by Jordan Cooke
Max didn’t look persuaded. “I give them two weeks before one of them files papers—and that is something the network does not want to see happen. Or me, for that matter. Can you imagine what it would be like for me to direct divorced people? I can barely get my parents in the same room on my birthday.” Max moved away from Corliss, raising his hands in the air again, trying to get back into his zone.
None of this had occurred to Corliss. And now it was too late. There was no stopping the high-speed train that was Tanya and Trent’s wedding. In fact, it had already left the station.
She then approached Max cautiously. She’d been hearing so much about the wedding plans in the last few days and she knew she had to be straight with Max. “I know you’re already in your zone and all, and there’s only a couple minutes until we begin filming, but there’s something important you should know.” Max rolled his fingers for her to proceed quickly. “Right.” Corliss took a big breath of air and spat it out without stopping: “Okay the thing is not only are Trent and Tanya getting married no matter what you or anyone says, they already got the license and they are appearing on Ellen tomorrow afternoon to announce the wedding date and they’ve sold the photo rights to People magazine and they really hope they can convince you to allow them to get married on this very soundstage by converting it into a tropical Puerto-Rican-themed paradise! They also want you to host an engagement party at your house, nothing too big, maybe a few hundred people, sponsored by another magazine, of course, which I think would be a nice gesture.” She held her breath waiting for his response.
Max didn’t say anything for a full moment. Corliss was beginning to get dizzy the longer he withheld comment. “They’re going to be on Ellen tomorrow?” he said finally.
“Uh-huh,” said Corliss, still not knowing if he’d heard the full story.
“Well, that’s very interesting,” he replied in a clipped voice. “I had drinks with Ellen last night at the Chateau and she didn’t say a thing.” He looked hurt. “And I thought I was very close to Ellen. I once took her girlfriend Portia to the Beverly Center to buy a jogging bra. Gestures like that aren’t small.” He tilted his head up. “Well, I guess you never know who your friends are in this town.” He looked at his perfect cuticles as if he would cry.
“Um, Max, did you hear what I said? About Trent and Tanya? Getting married and wanting to have the wedding here? Big tropical splash? Hello?”
Max sighed. “Yes, I heard, Corliss. I guess there’s nothing we can do if they have a license and they’re going to tell the world tomorrow afternoon on daytime television. The only thing we can do is spin it for all the press it’s worth—and hope the marriage sticks.”
Corliss exhaled. “I think that’s wise, Max. Besides, how can anyone come between two people so obviously in love?” She looked over to where Trent and Tanya were now giggling and wrestling on the floor.
Max shook his head. “My definition of love doesn’t involve nearly so much horseplay.” He watched as Trent flipped and pinned Tanya. “Now please make sure Anushka, Rocco, and our two lovebirds are in their places, Corliss. I’m ready to shoot their scene.”
“Righto, Max,” said Corliss, who then saluted and motored off.
The ’Bu
Episode III
INT. A GRAND MALIBU VILLA—DAY
ALECIA, wearing a gold brocade head scarf with large gold hoop earrings and a metallic gold string bikini, lounges seductively on a Moroccan chaise.
RAMONE, his inky black hair windswept, his dark eyes glowering, enters through the heavy damask curtains and moves to the window. The tension between these two is palpable.
RAMONE
I thought you’d turned a corner
after your scrape with death.
But from what I hear through
the grapevine, nothing has
changed . . .
ALECIA
You’re just upset you’re still
attracted to me. But Travis
loves me now. Even without my
hair.
RAMONE
That’s because—because—(he can’t
help himself) even shorn of
your beautiful locks, you still
manage to captivate!
ALECIA
(not taking the bait) Where I’m
going looks don’t matter . . .
STORM CLOUDS roll in off the coast. Rocco’s eyes darken as he shakes his head and mutters a bitter chuckle.
RAMONE
I see someone’s in a dramatic
mood.
ALECIA
You’ve never once taken me
seriously, have you? None of
my friends have. You all think
I’m a self-absorbed narcissist.
Well, maybe you’ll take me
seriously once all of you hear
what I’ve put in motion . . .
She lifts herself up with great effort and moves to Ramone’s side. They both stare out at the STORM moving in. Alecia’s face fixes with resolve.
ALECIA
I’ve decided to liquidate my parents’ estate—the houses, the cars, the yachts—all of it.
RAMONE
You’re not serious.
ALECIA
(She nods.) I’m going to give
every bit of money I have to
Greenworld, to save the ozone.
Once that’s done I’m going to
move to India and become a
Buddhist nun. I’ll subsist on
rice and handouts. And maybe—just
maybe—I’ll get to know who I
really am—for once!
Ramone gives a short laugh and moves toward the door.
RAMONE
Send me a postcard.
ALECIA
You don’t believe anything I say, do you?
RAMONE
What I believe is that you faked
your own death to get the pity
of your friends. And now you’re
using your parents’ death as a
means to escape. There’s only so
far you can run, Alecia, before
you do actually find yourself.
And when you do, I have a feeling
it’s not going to be very pretty.
