“You know,” he says, “this is going to be my sixth Academy Award.”
“What is?” I ask.
“This film,” he answers, “the one we just started shooting.”
“Are you actually going for the Babe Ruth thing?” I ask. “You’re trying to call your award?”
“I’d almost say yes to that,” he says, “only, I object to the word ‘try.’ I’m not trying to call anything. I’m simply stating a fact. I’ve read hundreds of scripts and I’ve done dozens of movies. Trust me. They’d need to screw this up pretty monumentally for me not to get the Oscar nod. Hey, if you play your cards right, there might be a Golden Globe or something in it for you, too.”
“Got it,” I tell him.
“Got what?” he asks.
“I was trying to figure out whether you’re just doing some kind of shtick or if you’re actually this full of yourself. From everything I’ve seen, the latter is pretty clearly the case and I’m just trying to keep the stiff upper lip and not mourn the person I thought you were when I was growing up. That is, until you’re gone and out of my trailer,” I tell him.
“Wow, dramatic,” he says. “Anyway, just wanted to pop by and offer my services.”
“I don’t think I’ll be requiring them,” I tell him, “but thank you for the thought.”
“Not a problem,” he says. “It’s my duty as your mentor.”
“Mentor?” I ask. “When did this happen?”
“The moment we both signed on to play these parts,” he says. “This is your—sorry, but this is your first real film and you’re working with real people top to bottom. I know how that can be intimidating to a new actor, and I think I might be able to help you get through the initial growing pains with a bit more ease.”
“How admirable,” I tell him. “Your altruism is truly touching and not in the least bit condescending and offensive.”
“I’m glad you see it for what it is,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Now, I should let you get to whatever kind of voodoo it is that you do as a trailer ritual. Just do me a favor and don’t tell me if you make any wax dolls of me. I mean, do what you want, but I don’t want to hear about it. That stuff skeeves me right the hell out.”
“What are you even talking about?” I ask.
“Never mind,” he says. “Keep your secrets. I’m off to talk to a man about something else.”
“I think unconventional might be too mild a word,” I tell him.
“Think whatever you like,” he says. “Mark my words, though. Before filming is wrapped, you are going to come to me for my sage advice. You’re going to say, ‘Mr. Jones—Damian, you were right. This is a big, scary world and I was wrong to so casually dismiss your kind offers of assistance.’ I’m sure you’ll be able to convince me. I just wish we could get to the part where you appreciate me for the supernatural gem that I really am and skip all this other nonsense.”
I’ve been so busy trying to ignore the oozing cesspool issuing from Damian’s mouth that I didn’t notice the
door to the trailer open.
“Emma, they’re ready for you,” Lane says.
“Thanks, Lane,” I answer with a healthy dose of gratitude.
“Make me look good,” Damian says as I get up and walk past him out of the trailer.
What a self-important prick.
Lane walks with me toward the set. I ask him, “Is that guy really as pompous as he comes off?”
“No,” Lane answers. “He’s not really that pompous. He just likes to mess with new people he thinks may be, in some way, intimidated by his fame. He thinks that by giving them a bad impression that confirms their worst fears about him, he can start anew from zero and do a better job showing them how he’s not like that. I guess he thinks that coming off like an ass makes him approachable or something, although I can’t imagine that really working. Of course, the fact that he sees people as playthings, which he feels the need to personally inform them of is pretty damn pompous, so I guess the answer to your question is yes.”
“You’re wonderful company, you know that?” I ask. “Most people would just give a quick answer and be done, but you choose the less taken road of answering just about everything but what’s been asked.”
“I answered,” he says.
“Not in a helpful way,” I tell him.