Читать книгу The Calling - Kim O'Neill - Страница 16

The old ship pitched and rolled on the heavy seas, just in sight of the British bombardment of Fort McHenry in Baltimore Harbor. A man could be seen on the deck of the American vessel; explosions of cannon fire illuminated his face against the dark, starless night sky.

Consumed with passion, he reached inside his uniform and pulled out a folded piece of paper and a writing instrument. The man unfolded the piece of paper on the ship’s battered, wooden rail and began to write with deliberate intent. After a few moments, he looked once again toward the fort under siege, tears welling in his eyes. Inexplicably, the corners of his mouth began to curl and he burst into uncontrollable laughter.

“CUT!” yelled the director. “Goddamn, Jimmy—how many times we gonna shoot this scene? Get in character and stay there! You’re supposed to be Thomas Jefferson, the father of our country, for chrissakes!”

“Francis Scott Key,” I corrected the director with a heavy sigh. I was thirty-two years old, and I co-owned an advertising agency. My partner was my ex-husband, with whom I had started the business five years earlier when we were still married. At that precise moment, I was in the process of shooting a TV commercial for one of my clients who had planned a big sale over the Memorial Day weekend. I had created the poignant TV spot for the T-shirt company to ignite a spark of patriotism in the Houston community and, more importantly, to allow my client to unload his huge surplus of T-shirts emblazoned with the Texas state flag.

“Okay, Jimmy, you got your shit together now?” inquired the director.

The actor made a thumbs-up gesture, indicating that he was ready to begin shooting again.

“OKAY! QUIET ON THE SET!” the director barked. “ACTION!”

Once again, strobe lights began to flash on the actor’s face to simulate “bombs bursting in air.” His expression was so moving that I knew it would be a real tearjerker of a spot—just the tone and mood I wanted.

At the right moment, the actor reached inside the jacket of the rented military uniform for the paper and pen with which he would write the poem that was to become the Star Spangled Banner. He pulled out the piece of paper, but evidently, there was nothing else in there. Maintaining his expression and staying in character, he reached into the other side. Nothing in there, either. Suddenly, Francis Scott Key morphed back into Jimmy Willis, the fledgling actor from Driftwood, Texas.

“This time it wasn’t my fault!” whined Jimmy. “Who took my pen?”

At that moment, one of the big strobe lights exploded with an ear-splitting BOOM!

“CUT!” bellowed the director. “BILL! Get that bulb replaced! I’m gonna be old and gray when this goddamned shoot is over!”

“What do you mean, gonna be?” I teased him.

“Yeah, you got that right,” he responded dryly. “And my mamma said I’d never make it in show business.” We both laughed. He then shouted, “Bill! Where are you?” When he got no response, he jumped up from his chair and strode off in search of his assistant.

We obviously weren’t going to start shooting again for a few minutes, so I decided to call my office to check for messages. I held on the line while Shirley Stockwell, my receptionist and secretary, rifled through them one by one. First, the owner of the T-shirt company had called to say that his son, the advertising director of the family business, was on his way to the shoot. Second, the presentation I was supposed to give the following week to the big, new prospective client—a string of funeral homes—had been moved up to tomorrow, and I hadn’t even started to work on what was supposed to be an extensive and complicated proposal. Four angry suppliers had called for money and were waiting for me to get back with them; and, a client in the computer industry who owed me $80,000 had called, stating his intention not to pay the bill. What’s more, he informed Shirley that if I called him for the money, he’d consider it harassment. An unpaid debt like that could put our small firm out of business. Without it, we couldn’t even make payroll the next day. The receptionist then told me that David, my business partner and ex-husband, had decided to take the day off to go on a long motorcycle ride around Lake Conroe.

I couldn’t believe that David would take a vacation day when all hell was breaking loose! Shaking with anger and frustration, I told Shirley to tell the staff we had to work late that night to put the proposal together, and that I’d meet them back at the agency as soon as I finished the shoot. Suddenly, shouting erupted on the set, so I quickly ended the call and dashed back into the studio. The actor and director were in a heated argument.

“I simply will not do the scene again!” threatened Jimmy. “Everybody has their limits, and I’m creatively spent!”

“WHAT?” shouted the outraged director. “You’ll do the scene as many times as I tell you to do it! Who do you think you are—Sir Laurence fucking Olivier?”

