by John Scalzi
Roland looked at Michelle sadly. “Yes, right, all right,” he said.
“I don’t think you’re giving her a chance,” I said. “You haven’t even heard her do a reading yet.”
“Who has the time?” Avika said. “Between the wrong scenes and the fainting, by the time we run through the scene, Roland’s option will be up, anyway. As if it matters. Frankly, Mr. Stein, I don’t know what Roland was thinking. Your client is good for roles that require teenagers to be deflowered. But this role is something else entirely. Michelle Beck has about as much in common with my aunt as David Hasselhoff has with Gandhi. After today, I’d rather give the part to a golden retriever than to her.”
“I could arrange that,” I said.
Roland jumped in before Avika could respond. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Spiegelman,” he said, showing her to the door. “And don’t worry. We’ll find someone for the role.”
“No offense, Roland,” Avika said, “but if this is where we are in the casting process, I seriously doubt it.” She nodded to me and walked out.
Roland turned to me and slumped slightly. “Scotch?” he said.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I have to be driving back soon.”
Michelle moaned slightly as she worked her way back into consciousness.
“Well, then,” Roland said. “I’ll have a double for the both of us.”
“Bad day?” Miranda asked, when Michelle and I arrived at the office.
“You have no idea,” I said, and walked Michelle into my office to lie down on my couch. Michelle’s reaction to her incredible imploding reading had passed beyond mere depression and moved into the region of pharmaceutically untreatable mental states. I urged her to take a nap before she went to have latex splotzed all over her face.
“That’s terrible,” Miranda said, after I recounted our little adventure. “I mean, I didn’t think she was going to be good for the role, but what a way to flame out.”
“If I were her hypnotherapist, I’d lie low for a couple of weeks,” I said. “I don’t think their next session is going to be very pleasant. Listen, did you find out anything more about what Carl wants?”
“I did,” Miranda said, reaching for her notebook. “I went over to Marcella’s desk and got the message. Here—apparently a stunt dog they have on this Bruce Willis film contracted a nasty case of mange, and they need a replacement for some shots they’re doing this afternoon.” She tore the page out of her notebook and handed it to me. “You’re going to have to spend a lot of time in makeup, Tom.”
“Hardy har,” I said, taking the note. The film was shooting in Pasadena, which was helpful—it wasn’t far from where I lived, and not all that far from Pomona, where Michelle was to have her face done. “It’s not me. It’s Joshua, the Wonder Pup.”
“Isn’t that the name of your friend that’s always calling?” Miranda said.
“It is. Oddly enough, they look a lot alike, too. When am I supposed to be at the set?” I asked.
“You’re supposed to go as soon as you can,” Miranda said. “Which, I’d guess, means right now.”
“Fine,” I said. “Miranda, I’m going to need you to do something for me. You need to take Michelle to have her face done.”
“I’m kind of busy here,” Miranda said.
“Really,” I said. “Doing what?”
“Answering phones?” Miranda ventured.
“Who’s going to call? Carl isn’t going to call, because I’m transporting his dog to the set. Michelle isn’t going to call because she’s going to be wrapped in latex. The only person who might call is Van Doren, and I don’t want to talk to him, anyway.”
“Hmrph,” Miranda said.
“Is there a problem here, Miranda?” I asked.
Miranda scrunched up her face. “No. It’s just that now that she’s all depressed, I feel guilty for not wanting her to get the part. I forget that she’s a real person sometimes, and not just this thing that makes $12 million for being perky. It annoys me to have pity for someone who makes more in a day than I’m going to make in a year.”
“Try,” I said. “I’m supposed to go with her, but I can’t. You saw her, Miranda. She’s definitely not in any condition to be by herself at the moment. She’s certainly not in any condition to drive. I’m afraid in her state she’ll zonk out on the 60, drive into opposing traffic, and mangle herself on a semi. Look, as soon as I’m done with this other thing, I’ll be there. And anyway, Michelle likes you. Thinks you like her too, for some strange reason. Could be a big bonding moment for you two.”
