The Fourth Wall

by Williams, Walter Jon

  “Buy some liquor for me, okay?” I say. “Keep it in Wardrobe for me.”

  “What do you want?”

  I know that Jaydee’s taste in wine leans to the kind that comes in cardboard boxes, so I say beer. Jaydee waves the Sailor Jerry under my nose.

  “How about some of this?” she says. “Drink enough, you’ll want to go out and get yourself a tattoo.”

  I give a violent start at the scent of rum. It has associations I’d rather forget. Jaydee looks at me oddly.

  “The beer will be fine.”

  I pick up my plate of prawns, and eat a shrimp with the hand that had rum poured over it. I realize that I should wash that hand, otherwise I’m going to carry an alcohol reek for the rest of the day.

  I chat with Jaydee for a bit, finish my prawns, and excuse myself. I go inside to one of the bathrooms, wash my hands until they smell of lilac soap instead of overproof rum, then mosey through Joey’s chateau. I haven’t been here before. Joey’s paid a decorator to go with the French theme and to do things with open-beam ceilings, stone fireplaces, white plaster, and pre-rusted metal accents, but I can tell that Joey himself hasn’t put much of his own identity into the mix. The place is as free of personality as a hospital room, in complete contrast to the old house on Parmenter Canyon that he shared with Timmi, which was full of books, papers, scripts, DVDs stacked precariously on every horizontal surface, and empty containers of Pringles rolling around on the counters.

  I wonder if Joey has his actual life stashed somewhere else, his office maybe, or if this is really all that’s left.

  I step into one room and find Carter-Ann Dixon, MD, perched on an armchair amid a small circle of people. She wears a white blouse and a neutral beige skirt. It looks as if she’s leading a group therapy session. More than that, it looks as if her group has been chosen to illustrate the ideals of the National Diversity Council. Circled along with her is an Asian woman in polyester, a burly black man in a tropical shirt, an East Indian man with gold-rimmed spectacles, and a woman with a face that seems to have come off a monumental Olmec head.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, and start to back out of the room. Carter-Ann looks at me with one of her brilliant white smiles.

  “That’s all right, Mr. Makin,” she says in her reedy Munchkin voice. “Let me introduce you to our group of consultants.”

  I shake the hands of Dr. Li, Professor Mthunzi, Dr. Godbole, and Professor Chaska. “Call me Sean,” I say. I turn to Carter-Ann. “What is it that you’re consulting about, again?”

  She turns to me, her pose perfectly balanced, her hands folded in front of her. I fully expect her to brush me off. “We’re planning to make you incredibly popular throughout the world,” she says.

  I’m so surprised that I can’t manage a reply. I imagine hordes of Russians and Bengalis and Sudanese mobbing my appearances at airports, posters of my smiling face stuck up on walls in student dorms in Madagascar, millions in endorsements coursing into my bank account.

  Carter-Ann’s smile broadens. “I thought you’d approve,” she says.

  “I wish you every success,” I say, and then hesitate. “Can I ask how you’re planning to do this?”

  “Well,” she says, “first of all we’re going to fine-tune your performance to appeal to the widest possible group of viewers.”

  A cold little icicle of suspicion touches my fantasy. I’m all for gaining the widest possible audience, but on the other hand, when I look around the room, I see that I’m the only actor here—it’s not like I need a bunch of professors and doctors and headshrinkers telling me how to do my job.

  Turn your palms out, Mr. Makin. Thank you so fucking much, Doctor.

  “Then,” Carter-Ann continues, “we’ll preview your performance before selected test audiences throughout the world, just to make certain that they love you the way you deserve.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  She tips her head and gives a sweet smile. “We’ll work together to fix it.”

  I’m appalled from my toes to the roots of my fast-fading hair. Not only is Carter-Ann going to be able to “fine-tune”—maybe even dictate—my performance, but if her test audiences don’t like it, she’ll be able to make me do it over.

  I offer an uncertain grin. “That sounds complicated,” I say.

  “We’ll try to make it simple.”

  “And the director,” I point out, “is normally the person who, ah, fine-tunes the actors’ performances.” Because he’s the director, I refrain from pointing out.

