In Pieces(77)
On the set with Burt.
Gently, Burt began to housebreak me, teaching me what was allowed and what was not. If I wanted to tell him what I’d accomplished or talk about my children, or Lord knows, disagree with him about anything, he’d listen glassy-eyed for a moment, maybe offer a distracted comment or two before turning away. Then with a grimace of pain, he’d bend from the waist as he pushed his fingers into his rib cage, quietly belching over and over while gasping for air. Whatever I had wanted to say would be halted by the urgency of his odd attack and the wordless accusation that I was somehow the cause of it. I felt as though I’d been smacked with an invisible newspaper. Automatically, I began to sift my thoughts through a mental sieve, checking for hunks of information or feelings, even words that might trigger another bout, and then preemptively, I’d discard them. I eliminated talking about my struggle with work and money, about Lee and the Studio, about my children and how I ached for them. He disapproved of my prolific use of swear words—something I dearly loved (and still do)—so I eliminated them too. I knew early on never to mention the men who had been in my life, and later became terrified of running into somebody I might have known, whether sexually or not. Burt would pinch my face in his hand, demanding I tell him who the guy was and what kind of relationship I’d had with him. No matter who it was, if I knew him well or only barely, I’d lie with my heart racing as though I’d been caught at the dinner table with pink lips. Feeling that I should, I shared with him only the sunny parts of my childhood and eliminated the darker ones. I eliminated most of me, becoming a familiar, shadowy version of myself, locked behind my eyes, unable to speak.
Three days after our first dinner alone, Burt and I were flying down the back roads of Georgia in that black Trans Am, aided and abetted by Hal Needham and his tribe of stunt folks. I always had an immediate affinity with the crew, any crew, but because I’d grown up with Jocko, a legendary stunt hero, all the stunt guys—and the one stuntwoman—treated me like their little sister, a member of the family. Hal, who not only was Burt’s longtime friend but had been living in his poolhouse for the past twelve years, was incredibly skilled with action: how to plan it, how to perform it, and where to put the camera to capture it, while all the time making sure that the stunt people stayed safe as they accomplished their mind-boggling feats. What’s more, Hal never pretended to be something that he wasn’t: an actor’s director.
Every morning, at the traveling circus of a base camp, Hal would carefully oversee the camera being mounted on the hood of the car, and after he discussed with Burt whose coverage to do first, another camera would be mounted facing the passenger window, or driver’s, depending. Then with a mirror, a powder puff, and a honking goodbye, off we’d go, Burt and I. Which meant that Hal and the camera operator would frequently be left behind. Having only a vague idea of who the Bandit character was or why on earth I was sitting next to him—never mind my character, because I had none—I’d turn on the cameras, clap my hands to emulate the slate, then Burt and I would play the scene with an occasional line of scripted dialogue slipping in along the way. When we’d run out of ideas, Burt would announce into the walkie, “Got it. Heading back.” And whether shooting or returning to base camp, he’d always drive forty thousand miles an hour while peering through the maze of camera equipment clamped and tied and bolted to the car.
The company moved around erratically, in such remote locations most of the time that the civilians never knew where we were until we were packing up to leave. But every now and then, word got out and a huge crowd of rambunctious fans would appear out of nowhere. When they caught sight of that cowboy hat perched atop the Bandit’s recognizable saunter, all hell broke loose. As Burt grabbed my hand, Pete and Tom (his makeup man) would quickly move into position, flanking us while we made a beeline for the safety of his camper. Tom and Pete—blockers to Burt’s quarterback—ran interference, pushing the opposing team back long enough for Burt to pop the door open and scoot in, followed closely by his linemen, who would then slam the tin door behind them—frequently leaving me standing on the outside with the clamoring others. Never sure what to do, I just stood there with my head down, hoping all the frantic admirers would think I was one of them (maybe I was one of them) until slowly I’d slink off, maneuvering a path to my own, but rarely used, motor home. And in the air-conditioned quiet, I’d sit alone, flooded with longing for my children and my life. Eventually Burt would realize I was not in his RV—which sometimes took a while—and Pete would be sent to get me.
In the evenings, when we were away from the set and back in the hotel, Burt’s mysterious and painful episodes seemed to be escalating. Regularly, a doctor would appear with bag in hand, and after a quick check of the patient’s vitals, he’d proceed to give Burt a shot (containing God knows what) directly in his chest. This could not have been a good thing, and I couldn’t understand why everyone around him acted so nonchalant while the man was either writhing in pain, panicked that his heart was about to stop, or was having needles jammed into his thoracic cavity. As the others backed away, quietly leaving the room and shutting the door, I stood there, bewildered that his suffering was being treated so cavalierly by his own team. Little by little, I began to step up, doing anything I could think of: giving him a paper bag to breathe into, wrapping hot towels around his feet, on his face, his hands, assuring him that this was an old and trusted remedy. For what, I didn’t know. The only time he liked me sounding knowledgeable was when it came to his health, and on that particular subject, I didn’t have a clue. I soothed him with dedicated calmness as though he were Peter with asthma or Eli with epilepsy, as if I’d known him my entire adult life, not six or seven days.