by Jerry Cole
The last couple of days in particular had been the worst. It was him, his marketing team, his sales team, and anyone else who he thought might be able to help, locked away in a tiny meeting room trying to figure out what the hell to do. They had to come up with a backup plan for if Covid-19 turned out as bad as some people thought. And they also needed a plan in the meantime, something to sell clients and the public so they knew everything was going to be fine.
It was an absolute mess.
His eyes flicked to his phone, still blank, and then back to his laptop. As he drafted the master email, more and more complaints and queries came through. Some wanted assurances that all would be fine. Others asked how much it would cost to cancel certain deals and bundles already paid for. One client even suggested cutting China entirely out of all travel programs until this thing was sorted.
Sherman groaned as he typed, deleted, reworded and typed again. He was having a hard time concentrating and it was all because of this —
His phone suddenly vibrated on the dashboard. It was just a text message, reading ‘Come now.’ Where Sherman was set to go, the last thing he wanted to do was ‘come now.’ But he had no choice, especially if he was going to get what he came here for...
With a reluctant sigh, Sherman closed his laptop – that could wait for later – climbed from his car and, as he did, whispered a silent prayer that he’d get out of this alive and in one piece.
He was buying drugs; it was as simple as that. But this time, it wasn’t Mad Dog Dan who was supplying them. This time, it was Mad Dog Dan’s own dealer that had requested to sell them to Sherman. Yes, requested. For reasons Sherman could not imagine, nor did he really want to, the man who Mad Dog Dan bought from had asked specifically to sell to Sherman the next time he wanted to buy.
“What? Why?” Sherman had blurted at Mad Dog just two weeks ago when he told him of the new arrangement.
“I dunno,” Mad Dog had shrugged. Where Sherman had once been a little put off by Mad Dog’s presence, now he just pitied the poor guy. He was run down, malnourished and heavily diseased by the looks of things. “But when Curly wants to chat, you don’t say no.”
“Curly?”
“Yeah. Curly.”
Curly was the head of the Hades Angels motorbike gang; the kind of gang that one sees stories about on the evening news, and reads about in the morning paper. Sherman had done a little reading on Curly and the Hades Angels before making the call and nothing that he had read inspired much confidence.
So, why was Sherman still going through with the buy? As he slowly edged toward the dark, narrow alley, and then began his way down its length, he had no idea. Actually, that’s a lie. He knew why, but it was sad to admit.
Sherman was an addict. Once upon a time it had been alcohol that he relied upon to get him through the night, and now it was cocaine. It had slowly been intensifying over the past few months, but was now close to being out of control. He’d kept a small lid on it in Bali, oddly enough. But that was just because he’d had Bradley there and didn’t need it as much. But here and now, living alone in Sydney, there was nothing keeping him from that white powder.
So, with no real choice, he called Curly earlier today and asked if he could pick up. Ever so politely, Curly told him to meet in this exact location at this exact time of night. When Curly was ready, he’d then text him to walk down the alley and through the door for the actual purchase. Needless to say, Sherman’s heart was racing.
The door wasn’t so much hidden as it was just the same color as the surrounding concrete walls; dark and grey. Sherman knocked on it once, it swung open a moment later, and he walked on inside with a gulp, praying that he’d see the outside again before too long.
There was a large, rough looking biker standing on the other side of the door. Sherman went to speak, but he just pointed down the stairs, into the cellar. Sherman obeyed with a small nod.
The cellar itself had been converted into a sort of clubhouse, although it wasn’t any sort of club that Sherman would want to be a part of. Cigarette and cigar smoke hung thick in the air and had Sherman coughing the moment his feet hit the cement flooring. The walls were all adorned in club memorabilia, with a giant Hades Angels’ flag at its center. There was a pool table too, a bar down the end, and even a poker table.
Sherman did a quick count in his head of how many men there were, as if knowing might give him some chance of survival. There were at least fifteen that he could see, although some parts of the cellar were very dark. Most either played poker or pool, a few stood about talking, and a couple more stood by the bar. Each to the last was bearded, large, covered in denim and tattoos, and looked as if they’d physically be able to eat Sherman for breakfast. It was a tough scene.
At the center of it all was Curly.
Sherman recognized him from the news. Oddly, he was the only one in the room without a beard or any hair to speak of... although Sherman also knew why that was. He was as big as any man there, twice as mean looking, and watched Sherman with a keen eye; the way he sized Sherman up made him feel like a commodity to be used.
“Sherman?” Curly asked. His voice was appropriately harsh; sounding like he’d spent a lifetime eating gravel and drinking cement.
“Ye — yes. That’s me.” He took a few quick strides through the room and toward the bar. On the way, he did his best to ignore the daggers that were being glared at him by every second set of eyes. “Hey there.” Sherman cursed under his breath. What a dumb thing to say.
Curly remained silent as he finished pouring his beer. There was too much foam, so he overpoured and allowed for it to just fall from the mug and onto the ground. The room had been wildly noisy when Sherman had entered, now it was filled with a dull mutter as the gang spoke in a whisper among themselves.
