The Lost Expert, page 8
“When you think about it —”
“What? When you think about what?”
“That scene, finding the boy …” Chris hesitated.
“Go on,” Reed said.
He could feel Alison, next to him, listening quietly.
“Well, it’s just — It changes who The Lost Expert is, doesn’t it? There’s a difference. A difference between being lost and being taken.”
Nobody said anything. Wind blew through the trees, and a black squirrel scampered up a beech branch attired with brown, drooping leaves.
CHRIS WAS ALONE IN his trailer.
The cameras, the lights, the crew scurrying about while Reed whispered in his ear. Like a drug, it was all fake, totally pretend. But it was also real.
And last night. Had that been real too? Some sour, boozy tongue in his mouth. The way that Daphne had moved against him, her body pulsing.
Shakily, Chris pushed himself out of the armchair. He poured himself a generous helping of Thomson Holmes’s best scotch. He took a mouthful, almost a gulp. Smokey with hints of vanilla and coffee. High-end hair of the dog.
What did he think he was doing? Acting? Krunk said celebrity was nothing more than a shell game. He said famous people were pretenders, human chameleons whose instinct to change colours was what allowed them to effortlessly stay on top of the electronic undercurrents. “Riding the waves,” his friend said mockingly, “riding the waves right to the top.”
Chris knocked back another dram. The liquid heat sloshed around his empty belly. He slumped back down in the armchair and closed his eyes.
He woke with a start. Alison was there. She leaned forward and put her hand on his forehead. He could see down her creamy top to the lace of her bra.
“Thomson? Wake up! You feel hot. Do you feel hot?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” he said. “Really. I’m fine. Don’t make me stay home from school. I have an algebra test today.”
She tried to suppress it, but a faint smile played across her lips. “Are you always such a smart-ass?”
He shrugged. “Today, I guess. It’s not me, anyway. It’s the hangover.” Chris made a face of regret and pressed his fingers to his throbbing temples.
“Right,” Alison said, her voice somewhere between stern and noncommittal.
“Got a bit too —” Chris put on an embarrassed grin.
“It’s none of my business, Thomson. What you and Reed get up to.”
“Yeah, no. I mean, we didn’t —”
“But when Maddy finds out.”
“Maddy?”
Alison gave him that look again. Who are you?
“Right, right,” Chris said loudly, forcing himself to smile. “Maddy.” His skull tightened. His brain felt compressed. “Hey, uh, do you have any Tylenol or something?”
“Tylenol? But you don’t —” She shot him another strange who-are-you look, then bustled off to get him the pills.
I don’t what? Chris wanted to call after her. Maddy? Alison’s smooth palm lingering on the damp of his forehead.
Alison returned with two orange pills and another bottle of water. He took the pills and washed them down.
“Thanks.”
Alison nodded. Chris felt sweat on his upper lip. Reflexively, for something to do, he pulled out his phone and flipped it open.
“What is that?” Alison said.
“What?” Chris asked, confused.
“That.”
She was pointing to his phone, the old Nokia he had inherited from Laurie when the bank gave the staff new iPhones last year.
“Oh, uh …”
Alison laughed. “Where did you find that thing? Put it away before anybody sees. You’re exclusive to Samsung, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. Right.”
“Where did you get that thing?”
“I’m not sure,” he said lamely.
“God, Thomson.” Alison stood, looking at him, hands on her hips. “I’ll go check on your new phone. It should be here by now.” She moved to the door of the trailer. “I’ll be right back. Try and stay out of trouble, okay?”
Script 4
INT. THE APARTMENT — EARLY EVENING
THE LOST EXPERT lies on his back on the bed in his shirtsleeves. The usual clamour and bustle through the open window – shouts, police sirens, a homeless lady yelling the same obscenity over and over again. The door opens. SARAH bursts into the room, the baby on her shoulder. She approaches the bed with heavy footsteps. She stands over him, scrutinizing him.
SARAH
(suddenly)
Do you think this is a joke?
