Table Read

The director sat at the head of the long table wearing a large smile and a dark green shirt that complemented his deep tan. “The casting job was amazing, Percy.” He spoke in a low tone to the screenwriter, seated at his right side and looking unrested in a ragged pullover shirt and three days of beard stubble. “You won’t believe it. Felice found the perfect actor for every part. She went like three extra miles to be mega-diverse, with a capital m-d.”

Percy Luttington gulped at his iced espresso, which was now mostly ice and less espresso, nodding nervously at the table of actors. “Felice is very real. She’s always on it. The thing for me, Rule, is it’s all about the story. Whoever can tell the truth of this story, that’s who we need.”

Rule Morton flashed his trademark bear-man grin. He’d gotten where was by getting the people what they wanted. Gritty stories of gritty people, told with bare-knuckled feverishness and then pumped up and edited by a crack post-production crew to a froth of manic movie intensity like a cinematic attack of cocaine-fueled woodpeckers. “Not only can they tell the truth, they are the truth. Felice excelled herself. ‘Dark Prison Love’ll be the most realistic prison movie ever. Take Romaine Leonard, our Klem. The script calls for an African-American man with a shaved head and tattoos, and, lo and behold, Romaine is an African-American man with a shaved head and tattoos.”

“’Sup,” said Romaine to Percy. “That script’s some good shit.”

“Thanks, Romaine.”

“You can call me Rome.”

“How about Iceberg? You ever get that?”

Romaine stared at him silently for a few seconds with his impressively large, serious eyes.

“Not only is Romaine African-American,” continued Rule, “but he’s allergic to shellfish, just like Klem in the script.”

“That is impressive,” said Percy. “If we add a scene where you have to eat an oyster…”

“I’ll throw that shit up in your face,” Romaine assured them.

“And,” continued Rule, “Romaine’s mom was an Avon lady, just like Klem’s.”

“That’s amazing! He’s like Klem come to life!” Percy gave Rule a high five. “Damn, when you said Felice excelled herself, you weren’t kidding!” He turned back to Romaine. “What kind of acting have you done, Rome?”

“Shit, I don’t know nothing about acting. But it’s like mom said. You gotta ring some doorbells to sell some cologne.”

Rule laughed heartily and Percy followed his lead, with slightly less heartiness.

Rule jabbed a big finger at the script. “Now, for our Lester, we’ve cast someone just as impressive! You wrote that Lester’s a rabid neo-Nazi with prominent facial scars who’s nearly deaf from blasting heavy metal into his headphones day and night. He’s also a borderline psychopath with a surly demeanor and a record of assault with a deadly weapon.” Rule beamed at Percy. “We got a freakin’ winning streak going, Percy. Meet Orson Labatsch.”

Percy looked with concern at the hulking, wide-eyed, white man sitting next to Romaine. “Hi, Orson.”

“What?” growled the surly-looking man.

Rule mimed taking out a pair of earbuds in Orson’s direction. Orson removed the buds, which continued sending distorted smidgens of death metal into the room from the tabletop.

“Hi, Orson,” Percy repeated a little louder.

“Orson Labatsch,” said Orson. He cast a suspicious look at Romaine and crossed his heavily-muscled arms on his chest. “It’s hard for a neo-Nazi to get cast these days. You rock.”

“So you’ve been acting for a while?” Percy asked hopefully.

“Since I met Felice,” Orson nodded backward. “At the Thirsty Jackboot on Fountain last week. She told me it’s tough for a neo-Nazi in Hollywood.”

Percy cleared his throat. “You don’t… you don’t really have a record of assault with a deadly weapon?”

Orson was quiet for a moment as his eyes took on a misty, nostalgic haze. “Damn, do I ever.”

Percy frowned and nudged Rule. “Can we talk in private?”

Rule obligingly walked with Percy to the coffee machine, still unable to wipe the smile from his face. “Pretty impressive, huh?”

“You really think it’s a good idea to cast a neo-Nazi as our neo-Nazi?”