Meanwhile, Sherman had just reached the bar, giving him his first close up look of Curly. He did his best to ignore the horrible burn scars that covered his scalp and face... but he was pretty sure he wasn’t being subtle about it.
“Mad Dog tells me you work in travel,” Curly eventually said. It wasn’t a question.
“He — what?” Sherman blinked back his surprise.
“Travel.” Curly walked around the bar, beer in hand, and toward Sherman. He walked right up to Sherman in fact, standing over him like a mountain. “Travel. Said you work with DreamLine?”
Sherman took a nervous step back. “A-huh.”
“That a yes?” The scars on his face were even more pronounced this close up, under the light. Sherman had no idea how it had happened... but it must have hurt.
“Y- yes,” he stammered.
“Good.” Curly indicated to someone over Sherman’s shoulder. A second later and a small package was being shoved into his top pocket. Sherman was so nervous he barely even noticed. “That’s what you’re after, isn’t it?” He indicated to Sherman’s pocket, now bulging with said package.
“Ah...” Sherman hurriedly fished it out and his eyes widened when he saw what it was. Cocaine! ... a lot of cocaine. “Yes, but – didn’t ah, Mad Dog tell you how much I usually —”
“He did.” Curly took a long sip of his beer. “But this one is on the house. Think of it like a gift, from me to you.”
Sherman hesitated. “A gift? What for?”
“No reason,” Curly said with smile that suggested there was a very specific reason to why he had just given him a large amount of cocaine for free. “All I ask is that from now on, you do business with me. Understand?”
“Right, yes,” Sherman agreed quickly. “Same number?”
“The same.”
“Good... good. Great.” Sherman nodded a few times at Curly, who suddenly looked bored. So, he looked around the room and smiled for a few of the bikers, who all looked more like a pack of lions surrounding a gazelle than anything else.
“Well?” Curly began after a few moments.
“Yes?” Sherman asked stupidly.
“We’re done here.”
“Oh! Right.” Sherman shook his head and started for the door. “Thanks, um Mr. Curly... yeah.” He gave his head another embarrassed shake and then got about getting the heck out of there.
He kept his head down as he scurried, feeling the eyes of the Hades Angels on him the whole while. It wasn’t until he was free of the cellar, breathing in fresh air, that he finally felt safe again.
But now that he was safe, what the fuck had just happened? He’d just met the leader of the Hades Angels bike gang. Fuck, he’d just bought drugs off him! No, not bought. Given! Curly had given him drugs. And why? Sherman had no idea. Curly had grilled him about his work, but what did that have to do with anything?
Sherman decided to try and not think about it, a sort of ‘out of sight out of mind’ situation. It had been a stressful day, followed by a stressful start to the night. But that was in the rearview now. That was the good thing about doing drugs, it was hard to stay in anything but the present.
So, Sherman would head home. He would send off a quick message to Bradley as he did most nights, then he’d rack some lines, have a drink or two and cruise through the weekend without a care in the world. As much as he hated to admit it, he could not wait.
Chapter Thirteen
“And that’s a wrap, everyone! Well done! Seriously, good work today!” The director was already halfway across the set, making his way toward where the cameras and viewing screens were set up, a man on a mission. “On the way out make sure you see your point man!” the director continued loudly to the room. “All questions about payments, release dates, etcetera, can be answered by them!” When he reached the cameras and viewing screens, he and the cameraman put their heads together and devolved into deep conversation for their ears only. The rest of the crew might as well not even exist.
But Bradley didn’t care. In his short time spent as a working actor, he’d come to realize that all directors were different, each with their own process that they insisted was the absolute best process for getting the best results. Some directors worked so closely with their actors it boarded on obsession, while others ignored them entirely.
In this case, Bradley was glad that the director chose to act like he and the other actors didn’t exist. It was a silly commercial anyway, aimed at selling more beer during summer or something ridiculous like that. The set was a large warehouse made to look like the beach and all Bradley and the other actors had needed to do was play beach volleyball, laugh, joke around and of course, pretend to drink beer. But even that was fake as the bottles they were given were empty!
No, Bradley didn’t give too much thought to the director, or his ‘role.’ It was a single day of work and came with a single – albeit rather generous – paycheck. For Bradley it was just a way of getting some practice in front of the camera until a real role came along. That, he was sure, was just around the corner.
“Tell me we’re getting an actual drink after this.” Isabelle was sitting on the ground by Bradley’s feet, making a sandcastle. That had been her role all day, to build, destroy and then rebuild sandcastles, while smiling and laughing, of course.
Bradley’s role was ‘to look hot,’ as the director had instructed. That meant a pair of small and tight boardshorts, no shirt and a lot of smiling and muscle flexing. Seriously, Bradley had been half-naked the entire day and done nothing more than stand about and show off his abs. It was easy work, but very unrewarding.
“Depends on what you mean by an actual drink.” Bradley lifted his foot back, as if about to kick the sandcastle over. Isabelle glared at him, and he smirked and lowered his foot. “Joking.”
“Good boy.” She wiped her hands on her thighs and pushed herself to her feet. Even though Bradley was gay, he couldn’t help but admire Isabelle’s tight, athletic body. Seriously, in the bikini she was wearing, he had to wonder why the director had her sitting down, only half in camera. “As lame as it sounds, I spent all day trying to get it – what the fuck!”
