Call the Shots by Don Calame Page B

thereafter.”
    Coop leans forward. “Okay, wait a second —”
    “Condition
numero dos.
” Doug holds up his fingers in a pudgy peace sign. “If you do
not
win the contest, you are going to return my initial investment. Somehow. Someway. We can work out the details later, but that cash will end up back in my pocket when this is all over.”
    I nod. “Got it.”
    “Three. As your new executive producer and partner, I am now going to be intimately involved in all aspects of this production. I want to have full script approval, of course.”
    “What?” I grimace. “Why?”
    Uncle Doug shrugs. “I’m not about to have my good name associated with a piece-of-crap movie. I have a reputation to uphold.”
    “In rugs,” Coop says. “Not in films.”
    “This kind of thing could have major repercussions on my business. What if you say something racist in your script? Or sexist? Or just something really, really stupid? I could lose customers that way. Nope. I want to see each and every scene before it’s filmed.”
    “All right,” I concede. “Is that everything?”
    “Hardly. I also want casting approval, and in-movie advertising for my store.” He nods and smiles at Coop. “
And
. . . a prominent role in the film.”
    “Okay,” I say. “I’m sure there’s some part we can use you for.”
    “The villain.” He points at me. “I want to play the lead villain.”
    I meet Coop’s eyes. He gives me a reluctant nod. And he’s right. What other choice do we really have?
    “Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
    “All right, then.” Uncle Doug rubs his hands together. “I’m glad we’re all so amenable. Now, onto my final stipulation.” He grins. “This one you’re
really
not going to like.”

I SIT BY MYSELF IN THE CAFETERIA , waiting for the happy couples to arrive, breathing in the rising sweet fumes of my barbecue riblette on festival rice. I poke at my overnuked food with a plastic fork as I attempt to jot down script notes on a yellow legal pad.
    I scribble ZONKEY! at the top of the page. Now what? How should the movie start? With our two main characters, Jack and Stacy, hanging out at school? Or maybe at the zoo. With the mad scientist coming up with his humanzee plan — Dr. . . . Somebody-or-other.
    A hand suddenly claps me on the shoulder, causing me to jump.
    “That better be the script you’re working on there,” Coop says.
    I look up and see him and Matt plopping their trays on the opposite side of the table.
    “Starting to, yeah.” I put my pen down. “Where’s Helen and Val? I thought we were telling them about the movie today.”
    “They’ll be here,” Matt says. “They had to have a girl meeting in the bathroom.”
    Coop chin-gestures at my pad. “How much you got so far?”
    “Not much,” I say. “I’m just wondering: are we going to be able to pull this off with only a thousand bucks?”
    “Have a little faith, dawg,” Coop reassures me. “Didn’t you ever see
Field of Dreams
? ‘If you build it, they will come.’” He swats Matt’s arm. “Go on. Tell Sean what you told me. About the budget.”
    Matt teeter-totters his head. “Well, I did a little number crunching, and it looks like our biggest expense is going to be the equipment. A movie-quality camera costs around three grand. So, obviously, we can forget about that. And renting one — assuming we could even get someone with a credit card to do that for us — can run five hundred bucks a week. Which would use up our entire budget fast.”
    “Exactly,” Coop says. “So, the linchpin is figuring out the camera sitch. We do that, and we’re golden. But don’t worry, I’ve got a few ideas percolating. What we need to be discussing right now, though, is casting.” As Coop mixes his turkey tetrazzini, the sweaty-clothes smell wafts over and makes me gag.
    “What about it?” I ask.
    “We have to get on it. Asap. Which is why I put a notice on Craigslist last night. And on the school’s online bulletin