Hollywood, Wyoming

by Cat Cavaleri

  I stammer and finally produce something resembling a word.

  “Huh?”

  All at once, a hazy memory from late last night rears its ugly head. After a fourteen-hour day spent roughhousing tags onto newborn lambs, Dad—chattier than I’d ever seen him—insisted on regaling me with a baffling tale involving the café. As I struggled to stay awake and swallow the last of my blackberry pie, baked fresh earlier that day by my one and only father, he exclaimed, “I just can’t believe it! A real Hollywood movie, right there in the café! Isn’t that something, Missy?”

  “Sure is, Dad,” I replied mechanically. I was so weary, I barely heard a word he said. I rose and added, “Gotta hit the sheets: lamb vaccinations at dawn.”

  I hit the sheets hard, fell into a deep sleep, and was out the door six hours later just as the stars were fading.

  “I opened the place up just before dawn, like the mayor told me to. And sure enough, a battalion of Hollywood folks came rolling up not half an hour later. Just like I told you last night,” Dad continues, peering at my dumbstruck face. His brows abruptly smash together in consternation. “You weren’t listening, were you? I knew it.”

  “But—but—” I sputter. “Verna didn’t give permission for this, did she?”

  “Didn’t have to,” Dad replies. “I’m running the place for her, so I gave permission. Besides, Jill told me the permit’s good for the town and environs. I figure that means the café. You wouldn’t believe the gizmos and geegaws they lugged off those big trucks out front. I didn’t have to lift a finger: they did it all themselves. Then they started talking about background extras, and before you could say boo, they asked me if I wanted to be in the movie! Next thing I know, they’re slicking my face up with grease paint, they’re popping this paper hat on my head, and now look at your old dad!” he says.

  I try to reply, but I’m at a loss.

  My father, a Wyoming rancher through and through, has never shown the slightest interest in being in a movie. And never, not once in my reckoning, has he chattered like a giddy schoolboy the way he’s doing right now. He’s the most stoic man in a town full of stoic men.

  I haven’t seen him this happy since Mom died eighteen years ago.

  “But,” I protest. “They’re ruining the building! They’re smearing paint all over, and they’re tearing down the sign, and—”

  “They’re gonna put everything back exactly how it was. Director gave me his word.”

  “I highly doubt that,” I scoff. “This circus is being run by a bunch of clowns, if you ask me.”

  My eyes narrow as a terrible suspicion dawns within my breast.

  “If you didn’t call me to make them stop wrecking the café…why did you ask me to come here?” I say slowly.

  Dad beams again.

  “They got the café. They got me playing the cook,” he says. “All they need is—”

  “No way, Dad…”

  “A waitress!”

  4

  Connor

  When I step on set, I’m surprised by what I see. And feel. Lights, cameras, and sound equipment litter every free inch of space, the noisy crew is packed shoulder-to-shoulder on the red and white checkerboard floor, yet the place still seems quaint and comfortable. I like it; I would linger over a cup of coffee here. It’s honest. It’s real.

  I have to admit, D’Angelo was right. There’s something about the authenticity of the place that blows the sound stage out of the water. Without effort, I’m already slipping into the role of Max Devlon, designated assassin of the disgraced commando troupe Falcon 23. One of the booths has been staged with my props. I settle onto the cracked synthetic upholstery and begin to center my thoughts as the crew hustles to and fro around me.

  “Alright Connor, here we go,” D’Angelo proclaims, descending on me with a copy of the script in one hand and a walkie talkie in the other. “Just like we did in L.A. It’s a single take tracking shot going from your boots up to the gun in your holster, then along the table to your cup—which you’re gonna already be holding—as it gets filled with coffee by the waitress. We follow your arm up to your face. We hold on your face while you do your actorly emoting and whatnot, then you stand up and walk out that door and step onto the road. And then you’re gonna take a long walk up that road.”

  “How long?”

  “I want one minute forty-five seconds. Minimum.”

  I let out an incredulous laugh.

