Variance - Book 1, Issue #4

Los Angeles, CA

Day 3 of The Rise

     The production of Camels to Africa was six weeks past picture-lock, ten million over budget, and the picture’s star, Lila Craven, had locked herself in her dressing room for the third consecutive day.  This was the twenty-eighth incident of the kind in her career and her agent, Rachel Greenberg, had had enough.

     Lila hadn’t done a picture in over four years and, while she was once a promising young star, a nervous breakdown mixed with Quaaludes and tequila resulted in a court-ordered stint at rehab.  Or, as the Hollywood-types spun it: “Lila is taking a much-needed break from the stresses and tribulations of her acting schedule.”  

     This “much-needed break” lasted thirty months and cost the actress a small fortune.  

     Rachel had pulled every string and called in every favor she had left in order to get Lila Camels to Africa.  When Lila read the script she told Rachel it sounded “trite and far-fetched.”

     “It’s Lawrence of Arabia, but with a woman!” Rachel cried in response.  “It’s fucking Lila of Arabia and you are doing this picture if I have to drag you on set and deliver you to Ernie myself.”

     Ernie was Ernie Roland, the director of the picture.  He was hot off his Oscar win for No Sunshine in Brussels and wanted to direct an epic drama with a gritty actress who had the talent and the town’s respect.  What he got was Lila Craven.  She lacked tremendously in the respect department, and her level of talent was undoubtedly in question.  The New York Times called her portrayal of Mona Lisa in Leonardo’s Game “contrived and a total bore,” and The Boston Herald referred to her performance in Kites of Brooklyn as “a true test for a young actress; one that barely gets a passing grade.”

     And now Lila was on set for one of the biggest productions in studio history, and she was refusing to come out of her trailer.

     “Fuck Ernie!  Fuck all of them!” Lila screamed from her bathroom.

     Rachel was sitting outside on one of the lumpy couch cushions furiously sending emails from her Blackberry.  “You don’t mean that,” she said without looking up.  “Ernie’s a great director, he just gets passionate sometimes.”

     The accordion-style door to the bathroom slid open and Lila stood there, mascara running down her puffy, red cheeks.  “I’m passionate!” she cried.  “I defy you to find someone more passionate than me!”

     “Lila, listen,” Rachel said, finally setting down her Blackberry.  She got to her feet and guided Lila out of the bathroom.  “We’re almost there.  We only have one more scene and then you wrap.  Please, I’m begging you, for your career…fuck, for my career, please clean yourself up and get back on set.  I’ll talk to Ernie in the meantime, but please, please, please, just do this for me.” 

     “Jesus, fuck,” Lila said pulling away.  “Fine, I’ll do it!”

     Rachel squealed.  “Yay!  Okay, wipe that mascara off your face and meet me at makeup in ten.”         She snatched up her Blackberry and left, clicking away at those little keys as she did.

     “Click.  Click.  Click,” said the Blackberry.

     Lila went back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.  She had purple sacks under her bloodshot eyes and there were thick trails of mascara breaking off into several roots near her jawline.  She grabbed a towel from the rack and wiped her face but only managed to rub the mascara deeper into her swollen cheeks.

     “Ugh!” Lila grunted.

     She rubbed harder, but the color only deepened, embedding into her pores.  She looked at herself again, more than ready to have another tantrum, when she was struck with a crippling headache.  It was unlike anything she had ever felt before.  Her nose crinkled and her jaw clenched, but then the pain promptly vanished.

     The incandescent light above the sink accentuated the crow’s feet dotting her eyes and she suddenly looked thirty years older, like the shell of the young temptress she once was.  Her skin was frail and bedraggled.  As far as actresses went, Lila Craven looked like a monster.  

     But Lila didn’t groan or scream.  She didn’t cry out in a wretched “woe is me” howl.  She looked thoughtfully at her features, even taking a moment to touch her swollen cheeks with the tips of her fingers.

     And then she smiled.  It was a wicked, impish smile.

     Lila blinked and heard her lids click against the moisture in her eyes.  When she opened them she noticed a faint discoloration, something slight, just around the iris.  But when she blinked again, the discoloration vanished

     How peculiar?  She thought.  How very, very peculiar?

     The smile morphed into a grin...

* * *

     Lila arrived at makeup just how she had been in the bathroom:  the mascara was smeared across her face, her lipstick was a splotch away from “clown mouth,” and her hair was a frazzled mess.

