Doris yanks open the flimsy metal screen door on the trailer and storms into the dark interior. She snaps on the table lamp and paces. With the narrow trailer lined on one side by a couch, kitchenette, and a desk, and a two-stool bar, desk, and make-up table on the other, her pacing circuit is barely ten feet before she turns around at the small bedroom in the back. After a dozen laps, she sits at the make-up table and runs a long maple hairbrush through her deep red, shoulder-length waves. She flicks on the radio. A sax seductively blows Dave Brubeck's catchy new hit "Take Five."
"This won't do," Doris says to no one. "I simply can't do it." She gets up and leans out the door. "Walter!" she yells, then resumes her agitation. She pours two fingers of bourbon in a crystal tumbler before she hears the door shut behind her.
"Don't," the low voice says.
She turns. Her eyes try to challenge Walter's stony grimace, but her old friend has been here before and doesn't blink.
"I can't find it," she says, throwing her hands in the air. "I'm supposed to feel distraught, beside myself. All I feel is bored. I'm a washout. A sham."
"A drink isn't going to help. You'll lose your edge."
"My edge? That's long gone. We've shot this scene ten times. I'm tapped dry."
Walter takes the glass, sniffs the swirling liquid, and downs it.
"Walter!"
"No drinks. We agreed."
Doris loudly exhales a morning's worth of frustration. "What am I going to do?" She looks at her watch. "Shooting starts again in fifteen minutes. And Mr. Warner will be there. I might as well start packing."
"Easy now," Walter says. The stout, gray-haired man rubs her shoulders with his strong, leathery hands. "Take deep breaths. You've been through this many times before. Think of your most upsetting memories. Pick one. Use it." Walter looks through the sheets on his clip board. "I gotta run. I have to check on this afternoon's shooting schedule."
"Wait, Walter. Help me."
"What can I do?" he says. Then tosses in, perhaps too quickly, "I'm not the highly paid actress."
"Don't get snippy. You're my assistant. Assist me.
Walter looks over Doris as she now fills a glass with water. Her strategically draped, tea-length, white silk dress and sparkling stilettos were a masterful selection by the costumer. While her acting depth is frequently debated in the gossip rags, it's clear she is gifted in poise and shape. All morning he watched the crew watch the silk fabric undulate and sway as she ran up the stairs over and over again until the director was satisfied. The hours spent coifing her signature red locks starting at four a.m. were clearly upstaged.
But Doris' big scene with Beauregard came to an awkward standstill. Her character had stolen money from her fiancé's dresser drawer so she could buy him an expensive gift to prove her love for him. Beauregard is beside himself and has called off the wedding. It's a powerful scene, but their chemistry was off. Even though everyone was tired, the director kept pushing. The film was behind schedule. Just one more take. One more take. Finally, Doris snapped and stormed off the set. To make matters worse, the studio head was stopping by later to check-up. The production was slowly falling apart. In Walter's mind, the entire cast and crew needed a collective kick in the pants to get the film back on track. Once again, the day hinges on the star's lowly assistant.
Walter tosses his clipboard on the couch. "That's it. I've had it," he says and steps over to close the inner door. He pours a shot of Bourbon and gulps it down. "Cheers," he says as he squares his age-weary shoulders and slams the glass on the counter.
