Page 21 of All That Glitters
Chapter seventeen
Mechanical Sharks and Other Bright Ideas
Tony sat in the rear car of the Universal Studios tram that afternoon, watching out the side as the tour rumbled through the studio’s sprawling backlot and amusement rides.
A backpack lay at his feet, packed with a dozen copies of his screenplay.
On each of them was a glossy Starving Artists Agency cover sheet.
Plan E — pretend to have an agency-sanctioned script — was officially a go.
The thought process (if you could call it that) worked something like this: since producers wouldn’t read his script without a referral from someone in the industry, he would use the cover sheets to provide that referral.
All he needed now was to find a bunch of producers and directors to hand his scripts to, and what better place to find them than a studio.
And that’s how Tony found himself on the Universal Studios tour that afternoon, about to embark on the craziest idea (up to that point anyway) in a long line of crazy ideas.
The tram guide, a perky aspiring actress named Brittany, cheerfully pointed out famous landmarks as the tram rumbled along. “And on your left, you’ll see the clock tower from Back to the Future! Isn’t that heavy? Great Scott!”
Tony barely paid any attention to the narration; his focus was entirely on finding the right spot to make his stupendously brilliant move.
As the tram rounded a corner and slowed to a stop, Brittany’s voice chirped through the speakers. “And now, folks, prepare to get a little wet as we experience the awesome, forty-thousand-gallon power of a flash flood!”
A torrent of water swept down the fake Mexican street set with surprising force. This was it, Tony thought; it was now or never. While the tourists whipped out their phones to film it, Tony slipped on his backpack and leaped from the tram into the ankle-deep river.
“Sir! Sir, you can’t be out there!” Brittany yelled, her perky Disney-princess demeanor cracking for the first time. “That’s a union-mandated splash zone!”
But Tony was already gone. He splashed off through the fake flood and disappeared behind a row of prop storefronts labeled ‘Cerveza’ and ‘Pescado’.
A portly security guard named Dave lounged in his golf cart eating a donut.
He thought he’d seen everything before that day, but as he counted down the minutes till his lunch break, he spotted a wild-eyed man with a backpack barreling down the street.
He blinked several times to make sure it wasn’t a sugar-induced hallucination, but nope; it was real. He snatched up his radio.
“Uh… we’ve got a runner,” Dave said with disbelief into his radio. “He’s heading east from the flood zone. Looks like he’s got a… a very full backpack.”
Tony raced across the backlot past facades of houses and gazebos.
He dodged a golf cart carrying a group of bewildered-looking actors in Roman Centurion costumes, who were all checking their phones.
He vaulted over a stack of prop crates labeled ‘ACME,’ and ducked into the first open soundstage he saw.
Inside the dark, cavernous space, a movie was being filmed.
Lights, cameras, and a full crew watched an actor in a spacesuit bounce up and down on a wire harness across a set that looked like Mars.
The director, a serious-looking man with a headset and a tiny, pretentious goatee, stared at his monitor when suddenly a crazy person in a backpack raced across the shot.
“Cut! Cut!” the director yelled, his voice echoing through the silent stage. “Why is there someone on Mars?”
Tony didn’t miss a beat. He jogged over, unzipped his backpack, and pulled out a slightly damp copy of The Frat.
“Special delivery from Starving Artists,” he panted, handing the script to the director. “It’s about a vampire fraternity. Great stuff. Funny, scary, sexy. Guaranteed Oscar winner.”
The director stared at him, then at the manuscript with the Starving Artists cover sheet, then back at him, his expression one of utter confusion. Meanwhile, the actor wiggled about in his spacesuit, suspended several feet above the Mars landscape by his wire harness.
“Did Eli send you?” the director asked in complete bewilderment.
“Uhm, yeah,” Tony said quickly. “He sends his regards.”
Before the stunned director could process the words ‘vampire fraternity,’ the soundstage doors burst open and two security guards stormed in. The first one keyed his radio.
“Spotted him,” the guard said. “He’s desecrating the set of Mars Odyssey IV: The Reckoning!”
Tony took off running again, disappearing out a side door and back into the sunlight. Now three guards were after him, their shouts of “Stop!” and “They told us the job didn’t require running!” echoing behind him.
Tony rounded a corner and found himself at the edge of the tranquil pond from the Jaws exhibit. He scrambled past the rustic Amityville seaport and replica of the Orca, when he spotted two more security guards barreling his way in their golf carts, donuts and coffee flying everywhere.
Tony glanced back at the approaching guards, then at the suspiciously calm water.
“We’re gonna need a bigger boat,” he mumbled, then, holding his backpack above his head, he leaped into the pond with a splash that sent a flock of confused ducks scattering.
He surfaced, sputtering out a mouthful of questionable water, and started paddling for the other side.
That’s when he heard the ominous music. Duh-nuh. Duh-nuh. A familiar fin cut through the water, heading straight for him with surprising speed.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he sputtered, his frantic, one-armed doggy-paddle turning into a full-blown panic-stroke.
The mechanical shark lunged, its pneumatic jaws snapping shut just inches from his flailing feet. Tony paddled like mad for the other side. He finally reached it and scrambled up onto the dock, sopping wet and covered in what he sincerely hoped was just algae.
On the far side of the pond, the guards just shook their heads in dismay.
There was no way they were following this idiot into the shark-infested waters.
“I don’t get paid enough for this,” one of them muttered.
He picked up his radio. “Subject is now on the east side of the Jaws exhibit. Repeat, east side. And he’s soaking wet. ”
Tony cut through a grove of fake palm trees, leaving a trail of puddles behind him, and found himself on the edge of the Jurassic Park exhibit.
