The Lost Expert, page 3
“Ah, there you are! Finally!” Chris felt a hand on his forearm, strong fingers circling. “I won’t even ask where you’ve been. Boys will be boys!”
The speaker barked a laugh. She held a clipboard and wore a headset. She seemed frazzled, relieved, and pissed off all at once. “I’ve got him,” she blurted into the headset. “He’s here. No, no, he just showed up. I don’t know. I don’t know. We’re going to makeup.” The woman pulled him along through the park. Chris noted passersby eyeballing him. He felt his legs moving. He heard the woman’s chatter, a kind of passive-aggressive non sequitur babble. “You had us worried. Beautiful day out. Bryant’s meeting us. He just got here too. How does he do that? It’s like he knows. How does he know? Oh, you boys!”
She pushed Chris up the stairs of a trailer. The interior was dominated by a giant vanity mirror of unforgiving high-wattage light bulbs. Chris blinked against the glare, and when he could see again, a guy with aggressively blond highlights was attacking his face with an oversized powder puff. Chris felt his feet. They hurt from five hours of pouring coffees and bagging buttered multigrain bagels. Suddenly tired, he leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes.
“I’ve got to do something with the hair,” the makeup guy said to the clipboard lady.
She shrugged. “He’s already been to wardrobe, I guess.” Chris felt cold spray dew his scalp.
“Leave it!” a commanding voice insisted.
Chris jerked upright. Makeup guy froze, his finger on the trigger of a squirt bottle filled with liquid shine.
“It’s perfect!” the voice said again. “Doing your own hair now, huh, Holmes?”
The man laughed a big, booming laugh. The makeup guy’s eyes narrowed. The voice put hands on Chris’s shoulders and leaned in. Chris surveyed the new arrival in the mirror. He was short and stocky, his wide forehead deeply furrowed. A faded Pittsburgh Penguins cap was pulled over what was most likely a serious case of male pattern baldness. He was smiling, but his brown eyes, absorbing the blinding hot lights, exuded cold.
Bryant Reed, Chris thought or said. The director.
“At your service,” the man boomed, laughing again.
He was one of Krunk’s heroes. Well, it was kind of a love-hate thing. Krunk hated Reed’s later work, ranted about how he had lost his edge and was cozying up to the establishment. But he loved his earlier movies and still talked about him as one of a handful of American directors who had once managed to “get something real” into the theatres.
The movie, Chris thought. It must be his.
“Holmes! Your little disappearing act cost me, what, sixty grand? Probably more! But, hey, what’s a few lost days between friends? Beggars can’t be choosers!” Reed boomed another murderous laugh. “At least he looks the part,” he said to the clipboard woman. “It’s like he just did a stint at the local diner.” Reed waved the smell from Chris’s hair into his face, inhaled it as if he was contemplating the bouquet of a fine wine. “He even smells like it.”
Clipboard lady sniffed, made a sour face.
Chris shifted his gaze from Reed’s reflection to his own. People said he was handsome. He had short blond hair, blue eyes, straight white teeth, a square jaw, and stood just a sliver under six feet tall. Krunk said he’d have been perfect in The Great Escape — “Nazi or canny Brit POW with a knack for tunnelling, take your pick!” Take your pick, Chris thought. He cultivated no particular style, made no attempt to either blend in or stand out.
“Holmes?” barked Bryant Reed. “Earth to Holmes?”
Holmes. He keeps calling me Holmes. Then it came to him. Thomson Holmes. An A-list action star Laurie liked to claim he resembled. Laurie went to his movies with her girlfriends. She admitted they were predictable, juvenile, meaningless — the kind of movie Krunk hated more than anything else in the world. “We don’t go for the plot,” she said coquettishly. They think I’m Thomson Holmes. What was Holmes doing in a Bryant Reed movie? Wait until Krunk found out. He’d go ballistic.