The Lost Expert doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls, easily, calmly. His eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
SARAH
Do you?
The Lost Expert lies perfectly still. Outside, another siren. Sarah walks over to the window, slams it closed.
SARAH
Answer me!
THE LOST EXPERT
I was listening to that.
SARAH
(suddenly uncertain)
Listening to what?
THE LOST EXPERT
(sitting up)
The noises. The outside.
Sarah looks at him like she’s pondering an alien species. Finally, she takes the baby off her shoulder and thrusts it at the Lost Expert.
SARAH
Here. Look at him. You have a son now! Do you want to ruin his life? Do you? Look at him! What’s the matter with you?
THE LOST EXPERT
(sitting up and taking the baby)
They saw my classified, in the Post. A little boy was missing. They needed help.
SARAH
(near tears)
What classified? What are you talking about?
THE LOST EXPERT
I’ve quit my job. And school.
SARAH
(stunned)
What?
The Lost Expert gently takes her hand.
THE LOST EXPERT
Sarah, they’re people, like anyone else.
SARAH
Have you gone completely mad?
THE LOST EXPERT
He was barely more than a baby.
SARAH
(softening)
How old was he?
THE LOST EXPERT
He was five. He was the son of the tailor.
SARAH
But … how are we going to live? I don’t suppose they paid you?
The Lost Expert swings himself off the bed. He puts the baby in his bassinet then leads Sarah to the kitchen. He opens the pantry. The shelves are filled with breads, bagels, and cookies. Sarah stares at the overflowing shelves.
SARAH
You are. You are crazy.
The Lost Expert takes a bagel. He bites into it. He chews methodically, slowly.
INT. RUNDOWN LUNCHEONETTE – AFTERNOON
THE LOST EXPERT opens the door to the diner. He is carrying the newspapers under his arm, along with his notebook and pen. The small luncheonette is mostly empty, patronized only by two elderly women who fall silent when he enters and a homeless man pouring heaping spoons of sugar into his cup of coffee. The Lost Expert takes his usual seat at a back table. The women whisper to each other, scowl at the Lost Expert, and noisily pack up and leave. The waiter watches them leave then reluctantly approaches the Lost Expert.
THE LOST EXPERT
Good afternoon.
WAITER
(grimacing)
If you say so.
THE LOST EXPERT
Coffee please. And something for my friend over there. Whatever he wants. And …
WAITER
Yeah?
THE LOST EXPERT
(hopefully)
Any messages?
WAITER
(shaking his head, disgusted)
Messages? Plenty a’ messages. Threatening you, calling you kike lover, threatening me. Someone left a pig’s head for ya by the back door, I almost broke my neck on that thing. One guy said he was going to burn the place down. Look, don’t take this the wrong way. I think you’re all right, man. But we’re barely making it as it is. You know what I mean?
THE LOST EXPERT
(standing up and putting a dollar bill on the table)
I understand. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.
The Lost Expert starts to walk toward the door.
WAITER
Hey! Wait!
THE LOST EXPERT
(turning)
Yes?
WAITER
Can you really? How did you find …?
EXT. RIVER PARKLAND — WOODED PATH — LATE AFTERNOON (FLASHBACK — 1903)
BOY LOST EXPERT watches his MOTHER being slowly dragged into the woods. He tries to yell, but nothing comes out. There is the menacing rumble of thunder. Lightning flashes overhead. The boy looks up.
CUT TO
FATHER gets on a bus, an old, faded rucksack slung over his shoulder.
CUT TO
Dark, ominous clouds; the sky opens up; rain falls in dark, heavy sheets.
CUT TO
A flash of lightning above the boy. Thunder booms. Trees all around the boy ignite. More lightning and thunder through the jutting flames. The storm is just overhead.
BOY LOST EXPERT
Momma! Momma!
We see a slow reveal pull back gradually forming into a bird’s-eye view of the boy’s immediate surroundings; then the entire forested area; then the region, the state, the country, and beyond, all of it surging through the boy’s mind.
