Disaster Productions

  “At the mall, the day Dylan wiped out,” Duals says. “I knew they went to North Middle School, so it wasn’t hard to look them up. Tamika’s kind of a celebrity there.”

  I can believe that.

  “Why did they come here?” I ask.

  “To try out.”

  “For what?”

  Duals gives me a look that says I’m almost too lame to understand any explanations.

  “We’ll open the movie with a reenactment of Dylan falling down the stairs,” Duals says. “The girls will play themselves.”

  That made sense, I suppose.

  “Later, we’ll work them into the script as we go along,” Duals says.

  “We have a script?”

  “It’s under development,” Duals says.

  I must look a bit dumbfounded. Duals speaks in a low, confidential voice.

  “Every movie needs sex appeal, Matt, just leave it to me.”

  The girls reenter the living room, chatting and giggling among themselves in a way that would have irritated me at one time. Now it just gives me a sense of being excluded.

  Wouldn’t it be great if they were chatting about me? Romina has some sort of foreign accent, German perhaps. I’m curious about it, but she doesn’t seem open to a conversational intrusion from me.

  Duals pulls some papers out of his manila folder.

  “Take a few minutes to look over these dialog sides,” he says. “Then we can begin the screen tests.”

  Screen tests?

  He hands each girl a sheet. They stand together looking at them with intense expressions, as if the “screen test” really mattered. As if Duals wouldn’t accept them all in a heartbeat, no matter how bad they might do.

  “We’ll use natural light,” Duals says. “This window gives us northern exposure.”

  He opens the heavy picture window drapes wide, leaving the thin, gauzy ones underneath to soften the light. The girls look up from their papers. They seemed impressed by Duals’ knowledge of ‘northern exposure.’

  But I know Duals a lot better than they do. If he actually understood how to use those studio lights, he’d be setting them up right now instead of jerking around with the window drapes.

  “Could you stand over there a minute, Matt?” Duals says. “I want to get some light readings.”

  Who’s this guy ordering me around? This is my Grandpa’s house, my movie equipment, my northern exposure. I want to pop Duals. Instead I move to the indicated spot by the wall. He’s the one who brought the girls in; that gives him power. If I front him off now, the girls might vanish as quickly as they came.

  Said girls transition to the kitchen, practicing their lines.

  “Oh, look!” I hear Tamika say. “How did that boy get on the floor?”

  I think maybe the script could use some work.

  So I’m standing next to the wall like an idiot with Duals pointing this light meter thing at me. Then he turns around and aims the meter back at the camera.

  “I’m taking an incident light reading now,” he explains.

  “Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” I ask.

  Duals glances toward the kitchen, then trots out the confidential voice again: “Actually, I’m sort of winging it. Learning as I go along.”

  I’m not pleased.

  “Listen, Duals – ”

  “Just hang in there, okay?” Duals says. “I know this is a lot to take in all at once, but things will improve for you, starting tomorrow night.”

  “What happens tomorrow night?”

  “We’re going to the South Middle School farewell skating party,” Duals says. “You, me ... and them.”

  He gestures toward the kitchen.

  “I’m going skating with them?”

  Duals nods. “That’s how we get Dylan on board. I told him we’d be there with the girls from the mall.”

  I’m too stunned to answer. Duals elbows me in the ribs.

  “It’s going to be tough,” he says, “but somebody has to do it, right?”

  This bombshell revolutionizes my schedule. I planned to study for my History final all night, but now I have a far more urgent priority.

  I say good-bye to everyone and head out.

  “Bye,” Tamika says in that soft, yet overwhelming voice of hers.

  That makes two words she’s spoken to me today. It’s a start.

  7: Studying Up

  My head is still spinning when I get home. I feel as if my whole life has been upended, that I am no longer in control.

  That’s true enough. Duals has grabbed control, and I let him do it! He outmaneuvered me like a master chess player. He was always better at chess than me; I quit playing him a long time ago.

  But hadn’t I wanted his help for my Big Idea? Heck, I’d practically dragged him in.

