piles, or climaxing in a forest fire colin fleming “I really have to get it in one take?” “Yes.” “But I thought you said--” “What I said was everyone gets one take. We have already let you practice your scene twice. This is a recording studio, not an amusement park ride.” The producer turned to his engineer. “Jarvis, did anyone else answer the ad?” “It was just him. He was standing there, I mean.” “Discourteous. People not showing up.” Beneath the sound booth, in the center of the nearly featureless room, the small man fidgeted awkwardly, alternately putting his hands into his pockets and pulling them out again, fearful that his grand opportunity could hinge on an awkward exchange of glances, or some random prejudice. The red light that lit up the room caused him to waddle slightly as it shone in his eyes, and not wishing to in any way suggest that he might be drunk, he stretched his arms out from his sides, as though giving an impressive account of balance. “Look at this fool, Jarvis. I think he’s trying to stand on one leg. We ought to have more friends. Too late for that now.” “But we’re--” “Of course, Jarvis. But let’s not go through all that again right at the moment. Chin up. That’s better. We have needs.” The producer pressed the intercom button. “We’re going to roll now, Mr....” “Kilby,” the engineer offered. “Mr. Kilby. We’re going to roll now. Mr. Jarvis is going to give you a finger count. When he takes the last one away, you say your lines.” “But I’ve never worn anything of my wife’s. Just a parka.” “We need the dialogue for the shooting script.” “And that was only because we were broke down. Our car I mean. Out in Pomono. Or was it Jolla. Off the freeway.” “Of course. But just for the shooting script, we need this dialogue...as I explained to you before, it has certain sound tonalities and valences and frequencies--it’s all for a what, Jarvis?” “A sonic admixture.” “Yes, an admixture so we can test your levels. This just happens to be the easiest mixture to do in English and we think English works best.” “But what will people...” “And if a level is off in any spoken part--” “We need to flange, Mr. Kilby.” “Right. As Mr. Jarvis said, that’s what we need to do. And then we’ll send you across the street for your test footage. If you want to be an extra in Mr. Hitchcock’s picture this is the standard procedure. That’s our deal. I could say it for a third time if you like.” “No...I think I understand.” “Roll.” “I like to wear my wife’s things. My wife doesn’t know that I like her lacey bras...and her panties. I like her panties most and--” “Cut!” The producer let go of the intercom button and leaned back heavily in his chair. He watched as the engineer twisted a knob with measured care, as he slowly pulled a plastic control peg the length of its track on the sound console. “Jarvis?” “Yeah boss?” “Just leave it alone. This is never going to work, no matter how we splice up the vocal. It’s not going to match.” “It’ll be close enough. Maybe. For five hundred it’s our best shot. Like you said, we can’t use ourselves every time.” “Which one did you speak to?” “Murray. The divorce guy.” “Rourke’s the divorce guy.” “No, Rourke’s the police guy. Or used to be. It’s Murray now. The divorce guy I mean.” The studio was lit up a garish red. Several floor lamps with enormous blood colored filters were positioned at select points around the room. A fake potted palm, with a wooden splint keeping it upright, sat next to an old Steinway piano with the words Musical Scores And Effects stenciled in faded gray letters on its side, all of it wedged into a corner with tattered fishing nets hanging down the walls. A thin voice wafted up through the mixing console. “...sometimes I wear them backwards...” The producer reached for the intercom button. “Mr. Kilby, we’ve cut. We’ll let you know when we’re ready again. Honestly Jarvis. See if anyone is waiting in the lobby.” “I’ll just patch in to Ms. Prescott--” “I let her go this morning. I think she stole half the sound effects.” “Half?” “At least that. To sell them probably.” The two men looked glumly at the dirty red carpet in the booth. “...now when I get them off here’s what I like to do...” “Cut!” “Must be the lights getting to him, boss. Never fails.” “And the booze.” Mr. Jarvis stood up, stretched, and lit a cigarette. “Where’s the ashtray?” “Use a magazine. I gave it to Bill Rich when he was up here.” “The drummer?” “No, that guy who swept up once last year. From the fried chicken place. Bailey’s or whatever it was. You try and do a guy a good turn” The engineer nodded sympathetically, his eyes downcast, and tapped his cigarette, with some detachment, against the cover of an issue of Variety magazine on the console. “Murray will be in for it tomorrow. Or he wants it tomorrow.” “Where?” “He said either the boardwalk on Desborn Street--and you know what that means--or at this motel out by Long Beach. Either way.” “All the way out to Long Beach?” “He said that’s how he does business now. Take it or deal with it. The