CUT TO
His mother, dragged through a swampy area by her arms. She wakes up, kicks her legs frantically, and twists out of the hold of the dark figure.
BOY LOST EXPERT
(quietly, in awe, now standing in a circle of flame)
Momma …
The fire abruptly extinguishes. The rain stops as quickly as it started. The boy looks around him, at first in wonder then with purposeful determination. He plunges into the woods.
INT. DINER (1928)
THE LOST EXPERT staggers, almost falls.
WAITER
Hey, you okay?
THE LOST EXPERT
What?
WAITER
You okay?
The Lost Expert hurries out of the diner and into the gloom of the street.
Section 5
CHRIS WAS ALONE IN the wide back seat. The driver took a slow, gentle turn, and Chris felt the brand-new phone in his pocket push against his hip. Alison had given it to him at the end of the long day. They’d done three scenes. Reed had been ecstatic. He kept shouting expletives. He talked about the dailies and how terrific Chris looked in them. He hugged Chris and told him the dailies were amazing. Had he seen them? He had to see them!
Awkwardly, Reed’s enthusiasm did not extend to other actors in the scenes. Darlia Cross, the actress playing Sarah, was ridiculously famous in her own right. But Reed said nothing about her. Chris was becoming increasingly conscious of his co-star’s frosty silences before, during, and after shoots. Bizarrely, he found himself flashing her reassuring smiles whenever he caught her eye. Once, between takes, he even told her what a great job she was doing. She ignored him.
After each scene, even as Reed was still ranting and pronouncing, Darlia was enfolded by her entourage and swept away. It was unnerving: her icy green stare shifting from rage to compassion to, when the cameras were turned off, blank disinterest. They were shooting a movie together, playing husband and wife. But he hadn’t yet had a single conversation with her. Chris wanted to tell her not to worry. He wanted to tell her that there wasn’t really a Lost Expert; there wasn’t even a Thomson Holmes. He couldn’t say that. Could he? Krunk’s favourite Godard movie: “If there’s nothing to say, let’s have a minute of silence.” “You can be so stupid sometimes,” responds the Darlia-like love interest played by the gorgeous, mysterious Anna Karina, also Godard’s young wife at the time. Band of Outsiders, Chris thought, remembering one of Krunk’s lecture-rants. A movie about a trio of would-be robbers that’s really about bank robber B-movies. Was Reed’s movie also a movie about movies? Maybe that’s why it refused to coalesce into any recognizable genre. Lulled by the smooth ride, Chris imagined The Lost Expert’s bizarre, horrifying pastiche of an origin story — a weird aside channelling Shazam! and Creature from the Black Lagoon.
The town car braked, and Chris shifted awkwardly, feeling the new phone in his pocket, thinner yet heavier. He resisted the reflexive urge to consult it.
“Here,” Alison had said. “Don’t lose this one. And answer it, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” Chris had said, pretending to be sheepish.
“They’ve transferred all your data over. You have a bunch of messages,” Alison had noted. “Maddy called twice. She’s on that spiritual retreat thing, so she must be pretty concerned.”
“Maddy … right.” He’d.
“And your father called. And some other guy who didn’t say much, but —”
Chris held up his hand.
“What?” Alison said.
“Maybe we’ll talk about this later?”
“You don’t want your messages?”
“I’m just — I’m really trying to stay in the moment. Is that okay?”
“Oh, okay.” Confusion bordering on worry. Something else, though, too. Wonderment. Respect? Either way, Chris couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to know about Maddy’s spiritual retreat and Thomson Holmes’s father or anything else about Thomson Holmes’s world. He was in too deep already. Was Holmes a good son? Chris doubted it. “Well, look at the dailies at least,” Alison concluded warily. “Reed wants you to. They’re on your phone.”
