Bottom Feeders

by John Shepphird

  Eddie nodded silently. He noticed she appeared more relaxed now that the air was clear. He considered excusing himself to call Sam Carver from the men’s room. What the fuck, Sam? Is Sanderson still on this thing or what?

  “So, tell me about yourself,” she said.

  Eddie sipped his coffee before he started in. He told her about how he’d grown up in San Diego, attended film school at USC, and then worked at a New York ad agency. Tami countered with her own story, her childhood in Connecticut, her drama training at Yale. She dropped Yale a few times, he noted. She told him about her work as an animal-rights activist and the foundation she’d created to care for abused animals and abandoned pets.

  The waiter returned. “Have you had a chance to decide?” he asked Tami.

  “Oh, why, yes,” then to Eddie, Tami asked, “and you?”

  Eddie gave her a nod. “I think so.” He could see the waiter hadn’t taken his eyes off Tami, hanging on every word as she ordered the seasonal fruit plate and a mimosa.

  Eddie was relieved that she felt at ease enough to have a drink. This opened the door for him to have an adult beverage. He could certainly go for one, especially with all this talk of Chris Sanderson. He decided on the cinnamon French toast accompanied by a Bloody Mary, but held his tongue to make it a double.

  “Ex … cellent choice,” the waiter said, drawing it out, nodding and jotting on his little pad. “We’ll get right on that,” he said to Tami, spun around again, and was off.

  Give it a break, Eddie thought.

  Glowing, Tami watched him go.

  Eddie could see she liked to be pampered. He sipped his coffee again and said, “I had an American history teacher in high school who claimed it wasn’t the men who settled the West, but rather the women.” He could see he’d piqued her interest. “Sure, the men herded cattle, plowed fields, built fences, had gunfights in the streets, and all, but it was the women who raised the families and brought culture and civilization to the frontier. They deserve the real credit but were never written about in the newspapers and periodicals of the time. When I read the script, I couldn’t help but remember that. I thought about your character bringing education and integrity to the little mining community, settling the West, but not on a dusty street … rather at a dusty chalkboard.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  Where he came up with the dusty chalkboard metaphor he’d never know. Sometimes Eddie surprised himself.

  She said, “You should meet Fran, who wrote the script based on her wonderful novel.”

  “I’d like to.”

  Their drinks arrived, and Eddie could tell his was watered down. Bastards.

  They spoke about the characters. When Tami asked what he thought of the script, Eddie was honest. He told her he felt the bad guy, in this case the town’s dry-goods merchant, was not bad enough. He offered a few suggestions to make him more hateable. His thoughts included expanding a scene where Bartholomew demonstrates intolerance dealing with the town’s dirt-poor Native Americans.

  “I thought Tom Birch would be good in that role,” Tami said.

  “He’s good. I can certainly see him very likable up front when he’s introduced and begins to court you, but then he turns unpredictable. Tom has that quality, to be both charming and a little scary … even at the same time.”

  “Sounds like my ex-husband,” Tami said.

  They shared a laugh.

  She said, “I worked with Tom when he was a recurring character on my series and he’s quite good. We’ve remained friends over the years.”

  “He’s a good choice,” Eddie said, and could see the wheels turning in her head. He wondered what she was thinking. Their conversation moved on to recent movies and TV shows.

  The waiter returned and gave his final saccharine spiel before dropping off the check. Tami was quick to grab it. She already had her credit card out and waved the waiter back.

  “No, Tami, this one’s on me,” Eddie said, reaching for the binder.

  “Nonsense,” Tami said pulling it away. “My treat.”

  He didn’t know if this was a good or a bad sign. Eddie figured it was probably bad. Tami agreed to meet with Sam’s director so she’ll most likely expense the receipt as proof. Eddie Lyons gets his hopes up, a free breakfast, and a weak Bloody Mary, but Chris Sanderson gets the job.

  Story of my life.

  As Eddie predicted, they bid goodbye outside the hotel waiting for Tami’s car. Since he did not have a valet ticket Eddie felt the need to explain that he lived close enough to walk. Then, figuring he had nothing to lose, he asked, “I’ve seen a lot of your movies and have a technical question, if you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Yes?” she said with an air of caution.

  “I sense you prefer stage right. Am I right?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “It’s only because I’m in the business, but I’ve noticed a pattern. I get the feeling most of your scenes are blocked in a way that you’re on the left side of screen, especially the scenes in profile. Is that a conscious decision, or just coincidence?” Eddie asked. He could see he’d struck a nerve.

  “I hadn’t thought about it,” she said, but he could tell she was lying.

  Just then her sleek Tesla arrived. Electric car, he thought. Another statement.

  “I only ask because I’ve accommodated actors who prefer one side over the other. Not a problem. Like I said, it’s about collaboration, and if it’s meant to be I’ll do everything in my power to make you look great,” Eddie said, lightly touching her arm. “It was nice meeting you.”

  “Likewise,” she said.

  “Thank you for breakfast.”