consequences, I mean.” “Yes, Jarvis, I get it.” “My sister-in-law said she would lone us her car. For a cut.” “For a cut? Christ, Jarvis, a cut of what? Who else knows about this?” “Just her. I couldn’t get it any other way. Remember what they did to the dachshund.” “Of course I remember. And it wasn’t the dachshund. It was the beagle. No, the Jack Russell I mean. Flag. After Umberto D.” “De Sica.” “Quite right.” “...when I wear them backwards I turn the bra around too...” “Enough! Kilby cut!” The producer passed his hand through his hair. “Human contact really is too withering, Jarvis.” “I don’t follow…” “Doesn’t matter.” Mr. Kilby looked up in the direction of the sound booth surprised. He was nearly bald and drops of sweat shone read around the crest of his forehead. “It’s awfully bright,” he began, “and hot down here--” “We need the arc lights, Mr. Kilby. All soundstages have them.” “It’s not really an arc light.” “What’s that, Jarvis?” “Technically it’s just a studio floor light.” “What’s the difference?” “Well--” “Never mind. On this set, they’re arc lights.” “Right boss.” “We need the arc lights Mr. Kilby…they...” “Factor into the sonorities of the admixture.” “Exactly.” “Does Mr. Hitch--” “Mr. Hitchcock has several himself. More than several even. Ten. So let’s try another take.” “Thank you.” “You are welcome, Mr. Kilby. When Mr. Jarvis gives you the signal. That’s right Jarvis. Now Kilby.” “Sometimes I like to wear my wife’s things. My wife doesn’t know that I like her lacey...” “His levels are trailing off.” “Well Christ, Jarvis, bring them up.” “...I like her panties most and...what are these?” “Cut!” The producer stood up from his chair, reached out to the mixing console and grabbed the ash littered copy of Variety and flung it against the back wall of the tiny sound booth. Again he pressed the intercom button. “Those are not your lines, Mr. Kilby.” “I’m sorry. This is just so exciting. What’s all of--” “All of that is a box of sound effect recordings. We won’t be needing them today. Please put them back.” “...train noises, airplane noises, people walking on wet snow, soft rain...” “Mr. Kilby!” “...this record says fire noises. Hearth fire, building fire, house fire, forest fires...for scenes climaxing in fires loud and soft...crackling and otherwise--” “Mr. Kilby, we have other people waiting. This is a recording studio, not an amusement--” The producer took his hand away from the intercom button. “Are you absolutely sure there is no one else waiting, Jarvis?” “It was just him. Maybe if you hadn’t fired Ms. Prescott--” “If you would like to hire her back at your expense to file her nails and steal, by all means.” “I mean for her voice.” “We need a man’s voice.” “But if we just used the treble and the bass I could tweak all her levels--” “Shut up.” The engineer let out a sad sigh and, leaning back in his chair, passed his hand over the shadow of the mixing console silhouetted on his lap. “I was only trying to--” “I know Jarvis.” “...sometimes I even wear them backwards and the bra I...” “I thought I had until Thursday. Friday morning maybe.” “Have them come around the house?” “They left a note with Doris.” “What did it say?” “What do you think it said?” “That bad.” “At least.” “...when I wear them backwards the thing I like best is cotton and lace and I feel...” “We’re ready to roll again Mr. Kilby.” “...even though there are stains I like to...” “Cut! We’re ready, Kilby.” The producer leaned away from the intercom. “Those lines aren’t in the script, Jarvis.” “They must be his own, boss.” “Jesus. Light me a cigarette, Jarvis.” Mr. Kilby briefly broke off his monologue to wave in the direction of the sound booth. “What are these?” The producer and his engineer looked down into the studio, towards a corner where Mr. Kilby was pointing excitedly. “What is that, Jarvis?” “Soundtracks. Some new stuff. I always had a suspicion about Ms. Prescott.” “Good man, Jarvis.” “...Elmer Bernstein, Bernard Hermann, Max Steiner...Housewives in Heat...un...ex...purga...” “They only cost two fifty, boss. The whole stack.” “Nice work. Garage sale?” “My sister-in-law’s. I think he’s ready to start again.” “...then I turn the bra around and the panties are not clean and...look at all of this! piles and piles of real Alfred Hitchcock...mementos...sometimes I like to wear just the bra...” “Your lines, Mr. Kilby! Just your lines, please!” “...follow the adventures of real life mountain rangers in the Pacific Northwest...” “Kilby for God’s sake cut!” “...scored by Elmer Bernstein and a true to life love story of adventure climaxing in a forest...” “Cut!” “Fire. How was that?” “Fine, Kilby, fine. Good show. If you cross the two vacant lots across the street Mr. Hitchcock will let you know when he’s ready.” The producer and his engineer watched Mr. Kilby walk out of the dingy studio. “What Jack In The Box did you put the flyer at where you found him?” “The one out by the vista.” “Maybe you should try the one out by Long Beach.” “It was shuttered.” “With boards?” “Yes, boards.”