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The Talent Scout

Mike Schneider

    He had done it so many times it had become routine: Fly into the nearest city with a major airport, rent a Lincoln Navigator, drive to the small town where the movie scenes were to be shot, rent a room at a hotel, motel, or suitable bed and breakfast, set up his equipment, then go to bed. In the morning he would get up and walk the streets looking for extras.
    Ten years ago he had enjoyed the beginnings of a promising acting career. He hit Hollywood at 23 after graduating from the University of North Carolina School of the Arts with a bachelor’s in dramatic acting, to which he added a master’s in script writing the following year. Armed with those, above average acting ability, and what the girls and mothers in Augusta always referred to as his movie star good looks, he didn’t remain in the non-speaking crowd long. Within three months he was getting walk-on parts with a line or two, a role with 12 lines came a few months later. After a year, fourth or fifth billing in supporting roles with up to five minutes of face time, and guest star credits in TV dramas, became the norm.
    Then tragedy struck.
    On his way home from the set one evening while driving a surface road, a Jimmy’s Hot Mustard & More delivery van swerved to miss a deer, hit him head-on, both vehicles doing about 35 mph on impact. He wasn’t wearing a seat belt, the air bag failed. Passersby stopped and carefully got his head back inside the car, then administered first-aid until the paramedics, who were amazed his jugular vein was still intact, arrived.
    The accident led to plastic surgery after plastic surgery. Each operation left him looking a little better and gave him hope of getting back to his original, good looking self, but the ninth one yielded a disastrous result: His mouth came out three-eighths of an inch to the right of where mouths are supposed to be, saddling him with the lurid look of the villain in a graphic horror novel. Luckily, it barely affected his speech, but after that no plastic surgeon would touch him, and he couldn’t so much as snag a date, let alone a movie role.

    The town this time, Cherish, Ohio had a good set up with a B&B in an old bank building, directly across the street from where the scenes were to be shot, in a music store that would be converted to a gun shop.
    The next afternoon he spotted a perfect ingenue on the street. An obvious high school girl, lean, maybe 5-8 or 5-9, with great features, flowing blonde hair a quarter of the way down her back, and a smooth complexion, came walking toward him wearing a blue backpack with an I-phone in her right hand.
    “Pardon me, miss,” he said as they came face to face. “I’m with the Gates Agency, of Hollywood, in town scouting for extras for
The Shortest Night, an action movie that’s going to be partially shot here. I’m sure you’ve heard about it,” he said as he handed her his card: Thomas A. Johnson, The Gates Agency, 1921 Eucalyptus Way, Suite 2, Hollywood, California, 90038. Phone: 213-555-1583, e-mail
taj1921ga@gmail.com.
    “I have heard of it. Everyone in town is excited, nothing like it has ever happened here before.”
    “I understand that. I find the farther away from Hollywood you are, the more exciting it becomes,” he said while noticing a cute little dimple in her left cheek when she smiled.
    “My drama teacher got permission to have two students behind the camera while they’re filming, but I wasn’t one of them,” she said with a bit of a pout.
    “Well, let me ask you this, would you consider being in front of the camera?”
    “What? Me?”
    “Yes, we’re searching for some extras,” he said while looking at a piece of paper pulled from his shirt pocket. “A tall, lean, pretty, blonde high school girl is on my list. How old are you?”
    “Seventeen, I’m a senior. Are you really serious?”
    “I am. This is what I do. I used to be an actor, but as you can see, I had some misfortune along the way. I wanted to stay in the business so now I scout extras.”
    “I’m sorry that happened to you,” she said, genuine sincerity in her voice.
    “Thank you, that’s very kind. If you test well and the director wants you, you would get scale, maybe $100 or $200, depending on how long the scene takes to shoot. Are you interested?”
    “As my dad would say, ‘not only yes, but hell yes!’”
    He escorted her to the B&B and up to his large room on the second floor that was kind of a combination sitting room, kitchenette, and bedroom. The kitchenette had a sink, cute undercounter refrigerator, and microwave. A queen size bed occupied a corner near the bathroom, along with a dresser and chest of drawers. There was a four-place kitchen table between the kitchenette and the sitting room, where a small couch, medium size television, a couple end tables, and several upholstered chairs, had mostly been pushed to the far side of the room.
    “Nice,” she said, gazing at his makeshift studio where a tripod and camera, background paper, a rotating stool, lights, diffusion umbrellas, white and gray reflector boards, and several other pieces of equipment were set up and ready for use.
    
