by Don Calame
“It’s not the baby’s room yet,” I snap.
“Oh, really?” Cathy laughs as she looks around at all the baby crap — the crib, the collapsed playpen, the folded-up changing table, the rocker — that Mom and Dad have been squirreling away in here. “Could have fooled me.”
“It’s mine until it isn’t,” I say, shaking my head. “And I’d appreciate you knocking before you just barge in here. Jeez, doesn’t anyone in this stupid house have any respect for privacy?”
“Might as well get used to it, loser,” Cathy says. “It’s not like I’m gonna be knocking on my own bedroom door when you move in. Which reminds me. Since you’ll be invading my space, you’re considered an unwanted guest. Now, I’ve been giving this situation some thought, and I’ve decided that the only way I’m going to be able to tolerate it is by charging you rent.”
I laugh. “Right. I’m going to pay you rent to live in my own house.”
“Great. I’m glad we agree. I was afraid I’d have to threaten to out you to the entire school. And as much as I want you to be true to yourself, I don’t imagine it’s how you’d choose to have the world find out about your love of all things penis.”
I stand up so that Cathy isn’t towering over me, though she’s still two inches taller than me when standing.
“Okay, let’s get a few things straight,” I say. “First of all, I’m not paying you rent.”
“Twenty-five dollars a month should do.” Cathy studies her spiderweb-adorned fingernails. “That still leaves you with enough of your allowance to buy your homoerotic video games.”
“And nextly,” I say, “I’m not even going to respond to the gay thing again.”
Cathy smirks. “You just did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Methinks he doth protest too much.” She makes like she’s turning to leave my room, but at the last second she reaches over and plucks the movie folder off my desk. “What do we have here? A collection of love letters from your boyfriends?”
I lunge for the folder, but Cathy spins away. “That’s private property,” I say.
“What the hell is this?” Cathy laughs as she peeks inside and plucks out the TerrorFest entry form. “Oh, my God. A horror movie? You can’t be serious. You guys are such morons.”
“Yeah, well, for your information, that movie is what’s going to save me from having to share a bedroom with you.”
It takes about a second for me to realize what I’ve just said. Damn it. Why can’t my stupid brain work faster?
“Oh, really?” Cathy crooks an eyebrow. “Do tell.”
“Forget it.” I make another try for the folder.
Cathy just smacks my forehead with it. “Hello, turdling? This concerns me as much as you, so spit it out.” As she pulls back the folder, ten fifty-dollar bills — the first installment of Uncle Doug’s investment — slide out and flutter to the floor.
I dive to the ground and snag most of the bills but Cathy’s witch-boot-clad foot pins two of them to the rug before I can get there. I pinch the corners to try to free them, but my sister bears down with her full weight. If I tug any harder, they’ll just rip. Checkmate.
“My, oh my.” Cathy squats and plucks up the money. “This is getting interesting.”
“That’s my money!” I seize Cathy’s wrist, but she just raises her arm like the Statue of Liberty, leaving me dangling on her limb like the “Hang in There!” kitty.
“You might as well just give it up, weasel,” she says, peeling me off her arm. “Save yourself the heartache and tell me where you got all this cash.”
“It’s mine. I saved it up.”
“Please.” Cathy pulls a face. “You’ve never saved a penny of your allowance, ever. Spill it. Where’d you get this?” She waves the hundred dollars in my face. “Did you steal it?”
“No, I didn’t steal it.”
“Are you turning tricks? Now, that’d be cool. Having a gay gigolo in the family.”
“We raised the money. From investors. We’re using it to make our movie. Satisfied?”
Cathy stares at me dubiously. “Somebody gave you hundreds of dollars to make a movie? You and your idiot friends?”
“Try a thousand. Once we get our second installment.”
Ah, shit! Again with the slow brain! I sniff my palm and try to keep from hyperventilating.
“A grand? Someone gave you a grand to make a movie?” Her tone drips with disbelief. “Why would anyone be stupid enough to do that?”
