A short story

Here is a fictional story I wrote for fun. It's about a reenactor thinking he is an actor. Enjoy.
Reen-Actor
By
Steve Acker


Driving to Maryland had become second nature by the summer of 2004. Each summer for two weeks, since ’97, hundreds of Civil War reenactors had traveled to a farm near the Antietam battlefield to work on a Civil War docu-drama; work being the wrong word for our pay consisted of shoddy food, a t-shirt and the video when finished. That first year I was one of the many “background artists” that filled, yes the background. I marched; Rebel yelled, Yankee Huzzad and fired my musket. Scores of guys all dressed the same our faces lost in the uniformity, and our movements diffused along an X axis while the actors gave their lines. The closest I came to the camera was when we charged past our fierce eyed director, “DO NOT LOOK AT THE CAMERA,” he flamed. “DAM IT, Back to one.”
It wasn’t me, or was it? Still being on a set was a lot more fun than any reenactment. Acting was so much cooler than reenacting. I was on a film set and not some county park shooting blanks at tubby dudes in bad versions of Civil War uniforms. 20 guys fighting Pickett’s Charge is cheesy stuff really when one considers the gravity of the actual historical event they reenact. Proudly I was never into the fake battles, often taking a hit in the first minutes of battle then falling asleep while the two armies had at each others. I even created a way of taking a hit where my blanket roll became my pillow. Acting was far cooler even if my acting resume offered one line; third guy from the left.
The second filming year I was given two lines. I practiced those two lines for the entire trip to Maryland. And after a week on the same set as last year, I was the guy standing in front of the camera.
Dolly track
Boom mic
Camera
Mid Shot
“Roll sound. Camera. Action.”
Hooked.
My 15 minutes lasted an hour. I even tipped my hat up so the camera could see my eyes. The director liked that. “A natural,” he smiled. Vanity fed by a reflector board lighting my face and a skanky make up artist, taking away the sweaty shine, I then gave my first acting lines. “Then what did they do?” spoken with a mouthful of chewing tobacco and “Let’s hit em again,” sprayed in enthusiasm. My soliloquy.
“Cut. Back to One. Let’s do it again.”
“Then what did they do?” offered with less tobacco and more intonation. “Let’s hit em again,” spoken with intensity.
“That’s a wrap.”
The next year the director gave me 20 lines and the skanky make-up artist, now production assistant, put a lavalier microphone under my shirt. No longer would I run with the herd along the X axis, now I stood in front of the camera.
That third year of filming I slept in the house. The previous two I slept under a tree next to a pond. My career was launched.
So now four years after that first taste, I again travel to Maryland for a new project. A four man cast, with some background artists; a World War Two epic short and I was beginning another acting gig. Reaching the Maryland border just after dark, I have 50 miles to the hotel. Hotel damn I have made it. I plug in a cassette.
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” comes my voice quickly followed by another form of it, “But Vance we gotta do it if we’re to reach our objective.”
My mind repeats the Hell no line.
“I’ll be killed,” the first voice. “That’s a soldier’s fate,” the second. To help me memorize my lines I had taped the script. Time and miles disappear in inflection and intonation.
Turning off the highway, the hotel looms in the distance, just past the truck stop and the Waffle House where I had to wait for two urban kids to finish their strut through my headlights. Better put all the valuables into the hotel I told myself. Oh well, it’s still better than a tree. A good actor never forgets his roots
“I’m with the film company,” I say trying to impress the worldy teenager sitting at the reception desk. Her low cut shirt gives ample viewing to her developing womanhood. She never looks up.
“What room is my director in?”
“Who?”
“Will Terrel.” She checks her computer screen. Will and I met at the documentary three years ago. He too had lines and one day we rehearsed together. That’s why he asked me on board. While I went back to home, he went to California to make it. He worked as a PA, took acting classes and met other actors and now he was about to make his first film. He asked if I would be a part of his project. Anything to help a friend I said.
“211.”
“Thank you.”
“And me?”
An ugly pause as her apathic face foreshadows my next week.
I announce my name.
Travelling down well worn carpet of the second floor of a two floor hotel, I open the door to my room. Splayed out on the bed closest to the chattering air conditioner, my roommate inhales a bong hit. Will told me I would be rooming with the director of photography.
“So you’re one of the actors?” he exhales. Vanity fed.
“Guess so. Hope I do okay.”
He takes another hit holding it as long as his burnt lungs will allow then coughing the residue. He offers a hit.
“No thanks, I’m a teacher.”