  Her sweet smile is unaltered.

  “Of course Mr. da Nova is in charge of the set,” she says. “I don’t anticipate any problems. At most I’ll just have a few little comments to make.”

  She’s so reasonable that I can almost see this working, right up to the point where she tells Joey that his work has to be scrapped and he’s got to do it over. Then I’ll dive for cover and hope not to get hit by the shrapnel.

  “I’ll look forward to working with you,” I lie.

  “I expect we’ll have a lovely time,” she says. I hope she’s lying, too, because otherwise she’s too naive to be real.

  I make an exit and go looking for Joey. I find him by the bandstand, where a number of giant Polynesians are setting up their equipment. Joey is talking with Jean-Marc Barineau, the director of photography. Joey likes to work with the same people over and over again and Jean-Marc has been DP on most of his films.

  Joey is five feet five inches tall, but with long arms and a pair of shoulders that would do credit to a football player. He has a rugged face, an olive complexion, dark curly hair, and a mat of tangled body hair that practically bursts out of his embroidered Mexican sailor shirt. He wears canvas trousers and sandals on his hairy feet.

  Jean-Marc is an obese Frenchman with a five-day beard, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a faded Universal Studios T-shirt streaked with mustard stains. He’s got a hot dog in one hand and in the other is a sixteen-ounce tumbler of white wine on the rocks.

  He’s not a pretty picture, but he makes pretty pictures in the camera—beautiful pictures in fact, balanced, harmonious, with lovely saturated color that soaks into the retina like the Tuscan landscapes of the Renaissance. Sometimes I think he’s wasting his talent on Joey’s pictures, particularly the later ones—but sometimes, even in a movie about fighting robots or superheroes, he finds moments of surprising beauty that, for a brief moment anyway, can bring the most hackneyed script to life.

  “Hey, Joey,” I say.

  “Kiddo!” Joey wraps me in his long arms and gives me a hug.

  Jean-Marc looks at me over the top of Joey’s head. “I haven’t seen you since Mac’s funeral,” he says.

  “Has it been that long?” I look at Joey. “I thought you’d promised not to throw things at people.”

  Joey is currently being sued by a reporter who claims that Joey threw a cell phone at him.

  “I don’t know that Steve Pocket is a person exactly,” Joey says. “He’s a media titan, you know.”

  Joey steps back and asks me about Mister Baby Head.

  “Still in litigation,” I say.

  “What a fucking circus,” Joey says.

  I’ve known Joey since I was eight years old, and we fall easily into our old, friendly relationship. We’ve always liked each other. Even after I killed his wife, we remained friends.

  It goes without saying that he doesn’t know it was I who killed Timmi. And it’s my mission in life to keep him from finding out.

  I look at Joey standing on the grass behind his French Provincial chateau, as desperate for work as I am. Employed by Dagmar, who judging by her script has a good grasp of story, maybe even as good a grasp on essentials as Timmi. Whether she can prevent Joey from wrecking it is another matter.

  Behind Joey and Jean-Marc, the Polynesians begin tuning. Joey grins.

  “South California Hawaiian Orchestra,” he says. “I heard them play once, they’re great.”

  “Good slack-str
ing,” Jean-Marc says approvingly.

  “Are we ready for Monday?” I ask Joey. I’ve been consumed with learning my lines, but I’m sure Joey has a better idea how the actual production is going.

  “Fuck, yes,” Joey says. “There’s nothing like throwing money at a project to get it on the rails.”

  “Who’s throwing the money?” I ask. “Dagmar?”

  A shriek of feedback from the musicians drowns Joey’s reply, but I can lip-read the affirmative answer. Joey spins toward the bandstand and yells.

  “What the fuck! You’re gonna give my guests a fucking heart attack!”

  “Sorry, bruddah,” someone says.

  “Jesus, be a little more careful!”

  Any one of the Hawaiians could break half Joey’s bones simply by falling on him, but they make pacifying gestures while he storms at them and punches the air.

  “Maybe we should listen from farther away,” Jean-Marc suggests. He is an old hand at dealing with Joey’s temper.

