The Lost Expert, page 4
Alison put the phone away and was once again openly considering him. Chris ran a nervous hand down his cheeks, felt his stubble. His stomach rumbled.
“I’m hungry,” he blurted.
“Should I get you your plate?”
“Uh, yeah. Could you?”
Alison seemed more annoyed than perplexed now.
“Please?”
Without another word, she spun and left.
Chris walked over to the bar. He should wait a few minutes, at least until she was out of sight. He pulled his shaking hands out of unfamiliar pockets and considered the trailer’s glimmering selection of alcohols. He picked up a bottle of vodka. Like the water, it was a brand he’d never seen. He drank straight from the bottle, feeling the liquid pool, a heat in the cold of his belly. Somehow, Bryant Reed had liked it. His acting. But when they find out the truth, it’ll be a different story. They’ll look at the rushes. They’ll see a scared, confused boy standing there with his mouth hanging open and the rain falling in. Chris felt the alcohol spreading. Liquid courage, Krunk called it. Liquid courage.
SAFELY ON DUNDAS STREET, Chris stopped his half-jog half-speed-walk. He hunched over, breathing heavily, hands on his thighs. A streetcar rumbled by, encased in a scrim of fabric, an ocean and a beach rolling slowly through the city. Chris watched it go past. Cuba, he read on the streetcar’s rear end. He should have gotten on. It was going the wrong way. He straightened up and looked behind him, as if he’d felt a tap. Clipboard lady or Alison, the assistant. The little girl with the big eyes, tugging on his hand and leading him back. To where?
No one was following him. Yet, he told himself. With forced steps, he moved down Dundas toward Laurie’s apartment. At Ossington, he stopped for the red light. He surveyed the intersection. The small drugstore. The community centre. The Portuguese fish store under new management. No Jewish delis or synagogues or bagel bakeries. Now that he was out of it, he realized how strange, how ridiculous it was. What a joke. You have to laugh. He didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel like laughing. He would tell Krunk. Of course, he would. And Laurie too. They had actually thought he was a movie star. He took off the sports jacket. The lining was slippery, shimmered. He draped the jacket jauntily over his shoulder.
Chris brazenly crossed the street, pausing to take a long, suspicious look down Ossington in the direction of the ersatz bakeries. But by the time he was on the other side, his flash of cocky confidence was already dissipating. Nervous again, he ducked into the Communist’s Daughter, a dive bar that had taken over the guts of a former workers’ luncheonette. He’d drunk there once or twice with Krunk. It was dark and cheap and got pretty loud. It was not the kind of place anyone would think to look for a Thomson Holmes. The door jingled as Chris slipped inside. Tom Waits played loudly. The lone employee looked up from arranging glasses behind the bar and openly stared at him. What? Chris wondered. Oh yeah, he realized. I’m dressed like a rich asshole. He put his hands in his pockets, trying to act the way a guy like Thomson Holmes would act when confronted with a dismissive bartender with a helix piercing, bedhead, and a faded John Deere T-shirt. But, with his hands in his pockets, he felt even more ridiculous.
The bartender’s lips curled in sardonic friendliness. “What can I get you, bud?” he said. That’s when Chris realized it. His pockets were empty. His wallet, his keys, his phone. They were still in his black waiter’s pants. Back in the Thomson Holmes trailer. “You all right there, buddy?” the bartender asked just a bit less dismissively. Chris’s stomach turned. He spun on the slippery heels of his loose leather loafers and fled back to the scene of his unbelievable crime.
ALISON LOOKED UP AS he entered the trailer. Her hair shimmered, caught in the lamplight, everything else in the rectangle space reduced to gloom. She gazed at him curiously, her white teeth like pearls. Chris wiped at his forehead with his sleeve and tried to grin at her. “What is it?” she asked him cautiously.
“Nothing,” Chris said too quickly. “It’s nothing.” Alison pushed that errant strand of hair behind her ear. Chris reflexively ran a hand down his stubbled cheek. For the first time he realized how perfect she was. She glowed.
“I’ve got your plate,” Alison said. She gestured at it, sitting on the small table next to the leather armchair.
“Great. Thanks.”
She was still looking at him quizzically.
