by Don Calame
Uncle Doug regards his Diet Coke with squinty-eyed confusion. “What? Your mom’s got something against artificial sweeteners?”
Everyone but me laughs.
I glare at my friends then look back at Uncle Doug. “You know what I’m talking about. They’ll think I was having a party or something.”
“Please.” Uncle Doug screws up his face. “Just say Uncle Doug dropped by to visit his knocked-up sis. She knows I have a prescription. It’s for my gout.” He takes another deep hit before unleashing a cumulonimbus from his mouth. “I mean, my glaucoma.” Uncle Doug laughs hysterically at this, then catches my look. “Okay, okay, I won’t take my medicine. Who cares if Uncle Doug’s in pain? Not my nephew, apparently.” With that, he makes a big show of licking his fingers and squeezing out the glowing tip. He takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and slips the joint inside. “Happy?”
I nod. “Thank you.”
“Cool Ranch or Blazin’ Jalapeño?” Uncle Doug asks, gesturing at the chips bowl as he plops down into one of the armchairs.
“Cool Ranch,” I say.
“Excelente.” He grabs a handful of Doritos and starts crunching away. Hey, so, you’ve got some pages for Uncle Doug to peruse, right, boy?”
“Right here.” I grab a copy of the scenes Nessa helped me with yesterday and hand them to him. “It’s only the beginning of the movie. I’ve got a lot more to write.”
Uncle Doug flips through the pages. “Dr. Schmaloogan? Okay. Interesting.”
“It’s just a rough draft for the auditions,” Coop explains. “There’ll be changes, of course. We’re going to have all the guys read for Jack and all the girls read for Stacy. We just need to see who can act. We’ll figure out everyone’s actual roles once we’re ready to start shooting.”
Uncle Doug slaps the scenes down on the coffee table. “It’s a good start. You have Uncle Doug’s seal of approval. Honestly, it’s much better than I expected.”
I force a smile. “Thanks.”
“Sorry we’re late,” Evelyn calls from the front door. There’s a clatter and some hushed grousing before she appears in the family room with Nick and a red suitcase in tow. She waves and introduces her giant G.I. Joe brother to the group. “We took a minor detour. Nick thought he recognized someone he’s been looking for in one of the passing cars.”
Nick shrugs. “What can I say? It was a false alarm. No one was hurt . . . too badly.”
“Anyway.” Evelyn laughs loudly, waving it all aside. “We’re here now.”
Part of me wants to ask what he did to the poor guy he thought was their dad, but the smarter part of me doesn’t want to know.
“Where do you want me to put this?” Nick motions toward the suitcase.
“What’s in there?” I say, images of a chopped-up body flashing in my head.
“Your video camera.” Evelyn beams. “And a few other things.” She crouches down and unzips the bag. Camera equipment spills out like the guts of a disemboweled tauntaun.
“Holy crap.” I stare at the mounds of electronics. “Where’d you get all that?”
“One of my friend’s mom’s cousins is a wedding photographer. He had a few small lights, a DSLR, a wireless lapel mic, some electrical cords, and a nice tripod he wasn’t using. I thought it’d be a good idea to tape all of the auditions and, you know”— she grabs the still camera —“snap some pictures so we remember who everyone is.”
Uncle Doug grins and wags his finger at her. “I like this girl. She’s a forward thinker.”
Evelyn giggles. “‘Be prepared.’ It’s the Girl Scout motto.”
“Sweet.” Coop hoists himself out of the armchair. “Let’s set this up. We’ll look totally pro.”
Everyone descends on the equipment and stakes a claim. Valerie calls videographer while Helen grabs the DSLR. Matt says he’ll put up the lights. Coop agrees to be in charge of being in charge. And Uncle Doug volunteers to watch over the snacks.
And me, I just stand back, an uneasy queasiness in my stomach. Something doesn’t feel quite right here. It just seems a little too convenient that Evelyn suddenly has access to all of this movie stuff. Except nobody seems terribly bothered by this but me.
“I. WISH THAT. SOME . . . THING. Exciting would. Happen around. Here. Once in. A while.”
