The Script

The Script

I’m on the phone talking with Phil, our recently recruited special effects wizard from over at CMT, Inc., (Well, wizard might be a little strong since he’s only a newly hired second deputy assistant or something like that, still in High School I think, but, anyway, our budget’s tight and he’s available so...) when our office door bangs open, slamming against the faded wall, rattling the framed old movie posters hanging there and lo and behold in walks Bill. He looks at me, sighs heavily, then plops down on our beat-up, faded, dirty yellow couch, obviously depressed. Bill, that is, not the couch, although it probably would be if—

“Can’t be done,” Phil said in my ear. “Not for that kind of money.”

“Please, please, please,” I begged helplessly. “I know you can do it, Phil. This is your chance to be creative and—”

“Frankly,” he replied. “I’m not sure I want my name on anything associated with your turtle monster movie.”

“Now, now, Phil. We don’t have to use your real name in case you don’t want your Mom to know. Why shoot, we all use pen names anyway. You don’t think my real name is George Grady, do you? Of course not. You can’t even find my real name in Wikipedia.”

“Look, Phil,” I continued, calm and cool as possible. “Here’s the deal. Somehow or other, I need a giant amphibian, something like a swimming snapping turtle with a huge, I don’t know what you call it, beak? mouth? whatever. Its job is to turn over boats and drown teenagers and other people. No, no, big, but not giant, you know—no, not like Godzilla big, I mean more like “Creature from the Black Lagoon” kind of big. Just regular plain old monster size big.”

“Godzilla’s not an amphibian. He’s an atomic bomb radiation-created reptile,” Bill mutters, staring blankly at the ceiling. I motion to him to be quiet. He flips me the bird.

“Yeah, besides,” I continue, “Godzilla’s a reptile and turtles are—oh, turtles are reptiles? Since when? 300 million years ago…I thought they were amphibians. Ok, well, never mind. This isn’t a documentary. We want one the size of a large rowboat. Well, sure, I know frogs are amph—but it’s not that I really want an amphibian…you mean a monster-sized frog with a huge tongue that grabs people and…I don’t know, maybe, would that be—no, never mind, listen, we’re getting off track. What I want is a rowboat-sized giant snapping turtle.Can you do that? Ok, get back to me as soon as you figure it out. We’re on a tight budget here, so I’ll only need it for a couple of scenes, you know—ok.Thanks, Phil.” Hanging up, I face Bill, who is still trapped on the couch, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

“Alright, out with it. What girl broke up with you this time?”

“She didn’t like it.”

“What do you mean she didn’t like it? Didn’t like what, your ridiculous tongue trick?” (Speaking of frogs, Bill had one of those tongues that could twist itself into a tube. He liked showing it to his dates.)

“Didn’t like, as in, you know, diet fat-free ice cream.”

“Ice cream?”

“Yeah, ice cream.”

“What flavor?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Heaving himself off the couch, he walked over to our one office window, which yields a rather sordid view of the back alley behind our building. I waited.

“She said it was too thematic. Too thematic, whatever that means. Hell, it’s a monster movie for crying out loud, teenagers in a mountain lodge with a lake getting chased and eaten until somebody finally traps the turtle, but it escapes to live again. Thematic, yeah sure.” He turned to face me. “Oh, and she wants the kid to have lines.”

“That’s an easy fix,” I said consolingly. “He can just talk more to the Indian ghost.”

“Yeah, she didn’t like that either. Felt like the whole mystic Indian thing was way overdone.”

“I told you the ghost was a bad idea. We can get him a dog.”

“Dogs cost money, especially well-trained dogs.”

“We can use my dog.”

“Your dog bites.”

That last bit was sad, but true. He only bites guys, though—quite the ladies' man.

“We got one week to get her a new script, or else she wants her money back.”

I stare at Bill. He stares back. We both know what this means: ruined, run out of town on a rail.

“We’ve already contracted for—”

“I know.” Bill looked back out the window. “Buddy boy, we are in some real trouble.”

Just then, there’s a knock on the door. It opens before we can answer, and a woman comes in, wearing a 1930-ish outfit. She stops in the center of the room, turns, and gives us a sly wink.

“Well,” she said, in a credible Mae West impression, “It isn’t what I do, it’s how I do it.” She moves over to face me. “You must be George?”

“Umm, yes, well, Charley actually. Do I know you? If you’re auditioning, you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Aren’t you the boys shooting the newest monster movie, Terror at Turtle Lake? Word’s all over town, and I want the female lead. The teenager’s chaperone.”

That took me by surprise since I hadn’t written that part yet.

“How did you know—”

“Oh come now, Charley George. Every teenage monster movie has an adult chaperone.”

She walked over to the desk, running her finger across the dust on top, sniffing disappointedly at our accoutrements.

“How do you—”

“Oh, please, darling.” Now, she’s Bette Davis. “Nothing happens in this town without everyone knowing it. Besides, Max sent me.”

“I should have known.” We said together, looking at each other.

“Why sure.” Now she’s doing some southern/country voice, like Dolly Parton, or some such thing. “She said, Delores, get over there and help the boys out with their new movie. They can use some inspiration. So here I am,” Strutting over to the couch, she sat down, leaning back and crossing her legs quite seductively. “Ready to inspire.”

I look at Bill. “I thought you said—”

“Me too. Did Max say what part she wanted you to play?”

“Something about a sorority Mom taking a bunch of college girls to a mountain lake where they all get eaten by a turtle or some such thing. I need a job and Max thought I’d be a perfect fit.”

“We don’t have any—” I began, but Bill cut me off.

“Well, now,” he said as he walked over to Delores. “How many movies have you done?”

“None actually. This is my big break. Like Jamie Lee Curtis in Halloween.”

“Well,” Bill continued, “Delores, if Max thinks you’re right for the part, then you’re right for the part.” He walked over to the couch, sitting right next to her. “We may not be using a turtle, though,” he said, putting his arm across her shoulders, staring intently at her.

“Oh?” She said, removing his arm from around her. “Why not?”

“I think a giant frog works better. Grabbing people with a giant tongue. Want to see?”

He showed her his tongue. Screaming, she jumped off the couch, moving away from him.

“Delores,” I said. “You’re hired. Welcome to “Terror at Turtle Lake”.