Fight the Rooster

by Nick Cole

  ***

  Kip watched the forest around him, his coal black eyes burning intently. Any minute he might need to run. He didn’t want to think about the laws he’d violated fleeing the scene of a crime. It would be him, as producer, who would ultimately bear responsibility for the fire. What was worse, it was he who had actually caused the fire. So there would be no nobility in taking responsibility. No one else knew it was his fault, but he, Kip the Fat Devil-Boy, knew deep down inside, knew it had been him.

  He’d cut down on his pot smoking as the burdens of the role of producer had increased. Getting high weighed heavily against his ability to organize. Each day he’d smoked less and less, finally lowering it to a just-after-production-ceased-for-the-day joint. This was quite a change from the beginning of the production, when he’d redesigned his office as the ultimate dope session pad, complete with black lights and quadraphonically enjoyed albums.

  In a moment of stupidity, thinking the end of this terrible caravan into the wastes of the American Heartland was soon to be over, with just one shot left, he’d unwisely decided to get high with one of the grips behind the set at the Astro Lodge.

  They’d smoked the hairy green herb. Swollen, red-faced smiles held in the drug as it filtered down into their inmost parts, swaddling their brains in long-haired strands of thick moss. Alas, someone calls a name in the dark, between setups. Both stony travelers, crippled within their pot-shrouded brains, leave the scene of the crime to answer the taskmaster’s call. Each relies on the other to tend and care for the still-smoldering weed, clipped neatly between a split piece of brass.

  In light of the investigation sure to come, all would be revealed. They would find out he was not, by any stretch of the imagination, his successful, better-looking, more intelligent brother. He, Kip Jameson, who in hindsight had not acted responsibly or wisely with the production accounts, was the party responsible for the blaze that had destroyed a vintage nineteen-sixties state-of-the-art Space Hotel set high in the mountains. A place rumored to be the secret late-night hideaway of the Rat Pack. A place where Dino, Sammy, and Frank had played the Moon Room for just a few friends. Drinking and crooning the night away in front of a blue velvet crescent moon piano that was now nothing more than a smoldering pile of charred wood and melted wire.

  He wondered what had become of Jay. If only his brother could step from behind a tree and save this production right now. Put out the fire, pull the budget shortage out of his pocket, and explain Kip and his various crimes away as though it were all part of some master plan.

  Kip stared into the moonlit forest and heard the faraway sounds of crashing timber aflame. He heard the departure of the buses, racing the dawn in a desperate attempt to find shelter in the swaying palm trees of Hollywood, among the hordes of studio lawyers who would dissuade the impending criminal and civil lawsuits that were even now, in all probability, trailing the bus like an angry mob of Tatars.

  Fire trucks arrive and great arcs of water fan out across the forest above. White smoke rises into the night in hissing response.

  Kip settles back on a rock, placing his headphones over his ears. At least his transgressions have been legion. Overwhelmingly so. With this in mind, and the damage so catastrophic, he has no doubt that his accusers will accept an insanity plea. They will release him from their sights, casting him back to yet another college.

  Maybe it’s time I learn to throw pottery at a junior college somewhere.

  Kip closes his eyes and dreams of a major in ceramics.

  ***

  The Great Director is falling. Falling toward another of the hells Orson has promised. Or freedom. Or a moonlit pool in the night above the smoldering ruins of a dream. He splashes, he bangs his elbow, he coughs, he sputters, and Kip stares in amazement at the hidden drainpipe in the slope below the hotel that has disgorged the Great Director in a flood of water.

  Kip drags him from the pool.

  No words need convey what they both know. In their own hearts they are both in worse trouble than they can imagine. Above them the gray smoke, glowing red from the flames, wafts across the tops of the trees.

  They stumble away through a never-ending night, drinking from garden hoses next to silent cottages in the forest. They stop at a sodium-lit gas station to clean themselves in the bathroom, then purchase crinkling packaged snacks for a long journey. Sometime after four o’clock in the morning, they lie down in the dark on flat boulders next to the prattling Kern River.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The End of the Whole Mess

  On Monday morning, as Kim, the Great Director’s assistant, was driving him back to the studio, her cell phone rang. He looked at her, wondering if she would answer it. Her one hand was clutching a skinny soy coconut latte, the other sorting his mail in her lap. She was also driving. Finally, he reached across to her cell phone holder, sighed theatrically, and answered.

  “Thanks!” whispered Kim sarcastically.

  “What?” he replied in defense.

  “Well, you just made such a big deal out of answering a phone solely dedicated to your life. I mean, I’m only sorting your mail and driving you to work. That’s all.”

  “I just didn’t want to be rude. It’s a personal thing to answer someone else’s cell phone.”

  His excuse hung between them, waiting to get a better haircut and improve its lot in life. Instead it ate a big bag of potato chips, watched a reality TV show, and remained lame. She glared at him, then at the phone.

  “Yes?” he said, answering the little flip phone.

  She resumed driving.

  “No. No, everything went great,” he said into the phone. “I didn’t come back with the crew. I got in late last… Yes, I’m really happy with everything we got.” He paused. “Why?”

