Someday, Someday, Maybe (30 page)

“What’s wrong? What do you mean, wrong? What do I say?”

“Nothing. You don’t have dialogue in this scene. But this is wrong. They can’t do this.”

“Dan, what are you talking about? Let me see.” I take the paper from him, my heart pounding.

INT. SUTTON’S HOUSE—NIGHT

Sounds of lovemaking. A Motown singer croons soft and low from the stereo. The camera PANS across the floor. Sutton’s sneaker. Sheila’s bra. We see a velvet ring box on the nightstand, opened but empty. We see remnants of the wrapping from Sheila’s gift, and as the camera moves closer to the bed we see it’s a framed collage, homemade, simple but beautiful, the word “yes” repeated a hundred times in different sizes and shapes and colors. She knew tonight was theirs. The ring on her finger says the proposal went well.

CLOSE-UP on Sheila’s face. She is on top of Sutton, riding him, moaning softly, when—her eyes POP open. She GASPS for air, a stifled gurgle of a SCREAM as BLOOD pours out of her mouth, blocking her throat, she can’t breathe! PAN DOWN to reveal: a ZOMBIE emerging—CLAWING its way out from INSIDE Sheila’s body, rupturing Sheila’s chest as it struggles to be free, screeching with the effort. But it isn’t a ZOMBIE we’ve seen before, it’s a SMALLER ZOMBIE with the eerie face of a child, at once sinister and innocent, it, too, gasping for air, the undead born anew! SUTTON SCREAMS, tries to stop the flow of blood, but he knows it is too late, they have possessed her, they have killed her. And with that realization comes the next, as the truth of what has happened dawns and a look of horror crosses his face …

SUTTON

(whispering)

    They’re hatching …

The screen fades to black

“See what I mean?” Dan says, waving his hands. “It’s outrageous.”

“Sheila’s bra?” I say.

“What’s with the collage?” says Jane, reading over my shoulder.

“They can’t go changing the existing rules,” Dan says. “Everyone knows Zombies can’t ‘hatch’; that’s just ridiculous.”

I’m still staring at the page. “A zombie emerges—wait—from
where
?” I say.

“Ohhh, I get it,” Jane says. “Sheila knew Sutton was going to propose to her that night, so she made him a collage of the word ‘yes.’ ”

“ ‘Riding him’?” I say to myself. “ ‘Moaning softly’?”

“I hate these movies where they blatantly defy a well-established trope,” Dan continues indignantly. “Zombies are, and have always been, the walking dead. How could the walking dead procreate? They have emerged from the grave, from the
dead—
”

“Oh shit, I didn’t even think of that,” says Jane, looking up at me.

“Well, no, I mean you wouldn’t,” says Dan. “But I’ve seen
every
one of these … and I can tell you—”

“You’re topless,” says Jane, reality dawning. “Shit.”

“They have to follow a sort of code—and—wait. What? You’re topless?” says Dan, his face going pale. “Oh. Oh, Franny. Shit.”

“I’m topless,” I say.

Shit
.

22
 

I don’t know what I want to do about the movie, so I’ve been taking a poll.

JAMES FRANKLIN:

There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Our bodies are our instruments.

JOE MELVILLE:

Let me see what we can do with the nudity clause. Perhaps there’s a way to minimize your, er, exposure.

RICHARD:

Joe is the best one to advise you on this.

JANE:

I’m not sure. What does your gut tell you?

DAD:

I don’t know, honey. We’re starting Dorothy Parker this week, your favorite.

CASEY:

Oh my God, Michael Eastman is such a fox!

DAN:

I, uh … I’m going to the store, do you want anything?

According to Joe Melville, the director is “someone special” and only doing
Zombie Pond
as a favor to the studio, because they agreed to make two other movies with him after that: smaller, more interesting, character-driven pieces. Joe said if we connect on this film, it could be the beginning of a longer relationship. “This business is all about relationships,” he told me.

“It isn’t just about talent?”

Joe laughed, then paused. “You’re kidding, right?”

“
I
got a part in a scary movie,” I say to Dave, a waiter I’ve catered a few lunches with. We’re outside the entrance to the General Electric building, grabbing a last smoke before our shift starts in one of the colorless lunchrooms we’re sure to soon find ourselves in. Dave is a scruffy stand-up comic with crazy hair who looks about thirty but could be much younger. I learned back when I worked at The Very Funny that stand-up comedy tends to age people prematurely, so it’s risky to ever guess out loud.

“That’s great,” he says, taking a drag off his cigarette. “Good for you.”

“I’m not sure if I’m going to do it, though. I have to be topless in one of the scenes.”

“So?” Dave says. “What’s wrong, you got funny-looking tits or something?”

“Um, no, Dave. I don’t think I have funny-looking tits.”

“So, who gives a shit? What are you, swimming in job offers or something?”

“I’m standing here with a piece-of-shit canvas book bag whose contents include a corkscrew, an order pad, and a festive assortment of pens. Obviously, I’m not swimming in job offers, Dave.”

“
D
on’t do it,” Deena says, shaking the ice in her almost drained vodka as we sit at the bar at Joe Allen after class. I agreed to have a drink with her after checking the home machine from the pay phone outside the theater. No message from James. And he wasn’t in class tonight, which isn’t that unusual, but it still gives me an unsettled feeling.

“They said you would only see me, uh, like
that
, for a few seconds. Then the zombie breaks free from my, uh, clavicle area, and I fall down dead. It’s all right here in the nudity clause. It’s very specific about what you see and for how long.” I realize I’m hugging the manila envelope with my two-page nudity clause to my chest while talking about my chest. “They had their lawyer guy write it up.”

Deena shakes her head.

