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FORD
I hate the fucking snow.
As a personal rule, I never take roles where the locations are cold and snowy.
I don’t go to all those prestigious film festivals like Toronto and Telluride, and I sure as fuck won’t go anywhere near Sundance. If they want my ass to attend a film festival, it better be some place warm and tropical, like Cannes or Miami.
This is probably why I live in the middle of the desert, in Palm Springs, in a sprawling, mid-century modern home once owned by Bob Hope. I don’t want to deal with the wintery weather. Palm Springs is like a damn sauna, and I love it.
Now my peace and warmth are being ruined by the incessant calls from my agent begging me to take this new role.
“Jacob Taylor has signed on to co-star,” Edison bragged.
“Who the fuck is Jacob Taylor?” I grumbled.
“Stop being such a relic and just do the movie!”
They didn’t convince me until my best friend, and the movie’s director, Nolan Archer, called me.
“You have to do the film, Ford.”
“I don’t have to do anything. I have more money than God. I can do whatever I want.
“Jacob Taylor needs someone like you. He’s young, cocky, and completely full of himself. Help me out. Sign on and put the son of a bitch in his place.”
“Send me the script. If it’s decent, I’ll do it.”
The script arrived within the hour. I read it from cover to cover, and I signed my contract the next morning.
The things we do for friends.
Now I find myself knee-deep in more snow than I care to see for the rest of my life.
When I see Nolan in the hotel lobby, I shoot a scowl in his direction.
He laughs as he approaches. “God, you’re such a grump. It’s just a little snow.”
Nolan extends his hand as he gives me an easy smile. We shake hands, and I give him a one-armed hug.
“There’s nothing ‘little’ about the amount of snow outside. You owe me,” I growl, gripping his hand tightly.
“Listen, I have no control over the weather. A storm front is rolling in, so there may or may not be more snow than usual. Besides, we have bigger problems. There have been a few minor tweaks to the script.”
“How minor?”
“Well…”
I can assume by his tone I won’t like what he has to say next.
“How minor, Nolan?”
“Your character has a deformity now.”
I roll my eyes. “Am I missing an eye? A scar down my face?”
I can handle a little prosthetic make-up; it’s a part of the job after all.
He makes a noise under his breath. “A scar down your face, definitely. But there’s also, like, a hump on your back.”
