Buddy Cooper Finds a Way

by Neil O'Boyle Connelly

  Trevor takes this deep breath like a confession’s coming, and then he says, “You know, Buddy, everybody’s really glad you signed on for this project. I’m sure it’s been difficult for you, with your memory issues and everything, but Ally and Brook are thrilled. It’s very exciting.”

  I don’t know why he’d say this. I don’t know what he wants me to say back to him. “I’m thrilled too. And excited. Very excited.”

  Whether he knows I’m mocking him or not is unclear.

  “You’re doing a fine job,” he tells me.

  “You too,” I say. “Top, top-notch.”

  Again, we stare at each other in silence until we both hear, “How ’bout me?”

  Our heads turn to Brook, who bounces up between us. The frown leaves my face. I nod and say, “Hey.”

  Trevor says to her, “You’re the best extra I’ve ever had.” I don’t like the sound of this, and mentally I renew my objection to Brook’s part in all this. Though to be honest, I was glad to find her waiting for me after I pulled through the ReelWorld gates this morning. She and Alix were outside Al’s office—a huge, sharp-angled, multicolored building that looks like it was designed by Mike Brady.

  She moves closer to me and says, “Mom wants to talk to you about Mr. Hillwigger. He’s kind of like freaking out again. About the snake thing.”

  “Freaking out how?”

  “Just a general freaking out. Trust me. He’s on the edge.”

  Trevor rakes his crown of blond hair. “I’ll run over and see what solutions Marty’s come up with.”

  “I’ll lend a hand with Snake.”

  As Trevor steps away from us, he raises Mom’s megaphone and booms, “Fifteen minutes, people. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.” This is a saying he picked up from war movies. In two years in the Army, I never heard it. Trevor hops into a golf cart and scoots off in the direction of the Brady Building, heading for Marty, I suppose, whoever the hell that is.

  I stand next to my daughter, and she pats me on the back. “Mom says you should always expect trouble on the first day of shooting.”

  “Trouble’s what you get when you go making changes,” I say, looking again at the banner flapping over the door of Studio B, the words declaring me a savior. This morning when they handed me a copy of the newly revised script, the name change jumped out at me on page numero uno: The Unknown Kentucky Savior. I’m still not sure who made that decision, but I have my suspicions.

  “Has Mom talked to you at all about the rewrite,” I ask Brook. “Or are extras working on a need-to-know basis?”

  “I read the whole thing,” she says. “Bullet sweet.”

  Other changes have me more upset. The idea to tag-team me and Hardy makes sense, but adding Marna to the mix seems a bit excessive.

  “How come Mr. Hillwigger’s so upset?” Brook asks as we head into the crowd of extras and crew grazing on catered food.

  “He’s just upset, Bird,” I say. “He’s not so sure about some of the things in the script.”

  “Like what kind of things?”

  “Snake things,” I say. “You know.”

  The read-through took place in a bright, red-walled room inside the Brady Building. Paul twitched whenever anybody used his old name. When he first appears in the script, managing Cro-Mag and the Maestro, he’s still Snake Handler. As we read through his entrance, the description of an albino python looped around his neck was too much for Paul. He simply came undone. “I’m not sure I can handle a python right now,” he tried to explain. “It’s just too soon. It’d just be, well, it’d be hard for me.”

  I have no idea what kind of “solution” Marty could have for Paul’s phobia of his former self.

  Brook and I cut through a crowd of folks forking what looks like chicken salad. She says, “You were great yesterday. At the lake.”

  “I was great?” I say. “How about you?”

  “I’ve learned from the best,” she says, and I smile, happy until I realize the lessons I’m teaching.

  By the Eats All 4U catering trailer, we come across Hardy kneeling down with Marna. Real Marna. He’s helping her maneuver a can of Sprite up to her freckled face. She’s grasping it between her claw hands with all the effort and concentration of someone accustomed to physical therapy. Spill stains mark her T-shirt (SWC: NEW RULES FOR THE NEW MILLENNIUM), but she is grinning crookedly, radiant in Hardy’s attention. Black straps crisscross her legs. I haven’t seen her standing since the beach. I don’t know if Hardy’s miracle was only temporary, or if Quinn is taking his role as legal guardian seriously and keeping her in the chair as a precaution. Of course, it could just be he’s protecting his investment. I’ve heard rumor that he plans on using her at future SWC events.

