Drama Queen

Chapter 1February 2013 Now: Koa This was not my first rodeo, but it was the first time I’d been on a set waiting for a car to plow into a farmer’s market. It had all been rigged and rehearsed the previous day, when a different medic was at the location. The setup for the shot involved half a dozen pop-up seller booths displaying produce, bread, and prop breakables; two long folding tables from Office Depot, covered with promotional crap meant to go airborne on impact, oriented end-to-end to create two aisles with three booths on each side; a dozen extras primed to run and scream; two stunt people to go flying; and, about fifteen feet back from the dressed area, a tall barricade of green screen. I assumed that meant a whole lot more farmers’ market would appear behind the collision area after post-production. Rita, the extras coordinator, told me it took two hours to dress the set. They’d need at least that to re-dress it in between takes. So the one scene was all they expected to get done today; I’d be actively working for maybe ten minutes, unless something went wrong. They wanted to get both takes in the can (or, more accurately, on the memory card) before three o’clock so the light wouldn’t be too hard to match when they picked up the next day with an aftermath scene. I nearly torpedoed the whole plan. Because the car came barreling in right on schedule, and maybe it wasn’t faster than the director expected but it was sure as f**k faster than I expected. The flight cables yanked hard. The front table went flying; paper exploded into the air. Both stunt people went flying, too, and when the director said, “Cut,” one of them didn’t get up. Two seconds later, I was kneeling on the gritty pavement next to Loren. Most of them was on the green crash mat; their head wasn’t. Airway and pulse were okay. The wig wasn’t even askew. But they were out cold, alarmingly pale under their makeup. Rita and the stunt coordinator were hovering behind me when Loren abruptly woke up. “What? s**t. Let me.” They tried to move. “Stay still a minute, I need to assess you.” I went down the script for head injuries. Heard the producer telling the crew to start re-setting. “What’s he doing?” The question was directed over my shoulder at Rita. “They need to go again.” Loren levered up to a sit. The stunt coordinator lifted their shirt, checked the cable, unhooked it. Loren told that guy, “I’m fine,” which resulted in a businesslike nod and a rapid exit. Then, “Really, I’m fine,” to me. “You’re f*****g not,” I said. “You might have a concussion, and from the look of that movement, you’ve got some other injuries.” “Maybe a rib cracked,” they said, with half a shrug. And a wince, because for f**k’s sake they just took an impact roughly equivalent to getting hit by a car. “It’s nothing. I can go again.” “You’re a little scuffed,” Rita said. “Got a change?” “Yeah, wardrobe has it. Exact same as this. I can go get it.” They tried to get to their feet. Short of actually holding them down, I couldn’t prevent it, so I helped. They wobbled for a second, then took a deep breath and settled. Gave me a sharp look. I took away my supporting hands, not too fast. Loren seemed stable. More pissed off than hurt, I thought, but you could never tell with head injuries. Once we got moving they might decide they weren’t good to go after all. I’d have to wait and see. The re-set time would tell me a lot. I turned to Rita. “Maybe you could get the costume change? We’ll get this top off and I’ll take a look at those ribs.” Of course, what that meant in the field like this was apply pressure, see if bone moves or patient screams. “You got it.” She turned away. I made a let’s go gesture, standing back to let Loren walk ahead of me. We went to the medic tent, where I unlocked my document case, pulled out my cast-and-crew data folder, flipped to Loren’s page and skimmed the details. “Do you prefer he and him?” “Yeah, thanks for asking.” I did the vision assessment, BP, a balance test, the usual. Rita came back with the change of costume, then stepped outside while I helped Loren take off version one. I tried not to notice what he looked like underneath, focusing on damage. None visible below the waist except what would be a bruise on his hip. Red marks where the cable hook dug in and under the harness. He pulled the pants on, shuffled his feet back into the cork-soled sandals, sat down again on my folding chair and let me poke around his ribcage. “That asphalt’s a b***h, isn’t it? Even under a crash mat.” “One hundred percent,” he said. “How’re things feeling?” “You know, I don’t think anything’s wrong. I just got the wind knocked out of me.” Loren leaned forward, twisted and turned from the waist. “Yeah, nothing feels off.” I’d take his word on that. “Okay, good.” “Got that blouse for me?” “Yeah.” I helped him into it, again trying not to notice his body. From not much distance, in these clothes, what you saw was a stylish Southern California housewife. Up close without a shirt (he had a padded sports bra on) what I saw was a five-foot-six hardbody with a light natural tan. In those cropped pants you’d think he was on the way to the beach to play some volleyball. Lose the bra and the brunette wig and he could walk right into a club in WeHo. Which was not a thing I should be thinking. “I need a mirror.” “Here.” I brought over the battery-powered makeup mirror that someone had presciently deployed in my tent. “Guess they figured someone would be in here, huh.” “Odds were in favor,” he said absently, tweaking the wig with his fingers. “Even if it’s just one of the extras getting dehydrated. Rita?” “Yeah,” she said from outside. “Got a continuity shot for me? “Sure thing. Coming in.” She was there with a stack of Polaroids a moment later. They compared the actual man with the pre-take