Acton plunked down on an ornate wrought-iron bench outside his 30-story Art Deco apartment building in uptown Manhattan and sucked on a hand-rolled joint, his painted white cheeks giving way to his cheekbones with each puff. As he inhaled, his blood-red lips puckered to suck in the ganja goodness.

It was the only thing he had consumed all day-that and two Xanax he popped in the subway at 5:00 am on the way to the film shoot. His current role was giving him the jitters, like most roles he took on, but this one was particularly anxiety-producing. If he wasn’t pushing himself to his artistic limit, he was plagued by ennui and sought other dramatic outlets, like shooting up with junkies in Brooklyn-a past time that cost him his marriage.

Acton, dressed in a tattered sweatshirt and holey jeans, rested both arms on the back of the bench and peered up at the top of the buildings closing in on him. Although he couldn’t see the setting sun, he watched the rosy-orange sky fade to grey as passersby tried not to gawk. An ancient bent-over woman with a Tibetan terrier on a leash gave him a crisp $20 bill. He tried to give it back, saying, “Thank you, ma’am, but you need it more than I do.” With a raised hand, she let him know that she wouldn’t hear of it.

On cigarette number three, a homeless man dressed for an Everest expedition shuffled by, and Acton gave him the $20 bill. “Much obliged. Much obliged,” said the man. He didn’t even blink nor do a double-take when peering at Acton through his expedition goggles. Perhaps Acton was his idea of sane and everyone else in their bland uniformity was mad. Acton chuckled to himself thinking, for all we know, he could be Sir Edmund Hilary. But in Manhattan, no one ever knew or cared to know.

As Acton stared blankly at the sidewalk, puffing on his fourth cigarette, a bus spewing exhaust and inching along in rush-hour traffic caught his eye. His smirking mug framed by a knight’s helmet was plastered on the side of the bus in a movie marquee for his recently released film-the Knights of Canterbury. Had he eaten even a morsel of food that day, it would have resurfaced, but, instead, his empty stomach burned with revulsion.

Fleeing up to his 29^nd story apartment, Acton caught a glimpse of the man in the mirror; his face, the handiwork of Arabella, makeup artist extraordinaire. Anemic white with a bloody red mouth-lopsided, drawn outside the lines of his lips, the hallmark sign of insanity. But that wasn’t all. The lipstick extended to form a sinister clown smirk. His eyes-blacked out. From afar, they appeared to be bombed out eye sockets with the soot of hell shining through. And his hair was a chaotic mat of straw greenish-gold threads.

He slunk through his barren apartment, his footsteps echoing in the marble hallway, over to the futon on the floor-his only piece of furniture. He downed three Xanax without water. Acton had mastered the art of the dry swallow. Then he said to no one, “I can’t get him out of me.” And he fell backwards onto his bed, staring at the ceiling tiles, waiting for the benzos to work their magic. The f**king ornate ceiling tiles.  He hated his apartment that cost him $25,000 per month. Only a few years earlier, he didn’t earn that much money in a year.

The film crew had commended him on his phenomenal performance at the shoot that day-the way he embodied the Joker-in his duels with Batman. As they wolfed down sub sandwiches, munched on ruffled potato chips, and slurped super-sized Cokes, one of the grips said, “It’s eerie, man. When you’re playing him, you’re gone. It’s like you disappear or something. Creepy, dude. Really creepy.” 

After every take, the director would say, “Brilliant,” as though he had run out of complimentary adjectives, or as though he didn’t really believe what he was saying.

So when they broke between sets, preparing for the scene where the Joker confronts Batman in City Hall, Acton approached the director, “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure, anything. What is it? Is there something you need? Anything. That’s what we’re here for, Acton.”

“How am I doing, Rennick?”

“F**k, Acton. That’s your question? You’re f**king brilliant.”

“I know; I know. That’s what you keep saying. But how am I really doing?”