From nowhere, a beach volleyball landed between them and right on the sandcastle. It crushed the flimsy structure instantly and sent sand flying in every direction.
“Heads up!” Keith shouted and laughed as he came running toward the two. “Or maybe I should have shouted feet?”
Keith was another up-and-coming actor in the Melbourne scene. He was the same age as Bradley, tall, in great shape, tanned all year round, covered in tattoos and a little too ruggedly handsome for his own good. He was also straight, thank God.
“You are such a prick,” Isabelle snapped. Despite her malice, when Keith reached them, she wrapped her arm around his waist and proceeded to kiss him on the cheek, lips and neck. “Lucky you’re so cute.”
“When you’re done there, I’ll happily jump in,” Bradley joked, indicating to Isabelle smooching up Keith’s neck.
“There’s a line you know,” Keith said seriously... only to then break into a smile. “I think the director was next though – did you see him trying to get me into a speedo.” Keith had on an exceedingly small, tight pair of boardshorts. Truly, a Speedo wouldn’t have made much difference.
“Shame you said no,” Isabelle said. “Nothing sells beer like a big di —”
“You coming for a drink?” Bradley cut her off. “I think we’re headed out after this?”
“Obviously,” Keith sighed. “I’m going to change out of this crap and I’ll meet you outside?”
“I’ll come.” Bradley indicated to what he was wearing. “I feel like the bar we’re probably going to go to won’t like me coming in looking like this.”
“Different scene to your normal one,” Keith joked. He then nodded his head in the direction of the bathrooms. “Come on, I think a few lads are in there already. We’ll get a crew going.”
“I’ll ask the girls,” Isabelle added as she started toward the female change rooms. “Nothing like a good bitch session after a day on set.”
“See you on the other side, darling,” Bradley purred as he wandered away with Keith.
“Eyes off,” Keith joked in regard to Isabelle.
“Na, I don’t think so,” Bradley joked back.
Keith knew Bradley was joking, of course. And vice versa. In the last two months the two men had worked on four commercials together, gone on at least a dozen of the same auditions, been extras in three television episodes, and had even done one modelling shoot together. By now they were old pros.
The same went for Isabelle too, and that wasn’t to mention the classes that she and Bradley took together also. That was the thing about the Melbourne acting scene that Bradley was starting to learn, it was very small. He’d been serious about his acting now for about six months and had already met everyone there was to meet. At least it felt that way.
Bradley was still a long way off from ‘making it.’ Right now, he was making decent money doing these small roles. Between that and his classes, he was making great strides too. He knew that he was just one good audition from breaking in and being set up with an actual role, making him an actual actor. Now, it was just a matter of grinding and waiting for that role.
Bradley wasn’t the only one in this position either. Most of the extras on set that day were in the exact same spot and when they all rocked up at the bar thirty minutes later for a drink – or several – the conversation soon turned to the future, and what they were going to do with themselves.
“Sydney,” Keith stated emphatically. He had a pint griped in his right hand, looking like he was just about ready to throw the whole thing back in one go. Bradley wondered how he was able to drink so much beer and still look like that. “That’s where it’s at.”
“Sydney?” Isabelle blinked her surprise. She was tucked under his arm, but pushed herself. Clearly, this was the first she had heard of it. “Since when?”
“I’ve been in communication with some people up there and they reckon it’s going off right now for actors.”
“Who?”
“Acting friends. Obviously.”
“Wh
at kind of jobs?” Bradley asked. He was drinking a vodka lime and soda, but was trying his best to nurse it. Since returning from Bali two months ago he’d tried to cut back on his drinking, for health reasons if nothing else.
“Yeah.”
“Come on.”
“What jobs?”
There were ten of them at the table, all actors from the commercial Bradley had spent the day filming. Some were newbies, even by Bradley’s standards, and some had been in the game for so long that they’d long since given up on ‘breaking in.’ Either way, at the mere mention of more work going, even if it was in Sydney, everyone perked up and focused their attention on Keith.
Keith was made for the limelight and with all eyes on him, he sipped casually at his beer, smirking as he did so. And then, only when he was ready, when everyone was at breaking point, did he continue with, “Everything. Pilot season starts in about three months and word is that there are more jobs going then they can poke a stick at.”
“They?” Billy asked, a teenager that quit high school to take up acting full time.
“Who’s they?” Barb asked next. She was an older woman in her sixties that did this as a sort of side gig.
“Who do you think?” Keith continued coolly. “Casting agents, managers, production houses – you're all actors, fuck. Figure it out. But I’m telling you... Sydney is where it’s at.”
It was said with such assurance, such authority, that it was taken as fact and thus it dominated conversation for the rest of the afternoon and into the night. What were these jobs? Were they real? And, most importantly, was it worth moving to Sydney to pursue them?
“I think I might do it.” Isabelle sounded half convinced in her conviction; like she wanted to, but didn’t know if she actually could. “If Keith does...”
“It’s a risk,” Bradley agreed. “But imagine if he was right?”
