Todd
Snap. Snap. Snap.
I pull into the studio lot and past the paparazzi. I remind myself to smile as I put my Porsche in park.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
Vultures, I think to myself as I turn off the ignition. They've run after me and now have me surrounded. Just keep smiling.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
I get out of the car, keep my eyes focused straight ahead, and make my way to the Megastar Gate. It’s only a few yards away, but I feel as though I'm running the gauntlet, practically forcing my way forward. I just smile and keep my mouth shut, avoiding the barrage of questions from these bottom feeders as they continue to snap pics and hurl questions.
“Is it true you’re being sued by the man you punched?”
“When do you start your anger management classes?”
“Did the studio insure the picture for one-hundred million because you’re a flight risk?”
Each question, more ridiculous than the next. These people really need to get a life, because I’m sure as hell not giving them mine.
I reach the gate, and this walk of shame finally comes to an end. Mercifully, the guard recognizes me and waves me through.
“Hello, Mr. Alexander.”
I’m greeted by a twenty-something woman, wearing a headset and carrying a clip board.
“I’m Marcey, the production manager.”
I shake her hand and see Jordan jogging toward me.
“Hey!” he calls out. I nod and we wait for him to catch up. “I’ll take you to your trailer and you can drop off your things. Then we’ll head on over to hair and make-up,” Marcey says in a crisp, professional tone.
I follow her lead and Jordan falls in step. “So, you excited?” he asks.
“As if.” I groan. “This isn’t my first movie, you do know that.”
“Listen, Todd, we didn’t get off to the best start on this project,” he leans in close and whispers. “Let’s not continue in that vein, OK?”
I roll my eyes. First, I gotta deal with the sharks outside, and now, I got my best friend and PR man telling me how to act. It’s not yet 6:30 in the morning. What’s next?
I get to my trailer, and thankfully a production assistant hands me a triple espresso, just the way I like it. I smile and take a sip.
Ahhh, much better. I’m getting my groove on. I look around to get my bearings.
The trailer is smaller than I’m used to, and it has fewer amenities, with only one couch and a small TV, but it will have to do.
Jordan shoos everyone out and lets Marcey know we’ll be at the hair and make-up trailer in a minute.
I give Jordan a What’s up? shoulder shrug. “If you’re worried that I won’t be cool, give it a rest. I’ll be a good boy,” I say, crossing my heart.
“I just want to make sure you understand that this movie hasn’t even shot yet, and there’s already an Oscar buzz. Important people love this script. It’s the hottest property around and the fact that Sophie Palmer is attached, well―”
I give him my best raised eyebrow. The one that says, You’re overselling and it’s not necessary, I’m here. I’m a sure bet.
“Wait, let me finish before you act like you’ve heard it all before,” Jordan protests. “This could really break your career wide open. So, if you have any kind of problem, let me know before you let your temper take over.”
Now I give him the Who, me? look.
Jordan doesn’t find this amusing. “Promise me you won’t get stupid. That’s all I ask.”
I’m saved by the knock on the door, and Marcey calls out, “Mr. Alexander, they’re ready for you.”
“Call me Todd,” I say as I open the door, “I’m ready, lead the way.”
I admit I’m a little apprehensive when I sit in the make-up chair. I’ve been in enough box office hits that I’ve earned the right to have the make-up and hair person of my choice. But this is an indie, and they could never afford the three-thousand-dollar-a-day price tag my stylist comes with.
So they gave me Lloyd.
Okay, I say to myself, let’s see Lloydy-boy do his stuff.
I’m facing the mirror while he’s working on my hair, but I can’t see a thing, because not only is he standing right in front of me, his enormous frame covers the width of the mirror.
I just try to relax, but that's proving to be difficult, because Jordan is talking my ear off and Lloyd is slightly heavy-handed with the patchouli oil this morning, and I’m now concentrating on breathing through my mouth. Not easy.
After what seems like an hour, Lloyd adds one more spritz of hair spray and with a flourish says, “Tada! Gorgeous!”
He steps away and I can’t fucking believe what I’m looking at. I yank the black nylon cape from around my neck and throw it to the floor.
“What the fuck is this?” I yell, “If I wanted to look like a hipster, the script would call for a hipster. Have you even read the script? Do you have any idea what character I’m playing?”
Lloyd looks scared shitless. But I really don’t care.
“You just spent forty-minutes making me look like a clown. And we all know I’m supposed to look good. And that should have taken you all of five minutes!”
“I…I’m…I…” Lloyd stammers, but nothing is really coming out.
“Hey, Todd, calm down.” Jordan puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shake him off.
“I will not calm down.”
“So…sorry…I…”
“Oh, just shut the fuck up and get out of my face. You’re fired!”
“Todd, you can’t do that,” Jordan says, and positions himself between me and Lloyd.
“Lloyd, just give us a minute.”
“Oh, hell no. We don’t need a minute, he’s out!”
Lloyd scurries out of the trailer as I go to the sink and stick my hair under the faucet to wash out the goop. I hear Jordan yelling, but I can’t make out the words over the running water.
“What?” I yell back.
“You’re barely over the last shit storm you created, and now you’re starting another one. Not an hour ago, you promised me if there was a problem, you’d come to me first.”
I get a towel and dry my hair. “You were here. You witnessed first-hand the disaster that was created. Why didn’t you say something?”
I reach for the blow dryer. It’s time for me to take matters into my own hands. Jordan won’t stop staring at me, and I don’t give a flying rat's ass.
I’m right. And everyone else is beyond wrong.
I continue to style my hair and scream over the sound of the dryer. “He’s out. That’s it. Him or me. There’s no more to discuss.”
Jordan turns and leaves the trailer without uttering another word.
No one fucks with Todd Alexander.
Or with Todd Alexander’s hair, for that matter.