“We also have a microphone and a rudimentary recording system, just in case they might want a line or two from you.”
    “Wow! I’ve never seen or even dreamed of anything like this!”
    He motioned for her to have a seat while he took five or six minutes to check all the distances he had marked on the floor with short strips of masking tape, using a light meter at each spot. She pretended to casually leaf through a copy of People Magazine from one of the end tables but kept her eyes peeled on him while he walked around, then gave the camera a final going-over. She could read People anytime but this would be her only shot at watching a Hollywood professional at work. When he was satisfied everything was ready to go, he said, “Ok, up on the stool. What’s your name, by the way?”
    “Corliss Ann Bauer,” she said as she put down the magazine got up and walked to the stool in front of the background paper. “Most people call me Cori, my family calls me Liss. Either is ok.”
    He wrote it down on a form
    “What’s that?” she asked.
    “Just a release for you to sign later, so you can’t sue me or my company for e-mailing the video back to the production company in California. You’ll have to sign another one if they use you in the film.”
    In the beginning, he stood behind the tripod, at times silent, other times talking to her and asking her to respond, like a real conversation. He led, asking her what she was taking in school, plans after graduation, any brothers or sisters, boyfriend, girlfriend, pets, and favorite movies. Anything to keep her animated. She surprised him when she said she didn’t have a boyfriend, seemed like a mighty pretty girl to not be involved. He shot her from about 30 different angles, both her head and body, telling her to turn this way and that, look up, look down, look to one side, then the other.
    “This reminds me of when I had my eyes tested for glasses and contacts,” she said, and laughed.
    At times he walked to her, and using both hands, gently moved her head to a certain angle and told her to hold it.
    It took a good 20 minutes. Then he detached the camera from the tripod, walked around hitting the tape marks while she remained on the stool.
    “Between this and the tripod I can get you from every angle there is,” he said.
    After about 10 minutes of mobile shooting, he said, “Ok. I’ve got what I need. You’ve done great, Cori, you can get down off the stool now.”
    As she did, he said, “You know, I don’t want to embarrass you but there’s a short, about five-second, topless scene that is going to require a girl something like you. Do you think you would ever consider that?”
    “I don’t know, that...that seems a bit much.”
    “No problem. I totally understand. I only mentioned it because from what I can see of your form, you look like you might be the ideal candidate.”
    She thought for a second.
    “What would I have to do?”
    “Just what you’ve been doing for the last half hour, only with nothing on above the waist.”
    She noticeably hesitated, then said, “Would I be able to show you first, before the camera is on, to make sure I’m what you want, because I’m not sure you will?”
    “Yes, of course. And the camera doesn’t go on until you say it does.”
    “Ok, see what you think,” she said, her face reddening, as she pulled up her t-shirt and bra, revealing perfectly formed C-cup teenage breasts with no sagging, and hard nipples about three times longer than normal.
    “See what I mean?” she said.
    “I do. And that doesn’t hurt a thing. It only makes you more interesting. However, it would likely turn a five-second scene into ten seconds. Maybe fifteen.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, really. You have something distinctive and desirable,” he said, looking into her eyes, not at her breasts.
    She responded with a smile.
    “What do you think, Cori? Are you game?”
    “Sure, why not,” she said with newfound confidence.
    “I’ll help you off with your T-shirt so your hair doesn’t get messed up” he said.
    “Thank you.”
    When he did his hand accidentally brushed against her left breast.
    “Sorry about that.”
    “That’s ok,” she said, demurely.
    He began shooting again on the tripod, telling her at times to lean forward, lean back, stretch with her arms in the air, clasp her hands behind her neck, one arm straight up, the other straight down, then reverse. Once he told her to cup her hands under her breasts, as though she were lifting them, although she wasn’t.
    When he took the camera off the tripod it got more personal. At one point he walked in and touched her breasts, telling her to stretch and lean back, then put a hand under one, then the other, as if adjusting them, but there was no adjusting to do.
    “There, that’s perfect,” he said. “Now hold that pose,” and backed away with the camera running.
    Another time he came in, told her to look to the right, then tweaked her left nipple. She sharply drew in her breath.
    “I’m sorry but I don’t think I would be able to call myself a man if I didn’t do that at least once before you get away from me,” he said sheepishly.
    “Don’t worry, I’m just glad to know you like them and they didn’t disqualify me.”
    When he finished he said, “Ok. You can get dressed. Fill in the needed information on the release, sign it, and be on your way.”
    “My parents are gonna kill me.”
    “Well, the movie won’t be in theaters for at least a year. By then you’ll be 18, pretty much your own gal. But if you decide against it, simply tell them ‘no thanks,’ when they call, and don’t sign the movie release. Problem solved. Besides, we don’t even know if you’re going to be in it.”
    She looked at him, crestfallen.
    “Don’t you think they’ll use me?”
    “I have no way of knowing. But your screen test went very well. You photograph well, your voice sounds good in case they find a line for you, and your breasts are outstanding.”
    “So, I have a good chance?”
    “Hard to say. I had another girl up here this morning who is pretty much running an even race with you.”
    “Damn,” she said, biting her lip.
    He hesitated a couple seconds, then, “Cori, I don’t often say this, but let’s face it, you have something special. I could probably almost guarantee a part for you, depending on what you’d be willing to do for me.”