Maybe he did look like the guy? A skinnier, paler, infinitely more disheveled version. In the mirror, his face and his blue eyes stared back, clear and hopeful.
“Ready?” Reed said.
“They’re on their way to set,” clipboard lady announced into her walkie-talkie.
“I, uh —”
“Don’t talk, just listen,” Reed growled, ushering Chris out of the trailer and into the early afternoon sunshine. “You’ve wasted enough of my time already. As of this moment,” Reed half hissed, half whispered, “you’re someone else. You’re a young man with an astonishing gift. You’re a penniless waiter with a gorgeous new wife and baby. You’re a visionary about to discover your nascent powers for the first time. Your whole life is ahead of you. So don’t speak. Don’t say. Just feel. Feel what it’s like to find yourself as you really are, as you were really meant to be. From this moment on, you’re not Thomson Holmes. You’re him. You’re that guy. The Lost Expert.”
Script 1
EXT. URBAN PARK — MORNING (1928)
A large urban park still slightly misted by the morning chill. People, many dressed formally in suits and dresses, stroll along the paths past benches under mature trees, their leaves just beginning to curl and turn. THE LOST EXPERT, in black trousers and long-sleeved black shirt, walks through the nexus of several paths where three ROUGH LOOKING YOUNG MEN, their ragged newsboy caps pulled low over their broad foreheads, hand out fliers: “Join Allan’s Army — Harold Allan for President.” One of the men tries to hand a flier to the Lost Expert.
CANVASER
Mister, hey, mister! America first and jobs for all! C’mon, mister, take one, read all about it!
The Lost Expert ignores the proffered flier and walks on.
EXT. URBAN PARK — MORNING
THE LOST EXPERT walks along the west side of the park, following a thin dirt path that moves behind a series of benches overlooking a sharp drop into an area that is densely treed and overgrown.
GIRL
Missy? Missy! Where are you, Missy?
The GIRL, nine years old, fashionably clothed in a wool dress, matching short sweater, and velvet cloche hat, runs to and fro frantically along the top of the ridge above the forested area. Finally, she throws herself on a park bench and begins to bawl. The Lost Expert, walking past, veers off the path and approaches the girl.
THE LOST EXPERT
Are you okay? Are you lost?
GIRL
(sniffling)
I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.
THE LOST EXPERT
Well, then, I better introduce myself. I’m a waiter at Sutton’s Hotel. I’m on my way there right now.
GIRL
You are? My daddy takes me there for breakfast!
THE LOST EXPERT
I bet you like the crispy bacon, don’t you?
GIRL
(nodding seriously)
How did you know?
THE LOST EXPERT
Ah, well, just a lucky guess.
GIRL
Can you help me find my cat?
THE LOST EXPERT
Sure. Sure, I can. I’m good at finding stuff.
EXT. URBAN PARK — TOP OF THE RIDGE
THE LOST EXPERT stands on the ridge overlooking the thick woods below. It’s early fall, the colours just emerging: green blending to red and yellow. The sun shines brightly. The Lost Expert peers down into the tangled bush, deep in concentration, taking everything into account. He stands straight, his arms folded against his chest, his senses active, alive. The sun comes out from behind a cloud and catches the Lost Expert in a ray of pure light. The GIRL is revealed, standing behind him, watching, almost awestruck. The Lost Expert holds up his index finger as if to test the wind. Slowly, purposely, he lowers his finger until he’s pointing at something in the woods below, something, perhaps, only he can see.
GIRL
Is that her? Is that Missy?
The Lost Expert lopes down the hill and disappears into the trees. The girl waits, alone, anxiously peering down the slope.
EXT. URBAN PARK — IN THE WOODS
The woods are crowded by a thick copse of spiky fir trees, low-lying bramble bushes, and semi-mature maples spreading their limbs to the sky and casting everything below them in shadow. The ground is covered with leaves and branches in varying states of decay. THE LOST EXPERT walks silently through the dense brush, almost seeming to float. He appears and reappears through boughs and bushes until, suddenly, he stops.
