Bottom Feeders

by John Shepphird

  “Wouldn’t think of it.”

  “Jimmy, lead wrangler,” the man said and offered his hand.

  Tom returned the greeting. “Tom Birch, I’m one of the actors.”

  “Glad to meet ya,” Jimmy said. “You gonna ride a horse in this movie?”

  “I don’t think so … maybe.”

  “What character do you play?”

  “Bartholomew.”

  Jimmy scrunched his sunburned face as he tried to remember. “I don’t recall a …”

  “The proprietor of the general store. I think I ride a carriage,” Tom said.

  Jimmy snapped his finger, pointed to Tom and said, “That’s right, you’re the dandy.”

  “Dandy?” Tom questioned.

  “The dude.”

  A scrawny guy wearing ragged jeans emerged from the hotel and Jimmy said to him, “Lucky, help me with the tack.” Turning back to Tom, Jimmy said, “Excuse me, partner, nice meeting you,” and he went about their business.

  The dandy?

  Tom grabbed his bags and continued into the hotel. The lobby was a buzz of activity. Assorted crewmembers were in meetings, equipment cases were clustered in one corner, and techs were setting up a copy machine in the other. There was nobody to greet him, so he moved to registration.

  Upon check-in he asked the teenage girl behind the counter, young enough to make him wonder why she wasn’t in school, “Which room is Tami in?”

  She informed him that Tami was not staying at the hotel.

  “Oh? Where then?”

  “In a cabin up the road from here.”

  Tom was disappointed. He wondered who else got special treatment.

  “Why aren’t you in school?” he asked the young girl.

  “I’m homeschooled,” she said.

  “That any good?” asked Tom.

  “You got a problem with that?” she said, as if accused.

  “No. I’m just asking because I’m a teacher,” he said.

  “My aunt Lilly is my teacher.”

  “That’s nice,” Tom said. The encounter made him think about the script and the scene that featured Tami’s character orating to the townspeople. Her monologue was about the mining company exploiting their children with low wages and keeping them out of school. Although he had no lines, Tom was in that scene, reacting to her speech. He hadn’t decided yet how he’d play it—how he’d react to Tami’s passionate plea.

  His room was acceptable, nothing special, with a view of the mountains, so there was no need to call his agent and complain. He unpacked his things and replaced the always-questionable hotel bedspread with one he’d brought from home. This was a practice he’d fallen into years ago. After his socks were tucked neatly in the drawer and his pants and shirts hung, Tom went back downstairs and reported to the wardrobe department.

  Wardrobe was crammed into a cluttered conference room in the basement of the hotel. Linda, the costume designer he’d met in LA when he went in for measurements, greeted him and gave him a plain, dark wool suit with a string bow tie. Putting it on, Tom began to imagine the character traits he might experiment with while playing the role, maybe a slight swagger in his gait. The wool made him itch. An assortment of cowboy hats on the racks caught his attention.

  “Do I get to wear a hat?” he asked Linda, on her knees and hemming his pants at the cuffs.

  “No. Eddie thinks your character wouldn’t wear a hat.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Bartholomew is more of a townie rather than a ranch hand,” she said.

  “I want a hat,” he said, thinking it would be a good way to cover his battle with male pattern baldness.

  “Hmm … how about this,” she said, stood and produced a rounded bowler.

  He tried it on. “Doesn’t fit,” he said, even though it did.

  “I’ll talk to Eddie,” she said.

  “Where is Ed?”

  “Probably up on set,” she said. “Now let’s pick some boots.”

  Linda ducked behind the racks of clothing as Tom checked himself out in the mirror. He hadn’t met the director, but he really wanted a cowboy hat.