Good Gandalf, Nick is the worst actor I’ve ever seen in my life. He sounds like a malfunctioning robot. I don’t know why he insisted on auditioning. We all agreed he could be the general who’s investigating the humanzees. But no. He didn’t want to just be handed a part because he was Evelyn’s brother. He wanted to show us what he could do.
Which, it turns out, is not very much.
“So.” Nick lowers the script pages, looking all shy and hopeful. “What do you think?”
The room is dead silent. Nobody looks at each other. Nobody speaks. We’re all too terrified to say what we really think. Even Uncle Doug is at a loss for words.
Then Evelyn leaps to her feet, applauding like mad. “Bravo! Bravissimo! That was amazing, Nick.” She looks back at us. “Didn’t you think that was amazing?”
Crooked smiles abound as we all nod and say, “Yeah. Oh, yeah. Really great. Super.”
“I had no idea you were so talented,” Evelyn gushes.
Oh, my God, I think she’s serious. She actually thought that was good acting. Which is terrifying on so many levels, I don’t even want to consider it.
“Do I get the part?” Nick asks, his eyes wide.
“Well,” Coop says, “I’m not gonna be the one who says no.” He juts his hand out and Nick shakes it. “Welcome to the cast.”
For the next three hours, a wide assortment of actors files through my family room. Some of them are from drama class — Kerosene Kelsey, Jacket Jake, Forehead Fortney — and others are people I’ve never seen before. Most are kids, but several of them are adults. A few who’ve done community theater, others who just always wanted to act.
I had no idea what kind of turnout to expect, but it certainly wasn’t this many people. And all would be going just fine if not for the two giant horseflies in the soup.
The first is Evelyn, of course. She hates every single girl who auditions. Not that you would know this by the grin plastered on her face during the readings. Instead, she chooses to lean over and whisper her disgust into my ear as each one leaves.
And then there’s Uncle Doug, who’s acting like a cracked-out five-year-old with Tourette’s. Scribbling his notes on the paper towels we put out to use as napkins. Fidgeting like he’s got ants in his pants. Chain-smoking. And mumbling inappropriate things at inappropriate times: “El stinko.” “Me no likey.” “Un fuego en mis pantalones.”
“Could you at least wait until they leave?” I say when the latest actress exits, her sobs ringing in my ears.
“Hm, what?” Uncle Doug looks up from his napkin notations. “Did you say something?”
“No, you did. While that woman was doing her audition. You said there’s a fire in your pants. In Spanish.”
“Oh.” Uncle Doug looks genuinely surprised. “Did I say that out loud?”
I nod. “Yes. Yes, you did.”
“Ah, well.” He crushes out his fifteenth cigarette. “She probably didn’t understand me.”
“Her name was Feliz Jimenez,” Valerie says.
“Right.” Uncle Doug points his pen at her. “That’d be why the thought came to me en español.” He stretches his arms out wide and yawns. “All right, well, I think it’s time old Uncle Doug calls it a day. I’ve got hockey to watch.” He stands and collects his cigarettes and lighter. “Carry on without me. I’ll catch the video replay.”
We all say our good-byes and then the next actor walks in.
It’s Mr. Nestman. Gripping one of the audition scenes. He smiles and holds up his hand. “I know what you’re thinking. But hear me out.”
Helen leans over and whispers, “Who’s that?”
I stare at him, slack jawed. “My drama teacher.�
� Only I forget to whisper.
“Jerome Nestman,” Mr. Nestman says. “Professional actor and Bergby-nominated director of the Peebles Puppet Theater in the Park. Yes, and drama teacher.” He says the last bit with reluctance. “I have thirty years of acting experience, and I’ve been in over a hundred local TV commercials. I know what you’re thinking: why does someone of my caliber want to be in this movie?” He places his hand on his chest. “Well, because someone like me will raise the production to an entirely new level. Let me show you how the pros do it.”
Mr. Nestman dives right in to Jack’s lines without even waiting for Helen to read Stacy’s intro line. He flounces and leaps around the room, emoting like crazy, his arms gesturing wildly like he’s fending off a snowball attack.