*

    After they finished, he stayed in bed while she got up and retrieved an unlit joint from her backpack for them to share. Lying there together the whole thing kept sashaying through her mind. His fascination with her nipples surprised her. Until then no one but her cousin, Katie, in Seattle, whom she visited for two weeks every summer, had seen them, and Katie laughed.
    “They look so silly,” she said.
    Cori had been ashamed of them but now, because of Tom, they were a source of pride, something she had that others didn’t, a feature they could only wish for.
    She loved the different sounds he made, sometimes throaty ones, almost like a cat purring. And moans, lots of moans. Also, other sounds, distinctive ones that were a bit beyond moans but did not quite rise to the level of words. Was there a name for those?
    She controlled the pace of their smoking, taking as long as possible between tokes, trying to keep her newly appreciated oddity, that Tom so adored, on display as long as she could.
When there was finally so little left of the joint that she couldn’t hold it without burning her fingers, they both got up and dressed.
    “I’ll call next week and let you know what’s going on,” he said as she was leaving.
    At school, Ted Jarosi and Missy Mattel talked all week, incessantly, about how lucky they were to be allowed on the set, behind the camera catching a close-up view of everything that goes on when filming a movie.
    “I still can’t believe it. It’s just so bodaciously cool but, of course, not altogether unexpected,” Missy would say, making Cori wince.
    Ted was just as sickening, claiming he would direct his first major motion picture before he was 25, “...the next Quentin Tarantino,” he told anyone who would listen.
    Would she be able to glimpse their faces when they saw her in front of the camera? She hoped so, it would be priceless. And who knows, maybe some famous producer or director would see, and ask her to be in one of his films. Maybe she would be nominated for an Oscar. The future was impossible to predict.
    As the days went on and Tom didn’t call, she fretted. Had something happened to him? It was hard to judge his age, perhaps around 40. Had he gotten too excited when they were together? Maybe had a heart attack? A stroke? Or some other medical catastrophe older people are susceptible to when overdoing? If he had she’d never forgive herself.
    Two days before shooting she called him but all she got was a recording that said it was not a working number. E-mail wasn’t any better, came back undeliverable. But that wasn’t uncommon, people often change their cellphone numbers and e-mail addresses. A different carrier, better phone, more minutes, less money. Maybe bundle phone and internet, prefer to use the provider’s email.
    The day of shooting she set her alarm for 4 a.m., shaved her legs, pits
and
bikini lines while showering, dried and flat-ironed her hair, spent 45 minutes putting on her make-up, not satisfied until everything was perfect. In addition to using her Taylor Swift Incredible Things Eau de Parfum as usual, she sprayed a hint of it inside the tops of her bra cups, and on the front of her panties for...she didn’t know, just for whatever. She ate breakfast and was out the door by 6:15.
    At the shooting site she picked out a woman who looked important, told her she hadn’t heard from Tom, and wondered who she might talk to about it. The lady politely told her she was sorry but had no idea about whom she as speaking.