EXT. THE SOUTH RIVER CONSERVATION AREA — SUNNY, LATE MORNING (FLASHBACK — 1903)
MOTHER trots down a nicely groomed path past woods of birch, maple, and conifer. It is early fall, and the trees are just beginning to turn. She jogs awkwardly, and we see her well-used brown Oxfords press down against the reds, yellows, and oranges, fresh leaves lightly covering the trail.
MOTHER
(sing-song voice, smiling)
Where are you, sweetheart? Sweetheart, where are youuuuuu?
Mother turns a bend. There is a clearing of grass with two picnic tables overlooking a slowly moving river. BOY LOST EXPERT, in plaid shorts and shirtsleeves, hides behind the trunk of a fir growing out of the soft, dark earth bordering the river. Mother approaches the bank, pretending not to see him.
MOTHER
Hello? Anyone?
Mother shields her eyes and sweeps her gaze up and down the river as if she’s scanning the opposite bank. She steps slowly toward the fir tree then suddenly whirls around and grabs the boy.
MOTHER
Got ya!
BOY LOST EXPERT
(laughing, but also annoyed)
How did you find me?
EXT. URBAN PARK — IN THE WOODS — MORNING (1928)
THE LOST EXPERT’s eyes shoot open. He looks around in confusion. Then a faint sound.
MISSY
Meow.
Instantly, he is back in the present moment, taking it all in, fixing in his mind the whereabouts of all creatures great and small living in this tiny cluster of woods. The Lost Expert steps toward the source of the purring, a dark crevice of thick thorn bushes competing with waist-high, sharp-needled adolescent pines.
MISSY
Meow. Meeeow.
Blocked by the tangled underbrush, the Lost Expert gets down on his hands and knees and pushes through. He crawls slowly and purposefully toward the cat.
MISSY
Meo—
A dead branch under the Lost Expert’s knee, grey wood snapping loudly. The cat swings her head toward the source of the noise, back arched, poised to run. Dark cloud settles above, casting the urban woodlands into gloom. The wind picks up. Tree limbs brush against one another, pine needles rustling. It starts to rain. Not torrentially, but slowly, steadily.
MISSY
(woefully)
Me-ahwwww.
The Lost Expert shoots forward. He rolls through the underbrush and comes up with the cat cradled in his arms.
MISSY
(protesting)
Rowww!
EXT. URBAN PARK — TOP OF THE RIDGE
(The GIRL jumps up and down, clapping.)
GIRL
Missy! Missy!
THE LOST EXPERT gently hands the cat to the GIRL, who tucks her into the crook of her arm. The girl strokes the cat affectionately, and the cat purrs.
GIRL
Why did you run away? Why did you do that? Don’t you do that again, you bad kitty.
THE LOST EXPERT
She’s not bad.
The girl looks up through the light rain, surprised.
THE LOST EXPERT
We all get lost sometimes.
The girl nods dolefully. On the verge of tears, she pulls the cat closer to her.
THE LOST EXPERT
You go on home now. It’s getting cold.
The girl doesn’t move. She stands, petting the cat and staring up at the Lost Expert.
THE LOST EXPERT
Go on now.
She turns and runs off. The Lost Expert is alone in the rain, the sun pushing rays through the ominous grey of the looming sky.
Section 2
“CUT AND WRAP,” BRYANT Reed barked.
Rivulets of water ran down the sides of Chris’s face. Could it have rained? He craned his neck, and the sun flooded into eyes, blinding him. He blinked, bright spots in his pupils. He was standing at the top of the hill, in a semicircle of frantic activity of which he was the languid centre. White screens encircled the small space, reflecting bright, blinding spotlights visible even in the bright day. Overhead, microphones on booms were retreating. The woods below quietly dropped leaves. And beyond the cameras, a little girl was being led away by a prim woman wearing red gloves. Her mother, Chris thought.
