Besotted Boy!

By Ernest Pick

Poor Freddie Doolan! He still lives with his folks despite having graduated in film studies from a prestigious university. The great Director, Cephas Varte gives a lecture which Freddie attends. Afterwards, Freddie meets the Director who takes a liking to him and offers him a job on set, albeit a menial one. Freddie becomes entranced with Cephas and patterns himself after the Director both mentally and physically, buying elevator shoes, changing his hair shape and color, for example. The Director is flattered and brings Freddie along to Germany where he is shooting a new film. Freddie meets Lacey, a beautiful women and former drug addict, now Cephas’s wife. Suspicious of Freddie, she guards the Director day and night.

The film proceeds badly. Several disasters happen during the shoot. One day, Lacey accidentally runs over and kills a girl while driving in the countryside. She does not stop. In the cover-up, she sends Freddie with the vehicle to Frankfurt to have the front end repaired. There, an American named Billy, aware of the accident, tries to blackmail Cephas and Lacey. They devise a successful, if horrendous, plan to get rid of this nuisance. Out of guilt, Cephas lapses back into drugs.

Now finding the situation unbearable, Freddie attempts to disengage from Cephas and Lacey. Can he do so? Can Cephas and Lacey escape jail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532080203

Book preview

1

Freddie Meets the Great Man

Mom comes downstairs in her purple bathrobe while I am eating breakfast. It’s oatmeal this morning. She doesn’t greet me as mothers often do, with a kiss or a smile. Nor does she say good morning. She won’t whisper a greeting. She takes her place across the breakfast table, settles in with a cup of coffee, and stares. I am waiting for her commentary. She looks at me as if I were last week’s lunchmeat. Now I know for a fact she does not loathe me. Sure, at some level, she believes I am lacking. Thinks that any son of hers should be better, be ambitious, in control of his life. Anyway, I know the stare and I’m not looking up.

I’ve been thinking, Mom starts. Pregnant pause. It’s like a car sitting outside in the frost. Taking a minute to get the engine revving. Thinking, she goes on, about your place in our lives and on this planet. It’s seven o’clock in the morning and my mind glazes over. She forges on. Very mental. She peers straight through my eyes into my skull.

I lower my head stuffing in oatmeal at a steady pace.

You come from good stock, she begins, initiating the litany which I can quote verbatim. Your grandfather served as a major in the trenches of the World War. Your grandmother wrote a book on sewing reprinted in Better Homes and Gardens. Your dad is at the helm of his insurance firm. So how is it that you have no friggin’ idea what you’re going to do with your life?

I look up now. I am barely shocked by this diatribe. Or the language. I toss off my response with candor, without irritation. I’m finding my way, I assert.

Bull, she sneers. Your dad and I coughed up hundreds of thousands of dollars for you to study at one of the best universities in America. Instead, you played at Wharton, decided that American business was not grand enough for you. So, you transferred to liberal arts. Didn’t we predict that such a degree wouldn’t enable you to do squat? You graduated from Penn a year ago. Since that time, you haven’t moved out of the house you were conceived in. Can’t find a decent job, or so you say. Moreover, you’ve hardly stuck your head out of the door. What the hell is wrong with you, son? I ask this only because I love the bejesus out of you, she ends sweetly, and reaches out two fingers to rest on my shoulder.

Mom, as you can see, is fond of emphasizing her positions with a soiled mouth. I don’t mind. I shrug. I’ve heard the epithets many times.

But mom is on a roll. She won’t stop. "I begged you not to major in Film Studies. This entitled you to do one thing upon graduation. To go see movies. You cannot earn a living lounging and munching on popcorn in a movie theatre. Nor do you live in Hollywood with millionaire parents. You live in Atlanta in a two story with no basement. You have no entrée into the film world. Why the hell didn’t you just zone out all day at the Vogue instead of taking university courses? Or get a subscription to Netflix and lie in bed all friggin’ day watching flics. Would’a been a lot cheaper. And the result? you graduate with a putrid C average thereby shaming all of us in the family. The neighborhood which has heard of and discussed your average is cringing. Then where’s the job at the end of four years of Cinemascope? Where’s the paycheck? Where’s your self-respect?