  He moved on. That’s right, close with the assumption I’ve already got the job. Confidence. He could feel her eyes on his back but did not turn back. When he finally did, he could see her white Tesla pull away.

  Moments later, on the concrete bike path at the edge of the sand, Eddie said into the phone, “Sam, there must be some kind of misunderstanding. Tami tells me Chris Sanderson is still directing this thing.”

  “Bullshit. I told his agent he’s out,” Sam replied. “They’re asking for too much money and there are crazy availability issues.”

  “That’s not what Tami thinks,” Eddie said as bicyclists and rollerbladers brushed past.

  “What’d she say?”

  “She thought she was meeting me out of courtesy.”

  “I bet Sanderson hasn’t told her, that slippery old bastard. Or maybe his agent hasn’t told Sanderson it’s not going to work. Maybe the agent is hoping I’ll reconsider or hire another one of his clients. So, how’d the meeting go?”

  “I think we hit it off. You know, she’s got a good side.”

  “A what?”

  “I’ll explain when I get the job.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll call her agent and let him know. If she signs off on you as our director then Mike will contact you with the production meeting details for tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Eddie, we’re shooting in four days, with or without you.”

  “With Sanderson?”

  “Fuck Sanderson!” Sam shouted. “For Chrissake, relax. Go home, read the script again, do your laundry, pack. Put a vacation hold on your mail, whatever you need to do. You’ve gotta be up to speed first thing tomorrow and ready to travel.”

  “Thanks, Sam. I’m really psyched for the opportunity. Oh, and another thing, I think she wants Tom Birch to play Bartholomew.”

  “Who?”

  “Bartholomew … the proprietor of the company store.”

  “No, I mean who’s Tom Birch?”

  “You know … character actor … plays a lot of bad guys. I bet you can get him for scale,” Eddie said, referring to the Screen Actor Guild’s minimum rate.

  �
��What do you think?”

  “If it makes her comfortable, I’m game.”

  “All the crap that’s making her comfortable is costing me a fucking fortune,” Sam said, clearly annoyed. “Anything else?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Once I get Tami’s approval, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Chapter

  EIGHT

  Tom Birch lectured to his students that same morning.

  “Assuming you’re lucky enough to be called back,” he said, “remember how important it is to wear the same outfit from your first audition. And keep your hair and look the same. Realize the director and producers saw something in you, a potential to play that character, their character—it’s not yours yet—and quite possibly your wardrobe had something to do with that.”

  The Hollywood Academy of Dramatic Arts was located on a commercial stretch of Sunset Boulevard in a building that once housed a film and television postproduction facility. Years ago, the mixing boards and dubbing machines were hauled away and the stages were converted into classrooms. Portraits of popular movie stars adorned the walls, none of whom had ever attended this institution.

  Tom caught himself staring at one of his young student’s breasts, her shapely cleavage accentuated by a clingy V-neck sweater. He remembered she was the one who wore that unique perfume. He diverted his gaze, thought to himself, That was too obvious, and pretended to be contemplating deep thoughts to cover it up. He continued, “The audition process is just as it sounds, a ‘process’ of elimination. Do not eliminate the power of your first impression. Do eliminate any doubt in your mind that you’re the best choice for the role.”

  Tom felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, so he decided to wrap up his lesson for the day. A few students had questions afterward, always the same ones, but unfortunately not the big-breasted one. After she sauntered out the door, he dealt with the questions from his students then collected his things and headed back to his faculty office cubicle.

  Tom had no problem that the Hollywood Academy of Dramatic Arts was not an accredited institution but rather a business built on shaking down twentysomethings, hordes of naive kids with the dream of making it big in Hollywood. He often marveled at how the front office staff was able to chisel financial aid and low-interest student loans out of the federal government. Somehow they were categorized as a legitimate trade school and the trickle-down of guaranteed student loans and subsidized grants were his bread and butter. Tom realized the chances that any of his students would “make it” were slim to none. Most of these hapless kids would be shackled with heavy debt for years to come. This did not bother Tom. He was an actor. They paid him to teach his craft. Teaching three days a week covered his rent between the increasingly rare jobs working in film and television.

  Tom’s true love was the theater—his crowning achievement was the extended run of Shakespeare’s Richard III at the Ensemble Theatre of Cincinnati a couple years ago. That was epic. He’d played the title character to rave reviews. Tom still dreamt of those performances, standing on the boards of that great theatre. Footlights.

  Sitting in his cramped cubicle, he returned the message from his agent. Sarah had good news, an offer for a film with his friend Tami Romans.

  “That’s great. Who’s directing?” was Tom’s first question.

  “Eddie Lyons,” she said.

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Me neither,” she said. “I emailed you the script.”

  Sarah was at one time his ex-agent’s assistant until the guy who represented him went into rehab and didn’t return to the business, literally dropping off the face of the earth. Sarah took over his clients and had proven herself through hard work and tenacity. Plus, Tom recalled, she had great legs. Tom had fantasized about her the moment he’d seen her, back when she was still an assistant, in her gray business suit and heels, but realized he could never go there. He’d learned through years in show business that it is best not to mix business with pleasure, especially with people he might need something from someday. Flirting with women who held little power, like his students or those who worked on the fringes such as production assistants, wardrobe girls, stagehands, extras, bit players, and art department broads—well, that was another story.

