The Big Bamboo Page 6

  A ’71 Buick sat outside an antique mall in Palma Ceia. A sign announced an autographing event:

  TODAY ONLY!

  Serge and Coleman stood in the back of a long line. It was moving, but not fast enough.

  “What’s taking so long?” said Serge, standing on tiptoes and stretching his neck. “I’ll bet someone’s gabbing up there.”

  “Serge, I think I need to sit down.”

  “You’re hammered, aren’t you?”

  Coleman giggled. “You are correct, trivia breath!”

  “I hate it when you get like this. Just don’t touch anything.”

  Coleman picked up a rare figurine of a sad clown with a crumpled hat.

  “Gimme that!” Serge set it back on a shelf. “We have to pay for anything we break. This isn’t like one of those big stores where we can run away again.”

  Coleman swayed and latched on to a china cabinet. Plates rattled.

  “Watch it!” Serge grabbed Coleman by the shoulders and carefully balanced him on the vertical axis. He slowly removed his hands. “There. Don’t move.”

  “Was this always an antique place?” asked Coleman. “From the outside it looked like it used to be a restaurant or something.”

  “It was,” said Serge. “Old neighborhood bar and grill called Dino’s. The kind of place with live honky-tonk musicians in the corner. True story: Forty years ago, some customer was in here drinking and it begins getting late and suddenly the guy gets up and starts playing a guitar left on the stage by one of the musicians on break. I mean like a crazy man, attacking the instrument, distressed noise. They thought he was having a seizure.”

  “Was he?”

  “Naw, it was just Jimi Hendrix. Knocking back a few after playing Curtis Hixon or some other torn-down arena.” Serge began jamming on an air guitar behind his head: “

  Wah-wahwah-wah-wowoooowah-wah-wah!

  Purple Haze inside my veins!

  ”

  The man in line in front of them turned around. Serge was playing with his teeth now. “

  Waahhhoooo-wah-wahzowoozoo-wahhhhhh!

  ”

  “Sir!” said the man. “Do you mind?”

  Serge stopped and looked up. “Oh, excuse me

  ”

  The man turned back around.

  “

  While I kiss the sky!”

  The man turned back again with disdain.

  Serge grinned.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “This line is taking a lot longer than you said. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Hang on,” said Serge. “I hate lines, too. But sometimes it’s worth it. This may be our last chance to meet the great Karl Slover.”

  “Karl?”

  “You’re joking, right? I told you about him in the car.”

  “Must have been doing something. Who is he?”

  “Just one of the last living Munchkins is who. And Tampa has him! Lives just up the street. But I decided to wait until a public appearance instead of knocking on his door because I’m not familiar with Munchkin lifestyle and didn’t want to barge in on anything freaky.”

  “Is this part of your current Florida movie kick?” Coleman picked up a ceramic German boy playing the accordion.

  Serge grabbed the figurine and replaced it on the shelf. “Nothing current about it. This is different from every previous obsession. Movies are my life now.”

  “If you say so.”

  “No, really. I’ve dedicated my existence to absorbing the entire film history of Florida so I can find out what the problem is.”

  “I didn’t know there was a problem.”

  “Oh, there’s a problem all right.” Serge snatched a sleeping cherub from Coleman’s hands. “Why should California get all the glory? Every movie filmed out there has that same shot, aimed up at tall rows of palm trees running down both sides of the street like we should all genuflect. Shit, the bad parts of Fort Myers have that.”

  “Doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Here’s the thing that really makes me want to kill. A movie is supposed to depict Florida, and they don’t even pay us the common courtesy of shooting it here. Remember Some Like It Hot? Filmed at the Hotel del Coronado in San Diego. And don’t even get me started on the Miami Beach scenes in Get Shorty.”

  “That wasn’t Miami Beach?”

  “Santa Monica,” said Serge. “I want answers.”

  “But, Serge, what can one person do?”

  “That’s what they said back in the 2000 election. Then Katherine Harris ends up in Congress. But not this time. Did you know there used to be studios all over this state competing with Hollywood? During the silent era, one was almost as big. Jacksonville.”

