Chapter 4
Chapter Four
THE B.U.G.
J ack careened through the M3 traffic towards Shawford. With no potential ticket too big and no car gap too small, he raced through the honks and profane screams of all he passed, drowning them out with the sweet sounds of Freeway through the Danger Place blasting from his Morel Supremo speaker system. The SSC Tuatara was a bit overkill, but when time was of the essence, there wasn’t a better automobile in Jack’s showroom. Still, the moderate highway congestion kept him from reaching its top speed, and even though he was about to do in forty-five minutes what most could only hope to do in eighty, he’d never felt more let down by the crowning jewel of his car collection. As his pupils remained fixed and focused on the blurred asphalt ahead, his mind’s eye projected upon the windshield, a transparent image of the text Mick sent the night before.
Mick
O Jack. So sry. Shooting starts tmrw. Crazy busy here. I couldn’t find a director or host, so I’m doing triple duty. Talk soon!
All night and morning, Jack tried to reach Mick, but every text went unread, every call unanswered, and every voicemail unreturned. Jack wondered how Mick could be so selfish. After all, it was Jack’s predicament that inspired the pilot…and if Jack hadn’t sowed the seed of executive producer into Mick’s blacked-out mind like Dumbo’s little mouse friend did to the circus big boss, Mick never would have moved forward with the project. Jack had to see Mick in person. He had to remind him just how integral he’d been to the show’s development and thus deserving of its lead role.
After taking the Shawford exit, Jack slowed down as he passed by the rural homes of the quaint and simple. He found it adorable that people chose to live in such humble circumstances - especially when only a little further down the road, Avi’s mansion stood as a testament to what could be achieved if they’d only aimed a little higher in life. Then Jack saw the front gate.
As he pulled up and exited the car, a loud commotion drew his attention to the other side of the road. There, in an open green field, dozens of people scurried in a disorganized frenzy around a beautifully ornate purple and gold hot air balloon. Some carried cameras. Others were shouting instructions. Somewhere in that open field, Director and Executive Producer Mick Morris was about to begin production. Luckily, he hadn’t yet started.
Before Jack could take three steps onto the field…
“Excuse me, sir! You can’t be here! This is a closed se-”
Jack instinctively threw a loose wad of fifties into the muscular chest of the set’s security guard and marched on unabated in search of his friend.
“Oh, uh…sorry, sir. I didn’t see your credentials,” said the guard as Jack scoured the crowd for Mick.
Then, over by the balloon, he spotted him. Mick’s frightened face and submissive nods indicated trouble. And judging by the flippant motions of the massive man in the gondola, Jack sensed an opportunity. The closer he got, the more confident he was that he’d been replaced with B-list, roided-up actor - Cliff Clifton.
“I mean, what could be taking so long, Mick? I’ve been standing in this basket, in these tight, wussy clothes, for over an hour now, and…”
“I know, Cliff. And I’m so sorr?—”
“Don’t interrupt me, man! I’m doing you a favor here, and you can’t even answer one simple question?”
“I’ve tried,” Mick replied timidly. “I’ve tried telling you that we’re waiting for the winds to change ever so slightly. That way, when your balloon goes up, it will come back down at least close enough to the contestants that they can run over and...and…”
“The winds to change? What are you, a meteorologist?”
“Well…no. But Mr. Fenway is, and…and he assures me…”
“Wow, Mick. Just wow. I can’t believe I agreed to do this! You can’t win an Oscar…can’t keep your woman…why did I think there was even a chance you’d find success directing a…”
“That is enough, sir!” Jack shouted. “Mick, don’t let him talk to you like that, mate. Clock him. Clock him right in the face!”
“It’s fine, Jack. I’ve got thi…Jack?” Mick asked as it finally dawned on him that his friend shouldn’t be there. “Jack!? What are you doing here?!”
“Who’s this runt?” Cliff asked.
“He’s…he’s no one. And he was just leaving. Weren’t you, Jack?”
“You show some respect to Mr. Morris! He’s a Hollywood icon - an Academy Award-nominated juggernaut whose new television programme is going to change the way people telly!”