     “What the fuck happened to you?” Rachel asked taking a clump of Lila’s hair in her hand.  She held a few strands close to her face, inspecting it as if she had lice.  “Lila, what’s the matter?”

     Lila said nothing.  She only giggled a schoolgirl’s giggle and plopped down in the chair.

     “Are you high or something?” Rachel asked.  “Lila, I thought we had this handled.  You were clean.  Fuck!  You are clean.  Jesus, what did you take?”

     Giggle.  Giggle.

     “Lila!”  Rachel slapped Lila’s cheek, smearing mascara across her palm.  “What.  Did.  You.  Take?”

     Giggle.  Giggle.

     “For fuck’s sake!” Rachel pulled out her Blackberry.

     “Click.  Click.  Click,” the Blackberry said to Lila, and she squealed with delight.

     “What the hell’s wrong with her,” Ernie Roland asked venturing over to the two.

     “Nothing, she’s fine,” Rachel said frantically typing away.

     “Click.  Click.  Click.”  More laughter.

     “Oh, holy fucking Christ!  Shitting shit!  She’s stoned as balls, isn’t she?”

     “No, of course not.”

     “Don’t lie to me, Greenberg,” he cautioned.

     “I’m not lying.  She’s fine.”

     Ernie looked over the wavering Miss Craven.  Her eyes never met his.  They danced around the soundstage with child-like amazement.  He grabbed Rachel’s arm, pulling her away from Lila.  “Picture’s up in five.  If she’s not ready, I’m shutting this down!”  He stormed away without looking back. 

     Lila was staring at the recently-built set.  There were half a dozen straw huts depicting a small village.  The huts were scattered across a thin layer of white sand, and a background had been painted on a nylon screen to make it look like a sprawling desert lay beyond the horizon.

     The other crew members were milling about the “village”, all of them shooting Lila the same look of contempt.

     “Where’s fucking makeup?  Makeup!”  Rachel typed away at those clunky keys and left in search of the makeup girl.  Lila was left alone, fiddling with her hair as she stared at the set that seemed so real.  She hopped off the makeup chair and sauntered toward the back of the set.  Behind the nylon screen that portrayed the expansive desert Lila found a varying array of art supplies: stacks of oil paints, dirty rags, brushes, thinner, extra nylon, and old bits of wood frame.  And while the rest of the cast and crew were busy blocking the next scene, Lila was busy emptying the thinner and oils over every surface in sight.  She splashed them on the set’s trusses, giggling every time they slopped on the floor.

     “Where’s Lila?” Rachel was yelling from the other side of the set.  “Lila!” 

     Lila held a finger to her lips as if willing herself quiet.  She nearly giggled, but gulped the laughter back with a giant swallow of toxic air.

     “Lila!  Lila!”  Others were calling for her now. 

     Lila started for the back exit.  She passed an HMI light on her way and tipped it over with a simple flick of the fingers.  The light toppled over so casually, so easily, it was as though Lila Craven had the strength of a body builder.

     The light crashed against the oil-soaked rags, igniting them into a smoldering inferno.  

     Lila’s eyes lit up as a brilliant orange glow streaked up the massive nylon background, the desert scenery disappearing into a fury of flame and ash.  It was not long for the rest of the set to catch fire.  The huts were set ablaze after the trusses tipped, igniting the straw with a kiss of its flame.

     Lila pushed open the back exit, stepped out, and calmly closed the door.  She took a vacant security guard’s chair and wedged it beneath the handle.

     As smoke filled the set, she could hear the others still inside pushing against the exit, but the door would not give.  Their pounding came next, followed by layers of screams that Lila could not stop giggling at.

     Later, the LAFD would estimate the soundstage had gone up in less than three minutes.  All forty-seven people inside would perish.  And Stage 6 would never be used again.

     They found Lila sitting on one of the golf carts they had used to shuttle cast around.  She was making gratuitous engine sounds and turning the wheel as if she were running the Indy 500.  Smoke was pouring out of stage vents in a black stream so dense it looked like God had twisted a Sharpie across the sky.

     “Lila Craven?” one of the firefighters asked.

     She looked up at him with those child-like eyes, batting her lashes and smiling that innocent (but hideous) smile.

     “Are you Lila Craven?”

     “‘Click.  Click.  Click,’ said the Blackberry!”  Lila wailed.  She threw back her head and howled a fit of laughter that echoed off the studio walls.

     The world was covered in a layer of maniacal gasoline, and Sarah Morse, Russ Buckner, and Lila Craven had all just struck a match.