He reached out and grasped her by the shoulders. Lightly. Without pulling her toward him. “Why are you staying?” he asked. “Why do you put up with all this bullshit?”
“Somebody’s got to. It’s my job.”
“Ever think of quitting?”
“Once every hour, at least.”
“Want to come to Aspen with me?”
She stepped closer to him and let her head rest against his chest. “It’s a tempting thought. And you’re very sweet to ask me. But I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Reasons. My own reasons.”
“And they’re none of my business, right?”
She smiled up at him. “You’ve got enough problems. You don’t need mine. Go on, go off to the mountains and breathe clean air and forget about this show. I’ll square it with B.F.”
Abruptly, he let go of her and reached for the car door. “Can I drop you off at the hotel?”
“I’ve got my own car.” She pointed to it, sitting alone and cold looking a few empty rows down the line.
“Okay,” he said. “Goodbye. And thanks.”
“Good luck, Mitch.”
She walked to her car and stood beside it as he gunned his engine and drove off.
PINEAPPLES CLINCH PLAYOFF SLOT AS TOHO LEADS 56-13 MASSACRE
It’ll look like Orson Welles, Gregory Earnest told himself as he strode purposefully onto the set. Script by Gregory Earnest. Produced by Gregory Earnest. Directed by Gregory Earnest.
He stood there for a magnificent moment, clad in the traditional dungarees and tee shirt of a big-time director, surrounded by the crew and actors who stood poised waiting for his orders.
“Very well,” he said to them. “Let’s do this one right.” Four hours later he was drenched with perspiration and longing for the safety of his bed.
Dulaq had just delivered the longest speech in his script: “Oh yeah? We’ll see about dat!”
He stood bathed in light, squinting at the cue cards that had his next line printed in huge red block letters, while the actor in the scene with him backed away and gave his line:
“Rom, we’re going to crash! The ship’s out of control!”
Dulaq didn’t answer. He peered at the cue card, then turned toward Earnest and bellowed, “What th’ hell’s dat word?”
“Cut!” Earnest yelled. His throat was raw from saying it so often.
“Which one?” the script girl asked Dulaq.
“Dat one... wit’ de ‘S.’”
“Stabilize,” the girl read.
Dulaq shook his head and muttered to himself, “Stabilize. Stabilize. Stabilize.”
This is getting to be a regular routine, Brenda told herself. I feel like the Welcome Wagon Lady... in reverse.
She was at the airport again, sitting at the half-empty bar with Les Montpelier. His travelbags were resting on the floor between their stools.
“I don’t understand why you’re staying,” Montpelier said, toying with the plastic swizzle stick in his Tijuana Teaser.
“B.F. asked me to,” she said.
“So you’re going to stick it out until the bloody end?” he asked rhetorically. “The last soldier at Fort Zinderneuf.”
She took a sip of her vodka gimlet. “Bill Oxnard still comes up every weekend. I’m not completely surrounded by idiots.”
Montpelier shook his head, more in pity than in sorrow. “I could ask B.F. to send somebody else up here... hell, there’s no real reason to have anybody here. The seventh show is finished shooting. All they have to do now is the editing. No sense starting the next six until we get the first look at the ratings.”
“The editing can be tricky,” Brenda said, “These people that Earnest has hired don’t have much experience with three-dee editing.”
“They don’t have much experience with anything.”