“Acton, I’m going to tell you something that you can’t share with anyone on this crew-okay?” The 5‘ 7″ director with hair approaching a grey afro sidled up to Acton, who towered over him in his black trench coat, and said, “You are going to single-handedly turn this movie into the biggest box office blowout in five, hell ten years.” The director scanned the set and continued, “Do you know what that means? Acton, we’re talking 100 mill from this baby. All because of you. In fact, after this one kills at the box office, we’ve got more in the works. You’re the new It Boy, Acton. Everyone wants a piece of you and we’ve got it. There, now does that answer your question?” The director stuffed his gray mop into his NY Yankees baseball cap, clapped Acton’s back, and went to confer with the cinematographer. Acton stood, a statuesque evil clown, responsible for the fate of the project.

All the zeros whirled in his sleep-deprived, over-amped brain. Ten mill per film. 50 mill budget. One hundred mill at the box office. Overnight, it seemed as though his life had jumped from using figures with one or two zeros to figures with five or six. His brain was still dealing in tens and twenties.

When he tried to spill his guts to his friends and family, they didn’t get it. One of the conversations churned in his mind.

Acton had reached out to Rosie, an old friend from acting school, to get support for his predicament. They met in their favorite acting school café for a game of chess and triple shots, like the old days. He treated her to an espresso and biscotti, a raspberry tart, and a pumpkin scone.

“Geez, Acton, I’m not that much of a starving artist.”

“You never know; our chess match could span several days,” Acton winked at her and grinned.

As they approached their favorite table, he hurried to get there first and pulled out the best seat for Rosie. “Mademoiselle,” he said as he motioned maitre-de-like to the chair.

“How very last century. I think you’re the only chivalrous guy left in Manhattan, Act.”

Café-goers recognized Acton, some pointing, others whispering in their hands, and still others peering over their espresso drinks. Acton put on his sunglasses even though the lights were set to dusk.

Rosie pointed out the obvious fact that his sunglasses did nothing to hide him from his adoring fans-that they were akin to what children did when they covered their eyes in front of their parents and believed their parents had disappeared.

“Exactly,” Acton said. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. Are they gone yet?”

“You tell me,” Rosie said as she adjusted her low-cut halter top to maximize cleavage viewing and swept her long bangs over one eye.

“A sexy sec, Miss Ro? Don’t give them any gossip fodder. Before you know it, they’ll have us f**king and you carrying my love child.” She blushed when she realized her tactics were so transparent.

“Shall we play?” He asked while arranging the pieces on the board.

“Sure,” Rosie said, lining up her pawns, rooks, bishops, king, queen, and still scanning the room for interested eyes.

“Lovely ladies first,” Acton said.

Rosie froze mid-move and looked up. “Hell, Acton, do you know what I or anyone would give to be in your shoes right now? Oh my God, we’re out here doing off-Broadway crap, living on lattes, and you’re the f**king hottest thing since, hell, I don’t know, Tom Cruise before he sold out to the aliens. And, you’re a thousand times more gifted. You have to remember that people resent you, Acton. All you have to do is channel characters. The rest of us have to research and construct and methodically piece together characters. All you have to do is tap into, I don’t know, the force or something.”

“Rosie, it’s not as easy as you make it seem.”

“Tell me, Acton, what are you doing to research the Joker?”

“Hell, I don’t know. They asked me to play it and I just know how I’m going to do it. I mean, I took a look at Nicholson’s Joker, but my interpretation is different-more disturbed and demonic.”

“See, you just know. The rest of us don’t know sh*t.”

“But the thing is…This may sound crazy to you…You’re lucky.”

“Okay, this better be good. Mr. Ten Million a Movie is about to tell me why I, community playhouse Rosie, am lucky.”

As she spoke, Acton moved his pawn to an undefended position. She gave him an are-you-an-idiot look. “Dude, sorry to say your pawn is going down!” Rosie moved her queen into position and did a little I-just-might-beat-you chair dance.    

