Page 63 of Caught in a Storm
“Better scripts will come. They’re on the way.”
“I’m an Oscar nominee, for fuck’s sake.”
“Nominee, Laws. Supporting. Those are two big qualifiers in this equation. Stick with the plan. Do the movies they want you to make and cash the checks. Then we make the turn back to more serious work.”
Shit. Lawson has gone off in the wrong direction—figuratively, but also quite literally. People are pointing at him, aiming their phones. A lady in a Southwest Airlines vest waves at him with both hands and simply screams.
“Cheers, love,” he says.
Where in the hell is he? He prefers the private airports; they’re smaller, and fewer people scream at him.
“There are pictures on Instagram of you on a commercial flight,” says Rufus. “If you left the state of California, Universal is gonna send someone over here to cut my nuts off.”
“No way, mate,” he says. “Wasn’t me. Maybe that handsome lad from the sexy Netflix show.”
“All righty then. I’ll go ahead and say goodbye to my nutsack. Thanks for that.”
Christ, Americans—all Big Gulps and castration analogies.
“What if I’m ready to make the turn now?” says Lawson. “I’ve done my time with the blockbuster rubbish. I was a Shakespearean actor before all this. Enough with the fucking green screens. You ever try acting in front of a green screen? It feels ridiculous.”
“Um, that blockbuster rubbish has put your favorability among teenage males at ninety-seven percent.”
“Who the bloody hell cares?”
“Me, Lawson. Because teenage males are the only people who actually go to movies. And they love you.”
“I’ll gladly trade a few million lads for a script that doesn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out, Rufus. In a heartbeat, mate.”
“We’ll get there,” his manager says. “I promise. And not for nothing, going AWOL off the set of a seventy-five-million-dollar movie isn’t gonna help your cause. A shift like you’re talking takes political capital. You know that.”
A sign leads Lawson to escalators. He heads down behind a family of tourists: two bickering kids wearing sneakers and headphones.
“What do you want me to tell Universal?” asks Rufus. “Quote unquote personal matters isn’t gonna cut it.”
Through a bank of windows, Lawson sees a bright orange sun just beginning to set. He was expecting some bombed-out urban war zone, but this doesn’t look bad at all. “Well, you know how I am when it comes to maths, mate,” he says. “But you’ve been taking ten percent of my money for an awfully long time. I trust you’ll come up with something.” And then he hangs up on his manager.
At the bottom of the escalator, he signs autographs, poses for two more photos.
“Loved you in Counterstrike, man,” a police officer tells him.
“Cheers, mate.” Lawson bumps the man’s knuckles, noting the gun on his hip.
This whole thing came about quite quick—Lawson is going mostly on impulse—but he did think to arrange a car, and he reckons the black Escalade parked outside by the long row of taxis is it. It dawns on him now, though, that he doesn’t know where he’s even going. He fishes his mobile back out of his black Levi’s and tells it to call Pop Star.
“Hey, baby girl,” he says when she answers.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Question, love. Where’d you say your mum’s staying again?”
Poppy’s voice turns stormy. “I didn’t. Why?”
“Doing a bit of research. I shouldn’t say more. It’s all quite hush-hush.”
“Oh shit. Dad, you promised me.”
The exit doors part as he approaches, set with sensors. It’s chillier outside than it was back in L.A. He nods at the Escalade, and the big truck comes to life. A sign up ahead glows pinkish. It’s dirty with grime and soot, but friendly looking.