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  Sheila dropped her bags off in her room before boarding the production shuttle idling outside the Gold Strike. She checked her phone to make sure she didn’t have to return any emails or texts since she remembered there’d be no connection up the hill. Roland hadn’t called or texted again, not since last night, and there were no new voice mails. She hadn’t heard from her roommate Lisa at all, and that really hurt. They’d been close friends, or so Sheila thought. She’d trusted Lisa completely, like the sister Sheila never had. Where’s Lisa’s apology? Where’s her explanation of what happened? In a way it hurt even more than Roland’s betrayal. Everyone knows men are pigs, but Lisa? Unbelievable. The anger burned. Sheila hadn’t replied to him, and didn’t plan to, but was curious how long he would persist.

  A handful of other crewmembers filled out the vehicle, most of whom she recognized from yesterday’s production meeting. Stressed-out Assistant Director Stuart Hardwicke boarded, manila envelope in hand, and said, “Don, swing by the Tami compound on the way up and drop this off for me, will ya?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” driver Don said and the van set out.

  Don was a potbellied, middle-aged ruffian wearing a sweat-stained Kenworth cap. Typical Teamster. Even though this movie was nonunion, and not employing actual Teamster drivers, Sheila knew many of these guys carried union cards in their overstuffed wallets but took nonunion work when they could get it, just as she had. And because drivers on film and TV tend to sit around drinking coffee, reading the newspaper, and playing cards while everyone else was working, Teamsters had become the brunt of many inside jokes.

  Her favorite joke came one night working late on a legit TV pilot on the Fox lot. At the end of the day, a veteran soundman posed a question while she was filling out her time card on the camera truck. He held up one of the driver employment forms with its iconic Teamster logo on it, an illustrated circular badge crowned by two horse heads, and asked, “Do you know why the logo for the International Brotherhood of Teamsters has horses on it?” Sheila had remembered seeing this logo tattooed on a Teamster’s arm when she first came to Hollywood and guessed, “Something to do with hitching up a team of horses?”

  “Wrong,” the no-nonsense soundman informed, “It’s because no other mammal on earth sleeps standing up.”

  Too funny. Every time she’d seen the Hollywood Teamster’s union logo after that day she’d always thought of that joke. Driver Don was no exception, another bottom feeder working for Carver Entertainment’s meager, nonunion day rate. Welcome to the club.

  It was a curvy drive up the hill with an uneven road and sharp turns. Sitting in the back seat, Sheila felt a hint of car sickness. After ten minutes or so, Don turned off the main road and up the driveway of an impressive mountain chalet. The French Country–styled home had an impressive porch and hot tub off its redwood deck. It was the kind of place she’d fantasized about; a cozy mountain hideaway, the perfect place to spend a magical Christmas with loved ones, like something out of a romance novel. She imagined what the cabin might look like covered by a light dusting of snow.

  Don jumped out and knocked on the door. Sheila saw it open a crack and he passed the envelope inside. Then he returned to the passenger van and they continued up the hill.

  The pavement transitioned to a rutted dirt road. The bumpy washboard rattled the vehicle so much that the plastic interior of the coach squeaked with annoyance. This only added to Sheila’s feeling of queasiness. She tried her best to suppress it, wondering why she felt so nauseous.

  Could I be pregnant? Impossible. Or is it?

  She tried to calculate the last time she and Roland made love, but then remembered that she’d had her
period when she was back home dealing with her mom. Thank God.

  Finally, they arrived at the movie ranch, a rickety collection of Western facades spread out among an uneven dirt road. It was less impressive than she’d imagined. Everyone got out of the shuttle and went about their business. Sheila remembered to put her phone on airplane mode to save battery life as she strolled to base camp. Stuart had suggested that. She opened the camera truck and got right to work, organizing the shelves and preparing the equipment for the next day.

  Luther, the stoner kid Giovanni hired as their second assistant cameraman, arrived from LA in a literal cloud of dust, his Mini Cooper sliding sideways and kicking up dirt as it came to a stop.

  Shit! She closed the camera cases as the plume of dirt wafted into the truck. Since dust poses a major problem for the camera department, Sheila was pissed. Her battle against the fine particles that cling to lenses and jam equipment had already begun, thanks to stupid Luther. She knew there would be a lot of dust on this show but didn’t expect so much of it so soon.