Acton paused, fingered his knight, and moved it to capture Rosie’s queen. She was flabbergasted.

Acton declared with an evil tinge in his voice, “Ah-ha! You fell for my master plan. That, my friend, is called a poison pawn-a pawn that seems defenseless and able to be captured, but, in doing so permits the other player-that would be me-giving up the pawn to engage in a strong attack or to win the piece that captured the pawn. Beware the poison pawn, Miss Ro.”

They sat in silence for fifteen minutes and concentrated on the game; Acton’s knight became unstoppable.

“Do you have to corner my king so quickly? I mean, couldn’t you at least let me lose with a little dignity?” Rosie asked, throwing up her hands.

“I didn’t want this glitz and glam thing. It all just happened; I got sucked into the abyss before I was ready. Hell, I don’t know if I’d ever be ready.” He searched her face for some understanding or compassion, but found none. Instead he found only thinly veiled envy in her squinty eyes and pursed mouth. But he couldn’t blame her; how could she know? This is what every actor thinks he wants. Little do they know of the paralyzing anxiety with each higher stakes role, the pressure to perform at the box office, the intense scrutiny, the desire to hide, the lost privacy, and the never-ending temptation to chuck it all for a return to anonymity. And the surreal effect of catapulting fame when he was still the same damned slacker that sh*t in the loo every day.

“Checkmate,” Acton said as he moved his knight toward her king.

“Sh*t. Now what am I supposed to do?” Rosie’s king was trapped.

“I’m no good at the industry game, Ro.”

“Acton, you may appear mild-mannered, but you refuse to lose. You’ll win this game, too. You’re one of the greatest talents to hit the screen in years-decades even. Everybody’s comparing you to James Dean.”

 ”That’s a bit overblown. But don’t you see what’s happening here? My talent no longer belongs to me. Talent or no talent, I’m just another pawn in their profit-mongering. A line item on their spreadsheet.” Rosie shook her head and started to clear the board and line the pieces up again for a new game.

He continued, “I liked it better where you are. Really.” After her dramatic sigh, he could hear Rosie trying to recover from speechless irritation.

“Where I am is nowhere, Acton. Nowhere. I’m not really an actress, at least no one in the world, except former acting students sees that I am. You’re the real deal-rich, famous, in movies. Millions of people have seen your talent. What’s better than that?”

“Being where you are. Things weren’t f**ked up then.”

“What’s f**ked up, Acton?”

“Me.”

“You’ll get used to it.”         

***

To die, to sleep, perchance to dream, the words from Hamlet’s soliloquy, a part Acton played at South River High School, floated in as the Xanax began to take hold. All he could think about right now was sleep-that ever elusive thing that he had always taken for granted. There was something about playing a mass-murdering clown that wouldn’t let him sleep. The unadulterated evilness permeated his psyche like little cerebral maggots boring holes into his brain. It made him want to scratch his brain, but he couldn’t because his f**king skull was in the way. If he could just crack it and pry it open, he could reach in and extract the larvae.

He looked down at his stained bed sheet with splotches of black and red lining it. He pulled the sheet up to his face and tried to wipe off the evil clown mask, but it wouldn’t come off entirely. It never did. The next day, Arabella would tease him about coming to work “All jokered up.”

“You know, if you would just come see me at the end of the day, I’ll take it off for you, silly.” She would say all of this with her face a few inches from his, painting his mouth homicidal red, his face post-mortem white and his eyes charcoal black. He could smell her sweet musky scent and minty breath as she cheerfully transformed him into a psychopathic clown. How could such a sweet girl envision such evil? Did she see it in him and was she just bringing it out?

“Arabella?”

“Wait, Acton, don’t talk. It’ll mess up your mouth.” He froze his face muscles and let her finish applying the red mask.

She stepped back with her brushes in her hands and said, “Okay, go ahead.”

“Arabella, do you see me as this man?”

“What man, Acton?”

“The Joker.”