“Because they believe in us!” My voice croaks with earnestness and I can feel my ears reddening. “Look, this is our Get Out of Jail Free card, Cath. When our movie wins TerrorFest, we’ll have enough cash to build an extension on the house, okay? And then you and me won’t have to share a room.”
Cathy screams with laughter. “Oh, sweetie. That is so cute. But as your older sister — and future landlord — I feel it’s my responsibility to protect your fragile little ego by letting you know that there’s not a chance in hell you are going to be able to make a movie good enough to win any contest. But”— she plucks one of the fifty-dollar bills from her hand and starts folding it up —“since you’re suddenly so flush, I will do you the favor of taking your first and last months’ rent in advance.” Cathy flicks the other fifty-dollar bill at my face.
“That only leaves me with four hundred and fifty bucks!”
“Excellent subtraction skills there, little brother.” She tucks the folded-up money into her back pocket. “I don’t know why you’re not in AP math with me and Nessa.”
I glower. “You know I’m just gonna tell Mom and Dad.”
“Be my guest. I’m sure they’ll be fascinated to learn that you’ve got hundreds of dollars stashed up here. But don’t worry. They probably won’t ask you where you got it. Of course, I might just have to let it slip that you’re a gay male prostitute now.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m thinking that fifty bucks is a pretty fair price to buy my silence. But that’s just me.”
“You are such a bi —”
Cathy places her long black fingernail on my lips. “Uh-uh. Mind your words, young man. We wouldn’t want this to be an ongoing extortion thing, would we?”
I swat her hand away. “Oh, you mean like me having to pay rent every month to stop you from spreading lies about me?”
“That’s just basic compensation for the inconvenience you pose. And believe me, it doesn’t even come close to balancing things out. You’d never be able to afford that.”
Just then, Nessa pokes her head into my room. “There you are,” she says, completely ignoring me. She’s wearing a blue Wal-Mart vest and pressed khakis that are such an odd contrast to her Gothness. “I knocked but nobody answered the front door. We better get going or we’re going to be late again.”
“I’m coming.” Cathy saunters to the door. “Just give me a sec, okay? I have to go find my uniform.” She looks back at me. “Hey, baby brother. Why don’t you entertain Ness with the details of your brilliant plan? I’m sure she’ll find it fascinating.”
I flip Cathy off, but she just laughs as she exits the room.
As soon as Cathy’s gone, Nessa reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded-up piece of pink notebook paper. She glances over her shoulder, then steps into my room and presses it into my hand.
“Here are some more suggestions for the last few scenes,” Nessa whispers.
“Why didn’t you e-mail this to me? I just finished incorporating all of your other notes.”
Nessa checks the doorway again. “These came to me on the bus ride over here.”
I sigh, imagining all the new work Nessa has likely created for me. “We’re supposed to start filming next week. Could we maybe meet up in person again instead of all this back-and-forth?”
“Tomorrow,” she says, without missing a beat. “My house. Five o’clock. We’ll order pizza. Cathy’s working until closing, so we should have a nice long run at it.”
“Wow, you’ve real
ly worked this out,” I say, running through my schedule in my head. “Yeah, okay. I’ve got to help out my uncle in the afternoon, but later should be fine.”
“Kewl.” Nessa leans in close. “Don’t you love all this clandestine stuff? It feels like we’re spies. Or like we’re having an affair.”
I gulp so loudly that even Cathy probably heard it. Jeez, when did it get so warm in here?
“Oh, and Sean?” she whispers, her breath tickling my neck. For a second I think she’s going to try to kiss me again, and I remind myself why that would be a bad thing. “I was also thinking that maybe Dr. Schmaloogan should have an evil sidekick. Sort of like a Renfield or an Igor.”
I blink and try to clear my head. “A who?”
“Someone to do his bidding. To steal the test chimps and spread the virus and stuff. It’s a classic horror-movie character. Jesus, Sean, we’re going to have to have a movie night and bring you up to speed on these things.”
“A sidekick. Yeah. No, I get it. That could be good.”
