Carrying Albert Home

by Homer Hickam

  “Good Lord!” the woman cried. “Your agent is a wonder! How did he know we needed a crocodile?”

  “He’s an alligator,” Homer said.

  The woman stared at Homer for a short second, then said, “Close enough. I’m Miss Mildred Trumball, assistant to the director, and that includes location casting. You, girl, get in my sidecar. Omar, you behind me. Can you carry the crocodile?”

  “Albert needs to do his business before we go anywhere,” Elsie said.

  Miss Trumball considered Elsie’s comment, then asked, “What’s your name, girl?”

  “Elsie. This is Albert.”

  “Eloise,” she mispronounced. “What a beautiful name! Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. You take your crocodile to do his business, then walk down that road around the curve to the first cottage on the right. That’s where Eric is. I’ll take Omar—excuse me, young man, don’t put your shirt on!—along to meet him first. Don’t be long, Eloise. Come along, Omar. Eric’s going to love you. I’m sure of it!”

  Elsie walked over to Homer and, while Miss Trumball watched with her eyebrows raised, whispered into his ear, “Who is this?”

  “I don’t know,” Homer whispered back. “Maybe we’re in a park or something and need to pay our fee to this Eric person. Guess I’d best go along.”

  “But why no shirt?”

  “Maybe he’s weird and we’ll get a discount.”

  “Okay, but don’t take off your pants.”

  Homer, thinking he had just been given very good advice, climbed into the sidecar. As he motored away, he glanced back at Elsie and Albert, both of whom were headed for some nearby bushes.

  Homer enjoyed riding in the sidecar but he didn’t get to enjoy it long. Just around the curve of the dirt road was a line of cottages built of concrete blocks set back in the saw grass amid a grove of palmettos. On the porch of the first cottage sat a man in a metal chair. Two other men sat on the porch rail and a woman was on the steps. She was holding a notebook and was apparently reading aloud from it to the three men. When Miss Trumball shut down the motorcycle, Homer heard the woman on the steps say, “. . . and then Tarzan cries out and we see a montage of elephants and lions and buffalo. They come crashing down on the pygmy village and . . .”

  To Homer’s astonishment, the man in the chair swore vehemently. “That’s the same gawdam ending there is in every other gawdam Tarzan movie! When are you buncha hacks ever gonna give me something original? Not a gawdam original thought in your gawdam heads. Get out of here! All of you, gawdammit! Who you got there, Miss Trumball?”

  “Buster’s stand-in, sir,” she answered as Homer got out of the sidecar.

  “Is this where I pay my fee?” Homer asked.

  “Lemme have a look at him. Didn’t I tell you gawdammed writers to get out of here? Get! And don’t come back until you bring me something original.”

  As the two men and the woman scattered, the man rose from his chair and walked down the steps into the grass. A bandy-legged fellow in sunglasses, a baggy shirt, and khaki pants stuffed into high-top brown boots, he imperiously inspected Homer with the intensity and arrogance of a Roman senator choosing a slave. “Damned if he ain’t close enough, Mildred,” he said, reaching out and plucking a hair from Homer’s chest. Homer winced. “We’ll need to shave him, though.”

  “I just want to pay our fee, and then we need to go,” Homer said, putting up his hands to protect his chest from further hair plucking.

  “What’s he talking about? Is he worrying about his fee? Well, you’ll get fifty a week, young fellow, and not a penny more. And your food and lodging will come out of that. Why haven’t you explained this to . . . what’s his name?”

  “His name is Omar, Eric. Omar, what’s your last name?”

  “Hickam,” Homer said. “But I think there’s been a misunderstanding here. My name isn’t Omar, it’s—”

  “Now, listen to me, Omar,” the man interrupted. “Clearly, you don’t know who I am. Perhaps you think I’m a grip or a gaffer or the best boy on this flick but in fact I’m Eric Bakersfield. Yes, that Eric Bakersfield.”

  When Homer looked blank, Miss Trumball said, helpfully, “The famous director of many great movies.”

  Bakersfield, after a brief frown in her direction, continued, “But from here on, I am God almighty to you. What should you call me? You’ll call me Mr. Bakersfield but mostly you’ll call me ‘Yes, sir, right away, sir,’ and that’s about all I want to hear out of your mouth. And who the gawdam hell is that?”

  The director’s gaze had shifted to Elsie, who had just come around the curve in the road with Albert.