Takes time to break into film, I reply nonchalantly.

A friggin’ lifetime, she blurts, glancing up at me. Now she slaps the Keurig and shoves two slices into the toaster oven.

It’s kinda early to condemn me to hell, I comment. Why not have another steaming cup of morning Joe? Might soothe you, I add, hoping that this suggestion will still her inflamed mouth. Silly me!

Because I am contemplating you and your empty, vapid future. Pauses to allow time for the final zinger. And my failure as your mother as well.

This afternoon, I lift my head and speak up to interrupt the flow of vituperation, I am going to hear a speech by Cephas Varte.

Checking the toast in the oven. What is a Cephas Varte?

Cephas Varte is the great film Director. His last film, Malayan Mists, could earn him an academy award this spring.

You’ve seen it?

Sure, twice so far.

So far! Mom groans. Told you. Just sit in fantasy land and let life pass you by.

I ignore the rant. Mr. Varte has a new film he’s about to finish on the French Revolution.

Novel.

That’s all I know about it. He’ll surely be discussing it this afternoon.

Look, Freddie. Corner the son of a bitch after his speech and get him to hire you.

I look up askance. I can’t do that. I’m nobody.

And that’s all you’ll ever be if you don’t open your mouth. The guy who grabs his privates and speaks up will leapfrog ahead of the guy who thinks he’s a nothing-burger. Test your mettle and corner the guy after his presentation. The worst he can do is pretend you don’t exist.

Pulls the toast out of the oven. Burnt the crap out of these, she says, shaking her head. Can never find the right setting. Tosses them into the garbage and starts all over. But then, just when you think all comity is lost, she comes around and plants a kiss on your cheek. Mom!

Now Dad comes lumbering down the stairs in his plaid shorts bemoaning the fact that he is facing morning, and that bitch-beam of daylight is starting to filter through the blinds. Once dad plods into the kitchen, he assumes his seat at the head of the table, snuggles his tushy in nicely. Then he holds his fork in his right hand and his knife in his left. Upright. Expectantly. Dad is a really nice guy, but he has developed a corpulent belly and a fat face. Too many potato chips. Often a bag at a time. But a guy with a nice sense of humor and a guy who is caring. God help us, he has developed a terrible shtick: if you want something from him, anything, you gotta pay for it.

Once he has had a chance to swallow a mouthful or two of coffee, I plead my case. How about loaning me the car after lunch?

Sure, Dad says, a weird smile creasing his face. Just put a couple of waffles in the oven there for me and when they are ready, take them out, set them on a plate, and sprinkle on the fixings.

Then can I borrow the car?

Most certainly, Dad says, but on your way home, spot me a couple of cranberry scones from the bakery.

I might not have time, I answer, anticipating his response.

You might not be driving the car either, he retorts darkly.

I’ll make time, I relent. Got me over a barrel. As usual. To show his appreciation, he reaches over to pat me on the cheek.

So that afternoon, I jump into Dad’s swanky, five-year old yellow VW beetle and cruise downtown to the World Congress Center. There, at two, Cephas Varte will address a hundred and fifty adepts about the world of film. Lots of girls in short skirts arrive early. They rush to the first row presumably so that Director Varte can check out their legs. A couple of them scarcely keep their tits in their holsters. On the verge of tumbling out, I notice hopefully. As a matter of scientific interest, I move closer to observe this phenomenon. The girls would tell you in all seriousness that this show of flesh is unintentional, of course, but how come several of these chicks are demonstrating the same unintentionality all at once?