“I thank you,” Mr. Nestman declares when he’s finished, bowing with a hand flourish. I open my mouth to speak, but he cuts me off with a raised palm. “Please. No praise. Save it for the others. Just let me know what part I’ll be playing when you’ve got it all sorted out.”
With that, he twirls around dramatically and exits.
“Finally,” Evelyn declares. “Somebody who can actually act. I was getting worried we weren’t going to find anyone good today.”
Coop and Matt shoot me a pair of what-the-fuck looks. I try to send them a look that says, See? See what I was saying about her being a total nutjob?
Coop calls out to Nick, who’s manning the kitchen/waiting room. “Send in the next one!”
Another hour passes and more actors audition. There are guys with too much cologne and girls with too much makeup. There’s Douchebag Dan, who’s even more of a ham than Mr. Nestman. There’s Rectal Ryan, reciting a monologue instead of our audition scene. There’s Hand Grenade Hunter, who turns out to be as good as I suspected he’d be.
And then there’s Voluptuous Victoria, wearing a top cut so low that her volcanoes nearly spill out as she bounds into the room.
“What does this one think she’s auditioning for?” Evelyn hisses in my ear. “A cathouse?”
“I know, right?” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
I purposefully avert my eyes — forcing myself to look anywhere but at Victoria’s gazongas — as she giggles and bobbles her way through the audition.
“Floozy much?” Evelyn blurts when Victoria finally leaves.
“Horrible,” I say, shaking my head in disgust. “Cross her off the list.”
“Some girls are so shameless.” Evelyn shivers like she couldn’t be more repulsed. “I’m just glad I have a boyfriend who isn’t impressed by things like that.” Her eyes zero in on Matt and Coop. “Some people can’t help themselves, I suppose, but it does reveal a person’s character, don’t you think? Anyway,” Evelyn slaps her thighs and stands. “I’ve got to go wee. I’ll be back in a jiffy, my gallant.” And with that, she pinches my cheek and exits the room.
Evelyn’s not gone two seconds when Helen backhands Coop in the chest. “What the hell were you staring at, mister?”
“Nobthings,” Coop says, blinking. “Nothing. I wasn’t staring at anything.” He reaches out, grabs his empty diet shake, and pretends to take a sip, as if busying himself will make this all go away.
Helen crosses her arms. “You were gawking at her boobs.”
“I was not,” Coop insists.
“You were watching her pretty damn closely,” Helen accuses.
“I’m watching everyone closely, so I can figure out who’s the breast — best actor.”
“You’re lying.” Helen’s mouth is tight. “You know how I feel about lying.”
“I’m not . . . I was just . . .” He sighs, his shoulders slumping. “Okay, fine. I was looking at them. But how could I not? They were jiggling. Like a couple of Jell-O molds. It was hypnotizing. I can’t be blamed for that. Beside, they make up like one-quarter of her entire body, so logic dictates that twenty-five percent of the time I’d have to be staring at her wobblers.”
“Staring. Exactly,” Helen says. “There’s a big difference between staring and noticing.”
Valerie turns to Matt. “You were staring too, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” Matt says, not missing a beat. “But only because I felt sorry for her. I can’t imagine that’s comfortable. She must have a really bad back. Poor girl.”
“Goddamn it,” Coop grumbles. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Consider yourself on probation, mister,” Helen says. “I may or may not be speaking to you tomorrow.”
“Okey-dokey.” Evelyn springs back into the family room. “The natives are getting restless out there. Let’s finish this up.”
By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’ve got a screaming migraine. I’m just about to suggest we call it a day when I sense a shift in the air. It’s like, all of a sudden, there’s this warm, wonderful psychic ripple in the fabric of the universe or something.
My headache instantly eases, the tension in my shoulders subsiding. And when I turn around, I’m not at all surprised to see Leyna stepping into the room.
“Oh, great,” Evelyn says under her breath. “Here we go again. Another hussy.”
I don’t let on that I know Leyna. I just meet her eyes and give her a furtive nod. A tiny smile pulls at the corner of her lips, but she keeps an otherwise straight face. Very professional.
Valerie starts the video camera, and Helen takes a few snapshots.
