There’s a big part of me that does want to nail the scene because I’m an actor and nailing scenes is, well, it’s kind of what we do. There’s a part of me just as big, though, that’s just stupefied that we’re doing a scene like this at all.
There are old gags and there are old gags, and I fail to see any way in which me stealing hotel towels like every character in every comedy everything that’s ever existed. Back in the dark ages, for the purposes of my point, we’ll say that even court jesters would often talk about how they would slip a tuft of hay when they were traveling from inn to inn. See, that was a better joke than the one in this scene, and it was terrible!
So, here’s where I have to stop and ask myself for the 47th time today whether this kind of movie is really what I want to be doing for the rest of my career.
For the 47th time today, I don’t have an answer, though I will say there are good arguments on both sides.
“All right, Jones, you sack of shit,” Dutch bellows as he approaches the set, “are you going to keep fucking around or can we make a fucking movie here?”
* * *
“So, this is going to be your swan song, huh?” Danna asks, dipping a granola bar into a cup of yogurt. “I can hear the trailers now: Flashing Lights, the final film by notable actor and bumbling idiot Damian Jones.”
“You could be a lot more supportive,” I tell her. “You are my agent, after all. What the hell am I supposed to do? I’m screwing up the stupidest things.”
“It sounds like it,” she snickers.
“You’re not helping,” I tell her. “Any news on stalker lady?”
“She’s not the woman that I’m worried about,” Danna says.
“Yeah,” I tell her, “I get it, I’m a big girl. Ha ha.”
“Actually, for once I wasn’t talking about you,” she says, “although I will say that I do love how that’s immediately where your mind goes when I say something about a woman.”
“Who are you talking about then?” I ask.
“Who else is there?” she asks.
“Oh, she’s never done anything to you,” I tell her. “What’s your problem with Emma, anyway?”
“My biggest problem with her right now,” Danna says, “is that she’s a scandal magnet, and with you tripping over your panties on the set, you really don’t need anything else to complicate your employment right now.”
“They’re not going to fire me,” I tell her.
“It wouldn’t be the first time a leading man got hired onto a set, couldn’t get his shit together, and got his ass kicked right back off of it again,” Danna says.
“Still,” I tell her, “so helpful.”
“I’m just trying to make this real for you, because you apparently don’t seem to think it’s that big a deal,” she says.
“This is my career,” I tell her. “This is something I’ve put so much of my life into. It’s my identity. I am an actor. I don’t want to have to change that to ‘I was an actor.’”
“Then pull your head from between your thighs, Clarabelle, and start listening to me,” Danna says.
“Clarabelle?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says, “I heard the name on a show earlier and thought I’d go for it.”
“So you’re saying that I should dump Emma?” I ask. “You think I should just break it off, huh?”
“Yeah,” Danna answers. “I know that’s not what you’re hoping to hear, little bro, but that’s really your only good option here. The difference between you and her is that you’re going through a slump. You can pull out of what you’re going through, but she can’t keep drama off her ass for five seconds, and people like that only make
things worse. It’s like a superpower: the incredible ability to attract negative shit.”
“It’s not her fault,” I tell Danna. “You don’t know all the shit she’s been through.”
“I’m sure she’s been through a lot, seeing those pictures,” Danna says, “but the fact remains that you’re not able to do your fucking job because you’ve got your head stuck between the legs of some actress.”