Page 26 of All That Glitters
“I thought we were here to talk about my script,” Tony said. “You know, the one Jeff bet a hundred-to-one odds against me finishing.”
“Notice how he changes the subject,” Jeff said to Matt, as though Tony wasn’t sitting right there. “That’s a strong indicator that something is lurking beneath the surface.”
Matt nodded gravely. “He’s already sliding down that slippery slope towards lower ratings and a messy, unsatisfying series finale.”
“Right. Which is why we need to intervene before it’s too late,” Jeff said. “So, what do you say, Harding? You cool if I date her?”
“And me too,” Matt quickly added. “We can take turns, like a timeshare. Let her decide who she wants to keep dating.”
“So how about it?” Jeff said to Tony. “You cool with this?”
Tony realized he had really painted himself into a corner this time. If he and Debbie really were ‘just friends,’ as he kept telling himself and everyone around him, then he should have no problem with them dating her. The fact that the idea made him want to throw his laptop across the room was something he needed to examine more closely; but not right now. Right now, he just needed them off his back.
Tony groaned. “She’s a grown girl. She can date whoever she wants.”
“You’re not gonna slash my car tires if I do?” Jeff said.
“No, go for it.”
“Cool!” Jeff grinned, turning to Matt. “I get first dibs on Fridays.”
“And I got Saturdays,” Matt said.
Jeff turned to Tony, who looked like his dog just ran away. “Don’t look so glum, Harding. There’s a bright side to this.”
“That Debbie kills you both?” Tony said.
“No. Now you’re freed up to chase that actress, Carrie Thompson.”
Chapter nine
The Perils of B-Movie Productions
The desert air was a blast furnace, the sun a relentless white disk in a bleached-out sky. For as far as the eye could see, there were only jagged, rust-colored mountains, saguaro cacti, and dirt.
The temperature had climbed past 110 degrees before noon, and the small crew of ‘Cyborg Huntress 3: Desert of Doom’ was visibly wilting, seeking whatever patches of shade they could find between takes. Water bottles emptied faster than they could be refilled, and tempers had grown short.
And then there was Carrie Thompson.
She came racing down a dusty hill, her blonde hair flying behind her. She wore what the costume department had optimistically called a “post-apocalyptic warrior outfit” but was, in reality, a skimpy leather loincloth and matching bikini top that left little to the imagination.
Close behind her lumbered a robot.
It was, without question, the least intimidating robot in the history of cinema. Where the script had called for a “gleamingmetal death machine with glowing eyes and hydraulic limbs capable of crushing human bones,” the budget had delivered what was clearly made of cardboard boxes spray-painted silver, with dryer vents for arms and a spaghetti strainer for a helmet. Duct tape was visible at every seam, and one eyehole was noticeably larger than the other, revealing the sweaty human face inside. It looked less like a killing machine from the future and more like a third grader’s art project that had gotten a C-minus.
The robot cornered Carrie against a pile of sun-baked rocks. This was the dramatic climax, the moment when the huntress, having lost her weapons in the earlier quicksand scene (a kiddie pool filled with mud), would face certain death before being saved by the mysterious desert nomad who had been tracking her since scene twelve.
Carrie threw her arms in the air, her face contorted in what was meant to be a look of pure terror. Her eyes widened, her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’ of horror, and she let out a gasp that sounded more like a hiccup than a blood-curdling scream. She held the expression for a full five seconds before her composure broke. A snort escaped her, followed by a full-blown peel of laughter.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, wiping a tear from her eye, leaving a streak in her dust-caked makeup. “It’s just… it’s not scary. It’s a guy in a box. With a pasta strainer on his head.”
“It’s a colander,” muttered Stan from inside the robot costume, his voice muffled and miserable. “And it’s really hot in here.”
From behind the camera, Philip Winters, the self-described ‘visionary director’ of this straight-to-DVD masterpiece, threw his hands up in exasperation. “It’s called acting, Carrie! Pretend it’s scary! That’s literally your only job in this scene!”
The man inside the cardboard box, a struggling actor named Stan who had taken this role only after his agent had threatened to drop him, sighed. He’d been in the robot costume for four hours now, with only a small fan wedged between the cardboard layers providing any relief from the heat. The cardboard was beginning to sag with sweat, and he was fairly certain that heatstroke was imminent.
He was supposed to grab her, to menace her. That’s what the script said. He reached out with his dryer-vent arm, pulled her toward him, and, following the director’s off-camera instructions for “more intensity,” clamped his silver-painted hand firmly on her butt.