  Brook lifts a hand, says, “Hey Marna,” and Marna grins, jerks her head sideways. Her tongue silent as stone. I wonder if she looks at Hazel, the actress playing her, and comprehends what’s going on.

  Hardy says, “Hi Brook! We got some sodas.”

  Brook says, “Hey Hardy,” and takes a swig from his Coke can.

  Worried about who’s watching Marna, I ask Hardy if he’s seen Mr. Quinn.

  “No sir,” he says. “He ain’t here.”

  “I got him,” Brook says, tapping me on the shoulder and then pointing. Past the food trailer I can see them now, across the parking lot: Quinn’s and Alix’s outlines beneath a trio of pine trees. Sitting against the base of one is a figure I assume to be Paul.

  “Stay with Marna,” I tell Hardy, though I know he would’ve anyway.

  Beyond the parking lot and the three pine trees spreads an open field with a water tower planted in the center, like a lighthouse keeping an eye on the studio grounds. On the other side of the open field, a Wild West town waits. But as Brook and I cross the lot, I can tell the storefronts are one-dimensional facades propped up by two-by-fours.

  Brook shakes her head at the fake town and says, “Mom brought me to some stunt-show crap there one time. It heaves chunky style. They totally mistreat those horses.”

  I can only offer, “Horses are a lot more sturdy than you think.”

  “I guess,” Brook says, now facing the macadam. “So like, what’s wrong with Marna?”

  I tell her I don’t know, the honest truth. No one’s ever mentioned a specific diagnosis. I wonder if Quinn brought her to see Dr. Karmichael.

  “It’s sad that she’s sick,” Brook says.

  I look down at my daughter, her long auburn hair bouncing as we walk along, and I remember Alix brushing it in the hospital, when we didn’t know the truth behind her attacks. “It’s a real tragedy,” I say.

  “In the car, Mom and Trev got in a fight about using Marna. Mom says it’s a cheap ratings stunt. That some things are sacred and should be left alone.”

  Brook’s referring to the final act of the script, when Hardy and I emerge from the ring victorious over the man-child assassin, just after Paul has been shot but before he’s converted to the side of good. Hardy’s scripted to lay healing hands on the crippled girl at ringside. He’ll raise Hazel up on wobbly legs just like Marna at the beach. Trevor and Quinn must have worked overtime yesterday, because it all weaves together now like this was all part of the script from minute one.

  We’re almost across the lot, and my daughter’s not going to accept my silence. “So what do you think?” Like everybody else, Brook wants answers. Ahead of us, Al turns and lifts a hand. Next to her Quinn looks down on Paul, sitting at their feet.

  “It makes a nice ending I guess, but—”

  “No,” Brook says. “I don’t mean about using Marna in the script. I mean have you thought about what really happened at the beach? This kid before said Hardy hears voices through his hearing aid. Some people are calling it a miracle.”

  “Thank God,” Quinn says, looming over Paul. “B. C. Perhaps you can reason with him.”

  We step into the shade of the three pine trees. I look into the branches, thick with lush pom-poms of green needles. “She walke
d out of the water,” I say to Brook. “I don’t know about the rest of that stuff.”

  “But it’s possible?”

  “I guess.”

  “Bullet,” Brook says. She stands next to Alix and looks down at Paul, curled up on the pine straw.

  Quinn shakes his head. “I’ve exhausted my therapeutic stratagems.”

  Alix looks at me and shrugs. So I crouch down by Paul, who’s sitting with his head bent, holding his own bony knees and rocking quietly. His fingers twist a paper clip that he’s studying intently. Without looking up, he says, “I’m sorry, Buddy. I’m sorry. I just can’t do this.”

  “It’s OK, Paul. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Tell me what you’re upset about.”

  He reaches to his side, grabs the black leather jacket that wardrobe gave him back at the Brady Building. “I can’t wear this. The Lord doesn’t want me to be that person anymore. I have sloughed off that skin.” When he looks at me, I see the thick white powder that makeup plastered on his face to cover up the purple bruising. They decided to ditch the patch, so I can see the red clouding one eye.