  Miss Trumball jumped in. “That’s Eloise, Miss O’Leary’s stand-in. The agency sent a crocodile along, too. They should get a gold star for that, don’t you think?”

  “Her name isn’t Eloise,” Homer pointed out, “and that isn’t a croc—”

  “What did I just tell you, Omar?” Bakersfield snarled. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bakersfield. Right away, Mr. Bakersfield. Mildred, this fella better learn the rules or I don’t care how much he looks like Buster.”

  Homer wrinkled his forehead in consternation. So far, he had not understood much of anything these odd people had said. But before he could try once again to correct their various errors, a woman wearing a silk kimono and a man also wearing a silk kimono plus a beret ran up to Elsie like they were going to attack her. Instead, to Homer’s relief, they only touched her hair and crooned over her figure. “She is gonna look so good in Maude’s clothes,” the woman said.

  The man said, “She’s gonna look better than Maude. Do we have to dye her hair, Mr. Bakersfield?”

  Bakersfield walked over and ran his fingers through Elsie’s hair, giving it a careful perusal. “Her color is fine but I’d like to see a little less curl in it.”

  A rugged-looking man in khakis and a pith helmet walked over from the cottage next door and knelt down beside Albert. “What a fine animal!” he enthused as he ran his hand over the alligator’s bumps and ridges. “Very healthy, too. I can tell by his well-formed osteoderms. Obviously well trained and docile as well, not like our wild fellows here in the Springs. A little small for the wrestle scene, though.”

  “Camera angle and quick cuts can handle that, Chuck,” Bakersfield said, loftily. “I’ll make that creature look big as a house.”

  The man in the pith helmet looked up at Elsie. “I’m Chuck Noble, known around here as the reptile wrangler.” He patted Albert on his head. Albert responded with a toothy grin. “Who trained him?”

  “I guess I did,” Elsie said, flustered and pleased while the man and the woman in silk kimonos continued to fuss with her hair and coo over her clear skin.

  Bakersfield clapped his hands. “All right, Trish and Tommy, let’s give the little lady some room, let her breathe.”

  “Did you pay the fee?” Elsie asked Homer.

  “Fee? Is that all you care about, your fee?” Bakersfield demanded. “You’re supposed to be artists!” He produced a hefty sigh of exasperation. “All right, fifty dollars a week for each of you and ten for the crocodile. Fair enough? Right. Mildred, take Omar to meet Buster. Trish and Tommy, you take Eloise to meet Maude. Chuck, go forth and train the crocodile. Go on now! I’ve got to flesh out this gawdammed script with these gawdammed writers who couldn’t write their way out of a gawdam mudhole. Go on, now. Chop-chop!”

  In short order, the makeup artists dispersed with Elsie in tow. Chuck the reptile wrangler headed off with Albert on his leash and, Homer, his head spinning, found himself back in the sidecar bumping down the dirt road. When Miss Trumball next stopped, six cottages away, Homer decided to demand some answers. “I’m not getting out of this sidecar until I find out what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean?” Miss Trumball asked.

  “Elsie and I didn’t mean to cause any trouble,” Homer explained. “We parked overnight and meant to be on our way this morning. To tell you the truth, I don’t understand anything about any o
f this.”

  Miss Trumball frowned until her eyes registered a glimmer of understanding. “You mean you’re not from the agency?”

  “Actually, we’re from West Virginia.”

  “With a crocodile?”

  “Albert’s not a crocodile. He’s an alligator. And he came from my wife’s former boyfriend as a wedding gift. Her name is Elsie, not Eloise, and my name is actually Homer, not Omar, although I’ll confess that’s close. We’re carrying Albert home, you see. We’ve been on the road for . . . well, I don’t know how long. A long, long time.”

  “Well, ain’t this a crush?” Miss Trumball erupted. “Eric’s gonna be so disappointed! You and your wife are perfect and so is Albert! Couldn’t you see your way to work for us, anyway? We’re talking about one hundred and ten dollars a week! That’s not chicken feed, you know!”

  It was decidedly not chicken feed and Homer gave the offer some thought. He was, after all, uncertain of the finances he would need once they reached Orlando. He also didn’t know exactly what was needed to get back to Coalwood, considering how long and difficult the journey had been so far. With those thoughts fixed in his mind, he shrugged and nodded. “Where do I sign up?”

  “Oh, Omar! You’re the best.”