picture. “Your mascara didn’t even smudge.” “Good. Tell the producer I’m ready to go again whenever they’re set. Maybe a powder down, if makeup’s got some hands free.” “Okay.” “Wait a minute,” I said. For the next little while, the three of us argued about why Loren needed to go again. Finally Rita said, “They need two takes,” tone signaling this should be the end of the discussion. “If Mr. McCall has to step out it’s a whole day lost, and re-scheduling something like this isn’t easy. Or cheap. You know how much has already been shot here.” “I know, but—” Loren cut in, audibly exasperated. “I can’t not do this. I’m doubling one of their stars.” “Oh.” I didn’t know that. Why didn’t I know that? Because the set medic doesn’t usually get the script, let alone the cast list. All I had to go on was the shooting schedule and its minimal description of the scenes. Loren was not-quite-glaring at me. I glared back, concerned but resigned. “If you’re still feeling stable and you can walk me a straight line when the re-set is done, I’ll clear you.” “Thanks.” He sat there, sipping from a bottle of water, looking completely unharmed in the fresh costume. Rita went out again, returning a minute later with Jessie, the other stunt performer. I thanked Rita for her help before she went away to deal with her extras (and, I presumed, update the stunt coordinator). Then I did a standard assessment on Jessie and cleared her to go again. She sat down next to Loren and they started talking about the stunt. I listened with half an ear, the other half letting the low-key soundtrack of a scene re-set dribble in. The thing about being a set medic is, your whole reason for being there is to help if someone gets hurt. I mean obviously from the production’s point of view your reason for being there is to keep them out of hot water with the unions, but people get hurt every day, even on projects like this. It wasn’t an action movie. It was a low-budget drama about PTSD, the kind that ordinary people get, like when they’re out shopping at a farmers’ market and somebody’s car jumps the sidewalk. Anyway, it all got put back together, everybody went into their places, the director called, “Action,” and it was fine. This time the car came in just a hair slower; it seemed like Loren and Jessie had that split second to pre-launch before the cables retracted. They still went flying, but both of them popped up a second after we all heard, “Cut.” Except I saw him wobble, and I lost my s**t a little. Jessie, the smart-ass, saw me coming and did three jumping jacks a few feet away. “You’re fine, I guess,” I said. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’ll come see you after I get changed.” “Great, thanks.” I instantly forgot all about her. “Loren.” “Yep.” He looked up at me. Nothing obviously amiss; pupils were equal and reactive, color was good, stance was fine. Feet shoulder-width apart. Hands on his skinny hips, acting out let’s get this over with as hard as he could. I walked around him in a circle, saw no evidence of scrapes or bruises. “I’d like to check your BP again.” An impatient sigh. “Fine, whatever.” And it would’ve been fine, except the fucker wobbled again as he sat down on the folding chair in my tent. His stats were all normal. It was the being-knocked-out thing that I wasn’t happy with. “I think you should go to the ER and get a head-injury assessment.” “Do you know what the co-pay is for an ER visit? Or an MRI? Plus going in this late in the day, I probably wouldn’t even get seen till after midnight, and I have another gig tomorrow.” “The f**k you do.” “Look, Sanders.” His expression was hard. “I’ve been doing this for a long time. I don’t need an MRI to tell me I’m fine.” “Do you at least have someone who could look out for you at home?” “What? No. Why?” “You know why, goddammit. What happens if you’ve got a slow bleed?” “Then I don’t wake up.” “Jesus Christ, kid.” My volume went up. So did his. “What? Kid? How old do you think I am?” I couldn’t remember. “Uh, twenty-five?” He smiled, or at least bared his teeth. “Try forty. I told you, been doing this for a long time. I’m fine.” We stared at each other for a minute. Maybe he could tell I was not just worried about covering my ass, but genuinely concerned. The pissed-off expression eased. “Look, I’m a little wobbly and yeah, a few things hurt, I don’t feel great. But hey, do I really look twenty-five? Because that makes me feel much better.” Whoa. That seemed almost flirty. “I, uh, s**t. It’s in your stats. I just, like, forgot.” The file was right there on my table, open, with the bare-minimum need-to-know details. Height, weight, blood type, known allergies, legal gender, age. Forgetting an important piece of data was not too impressive on my part. “I’ve never actually seen someone get knocked out before on a set,” I offered. “Cuts, bruises, scrapes, sprained whatever, even a broken wrist once. But it’s not the same as someone unresponsive. Sorry if I got a little worked up.” Loren was about to say something. Of course, Jessie chose that moment to walk in. “Yo.” I looked her over. “Ten second balance, right foot, then same on the left.” She huffed out a half-laughing breath. I watched as she held the balance, pretending to smoke a cigarette. Switched feet, did it again, blew imaginary smoke rings. I made her walk a ten-foot line heel to toe, did another vision check, and sent her on her way. For whatever reason, Loren was still there. I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to apologize again, because being concerned about an injured person was my job. Didn’t want to nag him. Didn’t want him leaving here to spend the night on his own with nobody to check in. “I saw Short Cuts,” he said out of nowhere. “So I get it.” I exhaled hard, as if I’d been punched. “Thanks for saying that.”