“Hmrph,” Miranda said again.
“Come on, Miranda.” I said. “You’re my assistant. Assist.”
“Can I expense lunch?” Miranda asked.
“By all means. Expense dinner, too.”
“Whoo-hoo,” Miranda said. “Taco Bell, here I come.”
“So,” Joshua said. “Can I have my own trailer yet?”
“Not yet,” I said, “but look, you have your own water bowl.”
“Man, that’s the problem with being a dog,” Joshua said. “The perks are just not there.”
Joshua and I were waiting as the second unit crew of Bruce Willis’s latest action spectacular set up their next shot. The first unit crew was in Miami, shooting on location with Willis and his costars. The second unit crew, meanwhile, was roaming around Los Angeles, shooting all the scenes the first unit didn’t want to deal with: cut scenes, establishing shots, and, of course, scenes with dogs. Joshua was, in fact, the biggest star on the set that day.
In the space of less than one week, Joshua had become the most requested dog in Los Angeles film. It was the Mighty Dog commercial that did it: Joshua nailed it on the first take, no small feat in an industry where thirty seconds of animal action is often stitched out of twelve to fifteen hours of raw footage. This so stunned the director that he filmed the commercial twice just to cover his ass. Even with the extra take, the commercial was wrapped in two hours flat, saving the ad company about $200 thousand in fees. The ad company tried to lock Joshua down to an exclusive contract before the commercial was done. I politely declined. Joshua peed on the company rep’s shoes.
By the time we got back to the house, Al Bowen had gotten ten phone calls asking to get Joshua for a commercial. We let Bowen pick and choose the assignments; I got the distinct feeling that Bowen was using the opportunity to rack up some long-term favors. He wasn’t such a genial hippie after all. Not that it bothered either Joshua or me. Joshua was having fun and I didn’t mind hanging around a set, grazing off the craft service table and catching up on my reading.
Joshua especially liked hanging around with dogs now that he was one—when we weren’t at a commercial set, we’d go to the beach or a park where he could go off, tail wagging, to meet and greet other members of the species. I suspected that his enthusiasm for other dogs probably came from poor Ralph, who had spent most of his life not in the company of other dogs, and was now making up for lost time. But then, since Joshua had been on Earth, most of his time had been spent alone as well. So maybe they were both making up for lost time.
The tendency for vicious gossip, however, was pure Joshua. “See that dog over there?” Joshua pointed out a German shepherd with his muzzle. “It’s my understanding that he was almost fired off the last set he was on because he just would not stop licking his genitals on camera.”
“Stop it,” I said. “What a horrible thing to say about your costar.”
“Hey, I didn’t start the rumor,” Joshua said. “And anyway, it’s true. I heard his trainer talking about it to another trainer while I was on set. From what I hear, off-camera, he runs through his paces perfectly. You couldn’t ask for a better-trained dog. As soon as he hears the cameras running, though—bam, nosedive into the crotch. It’s the sound of the cameras, I think. Such a good-looking dog too, you know. It’s a real shame.”
“You know, your gossip would be much more interesting if it were actually about human beings,” I sai
d.
“Maybe for you,” Joshua said. “But I’m in the canine universe, Tom. It’s a whole different ball game down here. See that poodle? She’s a tick carrier. Saw one on her when we were doing that scene near the trees. It was the size of a Jeep, Tom. I was scared for myself.”
“I don’t think any of the other dogs would like you if they knew how you talked about them behind their backs.”
“Well, that’s just the point,” Joshua said. “I can’t very well tell any of them, now, can I? Language capability is a bitch, Tom.”
“Pun intended, I’m sure.”
“But of course.”
Al Bowen picked that moment to walk up. “You sure spend a lot of time talking with that dog,” he said.
“Well, I see you talking with your dogs, too,” I said. “And with your other animals.”
“I’m talking to my dogs,” Bowen said. “You, on the other hand, talk like you’re having a conversation. I can see you jabbering at Joshua from the other side of the set. I don’t know how to break this to you, Tom. You may have the smartest dog in the world, but he still doesn’t speak.”