  “Damn, D,” I say. “You trying to get me to break Marilyn Monroe’s record for the longest on-screen walk of all time?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he replies coolly. “We’ll run the opening credits over it.”

  I shake my head in amazement.

  “Well, we’ll get ourselves in the record books if nothing else,” I say.

  D’Angelo leans close to me and lowers his voice.

  “This is gonna be a tough one, Connor. As soon as I call action, there’s no breaks, no cutaways. Just like the nightclub shot in Goodfellas. Only longer.”

  “Fantastic,” I mutter.

  “It’s all on you. Everything. Understand?”

  I nod. I feel very grim now. Grim and hopeless. It took twenty-three takes to film this scene in the highly controlled environment of the sound stage back in Hollywood. This is the real world. The sheer number of things that could go wrong is staggering.

  “The crew’s good to go. The extras are ready. That’s your cook,” D’Angelo points at a lanky, gray-haired man standing behind a large grill located beyond a curving, old-fashioned counter. “And this is your waitress.”

  D’Angelo makes a beckoning motion with his walkie talkie and a young woman steps out from behind the key grip and the gaffer.

  My breath catches in my throat.

  It’s her.

  The girl I bumped into. The one with the curvy thighs wrapped in deliciously tight jeans, the generous breasts that swelled above a scooped white tank top half-hidden beneath a faded denim shirt, the glossy hair that flowed like strands of wild silk from a battered brown cowboy hat. Now she’s standing before me once again, her voluptuous body poured into a retro waitress uniform with a plunging V-neck and a short skirt accentuating every sweet swell of her body. She’s holding a carafe of coffee in one hand. The other hand rests on her hip.

  She’s magnificent.

  Magnificent, and scowling.

  “This is the prop coffee cup we told you about, and I see you’ve got the carafe,” D’Angelo says to her. “You understand what you’re supposed to do?”

  “I’ve poured coffee before,” she replies irritably.

  “Good. We’re gonna roll in just a minute. Rashawn’ll call for your marks—keep your ears open.”

  With that, he darts over to the monstrously complicated camera rig that will be filming this nightmare of a scene, his voice rising as he and the director of photography begin to bicker.

  “Marks?” she says.

  “Where we’re supposed to start from,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes.

  “Why didn’t he just say that?” she mutters.

  An awkward silence settles over us. I should be focusing on staying in character, but I desperately want to talk to her.

  “This must be,” I fumble. “Pretty exciting. For you people.”

  Her eyes narrow and she cuts her gaze from the old man behind the counter to me.

  “You people?” she repeats.

  “I mean,” I stammer. “I don’t suppose it’s every day Hollywood comes to town.”

  She doesn’t reply. She looks displeased.

  “Maybe you pe—you guys—you folks should rename the town Hollywood, Wyoming,” I joke.

  She lets out an impatient little puff of air and tenses her jaw. She seems to be engaged in an argument with herself. Half of her clearly loses—I’m not sure which half—and she rounds on me.

  “Look,” she hisses. “I don’t know what kind of weird nature documentary ‘you people’ are shooting, but the soone
r you’re gone, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Nature documentary?” I repeat in confusion.

  She gestures at the crew and the equipment with the prop coffee carafe.

  “I’m no fancy Hollywood director, but I don’t see why you need someone to pretend to pour coffee while you ramble about antelope, elk, and the majestic western meadowlark. It’s ridiculous!”

  My mouth falls open. I’m astonished. So astonished, in fact, that I blurt out the one thing I promised myself I would never, ever say:

  “Don’t you know who I am?”

  She studies me and there’s not a hint of recognition in her eyes.

  “I know you’re not the Crocodile Hunter, God rest his soul,” she says. “He didn’t sit around drinking coffee—he got his hands dirty.”

  “You…don’t want a selfie or an autograph or something?” I say, unable to believe it.

  She rolls her eyes and sighs. She turns away from me as if disgusted. After a long moment, she turns back. The fiery belligerence in her demeanor has cooled by a few degrees.