Arabella threw her head back, like an artist having a humorous moment at her canvas. “Well, let’s just say, I’m so good that when I get through with you, you ARE that man.”

“I know that. But do you see him in me?”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous. Hell no. You’re the sweetest guy I’ve ever met-on or off the set. Really.”

“I was just thinking that you could see him in me, and you paint what you see.”

Arabella’s eyes went from twinkling to concerned. “You’re serious. This is really eating at you. Isn’t it?” She placed her brushes down on the counter, positioned her hands on his shoulders, zeroed in on his bloodshot eyes, and said to the half-evil clown, “You can’t let this get to you, Acton.”  

***

“Muwhahaha. Muwhahaha. No that’s not it. Needs more psychosis. Sounds too much like a cheesy cartoon villain. We’re talking real psychopath, here. Real blood-letting psychopath. Essence of evil,” said Acton to himself while darting back and forth in his room in the W Hotel, on his second pack of Lucky cigarettes in an hour.  When the director had to interrupt the shooting schedule for a family emergency, Acton decided to lock himself in a hotel for two weeks to “not lose hold of the Joker.”

“Your aim is to bring human suffering to as many people as possible and to, of course defeat, the gay bat boy in tights. You feel nothing when people die. Actually, not true. The more people and blood and guts you see, the more euphoric you feel. Again. Heeehahahahaw! Heeehahahahaw!” he said aloud while trying to perfect the art of evil. 

“Sinister, gravely, freaky, randomly fluctuating tone….Why so serious? Menacing. Why so serious? Lower, more hoarse and gravely…Why so serious? A little fight in you; I like that. Yes! That’s it!” Then he belted out one more psychotic laugh to seal it in his body memory. Once he did that, he could access it on cue. “Heeehahahahaw!”

A tentative knock rattled his hotel room door. “Room service.”

He lurched over to the door and cracked it open to see a cart overflowing with silver-plated dishes, flowers, champagne on ice. The room service girl had, no doubt, heard the evil laugh. She had a just-spotted-a-ghost look on her face, and placed the cart strategically between herself and the evil one. Had she been less startled and he less psychopathic, she might have realized that she was delivering room service to the famous actor, Acton Cromwell.  

“I didn’t order this,” he said in a sinister tone.

The room service girl, hands trembling, picked up the order and read it, “Mr. Cromwell, Room 1202. That’s you; isn’t it?”

Acton tilted his head down and looked at her, squinting with one eyebrow cocked.

“Oh, it says it’s from Batman. Batman?” She laughed nervously. “I suppose you’re Robin, then. Right?”

“Actually, I’m the Joker.”

“Oh, I get it–the evil laugh,” she said looking like she wanted to extract herself from the Gotham City insiders. “Okay, then.” She moved quickly to get the cart situated on the inside and herself on the outside.

There were Coke and beer cans strewn about the room, a collection of Starbucks cups by the bed and on the floor, candy wrappers, days old room service trays, a mirror with a rolled-up dollar, and cigarette butts overflowing in a half-dozen ash trays.

“Where do you want this? I suppose by the Bat Mobile. Oh, sorry, you’re the Joker. I don’t know enough about the strip to make a Joker reference. Never really a boy comics fan. I was more into, you know, Wonder Woman and stuff.”

Acton extracted a wadded $100 bill from his pocket and handed it to her. As she was smoothing the creases, she noticed Benjamin Franklin’s face on it and said, “Wow! Much appreciated, sir.”

She scurried away from Acton’s room and was partway down the hall when he called after her, “Wait!” He had plucked two roses from the vase and was leaping down the hall after her. He held out his hand, beckoning hers to meet his. She reluctantly obliged as though she were being asked to touch a venomous reptile. Acton bowed his head, planted a delicate kiss on her hand, and offered her the roses. She nearly curtsied as she accepted the roses with a thanks and a blush, facing him as she backed toward the elevator. She monitored Acton’s movements like pursued prey, and she and the roses disappeared as the elevator doors closed.          

