Fun House by Chris Grabenstein Page A

‘Give me the fool’s gear.’ Right on.” He gives us a righteous-dude fist pump. “You two rock.”
    “Oh, um, hey , Danny!” says the sales associate.
    I recognize her now, even though she’s wearing grownup clothes. Her name is Lissa. We went to high school together. She always looked great in black, which is all she wore, because, back then, she was like our class’s Goth chick poet. Wrote about sea gulls contemplating suicide a lot.
    “We need to ask you a few questions,” Ceepak says to Jimbo.
    “Cool.”
    “Um, can I take my break now?” asks Lissa.
    “Yes, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “That might be a good idea.”
    “Five minutes, sweetheart!” says Jimbo. “And you did good with the script. Keep it up, you’ll be a star.”
    “Ha,” snarls Jenny. “Fat fucking chance.”
    Lissa ignores Jenny and breezes past Ceepak and me. I realize she still smells like patchouli oil and pot. I hear a locker bang open and shut in the storeroom. Probably where she stashes her bong or bowl. I guess she wants to stash her weed some place better so we don’t find it.
    “Hey—I’m fucking hungry, here, Jimbo,” says Jenny, painting lip-gloss on her puckered puss.
    “New Guy?” Jimbo says to one of the crew guys in khaki shorts and hipster ski cap.
    “Yeah?”
    “Fix Miss Mortadella a plate at the craft services table.”
    The new guy nods. Poor kid. He looks to be my age. Probably what they call a P.A., or production assistant. Lowest man on the TV-crew totem pole. Layla told me that was how she got started in the business.
    “And grab me a half-apple,” says Jimbo.
    New Guy looks confused. “You don’t want the whole thing?”
    Jimbo rolls his eyes. “Where’d Marty find you, kid? The New Jersey Film School For Idiots?”
    The other crew guys kind of drop their eyes. I get the sense that Jimbo, despite his peace-loving hippy hairdo, is a first-class buttwipe.
    But nobody says anything.
    New Guy stands there. Stoic. No emotion at all. But inside, I’ll bet he’s wondering about that fifty thousand dollars he still owes on his college loan so he could attend NYU film school and get a job stepping and fetching.
    Ceepak steps forward.
    “Apple boxes,” he states with great confidence, because I’m sure that, as soon as Fun House landed on our beaches, he spent several nights researching production lingo, “are wooden boxes of varying sizes with holes on each end that are chiefly used in film production. The ‘half-apple’ is typically four inches tall, whereas the ‘full apple’ is eight inches.”
    “Well done, Officer,” says Jimbo. “You want a job on my crew?”
    “No, thank you.”
    New Guy nods thanks to Ceepak, tugs down on his knit cap, heads for the door.
    “Half-apples are on the grip truck,” says the man holding the microphone boom like a broomstick. “Round back.”
    “Craft services table is back there, too,” adds the spotlight toter.
    Guess these two both remember their first days on the job, working for a jerk like Jimbo.
    “And, New Guy?” shouts the big man, Jimbo, so his crew will remember who’s the boss.
    The kid turns around.
    “Hustle, baby. Hustle.”
    Out he goes.
    Jimbo struts over to Ceepak. “We need to have Jenny stand on something. She’s disappearing, ruining my shot.”
    “I heard that,” snaps Jenny as she jabs out her hip, anchors her hand on it.
    “I’m just trying to make you look good, babe.”
    “Why do I need to wear fucking black?”
    “’Cause it’s a fucking funeral,” Jimbo answers. “We’re back in five. Everybody chill. I need to chat with the police officers here.”
    “Back in five,” yells the clipboard man.
    Ceepak holds open the door. “Bring your camera,” he says.
    Jimbo does as he’s told.
    The three of us cluster around the front of our parked vehicle.
    “What’s up, bro?” Jimbo asks, giving his ponytail an artful flick.
    “Last night,” says Ceepak, “you followed Paul Braciole out of the Big Kahuna