  “How long is this supposed to take? An hour?” she asks.

  “The director’s got us on the call sheet for three days,” I reply.

  Now it’s her mouth that falls open in astonishment.

  “Three days?” she repeats. “Three days?! Three days just for you to say, ‘This is the story of the Wyoming mule deer migration: one of nature’s epic journeys,’ while my dad pretends to fry eggs and I dump coffee in your mug?”

  “Wow,” I whisper, before I realize I’ve done it. I haven’t been spoken to like this by a woman…ever. She’s not star-struck, she’s not flirting with me, she’s not the least bit impressed.

  It’s wonderful.

  I gesture at the seat across from mine.

  “Want to sit? You’ll be on your feet a lot today.”

  She hesitates.

  “Please?” I say.

  Grudgingly, she plops down and clunks the carafe onto the table.

  “You really don’t know who I am?” I ask one more time.

  “No,” she replies. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Connor. What’s yours?”

  “Melissa,” she says, her tone resigned now. “People who like me call me Missy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. “Missy.”

  I smile at her. As if against her will, she smiles back.

  “So,” she says, brushing a stray lock of hair off her creamy cheek. “What’s this show about? Sage grouse or grizzlies?”

  Take twelve.

  I’ve sat perfectly rigid, my jaw clenched, my hand clutching the mug as Missy fills it with coffee and the camera pans up my body twelve times.

  I’ve run through my inner monologue of betrayal and revenge (the driving plot of The Designated Assassin) while the director of photography zooms in and holds on my face ten times.

  I’ve made it to the door six times.

  And I’ve walked down the road two and a half times.

  All twelve times, D’Angelo has shouted “Cut!” before the shot is done. He’s not happy. We’ve been at it for nearly seven hours.

  Ordinarily, I’d be frustrated as hell by now. But instead, I’ve been relieved each time the director abruptly calls a halt. It means I get to talk to Missy. It takes nearly thirty minutes for the crew to reset all the equipment for such a long indoor-to-outdoor tracking shot. I’ve never been so happy to be kept waiting in my life.

  It’s refreshing to get to know a woman authentically, as strangers. She really has no idea who I am.

  After the first couple takes, she warmed up to me. The scowl left her brow, the annoyance fled from her eyes. She laughed with delightful abandon when I clarified the genre of movie we’re shooting. “So that’s why you look so intense…and have a gun!” she giggled. From then on, each time the angry “Cut!” was bellowed, she scooted over to my booth and began peppering me with questions, her exquisite features wreathed in curiosity. How do the train tracks under the camera work? Where did we get the extremely agile mini-crane? How do I make my jaw twitch that way, exactly the same each time? Is that a real gun in my holster? Is this really what I do for a living?

  It’s been one of the best days of my life.

  But as the hours pass, the inquisitive look on Missy’s face is gradually replaced by a worried expression.

  “Is anything wrong? Getting bored?” I ask when D’Angelo has achieved a solid dozen “Cuts!” and she and I sit down together once again in the booth.

  “No,” she replies. “It’s just getting so late. It’ll be sundown before long.”

  “Do you turn into a vampire after dark?” I tease.

  “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you. I’d just sink my teeth into your neck,” she replies with a saucy grin, then the worried look returns to her eyes. “I’ve got chores to do at the ranch before nightfall.”

  “Can’t you play hooky for one day?”

  She shakes her head vigorously.

  “Livestock doesn’t take kindly to missing a meal. And I’ve got to check the irrigation equipment, pull in some hay, and try to figure out what’s going on with the tractor’s starter. Dad said he’d see to Verna’s chores over at her place, but I’ll never finish ours before midnight on my own.”

  “Maybe I can help,” I offer impulsively. “I’ve got nothing going on after we wrap for the day.”

  She runs her eyes up and down my body, like the camera’s been doing for hours. But the camera doesn’t make me go hot with desire like she does.

  “Hm,” she muses noncommittally.

  “I may not be a cowboy, but I’m in better shape than you think,” I say. “I’ve got personal trainers back in Hollywood. Plural.”