***

“That’s a wrap,” said Rennick, signaling the end of a scene.

“Strike the baby,” said the gaffer, the chief lighting technician. On cue, the lighting technicians turned the lights down, and the best boys scurried to reposition the lights for the next shoot.

After wrapping the mass murdering subway scene shoot-the strangely hearty and hale victims with their bloody limbs and clothes walked off the set-Acton paced next to the cordoned-off subway track. Most of the cast members were convening for coffee and donuts, getting pumped up for the next scene. The cast and crew were commenting on Acton’s uncanny ability to embody a psychopath as they did after all of his scenes.

Arabella noticed that Acton was off by himself, seemingly reciting lines and gesturing. She wasn’t sure if she should bother him, but decided to intrude upon the master at work and nudge him to take five. She feared he was pushing himself too hard.

Arabella trailed him as he paced, “Acton, you okay? Can I bring you some coffee or something?” Her offer seemed to fall on deaf ears. She tried again, “Acton, how are you holding up?”

He shot her a glare of daggers that said: if you get any closer, I might have to kill you.

“Geez, Acton, chill. I’m just making sure you’re okay. That scene was pretty f**king intense. You know? I think you should take some time to decompress.”

Jarred, a set designer, came to Arabella’s rescue. “Try talking to him like he’s the Joker.”

Arabella chuckled, slapped him playfully on the arm, and said, “Right, why should I do that, Jarred?”

“Trust me. Otherwise he won’t talk to you,” said Jarred, arms folded with authority.

Arabella called over to Acton, clearly feeling ridiculous, “Hey Joker, do you need anything?”

Acton froze, looked straight at Arabella, and said, “Who are you and what do you want from me? Are you part of Batman’s entourage?”

“Oh my God,” Arabella whispered to the set designer, trying to look unfazed, “You’re not kidding. Sh*t, what’s wrong with him?”

Then to Acton, she said, “It’s me, Arabella. I just wanted to see if the Joker was thirsty or hungry. That’s all.”

“Don’t bother me again with such mundane requests. I’m devising a prophylaxis. I’ll outwit Batman if it’s the end of me.” Acton continued pacing. 

“Prophylaxis?” Arabella asked Jarred.

“Chess term meaning the art of setting up a defense before an attack is launched. If you want to know my opinion, I think he’s going off the deep end with this role,” Jarred said under his breath.

“No sh*t. Is there any way to get him to snap out of it?” Arabella asked Jarred, as though he were now the resident expert on Acton as the Joker.

“Not that I know of…On Sunday, I was on the set by myself, doing some prep work, and he showed up…as the Joker.”

“Get out! What was he doing here?”

“He was looking for Batman.”

“Oh my God,” she said, shaking her head.

“I tried to talk to him, and he wouldn’t answer me. So I tried the Joker angle, and it worked.”

“He needs serious help, Jarred,” Arabella’s hands cupped her cheeks, as though she were trying to warm them against a sudden chill that overtook her core.

***

Rennick and his crew were gathered in a studio conference room going over the post-production rundown-instructions were being doled out to the post-production supervisor, film editors, sound designers, audio engineers, production sound mixers, actors, and production assistants.

“It’s not like Acton to not show up. We’ve got a tight audio schedule we have to nail down,” the director growled as he ran his fingers through his unruly hair.

Arabella piped in, “I’m actually a bit worried about him. He hasn’t seemed himself for weeks now. Has anyone else noticed?” she said as she scanned the room and locked eyes with Jarred. A few people nodded.

The gaffer said, “He hasn’t been able to sleep for a month or so. Got some sleep meds, but they’re not really helping.”

“Well, if he’d give the blow a rest, maybe he could sleep,” said the production sound mixer with a sarcastic snort.