  The Big Idea actually originated with Duals, come to think of it. He got my mind working in reality show mode. Without him, nothing would have happened. I’d still be scooting along on my bike getting pushed around by high school kids.

  Things are going in strange and unpredicted directions.

  But there is no time to think it through now. I have my own 800 pound gorilla of a final to worry about.

  I hit my notes hard. Our World History exam will cover the mid-20th century – the Franklin Roosevelt administration, Adolf Hitler, World War II, the Great Depression. Looking over all the stuff, I’m getting pretty depressed myself. History really isn’t my strong point.

  What is my strong point, anyway, do I even have one? Would coming up with the Big Idea be considered a strong point? No, it isn’t enough by itself, I realize.

  Hitler had big ideas, all of them bad. And they didn’t work out too well for him, either. I mean, if his ‘master race’ crap was actually true, he wouldn’t have ended up burning in a ditch, would he? That must be an awful way to get cremated, not that you’d be in any position to complain.

  I wrap things up after a couple of hours. I can study more when I get back, if I’m not too banged up.

  ***

  It’s “cheapskate nite” at the Roll-O-Center, and the admission charge doesn’t dent my budget overmuch. The first thing I notice is the new carpet, all covered in stars of various sizes – something different from the last time I’ve been here, ages ago. I stand in line at the rental counter studying the carpet stars and debating between the in-line and the quad skates.

  In-line skates are definitely cooler, but I have sour memories about them. My elbow still aches from last summer when I wiped out at the metro park. Of course, that had been on a hill, on an asphalt trail, not on a relatively forgiving wood floor.

  But a single, overwhelming fact hasn’t changed – I suck big time on skates.

  It’s my turn at the rental counter now.

  “What’ll it be?” the rental guy asks.

  Tamika will be more impressed if can handle the in-lines. But who am I kidding? My thoughts go back to last January when I attended a dinner event at a fancy hotel with my dad. This beautiful girl stepped out of a car in front of the hotel wearing high heels. She looked great until she fell sprawling on a patch of ice.

  “Well?” the rental guy says.

  “I’ll take the quads,” I say.

  This is open skating night, but there’s still some little kid birthday party going on with second graders zipping around. Problem is, they can all skate better than me.

  Lots of other little kids are out, too, some of them so small that their parents are guiding them along. Bubbly, circus-type music is coming through the loudspeakers. I’m the only person my age on the floor.

  I feel like a total loser with all the little kids passing me by. It’s fairly dark, fortunately, with these globes flashing various colors overhead. A black light flicks on occasionally, and anybody wearing white starts glowing. I’m thankful that nobody knows who I am.

  Then somebody does know.

  “Hi, Matt,” a girl’s voice says.

  Lau
ren suddenly skates up beside me. I’m so surprised that I lose my balance. I start to go down – all wild and jerky like I’m being electrocuted. Lauren grabs my arm.

  “Careful!” she says.

  Oh, man, isn’t this what every guy dreams about? Having some girl rescue him from his own screw ups. Two of Lauren’s girlfriends are skating behind us, giggling, so I have an even bigger audience.

  “Hi, Lauren,” I manage to say. “W-what are you doing here?”

  “Same as you,” she says, “practicing up for the skating party.”

  She continues holding my arm. Is it possible that she’s coming on to me, or does she just think I’m too lame to skate on my own? I need to assert myself.

  “We’re going to be filming here tomorrow night,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, me and Duals. We’ve got some great new video equipment.”

  She looks back toward her friends.

  “Did you hear that? We’re all going to be movie stars tomorrow.”

  The friends giggle some more; I’m making progress. Lauren lets go of my arm.

  “See you next time around, Matt.”

  She and her friends take off at high speed, leaving me behind.

  Funny, I’ve never noticed before how cute Lauren is. Until now, she’s just been this serious-faced girl from my History and English classes – honor roll all the way. We talk now and then, nothing too deep.