After a brief introduction, Cephas Varte saunters onto the stage. Scattered applause. The girls tilt up their mouths to smile. First time for me to see the guy. At once, before he has uttered a single word, I sense something neat about him. His hair is brown and wavy and kind of luxurious. Kinda like mine. He’s about 5' 11", close to my height, thin like me, and moves with the same fluidity and grace I pride myself on. I mean I picture myself as a lithe panther padding through the world with infinite stealth. I see that Varte is also such a cat. I have found that we tend to admire people who are most like us. And so, I am edging totally into Mr. Varte. True, the guy has an aberration. He wears glasses to read. I don’t. Otherwise you’d think he was a relative, older to be sure, but a relative nonetheless. Maybe an uncle. Promising development, I am thinking. Maybe I have inherited the film-directing gene. I am leaning forward in my seat in about the twelfth row and can pretty much see everything. After a bit, I move a couple of rows forward. Cephas lifts the micro to his lips and starts with a round of thanks to honchos in Atlanta for making this appearance possible. During this time, I am examining his clothing. He is not wearing a suit. Bad form? Or is this Hollywood couture? Shit, he is wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater. Brownishly flecked to match his hair. Yeah, I guess he’s good looking for an old guy in his thirties. But when I say this, I realize with my usual humility that since I kinda resemble him, I must be equally beau. This makes me feel excellent. I move forward a couple of more rows. Son of a bitch, he’s sporting sandals! This world class Director can’t afford better clothing, better shoes? Made several million on his last film. What’s wrong with him? I am about to dismiss him as an artistic derelict when he opens his mouth and out warbles a bubbling fountain of the most succulent sounds a human can utter. It is fucking music, poetry, although I haven’t latched on to its meaning. It’s the melody of the words he spins that intrigues me. Man, he’s super impressive. Watching him move about the stage developing and spinning his points. His message is lost on me for a time. It’s just the spinning, the music that flows velvet-like out of that throat, much like a mellifluous, baritone aria. The girls in the front rows are shifting comfortably in their seats, crossing and uncrossing their legs. I can tell that he likes to see this Folies Bergeres. He has a curious little smile on his face as he addresses them. The corners of his mouth crinkle up. I try this at once and find I manage something like it. Impressive! I’m already learning from the Director. Believe I’ll keep this crinkle in my repertoire.

For a few moments, Cephas is describing camera shots, aspects of filming, and I can see he is losing the girls’ attention. They are chatting to one another and giggling behind the palms of their hands. But just as I figure he has gone off the deep end, he launches into a description of Troy Mahon, the star of the film. Troy, as is well known to the drooling girls in front, is a deity among actors. Dimpled, blond hair which never creases even in mud-speckled fight scenes. And the topping on the sundae? Biceps rippling with tonnage. Rippling even before the dude flexes! Girls are sitting up straight now hugging each and every syllable. Cephas remarks that Troy is such a joy to work with, although in the mags I read, movie people uniformly call him a prick. Nobody, the mags claim, care to work with Mr. Wonderful because he has endless, unreasonable demands. Like hot cider in his trailer, dipping a finger in it to ascertain the correct warmth. Like a girl to massage his limbs while he is not shooting, and another girl to read Marvel comic books to him. Guy never learned to read on his own, I gather.

But Cephas is lauding this prince, telling everyone how seamlessly Troy absorbs his lines, and how, in one take, he delivers not only the gist of the script, and its very essence. Better, he can spout the whole enchilada massaging it into a magical show for the camera. You can’t take your wide-open eyes off Troy when he is expounding in front of the camera, croons the Director. The front row is by now swelling up and down like a chorus line. Girls are damn near swooning, chests heaving. Fantasy time. Good ol’ Cephas has this patter down. He knows what makes girls squirm and shriek. The notion that Troy might want to embrace one of their little heads and stroke it in his lap is almost too much for the seething front row to bear.

Next thing you know, Cephas is onto Merinda Biola, Troy’s romantic lead. Cephas has moved forward imperceptibly, and is sitting now on the edge of the stage, legs dangling, toes twinkling out of his sandals. Telling the audience what a spectacular woman is Merinda, not only physically, plain for all who see, the Director projecting a photo of this babe on a screen behind him. Scoring 36-30-34, measurements which, when projected into the audience by the Director, draw gasps. Furthermore, what a lovely, modest person is Merinda, how she spends her off-screen time caring for the poor and maimed among us, assisting the halt and the blind across busy intersections. And as a closing endorsement, Ceph adds that Saint Merinda saved the day by moving cameras by her lonesome to bail out the assistant cameraman the morning he suffered a bowel obstruction.