“Okay, okay, this isn’t group therapy at rehab. That’s another show. We’ll just fill Acton in when he decides to grace us with his presence. So, editing, your schedule is 8:00 a.m. to 10:00 p.m. Monday to Saturday. I know it’s asking a lot of you. Because we’re running way behind, we’ve got to crank it out. My apologies in advance. We’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need to work without disruptions and distractions.” Rennick’s cell phone jingled the 1970s Batman theme song. It was the producer.

“Yep, what is it, Con, we’re in a post-production meeting. Can it wait? Rennick inquired and then shouted, “What? You’re sh*tting me.” The director jumped up from his chair at the head of the table and started pacing, his eyes popping and moving wildly about the room as if watching an unfettered fly. “Holy f**king sh*t, Connor.”

The crew was exchanging nervous glances, attempting to look like they weren’t eavesdropping, but hanging on every word and trying to fill in the producer’s side of the conversation.

“I’m sure it’s a mix-up, and they have the wrong guy. Is there something I can do on my end? Okay, call back as soon as you know something.”

He clicked off his Blackberry phone and stared straight through the crew. “Another loony tunes jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge. They’re claiming it was Acton, but they probably have the wrong guy. He wouldn’t do something so ludicrous.”

The women gasped and exchanged “Oh my Gods,” and the men tried not to react.

Arabella piped in, “If it was him, I don’t think he meant to do it. I know it sounds crazy, but he might have thought he would survive-like the Joker does in the bridge scene with Oakley as his stunt double. I think he believed he was the Joker.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Rennick, his shoulders dropping and his palms facing upward. He continued, “First of all, I’ve never heard of anything so preposterous. The way Acton approaches his craft is by pouring himself into his role and embodying the character-that’s method acting plain and simple. Not for one minute did he believe he was the Joker. Secondly, let’s not jump to wild conclusions.” He moved his glasses to the top of his head, controlling his cascading wild grey mop. A deep crease formed between his bushy eyebrows.

For several hours, Rennick reviewed the post-production plans, making sure everyone understood their marching orders; the upshot was that post-production had to wrap in half the usual time allotted to meet their release date. There was a palpable group groan as the cast and crew members accepted their humanly impossible project schedules.

“You providing the coffee IVs, Rennick?” asked the post-production manager. “This is brutal, and that’s the nicest word I could come up with.”

“Nothing I can do. In order to hit our July release date, we have no choice. This is a summer action flick, not a back-to-school special,” said Rennick.

As the team imagined the hell they’d face over the next month, Rennick’s Blackberry rang again. He picked it up before the first Batman refrain. “Yep. Rennick here.”

The director was immediately absorbed in the phone call, first nodding his head and then shaking it in disbelief. Then as if someone had grasped his throat in a death lock, he murmured, “A note? It said what? Checkmate.”

Rennick sat down, cradling the phone in one hand and his head in the other. He continued, “Now what? We have no choice but to pull the film. In good conscience.”

The crew, exchanging panicked glances, could hear the producer raising his voice. Rennick was strangely calm while on the receiving end of a reprimand. Finally reacting to the tirade, he repeated the producer’s words, “Double the box office profits?!” Then he said, “How can we take it to market? It’s blood money.”

Rennick listened for a few seconds more and, with a sudden burst of insight, added, “Acton was wrong about one thing; this is a stalemate, not a checkmate. No one wins this game.”

 

About the Author

Ann Tinkham

Ann is a writer/instructional designer based in Boulder, Colorado. She has written over 40 online courses in subjects ranging from emergency preparedness to energetic healing. Ann has coauthored a nonfiction book, Climbing Mountains in Stilettos (SourceBooks, 2007). Her fiction has appeared in All Things Girl, Apt, Dark Sky, Double Dare Press, Edifice Wrecked, Hiss Quarterly, Lily, Miranda, MotherVerse, Scruffy Dog Review, Slow Trains, Stone Table Review, Syntax, Thirst for F ire, Toasted Cheese, Wild Violet, and Writethis.com.