Like a busted sophomore he squirms. I tell him not to worry about it. For the rest of our week he switches to one-hitters. His bong sits in the closet.
A knock on the door. It’s the director, grip and everything else his $25,000 budget requires of him. He even wrote the script. His dad, the guy with the $25,000, is the producer.
“Hey you made it,” he offers with a genuine handshake. “Let me introduce you to the other actors. They’re amazing.” Insecurity says hello.
He and I walk to Room 200, the honeymoon sweet in a hotel catering to truckers and the like.
“This is the Leads room.” Will listens through the door. “They must be going over their lines.”
Room 200 opens blue with smoke. My lungs complain.
“This is Steve. He’ll be playing Vance.”
The director leaves the room quickly like the squire before the king. A well built guy in his early twenties sits on the only chair. He reminds me of what California should look like, tan and well chiseled. He was on a reality show, did pretty well according to his stories. Next to him a slumpish guy about the same age looks me up and down. Italian looking with a New Yorkers features and voice, he lets the ash grow on his cigarette thus creating a certain drama to his words.
“Did you rehearse your lines?” he inquires.
“I taped them and on the drive here,” I offer. He turns to the others.
“So last summer Allan and I are in an acting class,” ash hits the floor.
Allen is the only face I recognize. For this project he is the Lead. That’s why he has the hot tub room. I met Allen the year before at a shoot in North Carolina, the biggest gig of my career to that point. I even got paid for that one and stayed in a hotel, a nicer one than this one. Allan takes a well rehearsed drag from his cigarette then, after holding it in for dramatic effect, lets the smoke drift out in his best James Dean. He offers a nod to me then returns to the conversation, a conversation of resumes, each espousing their film experience. Allan makes sure his credits trump all. He had worked three seasons on a sitcom, in the early 90’s. You know one of those cable shows that copies the formula of a show that made it. He let’s us know of his work in film too (a horror film part five, and some others I had never heard of) as well and the actors he hangs with in the LA party scene. California guy is next on the acting pecking order then acting class guy- New Yorker. I take a silent seat on the wood veneer dresser.
“Let’s run our lines. I’ll direct,” Allen directs. Directing will be his next venture, “after this project”, and according to him a natural progression for a man with his body of work. “I have the first line,” he states as if the order should be obvious.
Allen plays it understated, his meiotic style reminding me of a petite Clint Eastwood. I have to lean forward so I can hear him. California goes next; a chiseled delivery. Allen likes the way he intonates. Next the New Yorker gives his; gritty. Allen calls it ‘smokin.’
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” in my Wisconsin nasal. Allen puts his cigarette out in an empty wine cooler bottle.
“But Vance we gotta do it if we’re going to reach our objective,” California paints over me.
“Beautiful man. That was beautiful,” Allan spews. California guy nods in agreement.
“I’ll be killed,” I just killed the line and any creditability I thought I had.
Will returns to ask how rehearsal is going. My eyes find the carpet.
Allen takes a long draw from his cigarette, “In my body of work this may be the finest writing ever.” California and New York nod in perfumed agreement.
Will, a kid making his calling card, flushes with pride while I remember where I had heard that line before. North Carolina.
For the rest of the night wine coolers went down like water and with each empty came grander stories of A list stars begging to work with Allan and why Hollywood needs guys like them. I needed a shot and a beer.
For the next week we film. Between every take Will, a kid trying to show he has what it takes to make it, listens to the constant stream of ‘suggestions’ and condescending comparisons with other projects Allan, California and New York have worked on. Each night the actors hold mutual admiration society meetings held over the scripts we are supposed to be rehearsing. I become as necessary as the cigarette butts on the carpet. Once a background artist asked how long I have been a professional actor. I laughed.
On our last night, Allan unsuccessfully hit on the worldly teenager. I guess she didn’t want to see his impressive body of work. The cast party became a montage of soulful toasts, Allen promised to hook up California and New York with some people he knows. Will gushed over the efforts of his actors and I sat on the wood veneered dresser drinking a beer till around midnight then excused myself. “Got a long drive in the morning” I said to no one in particular.
On the road before dawn, I put the cassette in a case the tossed it under my seat, replacing it with the Gettysburg soundtrack. I heard Allen went back to Nebraska, to work for his father in-law. I saw California in a commercial not too long ago and I saw New York in a History Channel program. He was a background. I don’t go to Maryland anymore. Instead I pack my blanket roll and head out to a reenactment. This weekend twenty of us are going to reenact the battle of Antietam. Still…