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,