“That’s a good part,” I said.
I didn’t remember seeing Sam Adams in the script, and I flipped through it.
“He’s non-credited,” Horace said with a serious expression. “I just get to ‘interpret’ his vibe as I see fit throughout the film.”
I nodded and knew exactly what Jerry had done. It was a non-speaking appeasement part. It reminded me of a high school play I’d acted in, where there was a girl who ad-libbed a line. She was a freshman, and it was her first production. She had a two line part, and threw in an extra line on opening night. So, the next play, she got cast as a deaf-mute. She played the part with integrity and never seemed to get the joke was on her.
“The Adams was a bootlegging whiskey family,” Horace went on. “They were all rebels and outlaws and bootleggers, and I like beer, and I like rebels. So, I thought it would be the perfect part for me.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m glad for you, Horace. You’ll play the part great.”
“Damn right I will,” he chuckled and wiped his brow. “Well, if they ever fix the AC in here.”
He excused himself in search of water. Once he was gone, Vicki turned to me.
“Remember once upon a time,” she said, “in that alternate universe, when we lived in L.A., and all the actors we knew were professionals?”
“We lived in L.A.?” I joked.
She laughed. “I have a vague recollection of that.”
It had been eight months since we moved from Los Angeles to Sedona. Already it seemed like it was a different lifetime.
Vicki pulled her dark hair into a ponytail and sighed as she looked over her annotated script. Vicki was gorgeous, and the longer we were together, the more beautiful she became.
She was Korean-American and had silky black hair that hit just past her shoulder blades. Tonight, she looked every bit the youthful part of twenty-five, with black skinny jeans, platform wedge sandals, a black a white striped cotton shirt, and Dolce & Gabbanna aviator style shades perched on top of her head.
Our casual, youthful sides rarely came out these days. It was nice to let loose a bit. By day, we owned a fairly successful law practice, and we spent most of our time wrapped up in the business of litigating murderers and whatnot. But Vicki was always after me to loosen up, and she was right. I was a bit of a workaholic.
So, when the Sedona Performing Arts League, and Jerry Steele, approached our firm to support the town’s upcoming July Fourth festivities, Vicki somehow got me to do it. But it wasn’t without a fair amount of groveling from Jerry over a horrible online hit piece he’d tried to ruin me with for clicks. Asshole.
Regardless, here we were now, in the backroom of the set of “This Is US: An American Revolutionary Narrative.”
It was a terrible title that stopped just short of its potential for being clever. The same could be said of the film overall. The film was supposed to be a black and white noir period adaptation of the American Revolution, based on The Count’s historical novel. That idea wasn’t bad.
But, now, looking over the script, it was turning out to be I Love Lucy meets The Patriot. All we were missing was the Cuban lounge singer. Eh, well, it could have been worse. The mayor was playing Betsy Ross, the head of the city council was George Washington, and Paul Revere owned our favorite coffee shop. Not bad for company.
“Henry Irving,” Jerry Steele called out.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“You’re playing Thomas Jefferson, right?”
“I declare that to be self-evident,” I said with as straight a face as I could muster.
“Good,” he said. “We’re going to change up some things. Jefferson was, for all purposes, a marijuana farmer. We want to play up that angle. Let’s make it gritty and real, I want him to feel like a 1920’s gangster, like Al Capone.”
I raised my eyebrows. Paul Revere doing parkour was fine, but now this guy was bordering on patriotic blasphemy. Thomas Jeffferson was Thomas Jefferson, not Al Capone.
Alfred interrupted before I had a chance to object. “There is no conclusive evidence that--”
“Look, Alfred,” Jerry’s tone was devoid of patience, “I’m trying to make art here, real art.”
“What are you implying?” Alfred demanded. “That my novel wasn’t art?”
“Your words, not mine,” Jerry scoffed. “Vicki Park? You’re Martha Washington, right? That’s perfect.”
“Why is that?” she said.
“In this new scene,” Jerry said as he handed Vicki a sheaf of papers, “we contend Thomas Jefferson might have had an illicit affair with Martha Washington. She made a deal with him for the ballot of the first American presidency, and that’s why Jefferson was the third and not the first president. So, I’ve got an extra scene here, where they discuss their deal in a backroom of the continental congress.”
Vicki cleared her throat, and she and I looked over the scene. It looked like things with Martha and Thomas got a bit R rated in the backroom of Independence Hall.
“Is this historically accurate?” I asked Jerry.
“No,” The Count huffed. “It most certainly is not!”
Then The Count finally stormed out of the room, and Jerry went after him. The cast broke up, and the volume in the room rose to a crescendo.
Vicki and I just glanced at each other and laughed at the absurdity. In one corner, a group of college students did acting stretches, and an older couple paced the room saying tongue twisters.
“Peter piper pecked a peckled of p---p-p,” the woman groaned to her husband. “I can’t get it.”
“You think anyone would notice if we left right now?” I whispered to Vicki.
“What?” she laughed. “And miss our