“I just —” The words stuck in his throat. “Needed some air.”
He cringed inside. You’re staring at her. Stop staring at her.
“Ohh-kaay,” she said. “Well, you eat. I’ll, I’ll see you later.”
As soon as she left, Chris rushed behind the screen. His clothes were in the heap he’d left them in. Chris fell to his knees. He fumbled at the pockets of his pants, retrieving his wallet and his keys. He flipped open his cell phone and scrolled through the messages. Laurie had already called five times. Probably checking up on him, making sure he was working out, following the routine. What if his cell had rung while Alison was in here? What if she’d answered? Chris poked at the phone with a wobbly finger, finally managing to turn the ringer to silent before the next call came through, his girlfriend and best friend both wondering: Where are you?
The Lost Expert is lost, Chris thought, feeling on the verge of hysteria. Anyway, you have your stuff. Now get out of here. But he stayed there, crouched next to his filthy waiter clothes. That scene he’d shot. It was ludicrous. A little girl, some guy called the Lost Expert rescuing her cat. Everyone dressed like extras in the next failed remake of The Great Gatsby. Krunk would die. He’d just about kill himself laughing.
But it hadn’t been funny. It had been — Chris searched for the word, his fingers tracing an invisible stain on his work pants, still damp from the sudden rain of the film shoot. How could he explain it to them if he couldn’t understand it himself? It hadn’t been funny. Not at all. Instead, it had been glorious.
Outside, a walkie-talkie burst of static followed by a loudly barked reply. Chris dropped the pants and calmly stood up. His stomach gurgled. He hadn’t eaten since cramming two handfuls of Honeycombs down his throat at half-past five this morning.
His plate sat on a table next to the armchair. The voices outside got louder, then quieter. Chris slid into the armchair and took the cover off. A cold skinless, boneless grilled chicken breast next to a bright green sauce. A bed of baby vegetables. A light dressing in a small side thimble.
Laurie always said he was a terrible liar. But nobody seemed to even suspect him. Not even his assistant, Alison. Voices again, this time closer, getting louder. He felt the barely perceptible shake as someone ascended the steps of the trailer. Chris hurriedly put down the fork. There was a rap at the door of the trailer. Probably Alison, back from wherever she had gone off to. He looked down at the plate again. If it was Alison, he didn’t want her to think that he was the kind of guy who sends someone to get them food and then doesn’t even bother to eat it. There was a small garbage receptacle unobtrusively squeezed into the corner. Chris grabbed the plate, swept the food into the bin. The knock again. “Mr. Holmes?” A deeper voice. It wasn’t Alison. Chris grabbed a napkin and reflexively swiped at his dry lips. A few more raps. He hurried over and yanked open the door.
It was clipboard lady. She looked him over disapprovingly. “Where’s Alison?” she said to the crackling void on the other end of her walkie-talkie. And then, to him, “Where’s Alison?” He shrugged. Her mouth was open, showing barracuda-like lines of small, sharp teeth. “Let’s get you to wardrobe.”
THE INTERIOR OF WARDROBE featured a long room full of clothing stands on wheels staffed by a frizzy-haired, middle-aged red-head wearing elaborate green eye shadow and too much blush. “Let’s see here,” she said, ignoring him. She consulted a print-out on a clipboard. Then she turned to him. “Now, Mr. Holmes,” she said playfully, “you’ve been a naughty boy, haven’t you?” He didn’t know what she meant, so he kept quiet. “Yes, you have,” she said wagging her finger at him. Still, he looked at her blankly. “Come on now,” she teased. He thought for a minute that she knew the truth, knew who he really was. For some reason, he didn’t care. A faint smile played on his lips. “There you go,” she said, “you know what I’m saying, don’t you?” Again, she wagged a manicured, painted nail at him. “Showing up in costume,” she tsked. “You’re going to put us out of work.” Her real tone, accusatory and hostile, was starting to creep in. “I know that Mr. Reed takes an unorthodox approach. But we have rules, Mr. Holmes. We have a union. And there’s continuity,” she pronounced. “You can’t just show up in whatever you feel like.” She stopped, suddenly looking worried, like she’d gone too far. Then she turned away. “Now then,” she said brightly, “let’s get you suited up.” She rustled through the clothing racks that occupied the bulk of the trailer. She emerged with a garment bag, held the hanger out to him. “Here we go,” she said. “The pajamas, for the bedroom scene.” Her smile was strange. It was a very particular kind of look, an uncertain gaze that broke before it set and reflected a shifting set of emotions back at him — fear, jealously, rage, want. Chris had seen it a few times already. People looking at him as if he were something not quite human. What was it? Chris wondered. What was it they thought he was?