I saw that my ultraconservative client had arrived while I was on the phone in the other room. He had never been to a shoot before to see the creative process at work. He stood there unobserved in the corner, motionless, aghast, eyes popping.

“Hey, guys,” I called to the actor and director. “Let’s work out our little differences and finish the shoot.” They completely ignored me. I waved to my client. He ignored me, too.

“And . . . I’m not going to wear this ridiculous wig,” cried the actor, yanking it from his head. “I don’t care if it is part of the costume—I look like a moron!”

“You look like a moron without the wig, you no-talent numskull!” replied the director.

“Look—the client is here!” I trilled, trying in vain to get their attention.

“Oh, yeah?” yelled Jimmy, his face beet red with anger. “Does a no-talent numbskull get to study acting under Bubba Jowarski in Texarkana?”

And with that, the actor tried to leap over the bow of the ship—presumably to attack the director. The big brass buttons on the uniform caught the sturdy wooden rail, and he fell flat on the floor, ripping out the entire back of the colorful jacket.

I winced when I heard the loud rending tear. Now I’d have to pay for the expensive rented costume. Jimmy unsteadily got to his feet, and I saw that he was bleeding from a small cut across his forehead. He touched his hand to the wound and looked at his fingertips.

“I’m bleeding!” he announced dramatically. “Somebody help me!”

A female assistant calmly approached the director with a small tube of antibiotic, which he passed to the actor.

“Look, kid,” the director said in a fatherly tone. “I want you to understand that Kim has given you the opportunity to be the principle in a TV commercial that’s going to be seen all over town. We have to finish shooting today, or we’re over budget. Go and get cleaned up, and get your ass back on the set. Pronto.”

The actor mumbled an apology and lumbered toward the bathroom. I made eye contact and nodded to my client, who was walking toward me with a thunderous expression. I quickly hissed to the director, “What are we gonna do, Fred? We can’t use him with that cut in the middle of his forehead!”

The director waved away my concern. “Sure we can,” he said. “Thomas Jefferson can look like he’s seen action. It’ll make it more authentic.”

“Kim?” I turned around and saw my client. Although he was maintaining his control, he was fuming. The spectacle that he had witnessed was a clear sign that I was not capable of managing his family’s impressive advertising budget.

“Hi, Arthur! I’m so glad you could make it to the shoot!” I lied, praying that he wouldn’t stop the production, or worse—fire me.

“Kim, I don’t think this is at all what we had in mind,” he said ominously. “We need to talk.”

“SO!” interrupted the director, with studied reverence. “This is the client you were telling me about?”

The owner of the T-shirt company looked at him coolly and said nothing.

“Yes!” I responded nervously. I couldn’t afford to lose this client. “Arthur Freeman, I’d like you to meet Fred Peterson, our director—the man who is going to breathe life into the commercial that I wrote for you.”

The director put out his hand and the client took it with obvious hesitation.

“Kim, could I have a moment?” the client asked, gesturing to a distant part of the sound stage. I gulped and nodded. I knew from his tone that I had lost the account.

“Hold on a second, Kim,” asked the director in a theatrical tone. “Didn’t you tell me that Art has acting talent?”

I regarded the director with astonishment. I had never said anything of the sort, and just the thought of my nervous, high-strung client performing was laughable.

“Actually, I did do a little acting in high school,” replied Arthur.

“I thought so!” exclaimed the director. “I work with actors every day, and I can always spot talent.”

I wondered if Fred had lost his marbles.

“You see, Art,” said the director, putting his arm around the client’s shoulders, “one of the principal actors didn’t show up, and we were wondering what we were going to do. That’s why we’re all a little on edge. Kim is going to make this the best spot on TV. Did you know that you are her favorite client?”

“Well, I—”

“I just had an epiphany!” Fred cried dramatically, slapping his forehead with his palm. “The perfect answer to our problems! Art . . . might you consider filling in?”

Filling in, I thought? But the spot only calls for one actor—and we only have one costume! What the hell was he doing?

“Me? In a commercial?” responded the client, obviously flattered.

“Yes! You’d actually be saving the day.”

“Arthur?” I interrupted. “Did you want to speak with me?”

Fred flashed me a look that said, what are you . . . stupid? Shut up, already!

“Uhhmmm, it can wait,” my client replied.

“Come with me to our wardrobe department,” said the director smoothly, leading Arthur to the tiny dressing room.