“Doesn’t speak?” I said, feigning incredulousness. “Doesn’t speak? Joshua, what’s on top of a house?”
Joshua barked a bark that could have sounded like “roof,” if one had enough to drink.
“And what’s the bottom of a tree?”
This time, it could have been “root.”
“And who’s the greatest baseball player of all time?
The bark, with a little help, could have been a “Ruth.”
“There you are,” I said. “A talking dog.”
“Very cute,” Bowen said. “Could you please bring your talking dog to the set? It’s the last shot of the day. We need him as the strong, silent type, if you don’t mind.” He walked away.
“Hmmmm,” Joshua said. “Guess I should have said ‘DiMaggio.’”
“I can’t believe you actually knew the joke,” I said.
“Between my brain, Ralph’s brain, and Carl’s memories, you’d be amazed at the stuff I’ve got up here,” Joshua said. “Now, let’s go. I do so love those tasty liver snacks I get whenever I do a scene right.” He bounded off to the set, towards the German shepherd he had been backstabbing mere moments before. The German shepherd, oblivious to Joshua’s treachery, greeted him with a sloppy canine grin.
It was a happy moment. As much as anything else, I remember that fact.
I answered the cell phone on the second ring. “Michelle can’t possibly be done with her latex job,” I said. “It’s barely five o’ clock.”
“Tom, you have to get out here,” Miranda said. Her voice odd, strained. “We have a problem. A big problem.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“It’s not something I think you’d want me to talk about on a cellular phone,” Miranda said.
“It’s a digital phone, Miranda,” I said. “Virtually snoop-proof. Now what is it?”
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
“Miranda?” I said.
Suddenly Miranda was back. “Michelle’s in the hospital, Tom. It’s bad. It’s very bad. They think she has brain damage. They think she might die. They have her on a respirator right now, and they’re trying to figure out what to do next. You have to get out here now, Tom. She’s at Pomona Valley Hospital. It’s right off the 10. Hurry up.”
“All right,” I said. “I’m on my way, Miranda.”
“Hurry up, Tom,” Miranda said.
“I will,” I said.
“Hurry,” she said again, and then hung up.
After she hung up I realized her voice sounded odd because she’d been crying.
CHAPTER Fourteen
This much we knew.
Michelle and Miranda arrived at the workshop of Featured Creatures, Inc., one of the special effects houses working on Earth Resurrected, at 3:15. Miranda said that she and Michelle barely talked on the way out to Pomona, or during the brief lunch they had at the El Loco Taco drive-in before heading out. Michelle would answer questions asked her, but that was about it; after about ten minutes of this, Miranda stopped trying to converse and switched the radio on to a light hits station.
They were met at Featured Creatures by Judy Martin, the technician who was going to plaster goo over Michelle’s face. Miranda said that Martin looked somewhat dazed right from the beginning. As it turned out, Martin’s husband had picked that day to announce to his wife that he was divorcing her, and that he intended to marry her younger sister Helen, who, if she really had to know, was the one he’d always been in love with, anyway. Martin had spent most of the day on the phone with her lawyer, her traitorous sister, her mother, and the Ford dealership at which she and her husband had just jointly purchased an Explorer. She wanted to send it back.
Martin took Michelle and Miranda back through the workshop to a room where the latex was to be applied. The room, fairly small to begin with, was stuffed to the ceiling with monster body parts, motor equipment for creature models, and two-gallon cans of latex. In a corner of the room was what looked like a dentist’s chair, in which Michelle was to sit as the latex was applied to her face. Michelle sat in the chair and was ready to go, when the workshop intercom paged Judy to the phone. It was the Ford dealership. Martin went to the phone in the room, punched the flashing line button, and immediately began screaming into the receiver. Miranda looked over at Michelle to roll her eyes. Michelle was just staring out, blankly.