As he turns to go, she hurls an ETRUSCAN VASE at his head, missing it by inches. It crashes into a GILDED MIRROR on the wall. The mirror SHATTERS and shards crash to the floor. Ramone grins.
RAMONE
Seven more years bad luck,
Alecia. Are you sure you can
afford that?
And he’s gone. Alecia throws herself on the chaise, weeping. TESSA rushes in, wearing a hooded terrycloth bathrobe.
TESSA
What happened! I was in the spa
and I heard a crash! Are you
okay?
Alecia straightens up and brushes a tear from her eye, hiding her mortification.
ALECIA
Don’t worry about me, Tess. I’m
fine. I’m just fine . . .
FADE OUT
The ’Bu Soundstage—12:13 P.M.
“I’m so sorry, Max!” said Tanya with a big frown from under her hooded terrycloth robe. “I totally heard the vase crash into the mirror, which I know was totally my cue, but then I got a call from Jasmine who’s doing the catering for my wedding. And she’s all like, ‘Do you want ganache in the cake?’ and I’m all like, ‘What’s ganache?’” Tanya crumpled up her face like ganache was the craziest word she’d ever heard.
Trent smiled his crooked grin at her. “Isn’t she, like, fierce?”
Anushka and Rocco stood by, glaring at the love-mad couple. The camerawoman kept tapping her watch, trying to remind Max about her podiatrist appointment. And Corliss was just off-set, giggling at everything that came out of JB’s mouth.
The inside of Max’s head was not a good place to be at this moment. It was a dark, small space where strange, discordant music playe
d on badly tuned violins. “Um, Tanya,” he said with all the pretend patience he could muster. “Why don’t we try it again, but this time—”
“One sec!” Tanya shouted, putting a finger in the air and answering her phone for the umpteenth time in the last two hours. “Hello?” She covered her phone and announced to everyone: “Ohmygod, it’s Marishka, the florist, and she is, like, so totally impossible to get a hold of! And I want lilies, and she’s saying orchids, and I’m like, no way!” Tanya took the call, jabbering off into a corner of the set.
The camerawoman stepped forward. “I really have to go, Max. My arches fell yesterday, and I have to be fitted for corrective shoes.”
“Just a few more minutes?” Max pleaded.
“You’ll recall I have to take the bus because my car’s still in the shop getting the egg yolk taken off. If I don’t make the twelve-twenty bus I could be on arch support for the rest of my life.”
“But we’ve only done three takes . . .” Max protested.
“Not my problemo,” said the camerawoman, lumbering away from her camera and heading off the set. “Call my union.” Just then Corliss threw her head back at something JB said and laughed/snorted so loudly that it echoed throughout the soundstage. Max winced and felt a crick in his neck.
“Max,” said Rocco, gesturing to where Corliss and JB stood giggling with each other, “the level of seriousness on the set has reached the proverbial low. Is there nothing that can be done to keep ‘professionalism’ the byword of the day?”
“Whatever, SAT boy,” said Anushka wearily. “I’m standing here bald as a cue ball, just waiting for you to say action. It’s Bridezilla and America’s Next Top Husband over here who are gumming up the works.”
Trent grinned his crooked, love-drowned grin. “She just wants things to be, like, perfect.”
Max massaged his temples with his thumb and forefingers and made a mental note to call the Scientology Celebrity Centre to see if they could get him another counselor.
“For your information,” said Rocco to Anushka, “it’s not Trent and Tanya who are permeating the air with non-professional behavior.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Anushka, the color rising in her face. “I’m the picture of professionalism! Here on time, knowing my lines—acting with wooden actors who’d rather be, I don’t know, maybe directing?”
Rocco seethed. “That’s no business of yours, Anushka.”
“And who your cousin text-messages is no business of yours, Rocco!” exploded Anushka, her big hoop earrings jangling. “I know you turned Patrizio against me! You’ve always had it out for me. And what did I ever do to you, you overeducated muscle boy?” Anushka tore off her bald cap, threw it at Rocco’s feet, and stormed off.
“Anushka!” Max was about to head after her when he heard Corliss laugh/snort again from somewhere off-set. His head snapped in the direction of the sound and he got another crick. “Corliss!” he shouted, way up in his girly register.
“Yes, Max?!” Corliss said, appearing instantly. “Is everything okay?”
“No, Corliss. Everything is not okay. I’ve got one star talking cake, another talking nonsense, another tossing her bald cap, another speaking in a vocabulary that’s way beyond my comprehension, and a camerawoman on a bus to her podiatrist.” Max counted to ten in his head (but in Spanish, as he was trying to get a date with Jessica Alba). It seemed to calm him down. But then something else occurred to him. Something that very much did not calm him down. “And what are you and JB giggling about? Whenever I need you lately you’re off in some dark corner, tossing your head back and laughing way too loudly at something JB is saying.”
Corliss blushed deeply. Max looked at Rocco and Trent. They looked away. JB rushed in with that big, open, how-did-I-get-here face he sometimes had. “Heard m’name! Is my order up? Remember, I wanted fries with that shake!” Corliss gave him a face like “Not a good time.”