  “When do I read?” he asked.

  “I don’t think you’re going to have to read.”

  “Really?”

  “Tami recommended you and the director knows your work. It looks like you’re set if we agree to the terms.”

  Knows my work? That made Tom feel good. And to not have to audition, that’s what separates stars from day-players—to not have to suffer through the tedious audition process he was lecturing about only moments ago.

  “They’ve sent a deal memo, low-budget SAG minimum plus ten, which is all they’ll offer. I asked for a pop-out but they won’t allow it. They agreed to a two-hold.”

  From his experience working on location, Tom had been in plenty of two-holds, some of them good, and some not-so-much. Two-hold was industry-speak for individual dressing rooms side by side on a single trailer. Each had its own restroom, which was good, but he knew Tami would get a pop-out star trailer, a full-sized comfort camper with retractable bay windows.

  “I can try to negotiate for more,” she continued, “but Sam Carver’s producing and everyone in town says he’s as cheap as they come. I can’t guarantee—”

  “Do whatever you can, Sarah, and count me in. Tami’s a dear friend, as you know, and I’d be thrilled to work with her again. What’s the part?”

  “Character’s name is Bartholomew, the bad guy. I’ll email you the synopsis from Breakdown Services.”

  “Bad guy? No big surprise there,” Tom said.

  “I remember you saying the bad guys are always the best roles.”

  “If the part’s written well.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fabulous. If you’re available for a fitting today, wardrobe can see you this afternoon. But only after I close the deal.”

  “Of course.”

  Tom next arranged for a substitute to cover his classes. He downloaded the script and scanned the scenes that included his character. He liked the fact that in most of them, he played against Tami, the star.

  His next call was to Tami to thank her and discuss the part. He got her voice mail, so he left a brief message, “So thrilled to be working with you again.”

  To not have to audition—Tom felt ten feet tall.

  Chapter

  NINE

  Eddie’s weak Bloody Mary at Tami’s courtesy brunch had only lit the pilot light. Back in his apartment, Eddie kept the flame going with a couple of beers and—What the hell?—he scraped his pot pipe before smoking the sticky black resin. Sure, it tasted like shit and made him cough, but it chilled him out as he waited for Sam’s call.

  To keep himself busy, he packed a few pairs of jeans in a duffel bag and made technical notes on the script. Then he started to rough-in a basic shot list he knew Stuart Hardwicke would demand.

  He had a solid buzz going and was standing in the bathroom midpee when his phone rang. Without flushing, he buckled his pants and went to the living room to answer.

  “Tami was impressed,” Sam said, “Congrats, you’ve got the job.”

  “Thank you for fighting for me.”

  “Of course. Let’s get to work. I’ll have Mike email you the start-up paperwork. Stuart will be calling with details about the schedule.”

  “Sounds good,” Eddie said, wishing now he hadn’t toked only moments ago as talk of assistant director Stuart Hardwicke was definitely a buzzkill. He knew the tedious conversations with Stuart would annoy him, with the guy obsessing over minor details and probably secretly envious he wasn’t directing.

  Sam said, “And call our favorite Italian cameraman, Giovanni, and let him know you guys will be working togeth
er. He’s already up to speed.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll prep him about Tami and discuss how we can make her look really great.” Eddie had some additional ideas about using longer lenses he thought might serve her well. He was curious to hear Giovanni’s input.

  Sam said, “I’ll be honest with you. This picture’s going to be a challenge—horses, kids—but you’re definitely the man for the job. Keep in mind there’s very little contingency built in. We’ve got to bring this one in on schedule and under budget.”

  “We did that last time, didn’t we?” Eddie reminded Sam.

  “That’s right, you did. But between you and me, I’m not going to the bank for this one. It’s funded by private equity, investors from back East. They’re skittish. Do me a favor and just don’t go all Federico Fellini on me.”

  “Fellini?”

  “You know what I’m saying. This is not art, Eddie. I need you to direct traffic and stay on schedule.”

  Eddie laughed and said, “Got it, Sam. We’ll keep a tight ship all around.”

  “I guess I should hang up and call your agent.”

  “I’m in between representation right now,” Eddie said. “My lawyer, Richard, can make my deal.” Eddie realized there would be very little negotiation. His rate would be Sam Carver’s standard low-budget agreement at Directors Guild minimum, just like last time. Eddie knew the game. The only two guilds represented on the movie would be the Screen Actors Guild because it’s impossible to employ name actors like Tami who aren’t SAG members, and thankfully the Directors Guild of America because both he and Stuart were members. The budget on this film was low enough so the DGA, under their low-budget agreement, allowed the rates to be negotiable which meant he’d be offered the minimum. No complaints from Eddie. A job was a job.

  “You’ve made my day,” Sam said. “One less prick agent I’ve got to deal with, all the better. Hopefully your lawyer will agree to make this work.”