  “What happened?”

  “Shortsighted civic leaders and residents complaining about disruptions. The last straw was when they used a bunch of extras to film a riot, and it became a real riot.” Serge tilted his head to see around the line. “Then, to add insult, the latest blow from California. They’re making a move on our cash crop.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You say Florida, and people think oranges and tourism. But our biggest export is weirdness. Remember a few years ago with those fugitives and chads and Elian and that guy who slept with his pet alligator under suspicious circumstances and had all those bite marks? Everyone you talked to: ‘Man, you people in Florida are crazy!’ Then California elects a robot and puts a bunch of losers on trial. They stole our weirdness crown. I mean to take it back.”

  The line grew shorter until Coleman could see someone sitting behind a desk signing movie stills. “He’s short.”

  “Tall for a Munchkin,” said Serge. “Did you know he played six different parts?”

  “Which?”

  “One of the trumpeters, a female Munchkin in a bonnet, and who can forget those eggs where the cute little baby Munchkins popped out?”

  Coleman pointed. “Looks like we’re up.”

  An assistant at the desk asked which movie photos they’d like to purchase.

  “Just a second,” said Serge. “I need to do something first.” He turned to the people in line behind him. “Could you please step back

  That’s right, a little more

  ”

  Serge faced the desk again. “Karl, this is going to bring back memories

  ” He placed his hands on his hips and began thrusting his pelvis: “We represent the lollipop guild!

  the lollipop guild!

  the lollipop guild!

  We represent

  ”

  The assistant stood up. “Sir, please

  ”

  “Wait, there’s another verse.”

  “We have a long line.”

  “All right,” said Serge. “Hey, Karl, bet you haven’t heard that in a long time. But don’t get all misty on me

  ”

  “Sir, which photograph?”

  “Right, which picture? Let’s see

  the one with the good witch? No

  Here’s one with Dorothy and Toto

  Karl, you knew Garland. What was she like? Did she keep in touch or just climb over the Munchkins on her way up? Any red flags of the drug abuse yet to come?

  ”

  “Sir!”

  “Of course. That would be out of school. And you’re a class act

  Did you get to see the flying monkeys? They scared the shit out of me when I was a kid! What about you? I mean, you were an adult and knew they were fake. Still, the concept— minding your own business walking along the yellow brick road. Did you realize they have these giant condors in the Pacific Northwest that can pick up a full-grown Munchkin? Then you’re sitting two hundred feet up a tree in a big nest with the hatchlings. What kind of life is that? My advice: Stay clear of Portland

  ”

  “Sir, I’m afraid we’re going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Leave?

  Oh, I see what this is about. Moving product, making him sign his little hand off. Well, your days of exploiting him are over!

  Karl, I got your back

  ”

  “We’re calling the police.”

  “Good. Ca
ll the press, too. Let’s see what they think about this Munchkin sweat farm.”

  Crash.

  A rack of figurines went over.

  “Coleman! Run!

  ”

  ** Chapter 5

  THE FOOD COURT OF A NONDESCRIPT MALL IN BURBANK

  A man in a paper hat swept the floor behind the counter. “I hate pretzels!”

  “Shhhh!” said Ford. “The customers.”

  “What customers?” said Mark, a choo-choo over his right breast.

  “Some might come in,” said Ford.

  Mark set his broom against the wall. “Didn’t you tell them we didn’t want to be closers?”

  “It’s all they had.” Ford looked down at a stack of typewritten pages that he kept behind the register.

  “I hate closing,” said Mark. He glanced up at the clock, fifteen till ten. “You get everything put away, all ready to split, and some idiots come in with a minute to go and can’t make up their minds. Then they finally order something complex.”

  Ford crossed out a verb with his pen, making it active. “Looks like we’re in luck tonight.”

  Mark pointed at the pages. “Where’d you learn this screenwriting stuff, anyway?”

  “Wannabe screenwriting magazines full of ads saying they’ll get your script produced and then request five hundred dollars for copying and postage every few weeks as long as you’re stupid enough. But if you stick to the articles, you’re okay.”