“Maybe.” Nessa teeter-totters her head. “Maybe not. I don’t know. Think about it. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She flashes me a quick smile, and then she’s gone.
I stare at the note in my hand for a second before bringing it to my nose. It smells a little like carnations. An affair, I think, a jolt of excitement running through my body.
But then my brain finally kicks in: pink, scented stationery? This whole thing couldn’t be more obviously a trap if her note actually said This is a trap!
Whatever she and Cathy are up to, as long as it keeps Nessa around long enough for us to finish this screenplay, I don’t really give a flying Fearow. I just have to be on guard and make sure the ensign in my pants follows captain’s orders.
EXT. STREET — NIGHT
Jack and Stacy race down the street, out of breath and sweating. They keep looking back over their shoulders as if they are being chased.
STACY
Do you think we lost them?
JACK
I don’t know. They seem to have a really good sense of smell. Let’s just keep running.
Jack grabs Stacy’s hand and pulls her down a back alley. The alley is lined with trash cans and dumpsters and doors to stores and restaurants.
Halfway down the lane, they notice that it dead-ends at a brick wall.
STACY
It’s a dead end. We have to get out of here.
Suddenly, they hear a GROWLING MOAN. They turn around to see a horde of humanzees shuffling into the back alley, blocking their escape.
JACK
Try all the doors. Maybe one of them is open.
The humanzees shuffle toward them as Jack and Stacy try all the doorknobs.
STACY
They’re all locked! What are we going to do?
Jack slams his shoulder into one of the doors but it’s not budging. He tries again and again, but the humanzees are rapidly closing in on them.
STACY
Hurry! They’re almost here!
All morning long, I’ve been pounding energy drinks — I think I’ve had six cans by now — as I make Nessa’s changes to the script and try to write some new scenes.
Nessa keeps saying I have to build the tension. Build the tension before we see the monsters. Build the tension before someone gets killed. And so I’ve been trying to keep the screws turning on our main characters. I’ll know if I’m doing what she wants when I meet with her later today.
In the meantime, I’m trying to get through as much of the script as I can before I have to head over to Uncle Doug’s store and make good on his final condition of the loan. I drain the last drops of my Berry Beast and look over at the clock. Oh, crap! It’s eleven forty. Where the hell did the last forty minutes go? Damn it damn it damn it!
I slam my laptop closed, grab my keys and phone, and bolt for the door. I have no idea what he’s going to make me do at his shop — stocking, cleaning, or something equally unpleasant, I’m sure — but I’ve only got twenty minutes to get there and I know he’s not going to be too pleased if I’m late.
“This costume is itchy,” I say, looking down through a brown spandex mask at the life-size Persian rug I’m wearing.
“I told you you weren’t going to like it,” Uncle Doug says.
“And it smells like rotten eggs.”
He laughs. “I don’t doubt it.”
“Why —?”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” He cackles as he raises a spliff to his chapped lips and takes a drag. “Suffice it to say, it’s one of the reasons the last guy quit. Not the only reason. But one of the reasons.”
“I don’t blame him.” I try to stick my Lycra-covered face farther out of the tiny oval cutout in the rug suit. “It’s disgusting.”
“Aaaa.” Uncle Doug releases a big plume of pot smoke and swats my comment away with the back of his hand. “Don’t be such a pussy. You’ll be fine once you’re out in the fresh air.” He starts walking toward the two-tone green Doug’s Rugs van parked by the garage doors. “Besides, what you really need to worry about are the wind currents.”
“The what?” I shuffle-turn my carpet-clad body to look at him. “What wind currents?”
“The wind currents. The gales out of the east.” He waves his joint in the air as he steps up to the driver’s-side door. “It gets pretty damn blustery up there on Newport Road. And that costume can act like a goddamn kite if it catches the breeze. That was the reason the guy before the last guy quit. A heavy gust blew him right into the street. Poor bastard was nearly plowed down by a semi. You think you can’t move so well in that thing, but you’d be surprised how agile you get when you have to play dodge the traffic.” Uncle Doug laughs as he scoots from left to right to left in a little sidestepping dance. “Come on,” he says, checking his watch. “Let’s get a move on. Time is money.” He opens the van door and climbs inside.