“Wait a second,” said Max, beginning to do the math in his head as he looked at their faces. Was there something going on between JB and Corliss after all? Could Corliss possibly be going behind his no-dating edict to date JB? Would she really betray his authority that way? Ignore the edict from above? Flout UBC company policy? It was all too much for Max to consider. “I have to lie down in my trailer . . .”
“But Max,” said Corliss, stepping in and talking to him in soft, measured tones as if he were a psych outpatient. “We’re on a soundstage—there are no trailers here.” She took his hand and gestured around the vast space as if to prove her point. “Do you want to go to your office?”
Max felt like he was about to cry. He missed his trailer. And the big mirror in it where he checked his hair. And his toilet where his assistants floated fresh rose petals every morning. His trailer was a bastion of serenity to him, and everything in front of him right now was . . . chaos. He thought he’d made such strides since the first episode. He thought he’d pulled himself together and become the captain of everyone’s ship. And the live second episode—he thought he brilliantly handled that, taking The ’Bu to the next level. But apparently it was all an illusion. He was a fake and now he knew it to the very soles of his Bruno Maglis. And to top it off, Ellen and Portia had frozen him out. When it all seemed to be getting even darker and stranger in his head, his iPhone rang. He looked at the caller ID. It said OLGA.
“Olga!” he said, answering the call quickly. “It’s me, Max.”
“Yes, Max,” came her thick Russian accent. “I know. I call you. Listen, I have question.”
“Okay, but it’s a little crazy here at the moment, Olga, so I only have a minute. What is it?”
“Da, okay. Can Olga can cancel Legend’s appointment today with speech therapist?”
“Uh, well, why would you want to do that, Olga?”
“Because this lisp of Legend? No more. I cure.”
“What? You’ve cured Legend’s lisp . . . ?” He was astounded. Corliss’s eyes opened wide and she moved closer. “How is that possible? He’s been to every speech therapist from San Simeon to San Dimas!”
“It’s no problem. I try this and that. Something finally work. We at Tar Pits now. Soon we get hot dog and have more fun.”
“That sounds so nice, Olga. Max could use a hot dog and some fun himself . . .”
“Max not so good today?”
“No,” Max said, “Max not so good . . . Max very bad, in fact.”
“Talk to Olga. Problems at ’Bu?”
Max thought Olga sounded so cute when she said ’Bu in her Russian accent. In fact, he was beginning to feel as Corliss felt about Olga: as if she were the greatest thing since hot borscht. “Well, Olga,” said Max, moving away from Corliss and the actors so that he could speak freely. “Two of our actors are all of a sudden getting married to each other, and it’s causing a lot of commotion on the set.”
“This Trent and Tanya?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“I read on ’Bu-hoo.”
Max sighed. Was there no one who didn’t read that infernal blog? “Yes, Trent and Tanya. And two of my other actors are in some fight about some Italian text-messaging business. My camerawoman is on the bus to her foot doctor. And, to top it off, Corliss—my top assistant, as you know—seems to be having a clandestine relationship with one of the actors. And relationships among staff members are strictly verboten.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “I like this Corliss. She good people. The others I don’t know. This I do know: nothing you can do about love life of other people. You direct TV. Not love life. You need to step up, bub. Tell them who is boss. Make this clear. One more thing. Get new camerawoman with better feet.”
A wave of relief swept over Max. Everything Olga was saying was so simple—but he’d lost track of all of it. He did have to step up and remind the cast who was boss. It was a simple as that. “Olga, I don’t know what to say. You’re a miracle worker. I’m going to have to give you some
kind of raise, or gift, or something. What can I do?”
“Nothing. This work I do for love. We see Brontosaurus now. Call you later.” With that, she hung up.
Max moved back to the set, dazed and dazzled by Olga the übernanny. Anushka had returned, a derisive look on her face. Rocco stood with his arms crossed, avoiding her. Tanya had come back, too, and she was blissfully plunked back on Trent’s blissed-out lap. Corliss and JB were now far away from each other, pretending like they were strangers. “Okay, people. I’m going to put a call in to the cameraperson’s union for a replacement so we can return to this scene in an hour.”
“But, Max . . .” Anushka wailed.
“No ‘But Max,’” Max said in his lowest, most resonant tone. “There’ve been a few too many distractions from each and everyone one of you and it’s going to stop.” The authority in his voice seemed to reach them. Slowly, they stopped slouching, scowling, and bouncing. “I’m the one running the show,” he continued. “And it’s a show, not a wedding hall or a group therapy session or a dating service.” This last was for Corliss and JB’s benefit. Their faces betrayed nothing, however—except blind obedience. In fact, everyone was now standing at attention, looking to Max for direction.
“Very good,” he said. “Now get some lunch and be back in an hour.” They all turned on a dime and marched off to the cafeteria. Max couldn’t have been more impressed—by himself. He was the real article—brilliant, in fact. And it was all because of Olga. “Olga . . .” he said out loud, savoring the Slavic sound. “Olga . . . !”
Eight
Uncle Ross’s Dining Room—Two Nights Later—7:13 P.M.