  “Dumb shit!”

  “What?” he said getting out of the car.

  “Kick up more dust next time, why don’t ya?” she snapped at him.

  “Sorry,” Luther said, eyes downcast, a loping hangdog. Sheila sensed he wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. She suspected Giovanni had hired Luther because he had the look. Giovanni either had a crush on him or they were in a relationship, she didn’t know. She’d only worked with him once before and hadn’t picked up any nonverbal cues that they were romantically involved, so the verdict was still out. All she knew was that Giovanni liked having one or two really good-looking guys around. Luther would be the eye candy on this job. Dumb maybe, but she couldn’t deny he was easy to look at.

  He opened the back seat of his car and carried two lens cases to the truck. With a grunt he hoisted the cases onto the liftgate. “I’ve been calling,” he said, “your phone off?”

  “There’s no reception up here on set,” she said.

  “You’re kidding?” he said with concern and pulled his iPhone from his pocket to confirm.

  “Wish I was kidding. It’s ridiculous.”

  “They nixed the prime lenses,” Luther said, brushing the blond bangs out of his eyes.

  “What?”

  “Apparently once they saw the bid from the camera house some genius in the production office decided to drop the box of primes to save money. All we’ve got are these two zooms,” he said, pushing the cases further onto the liftgate.

  “Giovanni agreed to that?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. Where is he?”

  She needed to talk to Giovanni about this immediately. Sheila grabbed the broom and tossed it to Luther. Not quick enough to catch it, the wooden handle smacked him in the forehead.

  “Sweep out the truck,” she said, jumping off the tailgate.

  Searching for Giovanni, she first walked through base camp where the trucks and trailers were staged. Sheila was taken aback by the size of the vanity department for such a low-budget movie, with their seemingly brand-new wardrobe and makeup trailer. Meanwhile, the camera department, she lamented, was crammed into a rinky-dink old and clunky cube truck she’d have to share with the jokers from the sound department. And now no prime lenses?

  Where are the priorities?

  Sheila walked past Tami’s vanity team, all wearing yoga pants. They had retro disco music playing and were casually loading supplies into their shiny new trailer. Makeup kits, folded towels, assorted cases, and wardrobe steamers—no expense spared there. Sheila was surprised to see the younger Diane do the heavy lifting by hoisting what appeared to be a barber chair into the trailer while Connie and Bonnie stood by and supervised, sipping bottled Evian water. Why don’t they help? Sheila wondered. What’s with these women?

  She could see Giovanni was not at base camp, so she headed up to the Western town. On the way up the hill, beyond the horizon, she could see the smoke from a distant forest fire. Having lived in Southern California over the years, this wasn’t an uncommon sight. She figured the dry Santa Ana winds were probably fanning the flames, making it worse, and she hoped smoke in the upper atmosphere wouldn’t make the natural daylight hard to match from shot to shot.

  She headed toward the bustle of activity surrounding the general store set. Art department guys were unloading barrels, furniture, and horse troughs from the prop truck. She saw Giovanni inside the store with director Eddie. It appeared as though they were planning the next day’s coverage. When Giovanni caught sight of her, she motioned him to come out. He gave her a signal to hold on, and after a few minutes he finished his discussion and met her on the splintered wooden sidewalk.

  “Got a second?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Giovanni said. Sheila led him out of earshot from the others and waited on the piercing sound of a circular saw before she informed him, “Production nixed the prime lenses. All we have are two zooms.”

  “Yes, I know. I agreed to that.”

  “Why?”

  “Sam is cutting every corner. It was either we do that or we go only with a doorway dolly. I let Eddie decide.”

  “Okay then,” she said, “so that’s how it’s going to be.” It was so wrong. She wanted to ask him if he had seen the size of the vanity department trailers but refrained, not wanting to sound negative.