“I need the money,” I say in a small voice.

“You don’t need it that bad.”

“Yes I do. I got fired from the club, remember? I don’t have insurance. I need four fillings.”

“You can’t do a job just for the money. What about doing work you believe in, like the actresses you look up to? You think Diane Keaton would take her shirt off in a zombie movie?”

“Who knows? Maybe they’ve yet to uncover the lost zombie films of Diane Keaton. Maybe they’ll put out a whole anthology on VHS.”

“You’re funny.”

“I’m not forgetting my goals. The director is apparently someone really special. It’s just my body—everyone has one. My body is my instrument. And I’m on a deadline, to prove to myself this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Here I have an actual speaking part in an actual feature film. It’s a sign that I’m headed in the right direction. I need that sign.”

“You don’t need this job.”

“This is the only job I have.”

“Currently. This is the only job you have, currently.”

“But what if this is the only job I ever get? What if doing this job would lead to other jobs and therefore a career, happiness, worldwide acclaim, love, better hair—but
not
doing this job leads to nothing, and I never get another job, and I end up spending the rest of my days in obscurity serving chicken fingers, and this is the one story I tell over and over, the zombie-movie-I-turned-down story, and I end up with fat ankles from being on my feet all day?”

Deena drains the last of her drink. Then she takes my hand and looks at me seriously.

“Frances. Listen to me. You know you’re talented, right? And beautiful?”

“Talented, maybe. I believe I can be good, yes. The other—beautiful—I don’t know.”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s part of your thing. You’re saying that as a joke. But deep down, you know it’s true, right?”

“Maybe. Sometimes.”

“Well,
I’m
telling you, then. You have to believe me. Today is the day you have to start believing in yourself. No one can do it for you anymore. I’m telling you, if you turn this down, I can one hundred percent guarantee you will, someday, get at least
one
other job worth doing. Perhaps you will even get two worthwhile jobs in your lifetime, just perhaps. Right now, this is a fun idea to you. But I know how it will feel to shoot it. You’re lying there shivering with a towel thrown over you, while a bunch of crew guys adjust lights and run cable. Imagine, there you are, straddling Michael Eastman, or Michael Eastman’s stand-in more likely, cause that guy sure as shit doesn’t work harder than he has to, while the special-effects guy pours red goo all over your naked body and adjusts the plastic zombie head that’s glued on between your boobs, just to get a better angle for the cameraman. The director comes over, tries to make you comfortable, looks you in the eye so you don’t think he’s a creep, talks about the sofa he just got for his new house in the Hamptons, or whatever. You feel like shit. You go home and cry. That’s the sort of day I’m picturing.”

I’m sure Deena is exaggerating. I can’t imagine it would be that bad. Of course, I can’t actually picture any of it. “But it’s just a few days. Even if it’s awkward. It’s just a few uncomfortable days in which I will make half the amount of money I made last year. In the
entire year
. Not to mention residuals. And I have a nudity clause that protects me. You should read it. It’s a long, detailed essay. The more you read it, the more the concept loses all meaning. It becomes sort of hilarious.”

“It’s not hilarious. It’s not meaningless. It’s your body. On film forever. Naked, with a first-time director, in a monster movie. It isn’t worthy of you.”

“Well, the worthy-of-me jobs don’t seem to be appearing,” I say, squirming away from her slightly on my bar stool. “I can’t be better than the job I have if I have no other, better jobs. So maybe this is just exactly as worthy as I am. It’s as good as I deserve right now.”

“That’s what you think, but you’re wrong. Something better could come along tomorrow. You only start out once. If you compromise now, at the very beginning, before you’ve really given yourself a chance, where do you go from there?”

“Um, up, I guess?”

“Look. I have a friend—he wanted to be in movies. He went to Los Angeles. He was the best actor in my class at drama school. Hands down. He goes out to L.A., he can’t get a job. He tries everything. He has a wife, a little girl. Finally he interviews at a theme park. He hears they pay well. He’s a big guy, strong. They tell him they could use him to be Fred Flintstone in one of the live shows they do for kids. The money’s great. The beginning of the show he’s supposed to enter on this giant water slide, right, so it looks like he’s Fred sliding down the rock wall in the beginning of the cartoon?”

“Um, you mean, ‘yabba-dabba-doo’?”

“That. Classically trained actor, this guy. And he’s hired to say ‘yabba-dabba-doo.’ But he’s okay with that. Someday, he thinks, he’ll be in movies. Today, he’s going to be the best Fred ever. He takes it seriously, right?”

“Okaaaay,” I say, shaking my head, confused.

“So he does the training to play Fred, and he’s doing well. He’s training with a bunch of other guys, and they’re teaching them all to do everything the same way. All the shows have to be the same—it’s a rule of the park, so that no one sees a better or worse show than anyone else. During the training, they all learn to go down the water slide with their hands up in the air, ‘yabba-dabba-doo,’ right? Like on TV? Then they hire this one guy—maybe he’s someone’s friend or someone’s kid or something—and he doesn’t have good balance. He can’t slide with his arms up in the air. So they retrain all the guys so the shows will match. My friend is pissed, because the way Fred enters in the cartoon on TV is arms up, the way everyone else learned it was arms up, it’s the
right way
. So in his shows, when he plays Fred, he keeps doing it the original way—arms up. He gets in trouble; they want him to change it. He refuses.” Deena brings her face just inches from mine. “So they fire him,” she says, then leans back on her stool and slides the empty drink away from her. “Can I get another, Patrick?” she says to the bartender. “You want something? You want to split the omelette or something?”

I stare at Deena, then look over my shoulder as if maybe I missed something that just whizzed past me, something I was supposed to notice but didn’t catch.