When she tried to explain further, tell her about her screen test, she treated her like some crazed screwball, threatened to call security.
    “He has a strange mouth,” she said as a last resort, putting her forefinger against her lips, pulling them slightly to the right.
    “Oh, you mean ‘mouthy,’” a man standing next to the lady said. “I know of him but have never seen him. He’s not legit, and I can tell you two things without having to ask: You’re of legal age in Ohio, whatever that happens to be; and you signed a release.”
    Cori turned and quickly walked away, somehow keeping her tears in check until she felt a safe distance, then let them gush. Gerald Hathaway, her dissection partner in advanced biology, came up to her to see what was wrong and offer help.
    “My aunt passed away,” she lied. “I’ll be ok.”
    Apparently satisfied, he moved on.
    She used a tissue from her backpack to dry her face, the tissue becoming black with mascara, which made her cry harder. She went through several tissues until they finally remained white. She also removed her lipstick she had smeared with the tissues.
    Upon regaining her composure she ventured closer to observe the activity, maybe salvage a modicum of her dream by learning something more about filmmaking. At different times she saw Elaine O’Conner, Deb Parsons, and Izzy Macon approach the crew, and speak to them. Each time, when the girl’s posture went slack, she knew it was about Tom, and wept for them, too.
    When Izzy got there a guy was so crass as to call to another man on the set, “Hey, Jacques, another ‘mouthy’ girl, fourth one today,” and again the tears flowed from Cori’s eyes as she quickly retreated from the crowd.
    So much shame...such stupidity! The thought of giving herself away to a con man made her shudder. For ten days she felt she had the power of Ishtar, bestowed by Tom’s frenzied moans, and the obvious pleasure he derived from swooning over her long nipples. It gave her a leg up on men. And women. It gave her incredible power. Whether she would ever use the power made no difference, it would always be there. Then as suddenly as the flame disappears from a blown out match, it was gone, and she was just one more body cast upon the junk pile of a disgusting, nasty man’s life; an unstated goal she had allowed him to reach without a single ounce of resistance. Tears came again at home that night, and for weeks in random places at random times. She knew she would live, would eventually be ok, but felt it would be a long time before she could ever trust anyone so intimately again.

*

    After finding and videographing four girls, Thomas A. ‘mouthy’ Johnson,” packed his equipment into the back of his rented Navigator and headed off to the airport. Once back at his sizeable estate and horse farm near Eden Prairie, Minnesota, courtesy of Jimmie’s Hot Mustard & More, the airbag company, and the ninth plastic surgeon, he watched his videos of the girls, including those from the camera hidden in the hanging spider plant that looked down on the bed. He could afford the best prostitutes in the world but paying $1000, $5000, or $10,000 didn’t produce anywhere near the thrill he got from getting beautiful young girls to practically beg him to take them to bed, lurid villain face, and all.
    He’d stay home now, probably about a month. Then when the urge hit again, he’d check his online subscriptions to Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and other trade journals to get the latest info on what small towns movies would be shot in, in the near future. Then, as before, he’d pick one out, fly there, and swoop in like a seasoned raptor to swiftly capture and feast on his unsuspecting prey.

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