  Mark read the current page over Ford’s shoulder. “It’s just talking.”

  “That’s how it’s done. All dialogue. Once you’re familiar with your characters, it flows. Most of mine are people I know.” He marked through a nonagreeing pronoun. “A minute of talking, a page. Hundred pages, you got a movie. You need a setting, just give it a label and the movie people figure the rest.”

  “Label?”

  “Say you need a busy city street at night? Just type: ‘busy city street at night.’ They’ll come up with the honking Checker cabs and neon cocktail glasses and Latin kids in white tank tops and Saint Christopher medals spilling out of a pizzeria. All that detail stuff is for books. I just need a label.”

  “What about a space station?” asked Mark.

  “Or a space station,” said Ford. “Or the food court of a nondescript mall in Burbank.”

  “What are these abbreviations, O.S.? P.O.V.?”

  “Off stage, point of view. Like, ‘Character reacts to noise O.S.,’ or ‘Switch to killer’s P.O.V.’ ”

  “Can I see?”

  Ford handed the stack to Mark, who slowly became engrossed. “Say, this ain’t bad. Like I’m not even reading, just turning pages.”

  “Based on true events. Wrote most of it since I got here and bought that cheap typewriter at the pawnshop.”

  “What are all these dollar signs?”

  “The capital S doesn’t work.”

  “You put me in here. You changed my name to Mark.”

  “For legal reasons

  ”

  “You made me stupid.”

  “

  In case you sued.”

  A group of blue-collar young men strolled through the food court, trying to decide.

  “Oh, no,” said Mark. A minute till ten, said the clock.

  “They’ll probably eat somewhere else,” said Ford.

  “Go to the Magic Wok,” said Mark. “Please go to the Magic Wok.”

  “See?” said Ford. “They’re heading somewhere else.”

  “They’re turning around!” said Mark. “They’re looking at our sign. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  ”

  The young men approached the counter. Ford stepped up to the register and smiled. “Can I take your order?”

  “Just a sec.” Their eyes angled up at the menu board. “Okay, wait.” They read some more. They talked it over among themselves. They came to a decision. They decided against it. The first customer pointed up over Ford’s head. “What’s the Orient Express?”

  “Slightly tangy. Comes with Chinese mustard.”

  “Can I get extra packets?”

  “Sure.”

  “What about the Rock Island Line?”

  “Rock salt,” said Ford. “Not really rock salt, but they tell us to say that. It’s just big salt.”

  “Is it salty?”

  “Pretty salty.”

  Background: “

  Fuck, fuck, fuck

  ”

  Ford briefly turned his head: “Shhhh!”

  “The Grand Central Station?” asked the customer.

  “Our largest,” said Ford. “Feeds two.”

  “I don’t know.” The customer looked at his friends. “What do you think, guys?”

  “

  Fuck!

  ”

  The customer quickly spun back to the counter.

  Ford smiled nervously.

  “What was that?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” said Ford.

  “Not you. That guy back there.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” said Ford. He noticed a blue Navy anchor on the man’s forearm.

  “Yeah, he said something all right. Was he talking to us?”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ford. “He’s had a hard day.”

  “I’ve had a hard day. And now all I want to do is eat a pretzel, but somebody’s got a fucking attitude!”

  “You ever work retail?” snapped Mark. He tapped the face on his wristwatch. “It’s four after closing now. But no, we can’t go home ’cause you can’t pick a snack!”

  Mark thought his eyes were playing tricks the way the man vaulted the counter from a standing start. Ford jumped in front of the enraged customer and put his hands up in surrender. “Free pretzels! Your friends, too! Anything you want! We’re just going to throw them out anyway!”

  The customer was still breathing fast. “If he apologizes.”

  “What!” said Mark.

  “Mark! Shut up!” said Ford, then to himself: “Dammit, all I wanted to do was go home and watch Training Day.”

  “Training Day?”

  “Yeah, I saw Bad Lieutenant last night so I was going to follow up.”