Ten minutes later, Martin slammed down the phone, hollered an obscenity at no one in particular, and stalked back over to the chair to prepare Michelle. As she was doing so, she spoke to Miranda.
“You’re going to have to leave,” she said. “You’re going to get in my way.”
“I’d rather stay,” Miranda said.
“I don’t care,” Martin said “Get out.”
Miranda flushed, a bad sign for whomever it was who caused the reaction. But before she could fully get her dander up, Michelle spoke. “I want her to stay,” she said.
“This isn’t a committee,” Martin said.
“How about we do this,” Miranda said. “You stay. We leave. We explain to the producers that we left because of you. The producers fire your company from the film. And then your company fires you.”
At this point, Miranda swears, Martin actually snarled. Miranda grabbed a stool from one of the work benches and took a seat. Michelle reached over for Miranda’s hand. Miranda gave it.
About five minutes later, as Martin applied the latex, Miranda spoke up again. “How is she going to breathe?” she asked, to Martin.
“What?” Martin said, spackling Michelle with a frosting knife.
“You’re about to cover her nose with latex.” Miranda said. “Once you do that, Michelle won’t be able to breathe. Shouldn’t you be thinking about these things?”
“Don’t tell me my fucking job,” Martin said, but went to find a couple of breathing straws for Michelle. As Martin covered Michelle’s nose and eyes with latex, Michelle squeezed hard on Miranda’s hand. Miranda squeezed back.
After Martin finished, she stepped back and turned to Miranda. “That’s going to take about three hours to dry,” she said. “She can’t move between now and then.”
“Where are you going?” Miranda asked.
“I have to make some phone calls,” Martin said.
“You should stay here,” Miranda said.
“Why?” Martin said. “You’re here, aren’t you?” She looked at Michelle again. “You know, she’s my husband’s favorite actress. He’s such an asshole.” And she walked out.
Over the next half hour, Miranda slowly became aware that the chicken burrito she had at El Loco Taco was doing terrifying things to her digestive tract. At first she ignored it, but near the end of the half-hour, Miranda felt the line between discomfort and peritonitis had become tissue-thin.
“Michelle, I have to find a bathroom,” she said.
Michelle’s grip on Miranda’s hand suddenly became vise-tight.
“I’ll go as fast as I can,” Miranda said, pried her hand loose, and went to find the bathroom.
It was back near the reception area. On the way there, she saw Martin in an office, screaming into another phone. She thought about asking her to go back and check on Michelle. Then Martin grabbed the phone and hurled it furiously across the room. Miranda decided against it. In the bathroom, Miranda discovered just exactly what the burrito did to her; it was about ten minutes before she was done.
Miranda was walking back to the latex room when she saw Martin standing outside of it, with the door open. As she got closer, Martin heard her steps, turned around and yelled. “It’s not my fault!”
“What are you talking about?” Miranda said. Then she looked into the room and saw.
Michelle was out of a chair and sprawled on the floor for the second time that day. This time, however, things were much worse. There was creature debris all over the floor. A can of latex lay on its side, its contents flowing out. Miranda looked up and saw the wreckage of a set of shelves; they had collapsed. Miranda’s gaze went back down to the floor and she noticed a glint of red on the bottom of the latex can. Then she noticed the small pool of blood near Michelle’s head.
“Oh shit,” she said, and pushed Martin out of the way to get to Michelle.
Michelle sprawled face down; Miranda checked quickly to see if she had broken any bones, and then turned her over. That’s when she saw that Michelle’s breathing straws had fallen out and the latex had closed up over Michelle’s nostrils. Michelle was suffocating.
Miranda immediately dug her fingers into the latex and began tearing it off of Michelle’s face. Her lips were blue when Miranda ripped the latex away. Miranda got down in the latex and blood, reached a hand underneath Michelle’s neck to lift it up, then began mouth-to-mouth.
“She wasn’t supposed to move!” Martin said.
“Damn it,” Miranda said, and checked for Michelle’s pulse. It was there, faint and fast. “Call 911,” she said, to Martin.