  “Did I mention my name is really Homer?”

  “Yes, you did, but you have to be Omar now. It’ll confuse Eric too much to change. He doesn’t do well with change.”

  “What if the real Omar shows up?”

  “I don’t believe he will. We heard last night he’s in jail, which was why I was so surprised to see you here. Something to do with being drunk and disorderly and maybe murdering his girlfriend.” She sighed. “Actors.”

  “Does Elsie have to be Eloise?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She brightened. “But Albert can be Albert!” She stuck out her hand. “So, do we have a deal?”

  It was a deal and they shook on it. Then Miss Trumball led “Omar” to the cottage. “Buster!” she called. “It’s Mildred. May I have a moment? I’ve got somebody I’d like for you to meet.”

  There came from within the cottage scurrying sounds, a crash as if something heavy and glass had fallen and broken, and then a male voice calling out, “Just a minute!”

  The requested minute passed, then another, and then Homer saw a pretty much nude blond young woman, holding her clothes, run from the back of the cottage into the bushes. Miss Trumball lit up a cigarette. “Pretend you didn’t see that. Well, hello, Buster!”

  Her greeting was to a young man who’d stepped outside on the porch. He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe and a grin on his cheerful, handsome face. “Who you got here, Mildred?” he asked.

  “Buster, meet Omar. He’s your new stand-in. Omar, this is Carl “Buster” Spurlock, otherwise known as Tarzan the ape man!”

  “Hiya,” Spurlock said, giving Homer a wave. He turned to Trumball. “I’ve been studying my lines.”

  “Yeah, I noticed. I must’ve missed the page where Tarzan takes off his loincloth and lays the script girl.”

  “Aw, Mildred, it ain’t like that.”

  “Buster, I’m not your mother or your wife. You want to play around, that’s your business. Just show up and know your lines when you’re on set, that’s all I ask.”

  “Sure, sure,” Spurlock said. He nodded again to Homer. “Good to meetcha. See ya around the set.” The screen door slapped shut behind him.

  Homer turned to Miss Trumball. “Was that really Buster Spurlock?” he asked in astonishment.

  “In the flesh. Don’t get the wrong idea. Buster’s not a bad fella. Neither smokes or drinks, can you imagine? But he’s got an eye for the dames. How about you, Omar? You got an eye for the dames?”

  “Just one.”

  “Eloise?”

  “Whatever you want to call her, she’s the only one for me.”

  Miss Trumball laughed. “Well, you’d best be careful around here. These young girls—and Eric doesn’t hire one unless she’s a beauty, save yours truly—get kinda crazy on a movie set. It’s like if they’re making a fantasy, they want to live one. You get me?”

  Homer was starting to get Miss Trumball. He even liked her. He only hoped Elsie was doing all right, wherever she was. And he also hoped they weren’t straightening her hair. He liked it curly.

  Elsie was led by the makeup artists to another cottage along the road. After Trish and Tommy explained to her that she was going to be part of a movie titled Tarzan Meets His Mate, Elsie discovered she was thrilled. “I have always wanted to be an actress,” she said.

  “You’re a stand-in, not an actress,” Trish said.

  “I’ve always wanted to be one of those, too,” Elsie replied.

  The cottage in which the famous actress Maude O’Leary was staying had been painted pink just for her. Its interior was also done up in pink, including the little heart-shaped pillows on the couch and chairs. When Elsie came in, she glanced in at the bedroom, which had also been painted pink, although the bedspread was blue, which made, in Elsie’s opinion, a nice contrast. The famous actress, dressed in an incongruously green silk robe, was sitting on the couch, a script on her lap, a cigarette dangling from her pink lips. Despite the color clash, Elsie thought O’Leary was just about the most beautiful woman she’d seen in the entire history of her life. When she looked up and blinked her gorgeous big blues, eyes Elsie would have gladly traded her own hazels for in a heartbeat, Elsie was completely, utterly, and totally ready to fall down and worship this mortal goddess.

  “Who the fuck is this?” the goddess demanded. She removed the cigarette from her mouth and ground it into an ashtray.

  “Her name is Eloise,” Miss Trumball said, coming in through the screen door. “She’s your new stand-in.”

  “What happened to the old one? Oh, don’t tell me. Buster screwed her until she can’t stand up long enough to piss in a pot. Am I right?”