  Ahead, the traffic ground to a halt, and Kim applied the brakes liberally.

  “A fire! Really?” Now it was his turn to glare at her.

  “What? I couldn’t help it.” She pointed at the gridlock ahead.

  He swatted at her as though she were a gnat.

  “Well you don’t think we’re responsible, do you?” he asked the caller.

  Silence.

  “No. I mean… I’m glad no one was hurt. I just sort of figured that…” Pause. “I’m just wondering if you think it was the production that caused it? The fire, that is.”

  Pause.

  “Well, it does matter to me what you think. If you think we did it, I want to hear it from you so we can nip this in the bud.”

  Silence.

  “The police! Well that’s what I meant when I said, ‘Do you think we’re responsible.’ If the authorities do, then I don’t care what you think. What I really want to know is: Does someone, someone of legal authority, suspect us of causing a fire? Then fleeing the scene of said fire? Because if that’s the case, I will not stand for scurrilous accusations being made against myself, my crew, or my film.”

  He nodded his head, listening.

  “Good. I’m glad you feel that way too.”

  Another pause.

  “No, we didn’t. You have my word. We did not cause that fire. That is my final word.”

  Pause.

  “No. We really didn’t.”

  Pause.

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads-up. Bye.”

  The Great Director ended the call and stared out the passenger window. He said nothing to his assistant as he absently turned the smartphone end over end. Finally, when Kim could take it no longer, she asked, “Well?”

  “Well what?” He looked at her, completely at a loss as to what she might want.

  “Who was that, and what’s this about a fire?”

  “Oh. That.” He paused. “That was the Executive Vice President in charge of Production for the studio. We started a fire and burned down a location. A vintage hotel from the nineteen sixties.” He si
ghed.

  She processed this as she turned the Range Rover sharply down an alley, taking them up side streets toward Coldwater Canyon. Then down to Ventura Boulevard.

  “That’s terrible!” Kim, a notorious conservationist, was always guilt-tripping him into giving away at least a quarter of his yearly tax-deductible charity contributions to various nature and wildlife concerns.

  “Coulda been worse,” he said absently, thinking of Eldon and all the insurance money the little gnome was probably enjoying.

  “Really? How?”

  “We missed burning down an entire town by a couple of acres. Luckily, there was a newly planted evergreen forest in the way. Gave the local fire department enough time to get it under control.”

  She opens her eyes wide. She refuses to cry. She uses the air-conditioning to dry the sudden tears forming in her eyes. She swears under her breath.

  The Great Director has tried hard to destroy this movie—and without committing blatant errors such as leaving lighting stands in frame or constantly breaking the 180 rule. He has tried. He has attempted to ruin this movie with a philosophy of failure. He’s insisted on unstable, marginal actors who’ve managed to disappoint him by remaining rock solid and turning in successively stellar performances. He has turned to a cinematographer, more artist than technician, and insisted this man commit the follies of his vision across the sprawling canvas of this film. Instead the man has labored to turn in an aesthetically pleasing commercial picture. Acquiescing to the Great Director’s every demand. Never once railing at the Great Director for his boorish or bourgeois (words he was sure Goreitsky would have used during some hoped-for tirade) sensibilities and intentions. Never once has Goreitsky obliged him with even a minor epic rage complete with work stoppage and standard set departure.

  The Kids have even let him down. He has allowed untrained menaces, hippies even, to handle difficult technical jobs. They have given him nothing but complete and utter loyalty and craftsmanship. He is disgusted with them all. He has worked the cast and crew late into the night, constructing the most laborious and technically challenging setups. Not to see if they could succeed, but to make them fail.

  They succeeded.

  He even allowed a fire to burn down an expensive private location and surrounding forest. Now his only option is to use the miles and miles of footage to pick the worst possible takes and construct the most ineptly edited movie to ever curse the silver screen. His last assault involves defying all the rules of good film editing. Defying those rules and then loudly insisting to everyone he has created a masterpiece.

  Still, they could re-cut the film, and leave his name on it. Assuring him future work and certain death.

  When they get to the lot and park outside the soundstage, Kim shoves all the mail into her briefcase, locks the doors, and walks toward the yawning blackness of the opening created by the two massive stage doors. She begins to discuss the day’s events with him. But when she turns, he has already wandered off toward the “A” camera crew trucks. He is walking toward Scott the AD.

  Should I tell him? she wonders. Should I tell him the Fat Man is coming to visit the set? No, she decides. I’ll let him figure that one out on his own. That’s the price for burning down an evergreen forest.

  She turns and walks into the darkness, her vengeful omission somehow creating the illusion of comfort for just a moment before the loneliness and doubt swallows her again.

  The Great Director finds himself recalling the nightmare of the drainage pipe as he talks to Scott the AD. He thinks about the Mexicans and Carmelita. Jay Jameson as the Devil. For a cold moment he wonders if this film isn’t some fresh version of that suffocating nightmare.

  He swore he’d change. Play Peter instead of Judas.

  But that was under the duress of the drainage pipe and certain immolation. And the never-ending darkness. He could change.

  Or not.

  If he didn’t, was he doomed to find Scott the AD for the rest of his eternities? Find Scott, or Mexican Scott, as he labored tirelessly at film after film? All of them terrible.