I start to waddle over to the passenger side as fast as I can, my steps seriously hindered by the constraints of this stupid outfit. It’s like I’ve been stuffed down a single pant leg of a fat man’s jeans. I pump my unitard-sheathed arms as hard as I can to try and propel myself forward, the gold tassels at the top of the carpet costume slapping away off rhythm.
I finally get to the van, yank the door open, and struggle to clamber into the seat. It’s a real battle against physics because as soon as I pull myself partially onto the seat I have to straighten out my legs, which then causes me to slide back down again.
By the time I manage to inchworm myself into the front seat I am completely exhausted.
“That was some show, Seanie boy.” Uncle Doug chuckles. “I feel like I’m really starting to get my money’s worth out of this investment.”
“If I’d known this is what you meant”— I wheeze —“by helping you out at the store . . . I wouldn’t have agreed to it.”
“Oh, sure you would, Seanie. It’s a means to an end. A means to an end.” He turns the key, and the van coughs to life. “Besides, you haven’t lived until you’ve dressed up like a carpet and waved signs at passing cars. It’s how I started out thirty years ago. Now look at me. I own the place.” One more puff on his joint, then he throws the car into reverse. “All right, here we go.”
We back out of the warehouse garage, the tires crunching through the hardened snow. A moment later, we’re driving along an industrial street headed toward the main road.
Uncle Doug’s got his left wrist draped over the steering wheel, his joint-holding hand stroking his giant gray-flecked beard. Little wisps of smoke fizzle into the air as the occasional whisker is singed. “Hey, so, I’ve been watching the audition tapes.”
“Oh, yeah?”
He nods. “You’ve got a few winners there, I think. The buzz-cut kid. Harper? Hummer? Hunter? And the girl with the blunt-cut hair.” He chops at his forehead with his hand. “Laney?”
“Leyna,” I say.
“Right. Those two are our stars. No doubt about it.
”
“Hunter’s no problem, but we’ve already promised Evelyn the female lead, so —”
“Absolutely not.” Uncle Doug shakes his head. “I don’t care if she’s sleeping with the screenwriter. If she’s anywhere near as bad as her brother, this film’s dead in the water.”
“Yeah, well, we don’t have a choice. It’s her camera we’re using. So, it’s either her in the lead or we have nothing to film with.” I shrug. “Unless . . . you want to up your investment so we can rent something.”
Uncle Doug laughs. “Give ’em a grand and they want two. Sorry, but it’s not gonna happen, Seanie. You use what you’ve got and figure it out. That’s what all good businessmen do. I don’t care what you have to do, but Handler and Lorna are going to be in the film we show at the festival or Uncle Doug’s going to be plenty PO’d. Are we clear about this?”
It’s hard to argue when I actually agree with him. “Sure. Fine. Whatever. I’ll figure something out.”
“Good man. That’s what I like to hear.”
I turn and gaze out the window, watching the industrial landscape go by. I don’t know if it’s the sound of the tires going through puddles or the motion of the van, but suddenly I realize that I have to pee. Bad. “Hey, so, what do I do if I have to go the bathroom?” I ask as casually as I can. “You know, while I’m out here?”
Uncle Doug looks over at me, his eyebrows raised. “Oh. You should have taken care of that back at the store.”
“No, I mean, I’m okay now,” I lie, “but if I’m supposed to be out there for four hours, I might have to go at some point.” Like in the next few minutes. “Is there a Starbucks nearby?”
Uncle Doug snorts. “First of all, there’s no way for you to get out of that costume without help. Remember how I had to zip you up in the back? Secondly, we’re on a major commercial thoroughfare here lined with auto-body shops and self-storage facilities. The nearest public toilet is over a mile away. So, I suggest you just hold on tight and, uh . . . don’t think about waterfalls.”