  “Nearly so,” Tommy acknowledged, “except I think Eric added to the young lady’s distress by offering her a side of his bed, too. She got so confused, she stole a thousand dollars out of petty cash and took off.”

  “I don’t blame the bitch!” O’Leary declared. “Those bastards are the worst lays in Hollywood. Or so I’ve been told.” She stretched out her legs and made a scissoring motion. “You’ll never catch either of them between these lovely gams! You want a drink, honey?”

  “Well . . . I am kind of thirsty,” Elsie replied, still awed at being in the presence of the famous actress.

  “Water’s not what she has in mind, Eloise,” Miss Trumball said as she entered the cottage without knocking. “And I’m sorry, Maude, Eric says the liquor cabinet stays locked until he declares the sun’s over the yardarm.”

  “Fuck you, Mildred, and fuck Eric,” O’Leary growled, then laughed and patted the cushion beside her. “Sit down, dear, let me have a look at you. Oh, you are a pretty one. I would murder someone—especially my husband, who’s probably banging our maid even as I speak—to have your hair. And your skin. It’s translucent! What are you? German?”

  “English, Irish, and Cherokee,” Elsie said.

  Mildred smiled. “Like I said, German.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Elsie replied.

  “Yes, ma’am! By gawd, we got here a true southern lady, too. You know where I’m from, Eloise? Ellis Island by way of Poland, that’s me! My real name is Oshinski. Can you believe it? My agent said it sounded like ‘oh shitski,’ said I was henceforth Maude O’Leary and here I sit, a Polack pretending to be a lass of the Emerald Isle. Now, that takes some true acting chops, girl! Stand up. Twirl around for me, won’t you? Oh, gawdammit! Your ass makes mine look like a pair of fat pillows. Shit! You see that, Mildred?”

  “Sure, Maude,” Miss Trumball said while Elsie blushed furiously. “Well, come on, Eloise. Let’s let Miss O’Leary study her lines. She’s got a scene this afternoon.”

  “I’m gonna chew up the scenery with it, too,” O’Leary said, then grinned broadly. “Be
t you a hundred bucks I give both Buster and Eric a hard-on.”

  “I would never bet against you giving any man a hard-on, Maude,” Miss Trumball said, winking at Tommy before ushering a thoroughly flustered Elsie outside.

  “Mercy, I never knew a woman could cuss like that,” Elsie said.

  “Honey, she was just getting started. But she’s got some acting talent, I’ll give her that much. All Buster has to do is mostly grunt while the writers give her soliloquies to make up the difference. Don’t know how she does it but she pulls it off.”

  “Do you think she’d teach me how to act?” Elsie asked.

  “Just watch her, honey, that’s the best way to learn.”

  “Oh, I will watch her,” Elsie declared. “I will watch her every second I can.” She shyly looked behind her. “Is my, um, bottom really all that . . . nice?”

  “Oh, honey.” Miss Trumball laughed. “I suspect it’s a good thing you have no idea how beautiful you are. You’d be some trouble, I’m thinking.”

  “I used to have a boyfriend who said I was beautiful but I didn’t much believe him. He’s an actor, too. Buddy Ebsen.”

  Miss Trumball frowned. “I’ve heard of him. He’s a dancer, too, right? And he was your boyfriend? Where did Omar come from?”

  “West Virginia.”

  “Really? What does he do there?”

  “He’s a coal miner.”

  “That explains his muscles. What an Adonis you have there, young lady!”

  To Elsie’s astonishment, her lower lip trembled and a tear escaped and dribbled down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly.

  “Here now. What’s this?” Miss Trumball touched Elsie on her shoulder. “What could put a cloud across that pretty face?”

  “Until this moment, I was certain I was going to leave Homer. I mean, Omar.”

  “Really? Well, when you’re ready to cast him off, let me know. I’ll get in line. Likely it’ll be a long one.”

  Startled by her admission, Elsie looked up and sniffed. “You think so?”

  “I know so, honey. That man of yours is a keen Joe.”

  Elsie studied Miss Trumball’s expressive face and realized she wasn’t lying. Then she recalled when she’d first seen Homer at the basketball game and how she thought he was so handsome. Well, he was still handsome and he was smart, too. Captain Laird sure thought he was, and who was smarter than Captain Laird? Now, with this unsought adulation of her husband, Elsie considered that maybe she was being a little rash about wanting to be shed of him. Maybe she needed to give him another chance. Maybe.