“Let’s go, Jack,” Mick said as he ushered Jack away from the man who might very well kill him.
“What are you afraid of, mate? You’re Mick Morris! Let him have it!”
“For the same reasons you wouldn’t really strike him.”
“Oh, I would too…if Benny was here.”
“Exactly. Now, come on, Jack. Let’s go.”
Over Mick’s shoulder, Jack screamed, “Cliff Clifton will never be remembered for anything more than the meat-headed sidekick of whichever superhero whose third installment is about to become the summer’s biggest box office flop!”
“AHHHHHHHHH!” the giant shouted.
Cliff clumsily climbed out of the gondola. He slowly sprinted with all his mountainous might toward his overmatched flouter, fist-cocked and ready to fly. Jack could have briskly jogged away from his assailant, but well before he needed to, Cliff collided with the boom operator and went down hard, grabbing his knee.
“Cliff!” Mick shouted with furious worry as he left Jack and ran to the side of his fallen star. “Cliff, are you alright?”
“Oh no!” Jack exclaimed. “Mick, this is terrible. You’re not expecting this poor man to go on in his current condition, are you?”
“Jack!”
“What? Okay, fine. I’ll do it. I’ll fill in for him. But only because I believe so much in your vision for this programme.”
“Get him out of here.” Cliff roared through a clenched jaw. “Ah! Oww! Don’t touch it. It’s just an old football injury acting up. It’ll be fine in thirty seconds, but he won’t be if he’s not out of my sight by then!”
“I’m so sorry, Cliff,” Mick said as he shot to his feet, grabbed Jack by the upper arm, and walked him towards his car. “Jack, listen. I gave you a chance. I gave you multiple chances to accept this role, remember?”
“Yes, but I…”
“I know. You put your trust in Thomas. And I respect that. But now I need you to be a friend and respect me.”
“Oh, come on, Mick! The bloke’s completely daft and dodgy! Plus, you want to talk about respect? You heard what he just said about you!”
“I know!” Mick exclaimed. “Okay? I know. He’s wholly unholy and a completely unbearable wanker. But if I send him away this late in the process, I send away any little credit I still have in the industry with him . I’m…I’m sorry, Jack. I really am. If someone picks up the pilot, I’ll get you on next season, alright?”
With that, Mick gave Jack’s shoulders two consoling squeezes and jogged over to see to his big, unfriendly giant. Jack had lost. Losing was so rare Jack hardly knew what to do with himself. Should he mope? Cry? Admit defeat and return to London to give Thomas one more chance at playing Cupid? It seemed the only reasonable thing to do. That is until he noticed the frail-figured gentleman in a top hat and waistcoat apathetically standing by the balloon: no doubt the man responsible for turning the little flamethrower thing on and off. Now, if only Jack could get to him without being spotted.
From his sports car, Jack watched as Cliff concluded his introductory interviews, bossed a few more crew members around, and finally climbed into his nylon and wicker chariot, ready to ascend via gaseous flame over Hawthorne Hall. When they’d achieved lift-off, Jack emerged from the coupe. With only the slightest of dastardly grins and a small pile of folded clothing in his arms, Jack scanned all the faces in that field, waiting for the perfect moment when their smiles would give way to panicked confusion. It took some time, but all at once, their dispositions fell victim like sullen dominoes. A camerawoman was the first to notice. Then a cameraman, then Mick’s assistant, until, at last, Jack watched as Mick’s tender heart entirely failed him.
“Too high…they’re going too high…you’re going too hiiiiiighhhhh!!! Come back! Please, come back!!!”
Mick’s desperate leaps and pleas fell far short of the hundred-meter height exceeded by the balloon. It didn’t take long before Cliff’s rogue skyship caught hold of a northeasterly atmospheric current that carried him off in the opposite direction of Hawthorne Hall. As Mick collapsed to his knees and lowered his head in hopeless defeat, Jack almost felt sorry for the man, even if he were about to make everything in Mick’s world right again.
“Mick? Mickey boy? You alright, mate?”
Without looking up, Mick quietly asked, “What did you do?”
“Uh. I did you a favor. You really think that knob was going to get millions of women to turn on their tellies and tune in each week?”
