“I’ve got it,” I tell him. “Quickly take the suitcase, put it on the bed, and then grab the towels.”
“Don’t screw me here, Jones. I’ve sent bigger stars than you back to the trailer parks they came from,” he says.
“Well, I think that was a little out of line,” I tell him.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
“Now will you shut the fuck up and do the goddamned scene?” he asks.
“Right,” I answer, and get back to my place.
“And, action!” Dutch calls, and I lunge forward, intending for the motion to be the first step on my hurried race to steal the hotel’s towels for some reason, and one foot catches the other foot while the leg is on its way out and I fall flat on my fucking face. “And, cut!”
I’m expecting another diatribe, but Dutch just throws his copy of the script in the air and starts walking away. I will say, though, that it’s pretty extraordinary how both the assistant director and assistant to the director start catching pages before they land.
This is my career ending when I can’t even act out a stupid gag.
Right now, I wish I was in any other profession in the world.
Somewhere in the distance, Dutch yells, “Everybody take 15!”
Fifteen-minute break: that means chain smoking.
When Dutch is in a good mood, he only smokes a couple of cigarettes a day, and when he does, it usually takes him like, eight minutes a cigarette because he’s talking and laughing and all that. When Dutch is in a good mood, all quick breaks are 10 minutes, because that’s how long it takes for him to get where he can smoke, smoke, and get back.
When Dutch is in the mood he’s in right now, though, he manages to cut his time from eight minutes a cigarette down to three. There’s only one way of knowing just how pissed he is, and that’s when he says a number other than eight. Five minutes is slightly bothered, twelve minutes means someone’s about to get fired. Fifteen minutes means someone’s about to be killed and have their body disposed of by the mob connections Dutch has long been rumored to have.
That’s not what’s got me scared, though. I can handle Dutch’s tirades. What I can’t handle is being unable to do my job.
“Hey,” Tammy from wardrobe says, and I look down.
“Shit, did I tear my clothes or something?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I just finished up and they said they’d let me watch you do your scene as long as I kept quiet and out of the way.”
“Ah,” I answer.
“You seem to be having a bit of a rough time,” she says. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I tell her. “I think I’m getting the yips.”
“The yips?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I tell her. “It’s when you’re suddenly unable to perform the simplest tasks with something you’ve been doing a long time because you’re all up in your head freaked out about how you’re suddenly unable to perform the simplest tasks with something you’ve been doing a long time.”
“Sounds complicated,” she says.
“It’s really not,” I tell her. “So, what’s up?”
“I just wanted to know if there was anything I could do to help. I don’t know if you have or would even want someone to talk to, but I’d be more than happy to listen if you think it would help,” she says.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. “I appreciate it, but I don’t think that’s going to be necessary. I just need to get my head back in it, and I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.”
“Great,” she says. “Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be around. And hey, good luck with your scene. I hope you nail it.”
“Yeah,” I scoff, “thanks.”