Todd
I storm to my trailer and slam the door behind me.
“Fuck this! Who does she think she is?” I mutter to myself and look for something to throw.
I know I’m being a bit childish, acting like a five-year-old whose favorite toy has been taken from him, but heck, I’m a superstar. I’m allowed to have tantrums.
“I mean, who stands up for a useless member of the team, and who wears their hair up the way she does?” I’m on a roll now.
I find my putter and golf ball, and then proceed to practice my putting. I’m not a golfer, but trying to get the little ball into the hole is oddly satisfying when I’m in a rage.
“What are you raving about?”
I don’t see Jordan come in, who appears in front of me out of nowhere.
I point my club at him.
“That stuck-up prima donna, prancing around, and calling herself director and main star of the film, Sophie.” I try to slow my breathing.
Anger swishes around me like water in a whirlpool.
Someone has to stand up for actor’s rights.
Jordan takes the club from me and hands me a triple espresso, muttering something about caffeine possibly not being what I should be having.
“Why are you in such a rage at this time of day?”
Despite my own inner turmoil, I have to admire Jordan. Good old dependable Jordan who personifies calmness.
“Sophie,” I growl, savoring the bitter taste of the extra strong coffee. The way my day is going, I’ll need at least five of these before lunch.
“She’s a typical woman. There’s just no reasoning with her, and she’s made up her mind before even listening to my side of the story.”
I see Jordan raise his eyebrows. He gives me the ‘what the fuck are you rambling on about man’ look and I slump onto my couch.
“She thinks I shouldn’t have fired the hair stylist.”
“And?” Jordan asks.
Is it just me or is he extra slow today?
“And her solution, is for me to tell him how I want my hair done.”
“Again, I can’t see the problem.”
I throw my head back in frustration. Why do imbeciles surround me today? Surely, I can’t have been that bad in my former lives to deserve this?
“Man,” I breathe out long and slow. “What’s the fucking point of telling someone how to do their job? Isn’t it simpler to fire the guy, and get someone remotely competent?”
“Todd, stop being so precious.” Jordan is very matter of fact. “Sophie is the director, and therefore you do as you are told.”
My protest dies on my lips with Jordan holding up his hand.
“Zip it, buddy. You’re not really in a position to be making demands. I’m trying to save your bacon here, and get you back in the limelight for the right reason, avoiding the wrong ones. And what is your thanks? You come storming in here, making ridiculous demands. You should be groveling at my feet, and worshiping the ground I walk on.”
Jordan’s outburst stuns me so much, I don’t know what to say.
I swallow my non-existent argument, and go to my personal dresser where I pull out gel, comb and hairspray. Without another word, I style my hair my way, making sure it still looks good.
There’s a knock on the door and I hear Jordan open it.
“Mr. Alexander is required on set,” says a faceless voice from the door.
I see Jordan look at me and I hold up two fingers.
“Todd will be there in a couple of minutes.”
I look at my reflection. My hair is nowhere near as good as when my own stylist does it, but hey, it’s a lot better than before.
As I step out leave my trailer, Jordan stops me.
“You need this film. No more tantrums.”
Without a reply, I stride toward the set where they are shooting.
What the fuck does Jordan know? I don’t need this film. They need me. I’m their draw card. Without me, this sorry little low budget film would be nothing. And I’ll make sure, I do things my way.
“If you start the scene over here,” Sophie points to the far end of the made up hallway. “You’ll have just walked in through the front door.”
Without a word, I take up my position. For a few seconds, I close my eyes and visualize my character. I do this before every shoot. It helps me get in character.
Filming starts, and I become my character, my body just a vessel.
“Cut,” yells Sophie, and I hear shouts of appreciation from some of the onlookers every film has.
“Where’s my towel?” I bark at someone standing to the side of the set. The boy flinches as if I’d just poked him with a cattle prod.
“I—” he stammers, and I feel my fuse is just about to explode.
“Well, don’t just stand there like you’ve grown roots or something, go and get it from the trailer.”
The youth scurries off.
“Jordan?” I call and look around. “Where the fuck is Jordan?”
No one answers.
“Someone get my PA,” I demand to no one in particular, and I’m pleased to see someone scurries off to obey my command.
“A chair. I need a chair.” I growl at the junior who is returning with my towel. Promptly the boy disappears and comes back with my request.
Jordan appears and takes my towel. I was just going to ask the little runt to wet it for me, the way I always have it during filming to keep me cool.
“I’ll do that,” Jordan says and leaves again.
Furrowing my brow, I slump back in my chair.
“Todd,” Sophie calls.
I saunter back to my set. We shoot the next scene.
“Five-minute break everyone,” calls Sophie after the take.
“Hey, you,” I call out to someone who doesn’t seem to be doing anything. “Get me a double espresso and don’t be long about it.”
Someone offers me one of those plastic cups of pretend coffee, but I shake my head.
“I’d rather drink poison,” I grumble and wait for my espresso.
With my cup of coffee in hand, I look around for Jordan. What’s with him today, why isn’t he here when I need him?
“Hey, you,” I shout to the runner. “Get me some biscuits from my trailer.”
“We have some, right over by the little kitchen,” pipes up another faceless voice and rage builds in me like a storm.
“I want my biscuits, not some cheap shit the director bought for the commoners.”
I know I sound fucking salty today, but I just can’t help it.
When the boy arrives with my tin of goodies, I take a look inside and shut it again. My favorites aren’t there.
“Jordan!” I shout, wondering how the hell I’m going to get through this day in hell.