Chapter 8: That Same Morning

By Allen Frost


That same morning, Wervers strode back and forth at the studio
with his hands deep in pockets. The rest of the crew watched him go on his wind-up way, hoping he would stop before too long and say something else or point cameras anyway. They were all in a dull shock, but at least he was moving.
Finally, he did stop. Next to a boom he turned to face them all. He touched his chin and said, “On the other hand…It’s not like anyone ssaaawww us send those balloons right? I mean, who could have known where they came from?”
“That’s right,” a woman in a pilot costume agreed. Some other murmurs echoed around the stage.
Wervers continued, “And it shouldn’t stop us from making our movie, right? We can’t let this disaster, this horrible disaster, defeat us.” He put his foot up on a chair and weighed the copper tea kettle rounded on his open hand. He tried to Hamlet out the words for them. They were watching him, they needed some poetry, they were waiting for that.
From the end of the room a door clapped open and the light threw someone in. “We’re off the hook!” The door banged shut. The secretary ran across the wooden floor towards the film makers. “It’s on the radio, the Nazis are taking credit for the attack.”
“What?” Wervers stared at her. “Nazis?”
“Talk about luck.” She laughed nervously.
“What do you mean, Nazis?”
“They’re saying they did it. They said this is just the start, more is on the way.” She shook the thick pile of paper script at him. It seemed to take the timed burn of a fuse for her news to pop. “That means we can keep making the movie!”
That was the message Wervers had been waiting for. He was overjoyed, he leaped over to her and hugged her so tightly and suddenly the pages of the movie fell away from her grip and splashed all over the floor. He swung her around and let her back down. Everyone felt the same way, reacting with shouts and laughs and hurrays.
“Well!” Wervers rejoiced. “Let’s set up that next shot, down at the bay. Let’s go, let’s go!” Equipment had to be loaded onto trucks, all the actors and props. Wervers caught Sam’s arm as he bowled past. “Wait a second Sam, you can come with me in my car.”
Sam nodded. He snapped his fingers at the swaying doctor caught in his shadow. “Hey George, follow me.”
Wervers had a blue Packard sedan, it looked like an automobile version of himself, rusted on the edges and faded to silver by years of weather, but it started up eagerly once they all got in. The old man pulled at the wheel and turned them around the crowd, down the road between stage buildings and the track. “Sam, what do you make of what happened?” he asked. “I can’t figure out why those were real bombs…We’re lucky we weren’t all blown sky high.”
With a shrug that could have bent a trestle, Sam grunted, “Don’t know.”
“Well…I think we better keep an eye on things. It’s up to me to get this movie made and I don’t want the Nazis or whoever sabotaging us like that again.” He waved at the gate man and they drove out of the studio onto the two-lane road.
After a pause drifting on the edge of the wildflower shoulder, Wervers continued, “Do you suppose it’s possible the Nazis might have got on our set and switched the dummy bombs with real ones? I’d hate to think it was an inside job.”
Sam kept quiet.
“If they’re really using our movie to start their war, forget it, I couldn’t be a part of that.”
The Packard bucked over some potholes, slowed, turned to follow a small side road that made a run for the ocean. “We’ll shoot down there.” They shook across a rail line into the iron colored flats that bordered the sea. Now the harbor was revealed and the city shimmered across the waves. “Those balloons floated this way yesterday,” Wervers traced a crooked finger across the windshield slant. “Phewww!”
They hit another rut and George in the backseat thumped against the window. He slumped like a human cargo.
“Is your friend okay back there?” Wervers asked Sam.
“He’s fine,” Sam said. “He’s tired.”
“He’s a doctor, right?” Wervers’ eyes filled the rear view mirror. “Maybe he sat on one of his hypodermic needles?”
Sam glared at his director. Was the old man playing a game with him? What did he know?
“One film we did up in the canyon, we shot a cougar with one of those tranquilizers.” Wervers was warming up to the story but he stopped his thought and his car at the sight of a soldier waving a gun at them. “Woah!”
Sam’s fists clenched. George bumped against the front seat.
The soldier came over to Wervers who unrolled his window.
“What’s your business here?”
“Hello there, soldier. Name’s Wervers, I’m directing a movie. The rest of the crew is on the way. You need to see the permit? Papers?”
The soldier stared past Wervers and his face beamed like a lamp. “Hey! You’re Sam Samsara, the wrestler. I’ve seen you in those serials too!”
Sam nodded at the man.
“You fellahs making your serial here today?!”
“That’s right,” Wervers told him. “Soon as we get set up.”
“Aww, I can’t believe my luck! I thought I got stuck with guard duty and now look! Hey, can I watch you guys film?”
“Yes of course. Maybe I can even put you in somewhere.”
“In a picture with Sam Samsara!” the soldier rubbed his eyes. “This is like a dream.” He slapped the car, “You go right ahead Mr. Wervers, I’ll do whatever I can to help out.”
“Thank you soldier. We’ll park up there on the bank. Rest of them should be coming along shortly.”
“Hot dog!”
Wervers saluted and restarted the car. They pulled ahead over gravel and dry ryegrass.