  But now she’s out here all happy and relaxed, her light brown hair flying in the circus music slipstream. Of course, she isn’t a goddess like Tamika, but who is? Tamika is totally in a class all by herself.

  I manage to get through the evening without further humiliation, but I come close when I try skating backwards. Not recommended. Lauren and her friends spend a lot of time in center rink practicing fancy maneuvers. They’re really good. Then her mom shows up.

  “Would you like a ride home, Matt?” Lauren asks.

  I’d love to go with them, but my bike is chained up outside. Anyway, there must be a tiny patch of ice in the parking lot – even though it’s June – and I’d probably manage to slip and fall on my face before I can get in the car.

  “No thanks, I’ve got my bike,” I say. “Good luck on the History final.”

  “You too,” Lauren says.

  Then she and her friends are gone. I get on my bike and pedal the half mile home through the gathering twilight. The world seems loaded with possibilities. The air is filled with the scent of lilacs. Big things seem ready to happen for me.

  I just don’t know what.

  8: School Winds Down

  More history cram when I return home from the Roll-O-Center. Late night with Hitler and the boys. To heighten the realism, I get out my souvenir Nazi bayonet. As I study, I pull the thing in and out of its metal scabbard, enjoying the weight and heft in my hand.

  What can I say? Some people doodle, I play around with a bayonet.

  It’s wicked-looking, with a 9-inch blade and a black handle – a ‘dress’ bayonet that some Nazi dirt bag hung from his belt while he goose stepped in horror parades. Grandpa gave it to me. He got it from my great grandpa who was with our invasion troops during World War II.

  It isn’t even sharpened, but Mom would freak if she knew I had it. Then there’s Tamika. What would she think if she knew I owned a vintage bayonet for a toy? Probably not much. I put the thing away.

  ***

  My efforts seem to pay off, and the next morning I feel confident that I’ve done well on the History final. Lauren is there, too, back in serious student mode. You just know that she’s aced the exam. She is one of the first to hand in her paper, and as she leaves the classroom, she flashes me a little smile that says, “See you tonight.”

  I smile back.

  I didn’t know it then, but this would be the best part of the looming skating disaster.

  9: Preparations

  I’m convinced that Mom has chore radar. Whenever I want to be someplace else, she’s got chores for me to do. This is “clean out the garage” day and “help me with the shopping” day. I’m so busy that I have no time to think about being Matt the Man.

  I finally get to Grandpa’s house – excuse me, Studio Duals – forty minutes before the skating party is supposed to begin. Duals is already there, of course, practicing with the camera. He has it hooked up to this device with curved rods screwed together and a pistol grip.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “A Merlin.”

  “What, it’s supposed to be magic?”

  Duals laughs. “It’s a Merlin Steadicam. It keeps the picture from jiggling when the camera is off the sticks.”

  Of course, I knew that.

  “It takes some getting used to,” Duals says. “Walk around the studio for me.”

  So, I walk around the living room, then into the dining room and past the green screen, then into the kitchen. Duals follows with the Merlin. He has a monitor hooked on top of the camera now. The smaller one on back must not be enough for him.

  “Okay, go out the side door now,” Duals says.

  I step outside.

  “Keep going – around the garage,” Duals says.

  I start walking around the garage. I’m past the half way point when I realize that Duals isn’t following me anymore. I come back to the driveway where he’s viewing the new footage on the monitor.

  “Still a bit shaky,” he says, “I don’t think the balance is quite right.”

  He screws a little counterweight onto the bottom rod of the Steadicam.

  “Focus is a pain, too,” he says, “I wish I had a 1st AC to handle it for me.”

  “What’s a 1st AC?” I ask.

  “Assistant cameraman.”

  “Can’t I do that?”

  “No, you’re the sound guy,” Duals says. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

  He leads the way back into the living room.

  “It’s all assembled and ready to use,” he says.

  He points to the sofa where the pole with the microphone hanging from it now rests. The microphone is covered in foam rubber and looks more like a blackjack than a sound device. I heft the pole carefully, as if I’m handling a cobra.