  Thumbs hooked inside gold suspenders, Quinn says, “Claiming God is on your side does not validate your position in legal negotiations. Try again. Dipshit.”

  “Brook baby, go get a little food,” I hear Alix say quietly.

  “I want to stay.”

  “Obey your mother,” Quinn snaps.

  I turn, but Alix is already stepping into him. “Talk to my daughter like that again,” she says, “and we’ll get into it.”

  Quinn’s open hands flash up at Alix as he backs away. “There’s no call to lose your composure. Keep your panties on.”

  Gunshots ring out from the Wild West town beyond the water tower. I see horses kicking up dust, a wagon rumbling to a stop. The action is too far off to be certain, but it seems like trouble.

  I nod once at Brook, who shrugs her shoulders but understands, heads back for the catering trailer and Hardy and Marna.

  “How can you expect me to work with a python?” Paul asks. He’s pointing the paper clip at me for emphasis.

  Quinn leans into him. “You understand of course the significant resources devoted to the acquisition of this animal?” Trevor scoured the state in search of an albino but couldn’t find one, so he had to settle for a normal python, though they’re investigating bleaching it.

  “Not my fault!” Paul shouts. “Nobody asked me! I’m not sleeping so good, you know. Now I’ve prayed about this—I’ve asked for guidance—and I want to fulfill my contract. But does it have to be a python? Maybe I could deal with a rattler. That wouldn’t be too traumatic. I could do that. I think.”

  Quinn smirks and I say, “C’mon, he’s trying.”

  “I won’t tolerate this kind of behavior. Not from professionals under contract.”

  “How about an anaconda?” Paul offers. “Anacondas are scary.”

  Alix steps in, says to me, “This just isn’t going to fly. Help me get him up.” We each take an arm, hoist him to his feet. Quinn steps in front of us. “Whoa there, Mother Teresa. Would you care to outline your action plan?”

  “We need to get him out of this heat,” Alix explains. “Get a little water in his system and lay him down inside. The trailer’s got AC. He just needs to calm down.”

  Paul seems too weak to walk, so we drape his arms over our necks. Though it raises dull pain in my shoulder, I run my arm across his back, and I wish again that I was healed enough to do my own stunts.

  Alix puts her arm across Paul’s shoulders, and our skin comes into contact. At the touch, Al leans forward and glances my way. All day long I’ve wanted to be alone with her, to ask her about what happened yesterday at the lake and talk to her about what’s going on. But we haven’t had a second by ourselves, always there’s been Trevor or Quinn or even Brook. Alix wants to be alone with me too—I can tell by the way she looks away quick when our eyes meet, and by the fact that she’s left her arm beneath mine on Paul’s back. I squeeze her forearm gently and we start forward together, shuffling slowly across the open field. Quinn follows. I’m keeping an eye on Paul’s feet, which trip over one another.

  “Think about it,” Paul pleads. “Why does it even have to be a snake at all? Why couldn’t it be some other animal?”

  “This is brilliant,” Quinn whines from behind us. “First Hardy can’t recall five lines of dialogue, now Paul’s become feebleminded. How many contingencies does one executive need?”

  “Leave Hardy out of this,” I say.

  Alix’s face tenses. She’s angry and nervous about the project, in which she has a lot invested. I squeeze her arm again and she looks over at me, presses out a smile.

  “No really,” Paul says. “How about a monkey? Or a ferret?”

  “A ferret!” Quinn repeats. “You’re proposing that we frighten wrestling fans with a ferret?”

  We’re in the parking lot. The trailer is just ahead of us. “Almost there,” I say.

  “Well,” Paul mumbles. “Naturally we’d have to make it a monster ferret, that’s all. A mutant.”

  “Tell me please he’s not saying these things,” Quinn moans.

  “Shut up,” Alix says. “Everybody needs to stop talking.”

  We round the corner of the Eats All 4U trailer and run smack into Trevor, who’s moving so fast he almost knocks us over. Plus he’s got some weight behind him, a garbage bag he’s carrying like Santa Claus’s sack. “Hey gang!” he says excitedly. The urge to strangle him is almost irresistible. Paul droops almost unconscious between Alix and me, his head hanging. He doesn’t even look at our director.

