Produce, Me? | Episode Three

…just go with it…

Episode One | Episode Two | Episode Three | Episode Four

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“Where’s the goddamn explosion?!”

A disembodied voice barks through the walkie-talkies across the waterfront. Crackling. Sharp. “In-camera means doing it for FUCKING-REAL!”

All movement stops. Nobody answers. Watches need to be glanced at. Phones are scrolled silently. Al appears. He’s clean-shaven and wheezing with every puff of his cigar – a mini Choo-choo steaming his way across the road.

The crowd parts like bait fish avoiding the shark.

Trailing him are, erm, what’s the nice term for peons? Right – Plebs, people to hold his things, hand him other things. Two of them unfurl a poster – it’s me, but not me. My face is reshaped. I’m running, sleeveless, in an action pose. I have…muscles?

Al leans back, arms wide, looking for the usual applause. “So?”

It dawns: We never talked about what he would do, just…something.

I st-st-stammer. There they are again: sounds without form.

His face probes mine. Is that kindness I see in his eyes?

It’s flash-gone as he waves away the assistants without looking. The plebs, a man and a woman — both beautiful, shuffle back. One gives me the evil eye, as if to say, “ungrateful prick.” The other half-smiles at me, bats her eyes, and actually whispers aloud, “prick.”

Al’s smiles, jowls lifted. His eyes sparkle like a stagehand just installed diamonds.

He’s starts talking, but I’m not sure it’s to me, “I see…my style a bit above you? My moves hard to keep up with? Just say so.”

I mumble, “Too big.”

Birdlike, he tilts his head skyward, lost in thought. Thinking. I think. He’s frozen.Then, his jaw opens like I’ve never seen a human do (snakes, maybe?) and lets out a maniacal cackle –like, Bond villain maniacal.

Al’s sinuses whir like a jet engine, vacuuming snot from another dimension and ejecting it. Then, he snap-points at me: “Subterfuge!” A long car pulls up. He hack-laughs inside the car, “Gimme some time. I got you, kid.”

Am I crying? Maybe. I take the bus home. it feels safer than walking. Nobody sits next to a crying man on a bus. Sobbing is like the everyday plague you don’t wanna catch.

Opening my apartment. What the… Turn. Blink. Look. Blink. My furniture is gone. Poof. I check the door: 6B. There are people standing in my — what was my — apartment. A team of beautiful people. They wrap me in a sheet and sit me in a chair. Welcome home?

Pedi-wha? My scalp? Treat it for what? Snip. Buzz. Next station. Zip! A tape measure to the junk, a rack of shirts. I just want to sleep in a bowl of mac & cheese. Gah! Oh! The neck massage feels…zzzz.

I think I slept for a week. Maybe it was more –

HOLY HELL! I’m surrounded by floor-to-ceiling posters of…me.

There’s a refined version of the action pose (with smaller biceps), a fall foliage pose of me in a…cardigan? The walls are covered. Every available space is just me-me-me. Then something clicks like a cartoon Ka-choink! and I turn on the TV and button-mash to the local news.

Cell phone footage at the waterfront: “Unidentified movie being shot.” There’s a shot of Al. He’s smiling, talking to people in the crowd. Cut to: footage of the mayhem. It’s shaky, zooming. The feed pauses on me, in the center of the action – I’m a mosaic of blur – the “unnamed actor…”

Ugh. My face squishes like a masticated marshmallow. I spin in place, thinking.

“Don’t you want to be famous?” A voice says. I spin to see the lumberjack on the wall with my face. He, me, looks down.

From the other side of the room another voice says, “Quit hassling the kid.” It’s a jail cell musical version of me says.

“Not…famous. Just, somebody” I say back.

Lumberjack me starts to say something, but stops.

“Trust Al. He’s got a plan. Just…” Jail cell me says.

Fall cardigan me finishes the thought with a reassuring smile, “Just go with it.”

Right! I jump, cackling. The neighbor downstairs thumps his ceiling. My marshmallow face slowly reverses back to shape. Fall cardigan me and I snap-point at each other: “Subterfuge!”

Jail cell musical me winks a beautiful wink.

Morning on the curb. Subterfuge, I think. Like, hidden? Like, unknown. I make eye contact with everyone. Are you in on it? Tourists from Iowa look people in the eye, locals don’t. I’m ignored.

Onward, I…strut?

Ooh, these pants fit well. I catch a peek in a store window — nice haircut, too. Are those really my eyebrows? I tug. Yup. Did I take my meds? I shake my magic 8-ball head — not sure.

Something flutters by my shoulder. I see cash in the breeze. It’s a $20 bill sliding to the pavement.

I hop-leap to catch it with the toes of my new shoes. Whoosh. Up in the air. Down the street. I’m hopping like a crazed cowboy doing a solo square dance as it flits. Just past reach — and toward a sidewalk vent. Flat on the ground I reach, arm at full length. Snatched!

It dawns on me, I don’t need this. I’ve got money now. I think: Just go with it.

…wait, there’s something written on this twenty…

I hear Al’s voice, “Subterfuge!” I twirl, looking for— a traffic camera on the lamp post. Across the street is another. Above me, facing the sidewalk is a security camera. I look closer, and think: crafty. My face scrunches into a smile as I pose. Am I doing this right?

