style="font-size:15px;"> “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