Now onto the plot. It’s a doosie. As the French Revolution is gathering speed, citizens and rabble chanting the Marseillaise, Merinda is about to be guillotined. The charge against her is manifestly false. Got to be because any accusation leveled at this lovely goddess cannot hold water. Clearly, Merinda is too lovely to be crooked. Nonetheless, the babe moves forward, kneels without a tremor, and places her dainty curls on the block, the executioner’s axe poised over her head. Just then, at a distance, a commotion. The executioner, yanking off his cowl, looks up. A cloud of dust. The crowd gasps and sways as Troy rides in on his blond, snickering gelding, Lumiere, muscles rippling. I mean Troy’s biceps. Troy gallops onto the stage, his perfectly white molars gleaming, next to Melinda whose head is lowered on the stocks, and with the flank of his great steed, knocks the executioner into the second row of cheering Frenchies. Then, in one fell swoop, he hauls Melinda up by the buttocks, smoothly hoisting her behind him, Lumiere braying riotously on hind legs, while dignitaries clearly pissed about the theft of their afternoon entertainment, shriek French insults like Sacre Bleu, and yell for the guards. A regiment of beautifully uniformed soldiers rush out and block Troy’s path, but with a deadpan face unruffled by the chaos or legions of well-accoutred military, Troy raises Lumiere’s hind legs once again smashing soldiers onto the ground with a solid hit, first left, then right. With a wave of his giant cutlass and a saucy smile, the sun glinting off his stellar teeth, each golden lock cemented in place, Troy rides off into the distance with Merinda coiled about his waist. The romance of the story has shifted the entire front row into rhythmic purring.

Now Cephas wants to talk about the camera angles in this scene. I prefer to use three cameras, he begins. "One for a close-up of the faces of both Troy and Melinda, those fabulous faces careening through these exciting action scenes, while a second camera parallels Lumiere’s ride onto and off the stage and into the sunset. Finally, a long-range shot to capture Lumiere’s tail swishing merrily as he canters away from the Place de la Concorde up the Champs Elysees. As Lumiere bobs off into the distance, his splendid charges now locked into a passionate mouth to mouth embrace, the scene comes to a peaceful and slobbery close.

There’s not a whole lot of excitement in my life. Most of the time, I’m sleeping in the room next to my parents, my dad the only other person in the household who can linger in bed as long as me. Days are dull. Interactions meaningless. Mom scolds me, Dad barters like a fishmonger. Days multiply aimlessly with the rising and setting of the sun. We snore many hours away in unison.

But the idea of involving myself in the scene as Cephas has described it is forcing saliva into my mouth. My pupils are wide open. I am visualizing the story as Cephas has described it with the fair maiden rescued from execution, then readied for a passionate fuck in some cave in the Bois de Boulogne. Enthralled, I am leaning forward for I can picture myself solidly on the back of Lumiere rescuing the beauteous maiden before lying in a cave with the lady entwined as one. But as soon as I am side by side with the succulent Melinda, my fantasy is interrupted.

Cephas is now outlining the general plot involving Melinda’s role in spy craft, nefarious attempts to silence her first through bribery, secondly by execution. But Melinda’s tears result in a hero flinging himself into harm’s way and saving the fucking day. N’est-ce pas? My skin is throbbing at the thought.

A girl in the front, in the midst of a foursome, a girl whose sweater is replete with pineapples stitched onto her chest, is now rising as Cephas completes his presentation. She is standing underneath him whispering something to the Director. He lowers his head, bends his knees. I am flying forward hoping to overhear this interaction. The girl is offering her telephone number and says she will write it on her hand in ink. No, retorts Cephas suavely, ‘it is on my hand that you need to inscribe your number.’ Flustered, the girl rouges and complies.

A slight dimpling of the corners of his mouth. Then the suave and debonair question: How old are you? Cephas asks.

Sixteen. I’ll be seventeen soon.

Holy Judas, Cephas mumbles, wiping his hand on the back of his pants. You’re kinda young. Look me up in a few years. Abruptly turns away.