“Are you all right?” An elegant young woman appeared next to him. She was holding a towel and a square glass bottle of water, a brand he’d never seen before.
Chris watched the girl and her mother slowly moving away. The girl looked back, smiled fleetingly at him. Uncertainly, Chris raised a hand.
“Thomson? Are you okay? Would you like some water?”
Chris brought the surprisingly heavy bottle to his lips. He drank. The water was sweet, fresh, tasted of some faraway, unspoiled place.
“What is this?”
“It’s —” the young woman said hesitantly. “It’s your water. Would you prefer something else?” She asked the question with a note of worry, tucking an escaped strand of dark hair behind her small, white ear.
“No. No. I was just —”
He inspected the solid glass bottle: Artesian Spring. Chilean Andes.
“It’s the one you always drink,” the young woman continued.
“Of course,” Chris murmured. His legs felt weak. He needed to sit down. “Hey, uh —” He turned to the woman. “What’s your name again?”
“My name?” He was really scaring her now. He could hear it in her voice. “Thomson, are you okay?”
He didn’t answer.
She put a hand on his arm. “Thomson?”
“He’s fine! He’s fine! Aren’t you, Holmes?” Reed slapped Chris hard on the back. He was wearing a wide smile the way a cowboy wears a ten-gallon hat.
“He asked me my name,” the woman said worryingly.
“He’s still in the movie,” Reed said. “It’s like waking up from a dream.” He took the towel from her and brusquely patted Chris’s forehead. “Let’s get him out of those wet clothes. He’ll come around.”
Reed threw his arms over Chris’s shoulders. He pulled him down so that Chris, stooped, was face to face with the shorter man.
“That was it,” Reed hissed. “That was exactly it, Holmes. You disappear for three days, show up two hours late on set, don’t have a clue what’s going on, and it’s fucking great.” Reed kissed him on the lips then shoved Chris away.
Members of the crew chuckled. Chris blinked and straightened.
“Great work everyone,” Reed yelled randomly. “Let’s get back to it!” Then, looking between him and the young woman: “Holmes, this is Alison. Remember her? She works for you.” Without waiting for an answer, Reed strode off into the cameras.
CHRIS STOOD BEHIND AN ornate screen contemplating the pants and shirt neatly laid out along with tight white briefs, silky striped socks, fancy leather loafers, and a fluffy towel. There was also a sports jacket, a very expensive-looking tan number, like something Colin Farrell would wear on a casual stroll with his latest model girlfriend. “You should change,” the assistant, Alison, had told him after leading him into what was apparently his very own trailer. Not knowing what else to do, he started pulling on the clothes in front of him. Then he stopped, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of the shirt. What was he doing? He would get arrested. There must be a law. Multiple laws. He’d acted in somebody else’s movie. How had he done that? Reed had told him. More or less. What to do. What to say. He’d just done it. Sweat broke out on his forehead, on his upper lip. What if the real Thomson Holmes walked in right then and saw Chris standing in his trailer wearing his silky briefs? He’d be arrested. He’d go to jail.
“Thomson?” The assistant again, Alison.
“Be right out!”
His hands shook as he buttoned himself up. What next? How to get out of this? He couldn’t think.
Alison looked at him critically. “You’ve lost more weight,” she said flatly. “You’ll need some new clothes until you bulk back up again.” She pulled out a phone. Chris was aware of the jacket dangling from his shoulders as if to emphasize the muscles that had suddenly gone missing.
“No,” he said hurriedly. “That’s okay.”
She stared at him.
“I mean,” he said, “that’s good! Great! Okay.”
She nodded and went back to her tapping.
What had Reed said? It was like waking up from a dream. Only he hadn’t woken up yet. He needed to get rid of her, Alison, and then make a run for it. He’d never tell anybody. Not Laurie. Not Krunk. Maybe when the movie came out. Maybe then.