Just as he ran past, a mechanical raptor popped out from the lush foliage, shrieking its pre-recorded shriek and lunging forward on pneumatic hinges.
Tony barely noticed, too busy dodging a new golf cart that had joined the chase from another access road.
“Stop right there!” the driver shouted, accelerating toward him.
“Sorry! Can’t stop! Got scripts to deliver!” Tony shouted back, darting between two massive ferns and into the denser part of the prehistoric jungle.
A new tour tram was just entering the exhibit, filled with fresh-faced tourists eager for their glimpse of Hollywood magic.
From the passengers’ point of view, it was the greatest show on earth.
They saw a soaking-wet, frantic man being chased by three security guards on foot and three golf carts, all while animatronic dinosaurs lunged from the bushes, their programmed roars adding to the cacophony of shouts and engine noises.
“Wow!” a tourist from Ohio shouted, his phone’s camera glued to his face. “This new interactive experience is so realistic! The way that guy is running, he really looks terrified!”
“Do you think he’s a famous actor?” his wife whispered, straining to see if she recognized the bedraggled figure sprinting through the foliage.
“Must be!” the husband replied. “They wouldn’t put this much effort into the show for a nobody.”
Tony vaulted over a low fence and into the massive, darkened soundstage for the King Kong 360 3-D experience.
He found himself on a narrow service catwalk as the show started below.
A tour tram was just entering the attraction, its passengers donning 3D glasses in anticipation of the spectacle to come.
The giant curved screens on either side of the tram lit up.
King Kong was battling a T-Rex, the massive creatures roaring and lunging across the screens.
The ground shook. Wind machines blew a jungle breeze over the visitors.
Water sprayed in bursts. And through it all, Tony kept running, now a tiny, real-life figure in a world of digital mayhem.
Five security guards were in hot pursuit now, their flashlights cutting panicked beams through the darkness.
“Sir! This is a restricted area!” one of them shouted, his voice nearly drowned out by Kong’s ear-splitting roar.
On the tram below, tourists wearing 3D glasses were losing their minds at the unexpected addition to the experience.
“This is amazing!” a kid shrieked with delight, pointing at the catwalk above. “Look, Dad! Kong is fighting the dinosaur, and the park rangers are trying to catch that guy! Is he a poacher? Is this part of the story?”
The father squinted through his 3D glasses. “I don’t remember this part from the movie...”
Tony burst out the other side of the Kong exhibit, emerging once again into daylight.
He found himself facing a fork in the road.
To his left, the whimsical, cartoonish street of Whoville, with its curved buildings and Christmas decorations.
To his right, a lonely, Gothic house on a hill. He chose the hill.
By now, the chase had escalated to a level of absurdity that was attracting media attention. News helicopters were circling overhead, their cameras broadcasting the bizarre scene live across Los Angeles.
Tony sprinted up the winding path toward the iconic Psycho house. Behind him came the security guards, now a comically large contingent of at least ten guards on foot, three golf carts, and one determined-looking man on a Segway. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on Tony.
He reached the porch, his lungs burning and legs feeling like lead. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted frantically. It was locked.
It figured.
Tony turned and raised his hands in surrender as the legion of winded security personnel raced up. Being a human cell phone was looking better and better by the minute.
Veronica and Debbie sat on their couch that evening, enjoying a quiet night of pizza, popcorn, and a reality show called ‘Garbage Man Needs a Wife’ playing on the TV.
Just as it was getting to the part where the garbage man had to pick his wife from the eight female contestants, a ‘brEAKING NEWS’ banner interrupted the show.
The image cut to a news anchor in a studio, her expression serious.
“We’re interrupting this program with a developing story from Los Angeles,” the anchor said.
“Authorities at Universal Studios have apprehended a suspect after a major security breach earlier today. The suspect, described as a possible domestic terrorist, allegedly led security on a two-hour chase through the studio’s backlot, disrupting at least one film production and causing thousands of dollars in damage to various exhibits. ..”
On the screen, shaky helicopter footage appeared. It showed a figure being led in handcuffs from the Psycho house, surrounded by a small army of security personnel. The camera did a slow zoom-in, the footage grainy but clear enough to make out the features of the bedraggled suspect.
Debbie leaned forward, setting aside her popcorn, as a sense of dread filled her stomach.
The figure on the screen became clearer.
The messy brown hair. The soaking-wet t-shirt she recognized from months of beach days and coffee shop writing sessions.
The stupid, determined set of his jaw. It was unmistakably Tony.
Debbie’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. “Oh. My. Gawd. That dope!” She grabbed a throw pillow from the couch and buried her face in it.
Veronica watched Debbie then turned back to the screen. It took her a second longer to make the connection; and when she did, her face broke into pure amusement. “Is that...?”
“Yes,” Debbie mumbled from behind the pillow.
“Did he really...?”
“Apparently.”
“For his script?”
“What else?”
Veronica stared at the screen for a long moment, watching Tony being led to a security vehicle. Then she burst into laughter, the kind of deep, uncontrollable laughter that once started, can’t stop.
“It’s not funny,” Debbie growled, lowering the pillow just enough to shoot her roommate a frown.
“It really is,” Veronica said, fighting a losing battle to get her laughter back under control. “But hey, at least you know what he’s wearing to your guys’ wedding.”
“Which is?”
“An orange jumpsuit,” Veronica said, nearly falling off the couch with laughter.
“I want a divorce already,” Debbie groaned from behind the pillow.