  “Well,” she replies. “How can I say no to that?”

  I manage to get three-quarters of the way up the road on take seventeen when the director shouts, “Cut! That’s a wrap, people. Regroup tomorrow at seven a.m. sharp. Connor, extras, makeup, and wardrobe: you’ve got a five-thirty call time. Pack it up, folks!”

  I’ve never gotten out of my costume and back into my own clothes so fast.

  When I emerge from my trailer, Missy is leaning against the outer wall of the set, waiting for me. She’s back in her cowgirl attire. She’s so beautiful it makes my heart ache. I jog over to her and she tips her head up to greet me. When she gets a good look at my face, she gasps.

  “What?” I say.

  “Your scar’s gone!”

  “Movie magic,” I grin.

  She shakes her head, smiling in reply.

  “Amazing,” she says.

  She reaches up and grips my chin lightly, tilting my head so she can get a better look. Then she releases my chin and runs a finger down my cheek guilelessly, her smooth fingernail lightly grazing my skin. I shiver, and a longing I haven’t felt for ages sweeps over me.

  I want to do the same thing to her.

  I want to press my mouth against hers and get lost in her kiss.

  Her hand drops and she jerks her thumb at me.

  “This way. Our ride’s getting impatient.”

  She leads me to a tiny building with the words “Bryce Town Hall” painted above the door. We go to the back of the small structure and the pungent odor of a barnyard hits my nose. Missy ducks into what appears to be a large, open shed and emerges leading a softly nickering brown horse.

  “This is our ride?” I say.

  “Yup,” Missy says. “Her name’s Volkie.”

  “Volkie?”

  “Short for Volkswagen,” she replies, swinging herself up onto the back of the beast as lightly as a bird landing on a branch. “My dream car.”

  “Maybe I should walk,” I say.

  “You don’t know how to ride?”

  “I know how to ride,” I say. “I know how to ride motorcycles, zip lines, surfboards.”

  “Then you’ll do just fine,” she says, reaching out a hand and helping me to hoist myself up onto the horse. There’
s no saddle to sit on, just a thin sheepskin pad. I brace myself as best I can, not sure where to put my hands.

  “Scoot closer. You’ll fall off,” she says.

  I ease closer, then closer still. My thighs touch hers. My hips press against her buttocks. Her soft hair brushes my cheek. I can smell the intoxicating perfume of her shampoo, her soap, her warm flesh.

  “Where do I hold on?” I ask.

  “Right here.”

  She guides my hands to the decadent softness of her waist.

  “Don’t let me go,” she says.

  “I won’t,” I whisper, and I feel her body give a little shudder as my hot breath tickles her ear.

  She gives the horse a light kick in the ribs with the heels of her cowboy boots and we’re off. Thick shafts of sunlight warm my body as it jounces against hers, my chest rubbing rhythmically against her supple back, my groin thrusting with exquisite sensuousness into the softness of her buttocks. I long to slide my hands up her waist to her breasts, to cup them and caress them.

  All too soon, she tugs on the reins and slides off the horse, out of my grasp.

  “Here we are,” she gestures at a vast swath of pale green grass dotted with white, cloud-like masses. “That’s our herd.”

  “Sheep?”

  She nods.

  “They’re cute.”

  She grins broadly and begins to lead the horse toward a brightly painted barn.

  “Let’s see how cute you think they are after you’ve fed them. And smelled them.”

  “Oh god!” I groan, collapsing onto a pile of loose hay in the barn two and a half hours later. “They’re not cute. They’re bastards.”

  “Are you tired?” Missy inquires with faux innocence, peering down at me with her hands on her hips. “Someone told me you were in great shape. I wonder who that was?”

  “I am in great shape,” I reply, reaching up to grab her around the waist. With a squeal, she topples into the hay beside me. “I love a good workout.”

  “That wasn’t a workout. That was work,” she corrects, propping herself on one elbow to face me. I do the same. Our lips are just inches apart.