  “Yeah, fuck,” Joey mutters.

  We stroll toward the buffet. Joey puts an arm around my waist. He’s cheerful now.

  “How about you, champ?” he asks. “Are you ready for this?”

  “I was born ready.” Which falls under the heading clichéd but true.

  Joey gets himself a piece of papaya. He takes a bite of it, then licks juice from his fingers.

  “I just spoke to Dr. Dixon,” I said. “She said she looks forward to working with us.”

  Joey’s good mood evaporates instantly. “Head of the Psy-Ops Division?” he snarls. “Crazy bitch.”

  “She says she’ll only have a few suggestions.”

  His eyes glitter as they look up into mine.

  “She opens her fucking mouth,” he says, “I’ll rip her tits off.”

  Ah, I think. This will be such a happy set.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  HEAVY LUGGAGE BLOG

  Visitors are usually disappointed when they first find themselves on a movie set. For the most part nothing interesting is going on: people are moving lights or props around, or eating lunch, or waiting while some technical problem is solved. The actors, who are the people the visitors want to see, are either not present or aren’t doing anything interesting, because they’re in costume and makeup and can’t risk getting mussed.

  If visitors are present during actual filming, they have to remain still and silent while some strangely dressed people on a brightly lit set mumble dialogue the visitors can’t hear, and do this over and over again while the cameras are moved from place to place and the microphones shift around. It’s so unglamorous. It’s dull. It’s…unlike the movies! There’s no magic, it’s just a bunch of people doing their jobs.

  Unlike most visitors, I love a movie set. I’m always interested in the way the various technicians go about their jobs, setting lights and capturing sound and giving fragile temporary sets the illusion of age and permanence. Cameras are fascinating, with their many glass eyes: they’re now so light and flexible that they can soar overhead on booms or wires, or get a good picture in murky conditions.

  Actors who seem just to be standing around are often working hard: they’re trying to remember lines, firm up their characters, and decide how they’re going to interact with other cast members in the next scene.

  If you know what to look for, a film set is a fascinating place. I love being there, even when nothing is going on, because I know where to find the magic.

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  INT. SEAN’S APARTMENT—DAY

  I figure it’s unlikely that I’ll run into Lenny Castro at the supermarket, so one day, after we’ve both failed to complete the obstacle course that Celebrity Pitfighter has made us run—Burt Taylor, the bastard, won the event—I ask him over for drinks. I’ve recently purged my refrigerator, as per Dagmar’s demands, so I have to take a trip to the package store on the way.

  I pour us each a vodka and tonic, then take the couch and give Lenny the armchair with the Indian throw. He’s unusual among Celebrity Pitfighter contestants in that he’s not really an actor, but a singer: he made the quarterfinals of American Idol a decade or so ago, and his career has been marking time ever since. He’s got dark Puerto Rican looks that look good on camera, so he’s crossed over into commercials, television, and film, but nothing you’d remember. He starred in a TV series that got canceled three episodes into its run. In the meantime he’s singing Latin jazz in the top clubs of Riverside and Palmdale.

  “Are you working?” I ask. “Besides Pitfighter, I mean?”

  “I auditioned for a commercial,” he says. “And I’m singing here and there.”

  He’s tall, only a couple inches under my height, and in good shape even though he’s not in Des Andor’s class. He’s got a deep blue five o’clock shadow, and the lightest trace of an accent.

  I’ve seen his fights, too, and he’s very fast and very clever. He’s won his two matches with submission holds that his opponents were too slow to see coming.

  “I got lead in a feature,” I say. “Not the real movies though—it’s AR.”

  He nods. “Still, that’s good. It’s a feature, and it’s the lead role.”

  I decide to approach the cheating cautiously. “You know,” I say, “with both of us maybe going in front of the camera, we should go easy on each other during our fight.”

  He seems a little surprised. “How do you mean?”

  I brush my cheek with my knuckles by way of illustration. “Not hit too hard to the face. Either of us show up for auditions with a broken nose or black eyes, we could lose work.”

  He thinks about this for a moment. “That’s sensible. Yeah.”

