06 PECOS BILL

Screenplay Paramedic: More TRUE escapades in the land of enchantment.
It is a very cold December night. A first time director (we'll call him "Fran" because he's constantly misquoting Francois Truffaut) and a "veteran" producer (alias "Pecos Bill") are presiding over a location set for an upcoming horror-fantasy.
Governor's Island, New York: inside an old Coast Guard barracks, lavishly redesigned to look like a Shakespearean witch cave. There is no native power; everything has to run on generators. All the juice goes to the lighting and sound equipment. Unless you're directly under the lights it is freezing. [LINK: http://www.govisland.com/ ]
There's a half-naked woman on a stone slab, enduring a full body makeup session. Problem: it's so cold the latex won't cure, not even with a hair drier. Nobody knows what to do. And nobody can find the director or the male lead.
Enter Pecos Bill, stage left. He'd been fired off another production for unscrupulous behavior. He swaggers around the set as if he'd lost a pillow fight with Mike Tyson. Clinging to his pinky is a gallon jug of cheap whisky, dangling between his legs like a great glass udder.
"Where is that Fran-swa Troofoa? Somebody find him! Find him and take that FDR butt stick out of his mouth, he looks like a fuckin' dick."
True, Fran did look like a dick, puffing a menthol weed through a plastic cigarette holder, muttering odd quotes and telling people who didn't agree that they "just didn't understand cinema." I think they're both missing the train.
Just last week we'd had another "executive script session" in Fran's apartment. It's the umpteenth revision, and I'm numb as a rock. Fran toddles around in a bathrobe the color of indoor-outdoor carpeting, clenching yellow papers in his fist. He plops down on the vinyl sofa, spilling coffee all over himself. Beside him is a plate of old spaghetti, caked with red clay. What gets my attention is not the script, nor what he's saying, but that hideous plate of dried worms on the sofa . . . Christ, that same plate had been sitting there for three weeks. I see an image of Jesus, possibly Elvis. Not for the life of me can I picture the real Truffaut.
Pecos Bill staggers up to the camera, lifting his shirt with one hand. "Tits, we need tits. This show needs tits! First rule of entertainment. More tits." Bill offers me a swing from the jar, but it's empty.
He pops a cigar in his mouth, reminiscing about his days in the porno business. "Most of your porn stars are gay. They need somebody to get it up for 'em before they go on. They got professionals for that, what you call your fluff.
Okay, I'll bite. What's a fluff?
He grins knowingly. "A fluff is an off stage guy who screws the boy star up the ass, gets him real excited when the cameras roll. A first class fluff can give the star a boner the size of Detroit. Pay’s unbelievable. Get you boys a job any time. Call me, babe." He reaches into a day-old Dunkin Donuts box. "Who the fuck took that last cream donut?"
Exit Pecos Bill. Fran-swa Troofa still nowhere to be found. An angry voice splits the air. It's our star! (we'll call him Sam). Sam explodes like a pack of Chinese firecrackers. "That fucking Pecos Bill stole my whisky! You tell these fuckheads I'm not doing another shot until they get my whisky! I want two bottles of Walker Red and Black!"
The lights flicker and die. Someone lights a kerosene heater. Mr. Troofoa appears in the glow. "Everybody go home. It's a wrap."
I went outside, totally confused until I saw the source of his chagrin. The utility truck had snapped a brake cable, rolled down a hill and overturned in a ditch. It lay on its side like a dead cow.
I wonder if this film will ever see daylight, if anyone here will ever work again. I think of Pecos Bill, his sweat-stained business card in my wallet, and take heart. Like the man says, there's an opening for everyone in show biz. You just have to reach down low enough to find it.