Script 2
INT. APARTMENT — BEDROOM — MIDDAY
A small bedroom, shabbily furnished with a second-hand bed and dresser, but spotlessly clean. The view through the window of this second-floor walkup apartment is of the long, low single brick building of attached establishments across the street. THE LOST EXPERT, in his pajamas, his eyes bright and his hair tousled, watches through the closed window of his bedroom. Directly across from him is the Quick Lunch with its Orangeade canopy and its Blue Plate Ham Special sign in the window. Next to it is the Malt, Grain & Hops store, the Cushman Shoe Repair and Shine, and the Busy Bee, its sign offering butter and eggs. A BUM sits with his back against the thin strip of bricks between the Quick Lunch and Cushman Shoe Repair. The waitress at Quick Lunch — Romanian WIFE OF THE COOK-OWNER — appears with a broom and swipes at the homeless man.
QUICK LUNCH WIFE
Hey! You shoo! Shooo! Get out of here!
The homeless man wanders off, muttering to himself. Before turning the corner, he stops and makes a crude gesture. The Quick Lunch wife curses in Romanian, though the Lost Expert, watching through the window, can only see her lips move.
EXT. LUNCHEON STAND BY SIDE OF ROAD — MIDDAY (FLASHBACK — 1903)
MOTHER
(smiling bravely)
So, it’s just going to be us for a while, I guess, kiddo.
BOY LOST EXPERT impassively opens a Hershey’s Milk Chocolate bar.
INT. APARTMENT — BEDROOM — MIDDAY (1928)
THE LOST EXPERT lies on his back on the bed, his hands folded under his head. Still in pajamas, he stares up at the cracks in the painted ceiling. Enter SARAH, in a long, shapeless nightgown covered by a drab flannel robe. Sarah stops at the window. Outside there’s the sound of something falling over, several long blasts of a car’s klaxon (AHOOGA!), and then the shouts of the police. Sarah sighs and draws the curtain over the view. She pulls her robe around her, as if she’s caught a chill.
SARAH
You don’t want to know what’s going on out there. It’s disgusting.
The Lost Expert closes his eyes.
SARAH
(turning to him)
Aren’t you getting dressed? Don’t you have a shift soon?
The Lost Expert breathes languidly. The car horn blasts again, longer and more drawn out this time, and there is, again, the sound of shouting. The baby in the bassinet next to the bed starts crying.
SARAH
Oh, that’s just swell! They’ve woken the baby!
Sarah picks up the baby and soothes him. The Lost Expert lies inert on the bed. The muffled shouts from outside fade. Then, from the apartment upstairs, there is the slow timbre of a cello playing the same three notes over and over again.
INT. APARTMENT — KITCHEN – AFTERNOON
SARAH sits at the kitchen table idly listening to music on the radio.
THE LOST EXPERT
(entering from the bedroom, wearing his waiter outfit)
Are you sure you’re going to be okay?
SARAH
(smiling bravely)
It’s just colic, right? We’ll survive.
THE LOST EXPERT
Maybe I should stay?
SARAH
No, no, I’m fine. We need the money. I mean — It’s fine. Get going. You don’t want to be late.
INT. LUNCHEONETTE ON RUNDOWN STREET NEAR APARTMENT — LATE AFTERNOON
THE LOST EXPERT sits at a table in the back of a dimly lit, shabby diner. It’s afternoon and almost empty. THE WAITER, jaded and bored, occasionally passes by and refills his coffee. The Lost Expert, still in his waiter clothes, has the sections of four different local papers strewn around him. We catch various headlines as he flips impatiently through the paper: Unemployment at 30-Year High; Allan’s Upstart Maverick Party Makes Gains; Lindbergh’s Speech Warns Against Foreign Influences. He arrives at the classified section.