Jimmy Willis trotted back, ready to work. There was a noticeable gash on his forehead, but it had stopped bleeding. I asked if he was okay.

“Yeah, I guess so. I’m really sorry about the costume. And I’m sorry I was such an asshole. This role is important to my career.”

“Then lose the attitude and do the best job you can. My client is here, and we all need to be on our best behavior. Got that?”

He nodded, head down.

A few minutes later, Fred arrived on the set with Arthur in tow, and I had to stifle a laugh when I saw him. Arthur was wearing pancake makeup that made him look positively orange. He had taken off his expensive suit jacket and stood in his shirt sleeves and trousers. Fred asked Jimmy to give him the jacket to the military costume. The actor obediently took it off and handed it to the director. The whole back of the costume was ripped out, but that wouldn’t be seen on camera. Fred reverently held up the brightly colored military jacket to allow Arthur to slip into it. It was far too big for him. Fred called, “Wardrobe!” Bill, his stoic assistant, appeared with duct tape to temporarily alter the costume.

“Art, excuse me while I have a creative conference with Kim. She’s the boss on this shoot.” My client nodded happily, clearly in his element.

“What are you doing?” I asked out of earshot. “We can’t use him in the spot!”

“If we don’t, there won’t be a goddamned spot.”

“Shit! So how do we bring him in?”

“How about if he hands Thomas Jefferson his pen and paper? That kills two birds with one stone—then we don’t have to worry about Jimmy fumbling with the props.”

“You think it’ll work?”

“It has to,” he shrugged casually, accustomed to the unexpected. We walked back to the set.

“Okay, everybody—let’s get this in the can,” said the director, rubbing his hands in happy anticipation of finally finishing the shoot.

The two actors had already taken their place on the ship’s deck. Jimmy had humbly donned the long wig once more and was dressed in a white ruffled period shirt. Arthur proudly wore the military jacket that had seen better days, and the tricorne hat that had come with the costume. Since we had only one wig, it worked perfectly to cover his modern hairstyle. Standing side by side, they were quite an odd pair: Jimmy was over 6′2″, and Arthur wasn’t quite 5′9″.

“Alright! Now—Jimmy, you’re Thomas Jefferson, witnessing a terrible battle from the bow of this great ship.”

“Francis Scott Key,” I corrected him.

“Which one am I?” cried the fledgling actor in frustration. “I have to know—so I can get into character.”

“I stand corrected,” replied the director. “You’re Francis Scott Key.”

“And who am I?” Arthur asked eagerly, now full of excitement.

“You’re . . . you’re . . . Sir Thomas Wellington! The ship’s distinguished physician.”

“My mother always wanted me to become a doctor. But I went into the family business because Dad—”

“—yes!” interrupted Fred. “And if it wasn’t for that fortuitous decision, we all wouldn’t be here right now, having the privilege of shooting this important television commercial. Some things are just destiny.”

“That’s true!” Arthur replied.

“So, you, Dr. Wellington, will walk up to Mr. Key and hand him his pen and paper. And then you will take several steps away from him. This is a very important responsibility.”

“I am up to the challenge.”

“Okay! Dim the overhead lights. Bill, start the strobes. Begin rolling. ACTION!”

Frances Scott Key, newly injured in battle, stood at the ship’s rail, the lights from the cannon fire clearly illuminating his grave, but courageous, expression. Dr. Wellington approached, his face a combination of strength and determination. He gracefully presented a pen and a piece of parchment paper to Mr. Key. It was accepted with a distinguished nod, and Key placed the paper on the battered wooden rail of the ship and began to write. Dr. Wellington, the trusted physician, remained supportively by his side. Key wrote purposefully for a few moments. He then put down the pen and looked at the ship’s doctor. In unison, both men, standing steadfast at the bow of the great ship, gazed across the water toward the fort under siege, war-weary tears in their eyes.

“CUT!” shouted the director. “WE GOT IT!” He leaped from his chair and strode toward the actors. “Unbelievable! We couldn’t have planned that. Art, I’m glad you stayed put—it made the spot even stronger.”

I approached my client and shook his hand. “Good work, Arthur. I think you’re going to be pleased with what we’ve got.”

“Wait until Dad sees this!” he answered, triumph in his voice.

“Go back and tell him that you had to kick some ass to get what you wanted,” offered Fred jovially.

Arthur’s face lit up. He was having a very good time. By the seat of my pants, it appeared I was going to keep the account.