Chapter 6: The Night Balloons

By Allen Frost


“George is my friend,” Sam took a hand off the steering wheel and pointed at his grim passenger on the seat next to him.
The guard nodded, “Yes sir, Mr. Samsara.” Snapped around, he took the long walk back to the kiosk to open the studio gate. He had to walk past the rumbling long train engine under the silver hood of Sam’s car. The pistons churned and pounded the ground for fifteen feet in front of where Sam Samsara drove the colossal bullet shape.
When the striped yellow gate rose over the airstreamed grill, Sam took his foot off the brake plate and the automobile roared forward. They were already there when he hit the brake again, fit in a runway parking spot between a row of potted palm trees. Sam turned the ignition key over and one by one the valves shut down with the growl and sparking cough of a dragon. The silence in the air afterwards was deafening.
George crawled over the side. He had never been to the film studio before, he only left the apartment for short walks. Today though, Sam had requested his services as personal doctor—he was doing a stunt that had the possibility of going very wrong and he wanted George along just in case. From the swinging grip of his left hand George carried a black leather bag.
“This used to be a horse track,” Sam grunted. “Even has an old radio tower…That comes in handy.”
A big stable in front of them had been converted into a film stage. A studio jeep pulling a torpedo on a trailer drove in the wide rolling doors. “There it is,” Sam told him. “That’s where we film.”
Even before they got there, George could smell the horses’ ghosts. After he turned his head he saw the abandoned field inside the dead track. It was overgrown with mountains of blackberry vines, it was a briar patch like Uncle Remus or the Brothers Grimm. In the middle some white balloons were tied to piles of garbage.
“Those balloons are in today’s shoot.”
George said, “Mmm.” They walked by a parked truck. The back of it was filled with standing sheets of plate glass that reflected them walking. George got a good look at the two of them. Sam wore the uniform of the Imperial Japanese Army. George was dressed like the Invisible Man. What a sight, what a horror, George thought. Then they were met at the open door.
“Sam, Sam good morning!”
“Wervers…” Sam told George. “He’s the director.”
The nervous fellow gimped up to them. He carried a copper tea kettle. “You got your lines memorized?”
Sam tapped his temple. “Photographic.”
“Oh yeah!” Wervers laughed, “That’s right, Sam. Well come on in, we need you now.”
George had taken a step into another world. The light inside was brighter than sunshine. A crew was dismantling the last scene. They were ripping out the nails of a jungle. George followed Sam to the edge where ferns were propped and a couple folding chairs waited.
While Sam perched himself carefully into his creaking chair, a cup of green tea was quickly poured from the copper kettle. The china cup fit in his hand like a hummingbird nest. Sam inhaled the steam and liquid then held the empty cup out for more.
“I got a neighbor lady who thinks you’re great!” the old man gibbered while he applied make-up to Sam’s face. “Course she’s nuts about all the bad guys, but she likes your pictures most of all. I told her I know Sam, I work with Mr. Samsara, he’s not like that at all. But she just gives me one of those looks, you know. One of these days I’d like to get your autographed photo, I’d sure love to see her face when I drop that on her!”
George was watching the last of the jungle fade away. It was being carted away and replaced by grey walls, painted windows that showed a harbor view, battered furniture and a single red rose in a slender vase. The last thing one of the stagehands brought in was a big cardboard contraption. It was a box in shape with silver aerials crowning rows of phony levers and dials. Then the floodlamps went back on, George had to shade his eyes from the bright yellow.
“Okay Sam. This is it.” Wervers left his side and went to the camera.
Sam stood up and took big steps onto the set. He sat at the table. He let the last preparations go on while he laid hands on the prop machine and waited for the director to yell, “Action!”
A sour voice came through a close-up on the speaker, “Are the radishes in the garden?”
Sam leaned toward the transmitter and turned a nob, “Yes Master. They are ready for harvesting.”
A chuckling laugh replied, “Then carry out your orders.”
Sam nodded and snapped a switch. He stood up and looked out the window, the sight of the harbor, the sleeping city fading out at the sound of seagulls.
The next chair George was sitting in, he was under a cloud of gulls, staring over heaps of garbage, car and kitchen parts that framed the scene of rubble at the junk yard. This film was rushing along like a train through a dream.
The camera leaned towards Sam as he took out a bomb from a red wheelbarrow and tied it underneath the white bobbing balloon. He moved from balloon to balloon, arming them with bombs and letting them drift airborne.
Afterwards, Sam came over to George and explained. “That was for Chapter 6, The Night Balloons.” He jabbed at the weak afternoon sun, “This is supposed to be nighttime. The camera has on a dark lens.”
“I see,” George nodded. “So you’re sending out weather balloons to blow up clouds? Interesting idea.”
“No. The balloons are heading for the city. Over there…” Sam pointed across the harbor at the tall buildings along the shore.
George stared at the toy-like scene.
“Well Sam!” Wervers clapped his hands together, “That was great. Talk about cliffhangers! The kids will be lined up around the block for the next installment.”
They stood there and watched the film crew. It took five people to push the camera on the tracks they’d made through the thorns.
In the distance, across the water, the silhouette of skyscrapers dotted with orange explosions and black smoke.
The sound rolled towards them like thunder.
“Holy –!” Wervers staggered.
The crew hurried to push the camera back up the hill.
A smile winched down the corners of Sam’s mouth.
George fell backwards into his folding chair and blacked out.