  “So what do you want me to do with the Second Unit?” asks Scott for the third time. The Great Director had been telling him some new nonsense when he suddenly stopped talking.

  “Never mind. I’ll shoot it myself,” sighed the Great Director.

  He said he could change.

  He told Orson he could care again. Now it was time to find out if he could.

  Maybe it was time to save the film.

  ***

  Later, the Great Director and many other people were to be found in the studio conference room. The Executive VP paced back and forth, his raised fingers tallying two enumerated points, his voice a pitch above dire heartache, just below utter hopelessness.

  “Let’s forget about who did, or who did not, start the fire for a moment, okay?” Outside the large windows, two news helicopters hovered over the soundstage. The Executive VP uttered a sigh of frustration as he watched them jockey for a better camera angle of nothing. Still, he thought to himself, it was better than the twelve news choppers that had hovered over the studio for most of the afternoon when news had leaked that the studio had been responsible for a fire. The news organizations hearing the words “fire” and “studio” used in the same sentence had scrambled every aircraft available hoping for dramatic footage of celebrities on fire.

  He took a deep breath, placed two fingers atop his carotid artery, and measured the pulse he found there. He turned to face the squabbling cast of characters. Players in the nightmare he had mistaken for Monday afternoon.

  All were silent.

  The Great Director sat front and center in a swivel-mounted chair, turning ever so slightly back and forth. As if creating an invisible barrier. Some almost Zen-like attempt to deflect the slings and arrows of his many angry accusers.

  Arrayed about him, around the oval-shaped mahogany table, were the department heads. The new associate producer, Palmer, who had been embedded into the production since last week at the behest of the studio, sat with a look of tanned concern. Everyone had been very busy venting and accusing. Each denying culpability. Each slathering blame generously wherever it would stick.

  It stuck mainly to the Great Director.

  The agents of the major stars had also arrived. They were led most vocally by a senior member from Langley’s camp. Langley must be removed from the picture, the agent demanded. All known prints must be surrendered. Copies and related materials of said movie also must be surrendered or destroyed. Everything Langley-related must be turned over immediately.

  Closer to the Executive VP sat a federal marshal. He was escorted by a Parks Department representative and the mayor of a small Nevada town. The town had appealed for disaster relief funds from the federal government.

  In a corner near the back, Kip Jameson, in the guise of his brother Jay, sat rolling his eyes at the dramatics of each fresh charge. He hoped no one would mention the budget.

  “Let’s just forget the fire for a moment,” started the Executive VP again. “I know many of you have issues to address. I don’t think the atmosphere at present is conducive to problem solving. So what I’d like to do is have a moment alone with the production staff. Get some information from them. Then I’ll sort out arrangements with each of the parties in this room, individually. Agreed?”

  No one moved.

  “If you will all be so good as to wait outside I’d appreciate that. Thank you.” With that, the petitioners shuffled out the main double doors, glowering at the Great Director and muttering muffled threats.

  Scott the AD and a stranger made their way through the tide of angry petitioners. Scott looked pale and disheveled. The stranger, though handsome and well-groomed, wore a look of intense scrutiny. Kip’s eyes blinked twice, then rolled upward as if seeking a conveniently tethered nearby hot air balloon in which to escape.


  Chapter Thirty-Two

  East of Sunset Boulevard

  Everyone looked to the Great Director for an explanation. None was forthcoming. All of them had heard of the swath of destruction the fire had created. Soon the rest of the film community would also hear of the catastrophe. Of the details leading up to the conflagration, and the lurid celebrity aftermath. Another defeat in a growing list that had been attached to the name of the production, and thus the studio.

  Some sort of docudrama was probably already being greenlit over at E!.

  Palmer, the new associate producer, stood to speak. “I just want to take a moment to say something before we get started.”

  “Go ahead,” said the Executive VP.

  “Even though I just joined the production, I feel I’ve got to say this.”

  Here’s a real snake, thought the Great Director.

  It was apparent to all that Palmer was an industry player of some sort. His tactic of sincerity and affability thinly masked the sudden doom he was about to levy against the crew. His intention was clear the moment he started to speak. This was his bid to take control of the shipwrecked production. He paused, looking around the room at the department heads.

  “I do not blame the crew. They’ve done a fine job under these circumstances. I know how it feels. I was a camera operator. Just keep your head down and do your job, right guys?” He nodded at Goreitsky and his assistant. “But the tone of this,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “enterprise has been set from the top down. I see nothing but a recipe for failure if we attempt to complete this movie under its present direction.” Everyone turned toward the Great Director, who still sat barely swiveling in his lightly squeaking chair.

  “I took a little time the other evening and screened all the rushes,” continued Palmer. “There’s a lot of footage there. Stuff that seems really redundant, excessive, and downright useless. I don’t want to alarm everyone,” he said, looking at the Executive VP. “But stylistically, it’s not acceptable with regard to current trends. It’s long, and—I don’t want this to hurt anybody in the room, but I’m going to say it anyway, and hope those responsible will understand that I realize it wasn’t their fault, and that they were merely following orders—it’s painful.”