Geoff Nicholson - Gravity’s Volkswagen

The guard and I fell silent, but Josh Martin did not. He ranted on for quite a while, still not with any great clarity, but we caught his drift soon enough. It turned out he’d been in the middle of a particularly crucial take when we started arguing. The automotive freaks had been paid off, silence had fallen, the actors were at a fine level of creative intensity, the cameras had started rolling and then two fucking idiots had started screaming at each other and their voices were now all over his soundtrack.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, quite genuinely.

“Ah fuck it,” he said. “Enough of this crap. You’re fired.”

It seemed an odd way of putting it. He wasn’t employing me, so how could he fire me? Then I realised he wasn’t talking to me, but to the guard.

“I mean it,” Martin said. “You’re canned. You’re gone.”

The guard straightened up, gained a couple of inches in height and a good deal in dignity, and loped away from his post.

“Josh,” I said. “Really. You don’t need to do this.”

“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” Josh Martin said coldly, and then he returned to what was obviously far more important business.

I slunk back to my trailer. I felt as bad as could be. I was a complete ignoramus when it came to movie making, but I knew enough to realise that I had committed one of the crassest, most basic sins: don’t go yelling in the middle of a take. I was a fool. I was ashamed. I decided I’d better lie low and stay out of everybody’s way for the rest of the day. I couldn’t imagine that anybody would miss me. But then, in the middle of the evening, there was a knock on the trailer door that I recognised as Cadence’s.

“I heard what happened.”

“Well yes. So did everybody,” I said.

“You shouldn’t worry about it. Shit happens. Especially round here.”

“I feel bad about the guy losing his job.”

“That happens too.”

“Yeah, but I was the one Josh was really angry with. The guard just happened to be the one he could fire. It doesn’t feel right.”

“Hell, some would say he’s lucky to be out of it. Anyway, I thought you might want this,” she said.

It wasn’t beer this time, but a large and expertly rolled joint.

“It’s called Train Wreck,” she said. “It seemed appropriate. And it’s OK, it’s medical. I get it for my migraines. You don’t want to buy it on the street. The money goes straight to Mexican gangs.”

It was good stuff, there was no doubt about that, and it should have soothed me, but it didn’t. It did, however, put me to sleep, and as I drifted into unconsciousness I realised I’d again forgotten to call Caroline in England. I felt bad about it, but somehow not as bad as all that.

Another day. I woke early and I didn’t even want to get up. And having got up I certainly didn’t want to leave my trailer and have to face people. I wondered if there was a possibility of slinking away and never being seen again. But then Josh Martin was pounding at my door, and I opened it up and we looked at each other awkwardly and both said, “Sorry,” simultaneously, though I did think that mine sounded a little more heartfelt than his.

“I’m stressed,” he said.

“I was really stupid,” I said. “My first time on a movie set and all that.”

He grunted, twitched his shoulders and said, “Anyway, I’ve got a job for you.”

Being given a job was obviously better than being fired from a job I didn’t have, though I couldn’t imagine what job he was going to give me. For a delirious moment I wondered if one of the actors had fallen ill, or indeed been fired, and that I was required to step into the breach and perform as a Volkswagen survivor. It would have been far more than delirious: I can’t act at all, and I know it, but that doesn’t stop me fantasising. Fortunately, for everyone, all the cast remained in good health and employment.

“Here,” he said, and he shoved a brown paper bag into my hand.

“Thanks,” I said automatically and I teased open the mouth of the bag to see that it contained a small fistful of banknotes.

“It’s not for you,” Josh Martin said. “I thought that while you’re here you should do something useful. A new face might help. Take this money to the freak show. Buy us some silence.”

“All right,” I said.

“Here’s what you do. You go over there. You ask for somebody called Leezza. That’s with two ees and two zees. You put it right in her hand. She’ll do the rest.”

It didn’t sound like too difficult a job; or at least it didn’t until he added, “And be careful. Leezza’s the only one of them you can trust. Don’t let anybody else touch it. Definitely don’t let that bastard Motorhead Phil get anywhere near it. And don’t get robbed. Don’t get mugged. Don’t swap if for any magic beans.”

I said I’d do my damnedest not to. I didn’t know how much money was in the bag and I didn’t try to count it, but it didn’t look like a great deal and it fitted easily enough into my jeans pocket. Silence may have been a rare commodity in those parts but it didn’t appear to be a particularly expensive one.

I hoped I might borrow the bike I’d seen Cadence using but it wasn’t offered, so I set off on foot for the speedway gate, the one where I’d encountered the depressive Barry, and to where I’d returned him. He was still right there: that was no big surprise. And it wasn’t any more of a surprise when he beckoned to me again. I had every reason to believe he wanted another push to the diner. I hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but I had to talk to him, or someone, if for no other reason than I wanted him to tell me where, and indeed who, Leezza was. He was delighted to do it. The mere mention of Leezza seemed to brighten his whole day.

He pointed out a young woman sitting cross-legged on the ground a short distance away. She looked a lot less freakish than the rest of the people around the speedway. She was fresh faced, scrubbed-looking, and had no visible body modifications. She wore glasses, and had a short shaggy crop of blonde hair, and even though she was wearing camouflage pants and combat boots she still had the air of a librarian who’d dressed for a rough day among the stacks.

I was surprised to see she was sitting there cradling a laptop, tapping in information and scrutinising the screen intently. Everyone else I’d seen from the freak show had been involved in wholly manual, analogue activities. Leezza’s back was resting against a vehicle of some sort. I couldn’t tell what it was since it was shrouded under a blue tarp, but it looked too long and low to be a Beetle.

“I’m here to give you this,” I said, and I held out the bag of money.

She was slow to look up from whatever was on the screen of the laptop.

“Do you know anything about trajectory physics?” she asked.

“Sorry, no,” I said.

She looked me over and satisfied herself that I was indeed a man who wouldn’t know anything about trajectory physics. She held out her hand and took the bag of money.

“What happened to Cadence?”

“Nothing. They just decided to put me to work. I’m Ian.”

She didn’t seem any more interested in knowing who I was than Barry had been. And a part of me felt like protesting, insisting on my status, pointing out that I wasn’t just some drone or lackey or gofer, that I was actually the author . But again I reckoned that might come over as showing off or, more likely, pathetic, like I was trying too hard to impress, and to be honest I had my doubts about whether literary authorship would actually be impressive to a woman who was concerning herself with trajectory physics.