  “Can’t believe you fuckin’ said that!”

  Ford hopped back and raised his hands again. “Don’t hit me!”

  But the man was smiling now. “Those are two of my all-time favorite films!”

  “It’s the same movie,” said Ford.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Watch ’em back-to-back. Lieutenant was a little-known character study. The Training Day people must have recognized revenue potential and added the missing commercial pieces.”

  The customer looked up at thin air, visualizing. He nodded. “You know, you’re right.” The customer put out his hand. “Pedro Jimenez.”

  Ford shook it. “Ford Oelman.”

  “I love movies,” said Pedro.

  “Me, too,” said Ford.

  “Come on!” Mark nagged. “What’s taking so long?”

  “Shut the hell up!” yelled Pedro. “I haven’t decided about you yet!”

  Mark raised his broom as a defensive weapon.

  Pedro turned back to Ford. “So why aren’t you in them?”

  “In what?”

  “The movies. Why are you working here?”

  “What are you talking about?” said Ford. “You don’t just decide to be in movies.”

  “Not lead actor,” Pedro said with a laugh. “There’s a million other jobs. I mean, you love movies, and you’re in the film capital of the universe. But you’re working in a pretzel shop? Shoot, I’m in movies.”

  “You are? What do you do?”

  “Props department at Vistamax across the street,” said Pedro. “But I’ve been there long enough that sometimes I get to be a standby carpenter. That’s what I used to do, hammering studs under the hot sun, but now I build movie sets in air-conditioning. Pays a hell of a lot better, too. And I’m that much closer to my dream.”

  “What’s your dream?”

  “To act. Ever since seeing The Wild One. First I wanted to be a serious actor, so I moved to New York and started auditioning off Broadway. Three or four days a week for six months, memorizing lines, rehearsing in a cram
ped apartment with my roommate, but the closest thing to a real part was when I got hired as a toy soldier at FAO Schwarz. And I even lost that role.”

  “What happened?”

  “The whole time I’m working there, I’m thinking, Don’t be an ingrate. You came to New York to act, so act. I kept repeating in my head, ‘You’re a soldier, you’re a soldier

  ’ One day I hear these security guards yelling: ‘Stop! Stop! Shoplifter!’ This guy goes running past, and I think, Hey, I’m a soldier, so I run out the door and chase him up Fifth Avenue in my uniform and those big rosy circles on my cheeks.”

  “That got you fired?”

  “No. But then I caught the guy. Can you believe it? Who would have thought, running in that big hat with the chin strap? Tackled him on the corner of Fifty-seventh.”

  “So that got you fired?”

  “No. But I was Method acting.”

  “And?”

  “I bayoneted him. It was just a rubber bayonet, but the tabloids couldn’t resist running the photos those tourists took. The store said it wasn’t exactly the image they were going for. That’s when I came out here and took the job in props, which led to the standby carpenter gig.”

  “What’s a standby carpenter do?”

  “Say some spoiled director changes his mind and wants a door where there’s a window. You got thirty minutes.”

  “See any stars?”

  “All the time. They’re called The Talent. We’re The Crew. The people who put deals together over lunch are The Suits. On the set, The Crew isn’t allowed to speak to The Talent. In fact, it’s better you don’t even look at them. Who knows what’ll tick them off? One word from Cameron and there’s a new carpenter the next day.”

  “Sounds like a nasty place to work.”

  “Actually it’s not. The Talent gets mobbed all the time on the street— they just want to work in peace. What you do if you’re The Crew is act like they don’t exist. The breaks between shoots can get pretty long. They’re people, too. Sometimes they just want someone to talk to. They strike up a conversation with you, and you go ‘uh-huh,’ and keep on working, like they’re the pests.”

  “So in a way,” said Ford, “when you’re on the set, you’re an actor, too.”

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Could I get into props?” asked Ford.

  “Definitely. Right now there’s a couple temp openings, but with the turnover, you’d be full-time before you know it.”

  “Maybe I can show someone my script?”

  Pedro laughed again.

  “What’s so funny?”