Most Unclean
Tyler Knight
Winter 2010
Winter 2010
“I have a booking for you tomorrow. Two scenes, one movie,” she says. “The Director wants to know if you’re okay with violence and horror mixed with the sex.”
I’m sitting at my computer desk, a cup of green tea warming one hand, cell phone in the other. “Horror porn?” I ask.
“Yeah, like simulated violence but the sex would of course be real,” she says.
“Why would I have a problem with that, Cindi? I’ve shot or beat-up countless people in flicks over the years.”
“I know but he made a special point to ask two things. Who our best actor is, and is he open-minded?”
What the hell does “open-minded” mean? It’s porn for Christ sake.
“Sure,” I say. “Whatever.”
“Okay, consider yourself booked then. I’ll send the email with your call time location and wardrobe info tonight.”
“Thanks.”
“Top-Shelf Talent.”
“Cindi, please. It’s Tyler.”
I’m scanning my email inbox for the third time in case I-
“Hey handsome, what’s up?”
“Hey, Cindi,” I say. “That email you sent yesterday didn’t have a script attached.”
“Yeah, I called the director after we hung up and he said you’d get it on set.”
“K. Thanks, I’m heading over to the set now then.”
The home’s interior is decorated in a way that suggests the owners became scratch-off ticket instant millionaires and have only recently escaped the weight of poverty. Second-hand looking furniture, sofa wrapped in plastic, pool table with side-by-side stand-up Space Invaders and Ms. Pac-Man machines. The coffee table looks like it was tooled with a chain-saw and a rock. On the far wall, a plasma TV that’s wider than I am tall, accessorized with a Wii, a PS3, and an Xbox 360. Watching over all this, a velvet Jesus painting.
Lumbering towards me, a man with a face of chipped-onyx, slick with sweat that gives it a look of high-gloss polish. His stature suggests he grew up next to a nuclear power plant. The man thunders closer, Skittles-colored body-builder pants billowing with each step as if he’s some kind of African genie. He’s got on a too-small t-shirt with the “look at me, I’m a douche” v-neck that exposes his pecs. When he stops in front of me and extends his hand, I don’t know if he wants to shake mine, or curl me. I have to look up at a 45 degree angle to meet his eyes.
“Hi, I’m Frank,” he says. “You must be Tyler.” He takes my hand in his and squeezes, crunching it like dry cereal. In my mind’s ear, the sound of wet celery snapping.
Easy there, killer! Chill the fuck out!
“Yep, I’m Tyler. Nice to meet you.”
Frank’s head is between me and a bank of recessed ceiling lights. From my angle looking up, it’s like looking into an eclipse. He shoves some papers at me. “Here’s the releases and whatnot. The script for both scenes is there too. Look it over when you get a chance. It’s not too challenging.”
Frank stomps off and I find space on the floor to sit. The paperwork is the boilerplate release and proof-of-age bullshit. Then there is the script.
Is this a joke?
The script is one page, two paragraphs, divided by “Scene One” and “Scene Two.” I read the first scene description.
What the Fuck!
Then the second scene. Midway through the first sentence, I stop reading.
This can’t be right!
I read the script again, searching for a hidden message. There isn’t one.
Okay, it’s just make believe. This guy paid my agent in advance, I’m a professional, it’s not up to me to make judgments about the content. God knows, I live in a glass house.
One | Two | Three