Mick shot to his feet with a fire Jack had never seen before and asked once more before storming off, “What did you do?!”
Jack, chasing after him, replied, “I bribed that hot air balloon flyer bloke with the keys to a two-million-pound automobile. Now your hands are clean. Your Hollywood cred is still intact. And most importantly, you’ve got the leading man you wanted all along.”
“You don’t get it. Do you, Jack? The cast of contestants was handpicked for him , not you. I didn’t weed out the gold diggers or fame seekers like I would have for you. My aim was not love; it was drama - it was ratings. I picked one of Cliff’s ex-girlfriends. I picked a six-foot-four-inch female bodybuilder for crying out loud!”
“What’s that in meters?”
“Two-ish,” Mick replied as he pressed on toward the estate’s gate with Jack in tow.
“That could be sexy, I suppose.”
“Exactly. This whole thing’s just one big joke to Jack Adamson.”
“Hey!” Jack exclaimed as he spun Mick around by the arm just before he could enter the gate’s code on the keypad. “This isn’t a joke, alright? I want this…I need this.”
Mick appeared to search Jack’s expression for sincerity. And he must have found it.
After a few seconds of seemingly perplexed thought, Mick asked, “What about the girls?”
“I don’t know…umm…did you pick any legitimate love interests? Down to earth, decent women?”
“Of course. But of the ten, only about three…maybe four were chosen as serious potential finalists.”
“Three or four’s good.”
“Is it?”
“It’s not great, but it’s better than what Thomas has given me to work with. Yeah. A few should be fine.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. No problem. But the women aren’t expecting Cliff, are they?”
“No,” Mick replied as a sudden worry spread over his face, “but they expect a surprise. A movie star was supposed to be their surprise! Now I have no surprise, Jack!”
“I’m your surprise!”
“What…you’ll tell them you’re rich?”
“Well…no. I can’t do that.”
“Then what’s the surprise?”
“I…I can juggle…but only when no one’s watching.”
“Oh! This is hopeless!” Mick bemoaned as he entered the gate’s code and proceeded up the path towards the estate.
“Did you promise them a surprise at the very beginning?” Jack asked.
“No,” Mick said as his pace slowed slightly - possibly due to intrigue.
“So, save it for the end. Tell the girls a big surprise is coming, but it’s only for the winner at the end of the show. After I choose Ms. Right – who, over the course of the pilot season, has shown she cares about me even without the money – we’ll reveal to her how filthy stinkin’ rich I am.”
“That…that should work.”
“And that’s when she signs the prenup in front of the entire watching world.”
“No. But I like the rest of it. What about your wardrobe? We had Cliff’s custom m?—”
“I have it right here,” Jack interrupted as he held up the clothes he’d been carrying.
“From your last time at Hawthorne Hall?”
“Yep.”
“Do they still fit?”
“Of course they…Hey! What are you getting at?”
“Just that it’s been …what? Six years?”
“Have I plumped since then?” Jack asked, looking down at his waistline.
“No, but if they don’t fit, you’ll need to get over to wardrobe so they can let them out.”
“Wait! So I’m in?!”
Mick sighed and said with some reluctance, “Yes, Jack. You’re in. But we’re burning daylight. We need to find a way to expedite this process. I’ll need to call Cliff’s agent and let him know a mishap led to…”
Ecstatic, Jack immediately depantsed, threw his twenty-first-century getup into the bushes along the gravel road, then endeavored to clothe himself in his regency attire whilst walking.
“But wait,” Mick said, stopping dead in his tracks. “With the balloon gone, we have no grand entrance. A lot is riding on that grand entrance, Jack! We need to blow away the women and the networks, and…and…”
“Whoa. Slow down, mate. Do you even know who you’re talking to? This is Jack Adamson: the same Jack Adamson who self-identifies as the sultan of spontaneity and was once voted ‘Most likely to come up with an idea so crazy it just might work’ by his secondary school peers.”
“Alright. Let’s have it.”
“I’m thinking. I’m thinking. I…got it.”
“Well…spit it out. What’s your plan?”