  At that moment Eddie stepped up and acknowledged her. “Hey, Sheila,” he said brightly.

  “Eddie,” she responded as neutral as she could, an attempt to give him the signal she was not interested. Then, turning to Giovanni, she said, “I just had to make you aware.”

  “Aware of what?” Eddie asked.

  “No prime lenses, only zooms. What we talked about,” Giovanni said to Eddie.

  “Oh …”

  “Thanks, Sheila. We’ll make do,” Giovanni said.

  She nodded and turned to go, sensing Eddie’s eyes on her.

  Walking back down the hill, she came upon the camera truck and could see Luther lying flat, sprawled facedown on the floor of the truck.

  He motioned her to get down.

  Sheila was confused.

  He waved his arms again and said, “Get down! Get down!”

  At first she thought it was a joke, but from the expression on his face she could see he was serious. She hunched low and approached.

  “Someone shot at me!”

  “What?”

  “They shot the truck,” Luther said, clearly shaken.

  Sheila squatted and scanned the dry meadow but saw nothing. “When?”

  “Just a minute ago,” he said. “I heard a loud pop. All of a sudden sunlight was pouring in through a hole above my head.”

  She reached for her cell phone to call Giovanni but remembered it didn’t work. She scanned the surroundings again.

  “I’m making a break for it,” he said.

  “Wait. Give me a second.” Sheila jumped up on the tailgate and examined the inside of the truck. There was indeed a hole, about the size of a quarter, sunlight streaming through. She ran her finger along the jagged edge. Fragments of fiberglass and particleboard came off, floating in the beam illuminated as a single shard of sunlight.

  Following the trajectory, there was no hole on the other side of the truck but rather a black shaft imbedded into the metallic strut side panel. She gave it a yank and it came loose. The arrowhead, four-pointed and razor-sharp, gave her pause. And there were two pop-out blades behind the pointy nose blade. It appeared the rear blades were designed to spring out upon impact. “Who’d you piss off?” she asked.

  “That an arrow?”

  “Looks like.”

  Sheila examined it closer. There appeared to be Vaseline on the razor-tip. What the hell?

  “Indians?” Luther wondered aloud, hunched, scanning the meadow.

  Chapterr />
  FOURTEEN

  Eddie turned his palms up and said, “Really? Ten extras? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Yes, Eddie, ten,” Stuart replied, double-checking the notes in his thick binder. “That’s what’s we’ve scheduled for tomorrow.”

  “That’s crazy. I need twenty, at least.”

  “You can’t have twenty.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not in the budget, my friend. You’ve got to make do.”

  “But we’ve got all the town exteriors tomorrow.”

  “I realize that.”

  “Then you’re going to have to dress the production assistants in wardrobe and work them in.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Then get me more extras.”

  “Realize there are other big days. Whatever I book tomorrow will take away from—”

  Eddie could hear the radio squawk, audible through the production headset Stuart was wearing. Stuart held up his hand and turned away, breaking conversation midsentence, caught up in a communication Eddie couldn’t hear.

  “Go for Stuart,” he said into the speaker, and then after a few seconds, “Roger that, Sam. He’s standing right next to me.” Stuart mouthed “Sam,” unplugged the headset, and wrestled the black radio off his belt. He held out the walkie-talkie.

  Eddie took the radio and pushed the talk button, “What’s up Sam?”

  “Tami asked to have dinner with you tonight,” Sam sounded.

  Eddie cringed. There was so much to do; finalize wardrobe, revise his shot list, go over the video for the children roles, and now fight for more extras. But he also realized if he refused the invitation it might alienate the star of his film.

  “Eddie, you there?” Sam asked.

  “I’m always available for Tami,” Eddie forced himself to say.

  “Fantastic. I’ll have a driver pick you up from base camp. Say in about thirty minutes?”

  “Sounds good, Sam,” Eddie said, already regretting the decision. He handed the radio back to Stuart.