He stepped out of the elevator and followed the porter to the — to his — room. The bellhop opened the door, turned on the lights, and asked him if there would be anything else. “No, no,” Chris muttered. He didn’t meet the young man’s eye. He had nothing to tip him with. Just a last tattered five-dollar bill. He couldn’t give the guy his last five. He needed it for the subway. Or else he’d be walking home. After a prolonged hesitation, the bellhop bid him a disappointed-sounding goodnight and softly slipped out of the penthouse suite, closing the door behind him.
Now Chris was alone. It felt like he hadn’t been alone since he’d stumbled into the park after his shift. Which was when? A day ago? Two? He took off his light black coat, an Armani made of a shiny microfibre that slithered against him like it was alive. He held it. He wasn’t staying. He couldn’t stay. His stomach grumbled. He was hungry. Movie stars, it seemed, didn’t really eat much. He sat on the couch. He needed to think. Or maybe it was the opposite: he needed to stop thinking altogether. He picked up the remote, turned on the TV, then muted it. He flipped blankly through the channels. His phone tremored briefly — the new Samsung. Incoming, Chris thought. A text or an email. He dropped the remote in his lap, pulled out the old Nokia, and called Krunk.
BY THE TIME THE suite’s cordless rang, Chris was lying prone on the leather settee, his shoes off, his eyes closed. First, he fumbled for his old Nokia, then for the brand-new Samsung, and then, finally, he realized that it was the room phone and he reached over to the side table, nabbed the receiver, and delivered a curt hello.
“Yes, sorry to disturb you, Mr. Holmes, but your guest has arrived?” The way the concierge said it, oozing distaste for whatever was in front of him, Chris knew immediately who he was referring to. “A Mr. Tokes.”
“Tokes?” Chris stifled a laugh. He’d told Krunk not to use his real name. “Uh, yes, thank you, please send him up.”
Chris hung up, liking the way he’d responded to their bent-over-backward politeness with an affected air of patrician indifference. Then he thought of the young bellboy’s disappointed look. They’d bring him up and want a tip. Maybe Krunk would have some cash? Yeah, right. From what Chris could tell from his extremely limited time in the celebrity stratosphere, Thomson Holmes was expected to tip everyone, all the time, compulsively. And not just a buck or two. Apparently the rich travelled in a flurry of twenties and fifties. The way the hotel staff looked, the obsequious shift of their eyes, the regretful stance of lingering hopefulness. It was painful. Whatever, Chris thought. Tomorrow was Monday. Back to the breakfast shift.
The bellhop knocked, and Chris opened the door. Krunk walked in, wearing a hoodie with a ripped pocket, a pair of tattered yellow corduroy trousers, and oversized mirrored sunglasses. He looked like a cross between a trucker hat hipster and an incel. That wasn’t exactly the image they’d discussed over the phone. Chris had suggested sunglasses, but also told him to dress up a bit, to try to fit in.
Almost inevitably, Chris felt himself extending his last five to the bellhop, who slickly accepted the blue bill. The bellhop gave a slight bow of thanks and asked if they needed anything else before smoothly turning on his heels and exiting the room. The door clicked softly shut. Krunk pulled off his sunglasses. He blinked a few times, his yellow-brown pupils showing their permanent red tinge, the result of near-constant all-nighter screening sessions. He flipped the hood off his head and took in Chris’s acid-washed jeans and Euro-cut dress shirt ensemble.
“Holy fucking mother of a rat’s anus!”
“I know. I know. They think I’m —”
“Thomson goddamn Holmes!”
Chris couldn’t help it. He started laughing. So did Krunk. Krunk laughed like a braying donkey. Chris felt tears rolling down his cheeks, spilling out. “Nice shirt,” his friend said, and they both cracked up again. “Agggh!” Krunk screamed at the top of his lungs. “Give me a hug, you crazy fucker.” They embraced tightly. The familiar odour of used fry oil, day-old coffee, and stale beer. Chris closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.
They toured the suite and then stepped out onto the balcony. It was a cool night, getting cooler. The city below felt far away, streetlights lit up like distant stars.
