quietly.
“Did you just shit yourself?” Poppa Earl yelled, rising to his feet. “God-damn it, the fish are biting!”
Poppa Earl picked up Marty under the armpits and threw him into the lake. His grandfather sat back down in front of the outboard, wiped his hands on his pants, and steered the boat back the direction they came.
“You can’t catch fish with your line in the boat,” his grandfather said, shaking his head disgustedly as the boat chortled off.
The water was cold and light as mist. It smelled of pine and hospitals and clean counter-tops. He was swimming in a lake of Lysol.
Marty opened his eyes and was blasted in the face again with disinfectant. Someone was holding a can of Lysol out of the window above the hedge, dousing the bush with spray. Before he could say anything-not that he could in his present disoriented, poisoned, and disinfected state-the spraying stopped and an old lady stuck her head out, her smile revealing a row of blazingly white false teeth. Around her withered neck, she wore fake pearls the size of jawbreakers and as white as her teeth. It was all hurting his eyes.
“I hope you’re feeling better.” Her voice was filtered through a mile of gravel road. “I’ve got a nice glass of ginger ale and some saltines for you in the courtyard. The gate is open, be sure to close it behind you when you come in.”
She dropped a roll of toilet paper into the bush and disappeared. Marty was mortified, but not so much so that he didn’t quickly clean himself off, hitch up his pants, and escape from the bush, carrying the rest of the toilet paper roll with him.
He tumbled out of the junipers and tried to regain his balance, feeling as if he just got off a ride on the Tilt- A-Whirl. Everything was spinning, but at least the cramps were gone. He wandered around the corner to the front of the 1940s-era, white-stucco apartment building.
The courtyard was secured behind a wrought iron gate that nearly reached up to the Disney-esque, second- floor turrets on either side of the entrance. Marty went through the gate, closed it behind him, and discovered a lushly landscaped garden, with potted flowers and bird feeders everywhere, the elegant patio furniture arranged around a small pond and a stilled fountain.
“Over here, sweetie.” The old lady was waiting for him in a one-piece bathing suit at one of the tables, her bony legs crossed, nervously shaking one foot, the sole of her house slippers slapping against her heel.
Her skin was unnaturally weather-beaten and creased with use; it looked like someone had stretched a loud floral bathing suit over the cracked leather driver’s seat of an old car, then strung a necklace of enormous fake pearls around the headrest.
“Come, sit down, before the ginger ale goes flat in this heat,” she motioned to the pitcher and two plastic glasses, which were on the table beside some suntan lotion and a beaten-up John Grisham paperback.
Marty took a seat and stared at her as if she was an apparition. The air itself was shimmering like a TV signal that refused to come into focus. All he could do was lamely offer her the roll of toilet paper back.
“You keep it sweetie,” she waved her hand at him, each finger ringed with an enormous glass jewel. “In case you have more tummy troubles.”
Either he was dying, he thought, or this is just what the body does after riding a fireball, getting shot, and running through a cloud of toxic gas. In which case, shitting his guts out and losing any sense of physical or mental equilibrium would be totally normal and healthy.
Marty set the toilet paper down on the table and reached for the pitcher of ginger ale, but had a hard time capturing it because it wouldn’t stay still. Nothing would. He finally managed to grab the pitcher and pour some soda into his glass, but he had real trouble getting any in his mouth, spilling half of it down his shirt before he realized he was still wearing the dust mask. He tore the mask off his face and swallowed the tepid, lukewarm ginger ale in one, long gulp.
It felt good. He immediately filled the glass again, drank it all, then settled back in his seat. The air was rich with the scent of fresh-blooming flowers and a hint of coconuts. For the first time in hours, he felt at peace. Safe. He could stay here forever.
“It’s very peaceful here,” he said.
“Are you feeling better?”
“Much better, thank you.” Enough to feel embarrassed again for what he had done. “I’m sorry about your bush.”
“Bushes are ugly things,” she said. “I don’t care about bushes.”
“Why did you help me?”
“We don’t get many guests here at the Seville,” she took a saltine and swallowed it whole in her huge mouth. “And it’s such a nice day.”
If this was a nice day, he couldn’t imagine what her bad days were like.
“Besides,” she smiled, “we entertainment professionals have to stick together.”
“How did you know I’m in the TV business?”
“Your bag,” she tipped her head towards his gym bag, which had the network logo on the side. “I’ve done many fine productions for your network.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a featured player,” she reached over to the seat beside her and lifted up a huge photo album. “I’ve been in hundreds of productions and worked with all the major stars.”
Marty had absolutely no idea what a featured player was, but at least now he knew why she rescued him from having to wipe his ass with a leaf. Even though her true intentions were revealed, he didn’t feel in any hurry to leave. He still felt light-headed and the solitude of her courtyard was soothing.
She opened her album on the table and turned it around to face Marty. “That’s me in Hello Dolly with Barbara Streisand.”
She tapped her gnarled, bejeweled finger on a photo of a crowd outside a train station. “I’m the pretty woman standing behind Walter Matthau.”
Before Marty could find her in the picture, she flipped the page to a still from Planet of the Apes. “That’s me, the monkey woman holding the basket of fruit, two monkeys to the left of the marvelous Edward G. Robinson, though you can’t really tell it’s him with that make-up on. It was one of my richest roles.”
Now Marty understood what the term “featured player” meant. It was either an antiquated description of what she did, or a phrase she made up to make her work seem more like genuine acting. She was an extra, one of the countless, nameless background faces hired at $70 a day plus meals to fill out corridors, streets, and crowd scenes in shows.
She flipped rapidly through the pages. “I left the business after being a nurse for a few seasons on Diagnosis Murder. My character just wasn’t challenging any more. Most of the time, she walked up and down the same corridor holding the same files. I really felt my character should be answering phones, perhaps even consulting in the background with other physicians. The second assistant director wasn’t willing to take the creative risk so I resigned. I’ve been waiting for the right role for a comeback.”
“I see,” Marty nodded. “I’m afraid I have nothing to do with the casting of featured players.”
“But you’ll keep an eye open for any interesting roles?”
“Certainly.” Getting her a job as an extra was easy. It was the least he could do for her. He was grateful for her kindness. Then again, he thought about what she might say on the set. Oh, he’s a delightful man. I met him when he was shitting in my juniper bushes.
Perhaps he’d just send her a lovely fruit basket instead. Or some flowers for her garden.
“You live here by yourself?” he asked to change the subject.
“Oh no. The Flannerys are upstairs and Mr. Cathburt is relaxing over there,” she waved to someone on the other side of the pond.
Marty craned his neck and saw two bare feet and part of a mangled chaise lounge sticking out from under a massive slab of stucco, tile, and glass. The startling sight seemed to sharpen his vision, enough to finally notice that the roof on the second floor had caved in. When he turned back to the old lady, the air wasn’t shimmering nearly as much and his pulse was pounding in his head. Death, and the fear of dying, brought things into focus once again.
“Mr. Cathburt likes to take a little nap in the afternoon,” she whispered.
“I don’t think he’s napping.”