Rule drew back, his perfectly groomed eyebrows shooting up. “What’s the problem, Percy? We’re casting from strength here. I thought you wanted authenticity?”

“Yeah, well, there is authenticity… but…”

“Percy, look, no one can convey the core truth, the inner essence, the searing, ideologically twisted soul of a neo-Nazi better than a real freakin’ seared neo-Nazi. Am I wrong?”

“Yeah… I mean, maybe.”

“Look, meet the rest of the cast before you come to any conclusions. You gotta see how they mesh to make a whole ‘Dark Prison Love’ family.”

“I’ll give it a shot, Rule. But, no on here’s going to get immediately violent…?”

“Percy, Percy! This is art!” Rule chuckled. “When you mess with human truths, sometimes you slip off the straight and narrow. We’re living on the edge, here. Shit happens. Remind me to tell you about the time a poodle got killed when I was filming Cutthroats 5.”

Rule shepherded Percy back to his seat and gestured to the next actor.

“Now, let’s meet Serge, who’s playing Istvan Khamiza, the disaffected Kazakh crypto-Islamist terrorist suspect accused of poisoning his detractors with instantaneously acting nerve agents.”

Serge glared at Percy from behind an unruly black beard and fierce, retrograde eyebrows. He curtly nodded and looked meaningfully at a drab green envelope on the table in front of him.

Rule enthusiastically gabbled on. “Just like Istvan, Serge here is also a disaffected Kazakh crypto-Islamist terrorist suspect accused of poisoning his detractors with instantaneously acting nerve agents.”

“This man is a terrorist suspect?” Percy asked, on the verge of squealing the question.

Serge leaned forward infinitesimally and spoke in a low voice. “Are you becoming one of my detractors?”

Rule laughed infectiously. “Not only a suspect. The man did time in a black site outside Cairo. Tell us about your hatred for the Western devil, Serge.”

Serge scanned the room with a glance that could have easily killed common household pests through its sheer malignancy. “If anyone leaves this room before I get to my hate-filled rant in the second act, the contents of this envelope will be wafted on everyone.”

“Such a kidder!” cried Rule. “I’m already quivering in my boots, and I’m not even wearing boots. Tell me, when this man is onscreen is the audience going to fear for their lives or what?”

There was a crash as Romaine suddenly kicked back his chair and jumped up, staring at Serge. “You’re one of those crazy motherfuckers that wasted my homeboy!” he yelled.

“Calm down, Romaine,” said Rule. “That was probably a radical Islamist, not a crypto-Islamist.”

Labatsch turned coldly to Romaine, who was shouting from within a few inches of his left shoulder. “Sit the fuck down. I don’t need your dumb ass shouting in my ear.”

“I’ll shout my ass where I want,” screamed Romaine. “What you gonna do about it, ignorant cracker?”

Serge waved his dark envelope maniacally. “You are all the Western devil. You think I care if I die when I take such heathen with me?”

Rule beamed at Percy. “Look at the energy crackling off these guys! Do I already hear rumors of a sequel?”

Percy jumped up to make a break for the exit.

“I know,” said Rule, clamping a firm hand on his shoulder. “You gotta get your phone to get some pics of this shit. Don’t worry, it’s all being recorded.” Rule gestured at a video camera mounted on the wall behind him.

“Rule, I gotta get outta here. This cast is too much.”

Romaine made an impulsive grab for Serge’s fatal envelope, scraping Orson in the process with his metal bracelets. In retaliation, Orson leapt from his seat, howling with rage, and whipped out a switchblade.

“You can’t leave,” Rule urged Percy. “You haven’t even met our Sawyer Gunkin yet. You know how you wrote him as a poorly groomed, pugnacious backwoods pyromaniac with a hair trigger temper and a tendency toward serial strangulation?”

“I’m outta here, Rule. I’m doing a new script. Something about beauty parlors, I think, and sedate gemologists.” Percy escaped Rule’s grip and broken into a run to the parking lot while a troublesome roar came from behind him along with a massive crack like a huge wooden table being split in two.