The girl is upset, stymied, unprepared for rejection. Reaches up to take his hand. Cephas looks around, sees two hundred pairs of eyes on him, and quietly, if patiently, withdraws his fingers. The girl now looks sullen and backs off. She’s quite a pretty little thing, I am thinking, more my age than that of the old boy on stage. I run after her and ask whether she would like to write her number on my palm, but the chick demurs. In fact, she looks somber as if I were making a joke at her expense. Not funny, she sniffles.

I was being serious, I remark.

The chick checks me out as if I were some insignificant toad and stomps off. So now I return to the stage, jump onto it as Cephas slowly meanders off surrounded by only a few hangers-on. Off-stage, he slips into a room as the little crowd dissipates. A worker is pushing the public slowly towards the back door. All but me holding my breath behind a poster. As the crowd dwindles, I wait a second, reach for my courage just as momma suggested, and knock on the door. Gently. Then once again with a bit more force.

Cephas opens it. He says nothing looking at me. Waits for me to proceed. My tongue is dry. Can’t speak. Finally, cross, he croaks: Come in here.

So, I come in, slap my mouth gently to summon up words into it. Finally, several seem ready to make their move. Hi, I start up with my usual brilliance.

Yes, Cephas replies, clearly bemused by the buffoon in front of him.

I study film. I mean, I finished my studies at Penn, I stammer.

Good school, Cephas answers. Could be a dialogue is beginning. Sits in front of a mirror and begins to uncake make-up from his face. Hand me the brush on the table, he says. I hand it.

Did you hear my presentation? he asks, cruising the brush through his ample hair, pushing back the slight lick that descends his brow.

Yeah. I loved it, I respond, but now worried that I have seriously overstated my reaction. I actually loved him. I hardly remember the presentation.

Good, he replies. When you finished your studies, what did you do?

Couldn’t find anything in film, I reply.

Not in LA?

I didn’t go to LA, I reply, wondering how I could have missed such an obvious thing to do.

He is patting around his eyes with a cotton swab, now turns slightly towards me. You’re a young guy, not bad looking. Claro que si, I am thinking as my girl, Jacinta, would say.

But I don’t want to act, I protest.

What do you want to do?

I want to work in film. Making movies, I respond.

Hmm, Cephas says, removing his shirt. I have a fresh one in the cupboard. Can you pull it out for me?

Suddenly, tension flees and I grow comfortable. Routine is calming. This is exactly what I do with dad. I grab the shirt, a sleeveless blue linen number, unfold it, and hand it to him. He pulls it carefully out of cellophane.

Look, kid. I really don’t have anything for you, he says, if that’s your angle.

I just wanted to meet you, I reply sincerely.

He pauses, checks off some lint from his pants. The guy is thinking. An onerous pause. He speaks through a sigh. My woman says I’m a sucker for anybody who compliments me, he begins, looking at my reflection in the mirror. Who am I to contradict her? The best I could do for you is to put you on the payroll as an assistant to the second cameraman.

I am stunned. I start to sit down, but there is no chair under me. Sir?

Would you like to work on my film? We’re finishing the French revolution, and about to start another. Doesn’t pay a whole lot.

I figure he is laughing at my expense. Are you shitting me?

Hardly, Cephas says buttoning sleeves.

I am embarrassed that I have uttered a coarse word in his presence. I attempt to respond on a different tack. Is the Pope Catholic?

Cephas looks pissed. This has nothing to do with religion, and I am not a fan of the Pope. Just answer the question, he days impatiently.

Yes, I would like to work on the film. I would give my right nut to work on one of your films, I reply sincerely, ready to produce the item if required.

Cephas smiles. You won’t need to cut off the right one for this production. Maybe the left one.

I don’t know whether Varte is serious or not. He now writes down a phone number on a piece of paper. Call this number Monday morning. Girl named Janice will answer. Tell her I have hired you as assistant to the second cameraman. She will tell you what to do next.

Flustered, I do not know what to say. I would like to kiss Cephas’ hand. Damn, he reaches over his right hand, but I am no fool, and all we do is shake. Tongue-tied, I have nothing further to offer.

Nice to meet you, he remarks casually as I open the