A woman behind me screams — a shrill and painful sound.

Me and the cash shrink into a ball. Footsteps run at me. A man with a satchel trips over me, tumbling, flying over my hobbit-sized shape. I see him midair over me, arms flailing. His face hit the pavement, sliding. The woman, still screaming, leaps over me and jumps on top of the man, wrestling the satchel away.

I see the waffle of her chunky boots, kicking at him. Air escapes his chest in a whoosh as her shoe lands. I cringe.

She turns, sees me. I wince, recoiling.

Now I’m wrapped in lady arms, she jabbers and kisses me on the mouth. I’m waiting for Al to yell “cut!” I close my eyes, frozen in the moment. Adoration is a helluva thing.

Then, she’s gone. The man, too. A hot dog vendor holds a cell phone — he’s videoing me. He shrugs. Just go with it, I think, Al’s got a plan. I shrug, trying to add a wink like the poster. AWK-ward. I look like a toddler with gas.

“Fandango” is scribbled on the greenback above a phone number. I turn the bill over and over. Who? I dial. Ring. No answer. I look it up on my phone. A new meeting place?

It’s across town. A hike through a burb-y neighborhood where the NIMBYs live. Room for plants on stoops, trees along the sidewalk too. No tourists here. It’s quiet except for a baby crying. My eyes follow the sound, see a stroller and nanny. She’s waving. I wave back.

Oh, not at me — a bee. I shrink and look at my phone for directions. Five blocks then a left.

The baby screams louder. Now, the nanny is screaming too, flailing. I see…a swarm of bees fly around her head! Bees dance in the air, in her hair. She’s dancing, too. I laugh. Then I see: Stroller. Bump. Roll. Street. A moving truck is coming.

Gears crunch as the truck shifts. 

Just…go with it?

I RUN.

50 feet – The truck is speeding up, the driver talking on the phone. 

40 feet – Maybe the truck will miss the stroller? The nanny is spinning in circles.

30 feet – Oh, that’s what a swarm looks like up close!

20 feet – The truck bumper reflects the sun in my eyes. I can’t see the stroller.

I’m waving now. The nanny and I are both waving like manic-crazed lunatics.

10 feet – Squealing brakes. The phone flies in the truck, coffee spills.

5 feet – I dive. I’m flat in the air at the edge of the hood, descending to the bumper. Hands. Almost. On. The. Stroller.

I stretch, my bones growing longer.

It’s black.

I hear screaming but not screeching. A ka-chunk as my body rises. A siren.

More black. Then, all the lights. Beeps. A fuzzy view of the world behind a gauze of click-click morphine.

A crash scene. An ambulance. I see myself on TV, teeth missing. “Just go with it” tumbles out of my busted mouth. Then a TV anchor is talking. I’m watching myself fly through the air in slow motion. My hands miss the stroller. I see my open mouth hit the handle of the stroller. Teeth fly. The stroller inches forward past the view.

Before I pass out I hear: “Hero…cell phone…mugging…dash cam…hero…saves baby.”

The room flips when I wake again. Pain. My lips only move in quacking wiggles.

Hospital fact: The worse it is, the more doctors smile.

I seem to have hit the gold, silver, and bronze of fractures: jaw, clavicle, humerus. They hold up a mirror. Gah! My jaw is wired in a permanent expression of “EEEEEEE”.

I can’t talk. But I can grunt – levels of pain come out the same. Blended steak tastes the best, and worse. No scratching my balls for a while.

People fawn. The room floods with flowers. Cards. Suddenly, everyone knows who I am. A nurse dumps a stack before me: well-wishes, cards, a late-night show invite. Thanks to Al…I am beloved. Al’s plan: Subterfuge. Fuck yeah.

I grunt, exasperated with all the well-wishing. The nurse isn’t paying attention, she keeps arcing them in front of my face like a ViewMaster.

Buzz. My phone. She’s not paying attention and holds it in front of my face, a message. With my good hand I tap — it’s a picture.

I grunt. I scream out all the E’s I have in me. I flail.

It’s Al. He’s holding up a stack of cash at the bank kissing the plexi. I’m standing right behind him. On the image in red letters: Fraud!

Fuuuu… I look at all the cards. The flowers. My body twists to see the numerous hospital attending to me. All these people who think I’m a hero are about to find out —

Flashes of light as the door opens. I turn at the waist to look. The Mayor!

GAH!

A gaggle of reporters flow in, standing at the foot of the bed. She pats my hand. Her eyes flit from my cracked lips to my forehead, never my eyes.

She turns to the cameras, “Our city needs more true heroes like this.”

Doctors and nurses clap.

“Tomorrow, we will honor your heroism right here on the hospital steps.”

The whole effing world is spinning. Al will know how to fix this. The press jab their cameras and microphones at me. I smell stale coffee. Spinning.

Behind the gaggle, on the TV: Movie producer found dead

I’m a food magician: I pull a steak milkshake from my stomach, spraying it out through my teeth.

I’m praying for a gas explosion.

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Music to read by:

Thorn In Your Side - The Postmarks

Somebody’s Watching Me - Rockwell

Queen Bee - Grand Funk Railroad

The Great Gig in the Sky - Rockabye Baby!