“Name?” Matt says, his pen poised over his notebook.
“Leyna Jansen,” she states, looking poised, confident, and drop-dead gamer gorgeous.
“Acting experience?” Coop asks.
“I’ve been in over a dozen plays at school and at the Turning Point Theatre. My biggest role was last year when I played Helen Keller in The Miracle Worker.”
Helen Keller! So that’s what The Miracle Worker was about.
Evelyn whispers in my ear, “I wish I was Helen Keller. Then I wouldn’t have to see or hear this braggart anymore.”
I nod thoughtfully, my brain working like crazy to figure out how I’m going to be able to cast Leyna in this film without causing Evelyn to freak out and take back all the equipment — or worse.
“Matt.” Coop turns to him. “Start Leyna off, please.”
“Sure.” Matt looks down at the scene and begins to read, “I really wish something exciting would happen around here once in a while.”
Leyna takes a moment to set herself. Then her face shifts and suddenly, magically, she becomes Stacy. As soon as she starts to speak, it’s obvious she’s ten times better than anyone we’ve seen so far. There’s a naturalness to her. A truth to her words. Like you can tell exactly what she’s feeling even when she isn’t talking.
Immediately I know that Leyna has to play the lead. It’s obvious. With her playing Stacy, we might actually have a chance to win one of the prizes at the film festival. Even Evelyn must see that we’re in the presence of a real actor here.
“Ehhhhh!” Evelyn voice-buzzes as soon as Leyna’s gone. “Fail.” She punctuates this with a thumbs-down and a loud, super-wet raspberry.
“Really?” Valerie says. “I thought she was pretty good.”
“Me too,” I add.
“Are you kidding? That wasn’t acting. She didn’t even do anything. She just stood there and talked. Frankly, I was bored out of my skull.” She shakes her head. “Honestly, I don’t think any of the girls we’ve seen today are even remotely castable. Maybe I’ll just have to play all of the female roles in this movie myself.” She nuzzles her sharp nose into my neck. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, smoopykins? Not after I got you all this great equipment.”
Over the top of Evelyn’s stringy-haired head, I see four pairs of eyes widen in horror. Oh, crap. What have we just done?
INT. HOME BASEMENT LABORATORY — NIGHT
Dr. Schmaloogan puts a slide labeled CHIMP-MAN under a microscope and looks into the eyepiece. He spins the dial, trying to focus the lens.
CLOSE-UP ON THE SLIDE
; The slide comes into focus. A single cell splits into two cells. Then the two cells split into four. Then eight. Then sixteen!
Dr. Schmaloogan stumbles back from the microscope in excitement.
DR. SCHMALOOGAN
Yes! I’ve done it! A monkey-man virus! Soon I will alter the evolution of the entire human race! Of the entire world!!! Bwah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!
CUT TO:
INT. JACK’S HOUSE — NIGHT
Jack and Stacy are watching a zombie movie. Stacy buries her face in Jack’s chest.
STACY
Turn it off, Jack. It’s horrible. I’m scared.
JACK
Relax, Stacy. It’s just make-believe. Zombies aren’t real.
STACY
Yes, they are. Or could be. I read an article about an airborne mutated rabies virus that could cause everyone to go insane and start killing each other.
JACK
Where did you read that?
STACY
On the Internet.
JACK
(laughing)
Haven’t you learned yet? The Internet’s not always the most reliable source of information.
I scroll through the script pages on my laptop feeling worn out. This writing business is pretty grueling stuff. I thought that with Nessa’s help, things would be moving along a lot quicker, but actually it’s made the whole process even slower. Sure, the few scenes we’ve worked on together are good — way better than what I could have done on my own — but every time I e-mail her some pages, she sends them back the next day marked up with a ton of changes.
“What’s that?”
I jump at the sound of Cathy’s voice. She’s leaning down, reading the screenplay over my shoulder. I slam my laptop screen shut and whip the desk chair around. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”
She looks at me sideways. “Are you writing a gay porn film, Sean?”
“Why are you even here?” I say.
Cathy plops a Winnie-the-Pooh lamp on my desk. “Mom asked me to bring this up to the baby’s room.”