  Quinn steps around to Trevor. “Snake here has offered some innovative ideas for—”

  Al kicks Quinn in the shin. He says, “Yo” and gives her a dirty look.

  “Be thankful I didn’t break it,” she says.

  Trevor ignores all this. “Our problems are over. That Marty’s pure genius.” He plops the bag down, reaches into it. “Our man’s got an issue with a live python. Here’s the next best thing.”

  The white snake that Trevor uncurls from the bag is rubber, made in Taiwan. It is not real. But in the heat its rubbery skin glistens. Then Quinn, who’s decided to help out, finds the head and aims it at us, and I’d bet for a second every penny I had that this was not a fake python, but simply a dead one.

  “Jesus,” Alix says, and this makes Paul lift his face, fix his eyes on the sight before us.

  His body convulses between me and Alix, bucks once, twice. Then the stream of vomit blasts from his mouth, sprays stomach acid and catered chicken salad across Trevor and Quinn. Alix and I each turn our faces, but we don’t drop him. Even when a second wave crashes immediately behind the first, strafing high across the retreating Quinn and Trevor, we hold our friend.

  There’s a silence as we wait for another attack, but it doesn’t come. Paul coughs, spits. One fist opens and his paper clip falls into the grass.

  “Nuts nuts nuts,” Trevor says, holding his arms up and away from his dripping Dockers.

  “Perfect,” Quinn says. “I bought this shirt in Vienna.” Both men are splotched with vomit from their knees to their chests.

  Between us on the ground lies the fake albino python, abandoned midassault. It rests in a puddle of vomit, splatters glistening on its rubbery skin, staring up at us with pink button eyes.

  Paul, spent and wasted, hangs between us, dead weight. “I’m so sorry,” is all he can manage.

  “Let’s get him down,” Alix suggests, and gingerly, we lower him onto the trailer steps and take a seat on either side. It’s good to be sitting. My shoulder aches. I want to ask Alix to massage my muscles the way she used to, but I know I can’t. Instead, I pat Paul on the back. “It’s always good to get that stuff out. You’ll feel better now.”

  Quinn has yanked a white handkerchief from his pocket and is mopping the vomit from his pants. “This is precisely what I wanted to have happen today.”

&nbs
p; I see Hardy’s massive form coming up behind them. He says, “Hey? Did I hear somebody throw up?”

  Too late, I begin to stand, hoping to prevent Hardy from stepping into our circle. But I’m too slow, and as soon as Trevor steps back, Hardy gets a look at what’s on the ground. His snake-fearing eyes go wide and he pushes Quinn out of the way as he bolts to the rescue. “Bad!” he shouts as he kicks the slimed snake, splashing vomit into the grass.

  “It’s fake, Hardy!” I yell. “It’s a toy!”

  He pauses, chest heaving with breath. “Fake?”

  Quinn, offended at being thrown up on and then shoved, says, “Fake! Phony. An imitation. A false duplicate. Comprehend?”

  Trevor starts unbuttoning his soaked shirt with the tips of his fingers.

  “Who would want a toy snake this big?” Hardy wants to know.

  Paul groans next to me, overcome by all this. Thin globs of vomit cling to his goatee. Alix says, “You want to go inside the trailer, Paul? Lie down for a minute?”

  “I want to go home,” Paul answers, sounding like a tired kindergartner.

  Hardy says, “I got my Jeep here.”

  “Just a moment,” Quinn says, one finger in the air. “We have budgetary concerns and time constraints that need to be considered. With that killer kid at large, the buzz on this project has gone through the roof. The minute they catch him—”

  I hold up a hand to stop him. “I really think we should be done.”

  We all turn to Trevor, Mr. Director. His shirt is half unbuttoned, and his undershirt is wet with sticky bile. He considers our faces, then his soaked pants. “I’m declaring this an omen.” He checks his watch. “Ally, tell the crew we’re calling it a day. Tomorrow I want to try and get through the locker-room scene. Maybe we can even walk through the match itself, so let’s say seven a.m. By Wednesday we should be editing.”