  “What do I do with this?” I ask.

  “There’s not much to it,” Duals says.

  He picks up a rubber jacketed device that looks like an oversized calculator.

  “You just hang this recorder on your belt, push the button, and aim the microphone at whoever’s talking.”

  “What button?”

  “I’ll show you that when we get there,” Duals says.

  I look over the array of equipment.

  “Have you thought how we’re going to get all this stuff to the Roll-O-Center?” I say. “I don’t have a ride for us.”

  Mom could have taken us, but I didn’t ask. Actually, I haven’t informed her about Studio Duals yet because I figure she might not be too pleased with the basic concept, being that it involves Grandpa.

  Heck, be honest, I don’t plan to inform her at all, if I can avoid it.

  “My cousin Rex is picking us up,” Duals says. “Didn’t I tell you that?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he’s back from college now for the summer, so we have wheels for our cinematic exploits.”

  There’s a lot of stuff Duals hasn’t told me about – like this ton of equipment he’s talked Grandpa into buying, like Studio Duals, like the girls ...

  “What about the girls?” I ask.

  “We’re meeting them there,” Duals says. “Calm down, Matt, everything has been arranged.”

  The doorbell rings. Duals goes to answer. Time to meet latest arrangement.

  “Hey, come on in Rex,” Duals says. “Hi Cindy.”

  A college-aged guy wearing a State U. shirt walks in. He looks a lot like Duals – dark wavy hair, slender, intelligent and a bit crafty.

  “Dude!” he says, “So, this is the big studio you’ve been telling me a
bout.”

  “Yeah, how to you like it?” Duals says.

  “Sweet,” Rex says. “Looks like you’ve hit the big time, Steph.”

  He pats Duals on the back.

  “Thanks.” Duals gestures toward me. “This is my as ... partner, Matt Alpin.”

  “How’s it hanging, dude?” Rex says.

  It seems like everybody’s a “dude” to this guy. I paste on a smile and shake Rex’s hand, but inside I’m furious. Duals had almost called me his “assistant,” I know. There needs to be a hard discussion about that – and soon.

  A more insightful person might have noticed my upset, but Rex doesn’t seem the type. He’s pleasant enough, but you just know that he’s not thinking much about anybody beside himself. He is kind of ... ‘oily,’ for lack of a better word. It comes through in his handshake. He is Duals on steroids.

  His girlfriend, Cindy, is more of a blank page. She just stands off to the side chewing gum and fiddling with one of her nose rings. She looks kind of bored with the pair of early teens and their studio.

  “Well, let’s get going,” Rex says. “I’ve got big plans for tonight.”

  He gives Cindy a meaningful look, she rolls her eyes at him and pops her gum. Guess she’s the “big plan.”

  ***

  The ride to the Roll-O-Center is uneventful. Me and Duals jammed in back with our gear, the ‘adults’ in front blasting music through the sound system. Rex dumps us off in the parking lot.

  “Try to get a lift back from somebody else, if you can,” Rex says. “If not, give me a call.”

  “Sure thing, Rex,” Duals says.

  “Be careful with your pole, Matt,” Rex says.

  He speaks real clever like, with an obvious double meaning. Then he points his fingers at me with a mock gun gesture and drops the hammer.

  He laughs. I want to smack him with the blackjack mike, instead I say:

  “Sure will, thanks for the ride.”

  I’m pretty easy going with my expectations for other people, but there’s something about Rex that just bugs me. Maybe we’ve been enemies in some former life.

  We approach the door. In one hand, Duals hauls this big orange plastic case of accessories, with the other he carries the Steadicam with the camera attached. Myself, I struggle along with the sound equipment, trying not to trip on the wire or brain somebody with the pole.

  How much did Grandpa pay for all this stuff, anyway?

  I would very much like to speak with Grandpa about now, ask him why he dumped this whole movie thing on me without so much as asking my opinion. I mean, sure I walked out and left everything to Duals, but that’s no excuse. Is it?