THE LOST EXPERT
(under his breath)
Butlers, laundresses, photographers, stenographers …
He pauses at one ad in the full page of classifieds printed in tiny type. He reads the ad:
THE LOST EXPERT
Mystic. Speak to your Lost Loved Ones; “Where Are You Going and How Will You Know When You Get There?” Ancient Knowledge for Modern Times.
Inspired, the Lost Expert picks up his pen and begins to write on the yellow legal pad beside him.
THE LOST EXPERT
(speaking slowly while writing)
Have you lost someone? I can help. No. (crossing out the “I”) The Lost Expert can help. He provides a unique service. No. (crossing out the last sentence) A man with unique talents. No. (crossing out talents) Skills. Discretion guaranteed. Contact …
The Lost Expert looks up, catching the eye of the waiter wiping down the counter.
WAITER
You need somethin’ pal?
THE LOST EXPERT
What’s the address here?
Section 3
“CUT!”
Chris stayed where he was. Something’s coming. He knows it. He feels it. Sarah, his wife, she feels it too. But she’s afraid. She’s afraid to change.
“Thomson?”
Chris smelled her, her skin.
“Thomson? It’s over.”
It’s over, Chris thought.
“We should go.”
Chris sat up. The bed creaked. He could feel the thin mattress under him. His pajamas were pinstriped and elegantly simple. It was obviously the Roaring Twenties, Chris thought, the Jazz Age on the cusp of the Great Depression. But what about the Jewish bakeries, then? How did they fit in?
“Thomson?” Alison said. “We should get going.”
Alison was looking down at him, her impatience softened by a quizzical half-smile. Chris swung his legs off the bed and stood up. He could feel his bare feet on the rough floor rug.
“Was that okay?” He was leaning in, whispering.
“It was great,” Alison said, almost reluctantly. “You really … I mean … I really got it.”
A thrill ran through him.
Then Reed was there. “Amazing, incredible. You’re killing me. Absolutely killing me.” Reed theatrically threw his arms up in the air, as if beseeching God. Reed, it seemed, was capable of only two types of interpersonal communication: yelling his head off for the benefit of everyone within a half-mile radius or close-quarters barely audible whispers, the words not even grazing the world before slipping directly into your auditory canal. “So … Sarah, huh?” Reed continued, his big voice dominating the room, which was, Chris suddenly noticed, boiling hot and filled with lights, cameras, and action. “Where did that come from? We’ll go with it. Why the hell not? Biblical, right? If you want to call her Sarah, that’s fine by me. Maybe it’ll get us in the mood for the big Jew scene tomorrow? Hey, don’t get all offended, people! I’m a Jew boy, right! I can go there! Me and half of Hollywood. Coen brothers shmoen brothers. We’ll out-Jew them! We’ll out-everything them! Well,” Reed said, slipping his arm around Chris and drawing him down into one-on-one mode, “Darlia wasn’t so crazy about the name change, not to mention the rest of it. All that silence you put in there. Loved it! Like I always say — less is more.” Reed paused, as if expecting a response. He didn’t get one. “Look at you. You’re as pale as a ghost. I guess there’s not enough of that California sun around here for you. Seriously though. The way you stand, the way you move. The way you are. It’s just like I imagined him. You’re a different person.” Reed stared into him with menacing intensity. Then, suddenly, he pivoted. “Alison, a word please?” He pulled her into the corner of the room. Chris stood uncertainly in the middle of the set, acutely aware of the powder on his face and the thin fabric of his pajamas.
ALISON USHERED CHRIS INTO the town car and climbed in beside him. The car pulled away smoothly. Chris slumped in the back seat. He watched Queen Street go by. They passed the café. Chris idly wondered what time it was. The windows in the car were tinted, and the city looked different and distant, vague and dark. It’s Friday, he thought randomly. You’re off work tomorrow. They rolled west toward the heart of downtown. Alison near him, a scent of fresh flowers. Chris let himself slide closer to her.
“What did he say?” he asked hesitantly.
Alison looked at him. “Oh, nothing really.” She tucked hair behind her ear. “We were just talking about arrangements. Tomorrow’s shoot. That kind of stuff. That’s what you have me for, right?”