  “Just do it better than Des did,” I say. “He knew he wouldn’t get hit in the face, so he didn’t bother to guard the face at all.”

  His head gives a little jerk of astonishment. “Des made the same agreement with you?”

  I flap a hand casually. “Oh, sure. The fights are so bogus anyway, it’s silly to take risks. Not when they let a junkie like Jimmy Blogjoy into the matches.”

  I sip my drink and watch him while he absorbs the information. Finally he sighs and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “It’s all crap,” he says.

  “It’s all showbiz,” I say. I cock my head and try to look as if I’ve just had a terrific idea. “You know, I bet we could choreograph a more exciting fight than the one we’re actually going to have.”

  He just nods, thinking. I decide not to pursue that line, and shift to another.

  “Have you ever played a villain?”

  “I’ve played bad guys, sure.”

  “You heard that Torey Richardson broke his legs parasailing?”

  He nods and takes a sip of his drink. I take a sip of my own, deliberately synchronizing my timing to his. I want to get our brain waves falling into the same patterns: I’ll breathe when he breathes, sigh when he sighs, scratch my ear when he scratches his.

  “Torey was in my feature,” I say. “He played the villain, the guy I’m fighting for the whole movie. Now they’re going to have to recast.”

  I’m simplifying—Roheen never fights Arrick, he just runs from him—but that’s irrelevant, because Lenny looks up, intent interest on his face.

  “The bad guy doesn’t die at the end,” I say. “They’re saving him for the sequels they’re planning. It could be an ongoing role in a successful franchise.”

  I blink at him, as if I’ve just been struck by a brilliant idea.

  “I could mention your name to the producer,” I say.

  INT. SOUNDSTAGE—DAY

  “Mr. da Nova, if I can make a suggestion.” Carter-Ann’s sweet tones chime across the set.

  The words send my heart tottering toward despair.

  “What’s wrong, Dr. Dixon?” Joey asks. His tone is mocking, as is his use of her title.

  “I wonder if Amir might reach toward Roheen.” I peer past the lights and see Carter-Ann reaching out hesit
atingly. “And then he gets a look at him and jumps back.” She pulls the hand back.

  “Dr. Dixon,” Joey says, “we have had a long fucking day.”

  Which we have, here on the set of The Life of Chester A. Arthur. And I have spent much of the day on my belly in a kind of tunnel, with bits of dust and debris being rained on my head by the property master, who is positioned on a grid twelve feet above my head.

  It’s now Thursday of the first week of production, and Carter-Ann and Joey have been at one another’s throats for the whole shoot, plus all the read-throughs and rehearsals. Joey works out what he wants, Carter-Ann makes one of her suggestions, and then they’re at it hammer and tongs.

  Things would be simpler if Carter-Ann’s suggestions were not, on the whole, pretty good. I keep having to remind myself that she is in fact a psychiatrist, and therefore may have some insights into the ways people behave that she is able to translate into concrete proposals.

  Joey and Carter-Ann have their argument, Joey cutting and corrosive, Carter-Ann patient and reasonable. The more patient she becomes, the greater his sarcasm. His face becomes stone, and his lips turn white. I half-expect him to have a heart attack on the spot.

  While all this goes on, I lie in the dust, and await Carter-Ann’s inevitable victory.

  We are shooting the first meeting between Roheen and one of his juvenile supporters, a fourteen-year-old boy named Amir. Amir is played by a talented Indian youth named Samendra, who was the winner of a vast talent search that spanned the entire subcontinent and select parts of England and North America. Samendra crouches on the set a few yards from me, and watches the argument impassively, through Amir’s gold-rimmed glasses. He’s new to movie acting, and maybe he thinks all film sets normally ring with screaming arguments.

  Amir’s character has been devised to create the maximum possibility for identification with the Indian audience. Amir is a Muslim, which might enlist the sympathy of Indian and Pakistani Muslims and others; but he also lives in cosmopolitan New Delhi, so non-Muslim Indians are encouraged to identify with him. (In the event, Amir is played by a Hindu.) Amir is a dutiful son but with a hidden imagination: he’s got a home computer loaded with his artwork, which features superheroes, science fiction, and characters out of Indian legend.