Black River

TWENTY-TWO

The casting trailer was parked in the shade under a live oak. O’Brien knocked on the door and entered. A middle-aged woman with full lips, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, sat behind a modular desk, one hand on a computer mouse, eyes trained on the screen. She wore tight faded jeans and a T-shirt that read: Black River — The Movie. She looked up at O’Brien and said, “If you’re here to read, I’m sorry. All the parts are cast.”

O’Brien grinned. “Darn, I guess I missed the cut.”

She leaned back in her chair a moment and smiled. “Hardly, you most definitely would have made the cut, but you missed the casting deadlines.” She glanced at her computer screen and then raised her eyes back up to O’Brien. “I’m casting for a TV series in two months. You could be just what the director is looking for in one role. You ever play a bad guy?”

“Only if I’m forced to.”

She smiled. “Do you have a headshot, resume?”

“Maybe I can come back with that. In the meantime, you might have a headshot on file of an actor who auditioned.”

“What’s his or her name?”

“Silas Jackson.”

“Let me see.” She typed on her keyboard for a few seconds, squinting. “Umm…I do have a head shot. But it’s not one that he carried in here. I remember when I met him. He brought half a dozen of his Civil War reenactment buddies with him. I hired them all. Wardrobe department actually took the shots to keep for continuity purposes, mostly. But with these guys, you don’t have to worry about realism. They know period clothing better than just about anyone.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Sure, but this man doesn’t work on the film anymore.”

O’Brien stepped next to the casting director’s chair and looked at the computer screen. A man dressed in a Confederate uniform stared into the camera, eyes empty, handlebar moustache disheveled. O’Brien nodded. “He certainly resembles soldiers I’ve seen in real Civil War photos.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“An acquaintance of a friend. Do you have a phone number for him?”

“All of that information is confidential.”

“I understand.” O’Brien smiled. “Maybe I could audition for a part on the TV show you mentioned. How are actors paid…every week?”

“Depends on the actor and the deal. The bigger the name, the more complicated it can be.”

“How about for extras…people like Silas?”

“They’re usually paid directly unless they make arrangements through an agent. Otherwise they can receive a check by mail or pick it up on every other Friday at the payroll trailer. I’d doubt very much if any of the re-enactors have an agent. This stuff is what they do on their days off.”

O’Brien nodded, turned to leave and said, “I look forward to seeing the movie.”

“It’ll be great.”

“No doubt. Oh, one more thing. Where do they look at the film takes? I know it used to be called dailies, but the digital world renamed it.”

“They do rough-cut editing in a post-production edit suite they’re using at the Hilton in DeLand. After the director is satisfied, the scenes are uploaded to the cloud for the studio executives to view back in LA.”

“Editing…now that’s where the story comes together. That’s what I’d like to try. But I guess it’s too late for me. I’d have to go to film school.”

“Not really. A good editor is a person who sees the big picture but uses smaller pictures to segue from an opening, middle, and finally the end. If the editor is really talented, it’s flawless and the audience is swept up in the story.”

“I’ve usually been okay at seeing the big picture. I could use a new career, maybe intern for a while, I might have an eye for it. I was pretty quick with jigsaw puzzles. Thanks.” O’Brien opened the door to exit.

“Hey, what’d you say your name is?”

He smiled. “I didn’t say, but it’s O’Brien…Sean O’Brien.”

“In a slight way, you look like the actor on the old TV series, Wyatt Earp. I like the old shows on the TV Land channel. His name was Hugh O’Brian. He wouldn’t be your grandfather, would he?”

“Different spelling of the last name.” O’Brien smiled.

“One of the off-line editors over at the post-production suite in the Hilton is free-lance. He’s very good, and he’s an old friend of mine. He cuts features, TV spots — a lot of episodic TV. His name’s Oscar Roth.” She used a pen to write on a slip of paper. “Here’s his number. Tell him I told you to call. My name’s Shelia Winters. If he isn’t with the director and has some time, maybe he’ll let you sit in and watch for a little while…to see if you might like it. Good editors stay busy. Although Oscar always schedules at least three weeks a year to fish.”

O’Brien took the paper, folded it, and put it in his jean’s pocket. “Thank you. Maybe you’ve opened the door for me to a new career.”

“If the editing doesn’t work out, you should really think about acting. I think you have the chops.” She smiled wide. “Here’s my number. Let’s stay in touch.”

O’Brien smiled, took her card and walked out the door. He called Kim Davis as he approached his car. She answered and he said, “Kim, describe the Civil War re-enactor that kept staring at you when you were on the film set.”

“Why, Sean? What’s going on?”

“Just curious.”

“He’s tall and thin. A narrow face with a handlebar moustache. Dark Elvis-style sideburns. When he tipped his hat to me, I saw he had a full head of brown hair. Have you seen this guy? Why the call?”

“No, I haven’t seen him. I called because I’m concerned, and I’d like to know what he looks like should I happen to bump into him.”

“You don’t just happen to bump into someone, not you. You intentionally bump into them. I’m fine, I guess. I don’t know if he left the rose in my mailbox. He was polite, but beneath his ‘yes ma’am’ manners, under all that Civil War chivalry, I felt there was some kind of sociopath staring at me. Don’t go slaying dragons. I’m not some damsel in distress. Let sleeping monsters lie. Talk to you later, Sean.”