candy store.

  I look the other way. AmberLea is at the OPP cruiser, one hand resting on the roof as she bends down to the driver’s window. I rethink my position on her butt being too big for skinny jeans.

  “No cops!” Al hisses.

  “Hush,” says GL. “Trust me. Police are not her favorite either. Do you really own a bakery too?”

  “Yes, I own a bakery!” Al sounds genuinely hurt. “I’m the King of Cannoli.”

  “So you’re just a gangster on the side.”

  “Hey, let’s just say I’m diversified. I got innaresting friends.”

  “Or family.”

  “Call them cousins.”

  AmberLea starts back toward us as AB Wings comes out of the service center. Behind her, the cruiser starts up. Now AB is looking around. He begins walking a slow sweep of the parking lot. For now his view of the Caddy is blocked by a Chevy van with cheesy-looking wolves painted on the side. He turns the other way. As he does, he reaches beneath that blue blazer and gives a little tug at the small of his back. Anyone who’s ever seen an action movie has to think, Gun. Oh, please. I roll my eyes.

  “At the very least,” Al croaks, “lemme have the piece and you get outta here before someone gets hurt.”

  “I can’t,” GL says, lighting a smoke and posing at the picnic table. “I left it in the toilet tank of that donut shop at the border.”

  Al groans and mutters more foreign-language swear words. I turn on my camera. What else is there to do?

  “That’s more like it. Remember, left side only,” Gloria Lorraine murmurs, looking away and not moving her lips. “And keep the damn light behind you.”

  AmberLea joins us as the cruiser rolls past. “Easy,” she says. “I asked how long to Torrance ’cause I got texted there was an accident up the highway. She’s going to check it out. I left the transmitter up by her light rack. Now the SUV will follow it.”

  “Right. Unless they spot the Caddy first.” I must sound too sarcastic. She looks at me and does the disappearing-chin thing. I’m tempted to make sure they spot the car. Then they can act this out and maybe I’ll be home by suppertime.

  Sure enough, AB Wings turns back toward the Caddy. As he does, two things happen at once: the wolf van backs out, blocking his view; and there’s a shout from KK Wings at the SUV. AB looks back. KK is waving frantically. Beyond him, you can just see the OPP cruiser accelerating onto the highway. AB Wings starts to run. When he hops in the SUV, it barrels away too. How the heck did they do that? I wonder. Is this—? It can’t be for real. Can it?

  Behind me, Al blows out a big shaky breath and stands up. “Good move widda GP thing. I owe ya.”

  “You already owe us for this morning,” says Gloria Lorraine, stubbing out her cigarette on the picnic table. “Now let’s get going. AmberLea, honey, primo move. Help me up. And no filming while I walk. My fans don’t need to see me totter.”

  I follow them back, still puzzling it all out. We get back to the car and something else hits me: that’s a real bulle
t hole in the windshield. I totter a little myself. Now I don’t know what to think.

  SIXTEEN

  AmberLea drives. We take Highway 11 north of Barrie. I sit in the back with Al all the way to Gravenhurst. Al smokes a cigar. I try to figure out what’s going on: real or fake? Did Grandpa plan this? And if he didn’t plan it, did he know something weird might happen? But how could…? And if they…? In the end, it’s too complicated. All I can come up with is, Go with it. Maybe it is a movie. In the movies they always go for the ride. And as soon as I think that, I feel lighter. I’ll take the ride.

  On the way to Gravenhurst we don’t see any black Lincolns, but everyone notices how the land gets rockier. “We’re getting up north now,” I call over the wind.

  “North?” GL laughs. “Don’t kid yourself. This is barely even south.”

  Americans think they know everything.

  We hit town around four thirty. GL calls for a grocery stop. “Dinner and breakfast,” she orders, pulling out American bills.

  “You prob’ly couldn’t cook your way outta a paper bag,” Al says. “The kid and I will deal widdit. Where we goin’? Full kitchen?”

  “Play it safe,” says GL. “Think barbecue.”

  When Al and I come out of the store, GL is yapping into a cell phone, AmberLea has her chin tucked in again and Mister Bones is just yapping. “Well, I need her,” GL snaps. “Really? I raised you didn’t—all right, Consuela raised you. Be glad I paid her; she earned every penny…It’s nobody’s damn business…Monday…they won’t even know she’s been gone…How? They’re not the damned FBI, they’re just a two-bit…Oh for god’s sake, house arrest is nothing. Little Moe used to…Listen, I’ll talk to them. She can call it community service. She has to do that too, doesn’t she? We’ll be in touch.” She shoves the phone at AmberLea, who shuts it down.

  Al’s ears have pricked up at FBI and house arrest. Mine too, actually. There’s a kind of embarrassed quiet as we stash the groceries in the trunk. Then GL says, “Let’s go.” She looks tired. “I need a martini. And a Dependable.”