Chapter 17: Caboose Fronting

Warner Brothers Offices, LA. August 2005.

What happens when you take a goose and push it away from the front?

Well, according to my dialect coach, the answer to that riddle was: you get a Texan accent.

“So when you try to say the letter ‘i’ or whenever you’re trying to sound out a word with that vowel, you’ve got to drop the second half of your pronunciation. For example, what organ gives you vision?” 

“Eye.” 

“See? You say it like ‘aye’ but in a southern accent, you sort of stop halfway.”

“Ah?” I felt like a real ah-ss. 

“Very good!” clearly she was a believer of positive reinforcement, but I was securely in the camp of growth through negative feedback. Oh Dae Su, Cadbury, Anita, and I’d wager even Alan Rickman could attest to that.

Couldn’t blame her, though. This whole southern accent thing was something that was sprung on both of us with no real forethought or warning.

A week from shooting and an executive producer had suddenly gotten the bright idea that my character, Sean Boswell, should have a more patriotic palate.

Something that said that I wasn’t a posh little British schoolboy, but was in actuality a rootin’ tootin’, gun toting, red white and blue-blooded good ol’ boy. And like the toady little yes men one usually finds in the crevices of Hollywood, they all hopped to the big man’s bidding. 

When I questioned what purpose it served - especially considering that I had cultivated a generic, internationally accepted, American accent by spending a quarter of every year of the last five years in California - they gave me the absurd explanation that I had to sound different from all the Asian people speaking perfectly serviceable English.

So here I was, learning about diphthongs like a dipshit.

“Knock, knock.” Speaking of, here was king dipshit himself. The same exec who’d stuck me in this room. Well, far be it from me to not give the man what he wants. “I trust the lessons are going well?” 

“Howdy, pardner.” Even if I had a cowboy hat, I wouldn’t tip it in his direction.

“That’s a stereotype, Bas. We really shouldn’t perpetuate it.” Poor woman, I hope your next client is more agreeable than I was.

I donned my best impression of Matthew McConaughey and got to work. “Hwell, the lady here’s sweeter’n tea. But I reckon she’s fixin’ to throw a conniption at the lack of learnin’ goin’ on in this skoo-haw.” Translation: While the individual you have hired is doing an admirable job, my unwillingness to participate with sincerity will more than likely drive her to frustration.

“You sound like Yosemite Sam.” 

“Dad gum it! It takes more’n two shakes of a rabbit’s ass to plant a field full o’ corn.” Please do not mistake my unwillingness as inability. If you had been better organized and had relayed your intentions for the character at an earlier opportunity, perhaps we would have actually had time for me to properly acquaint myself with this accent.

“You’re not wrong, but I have no idea what region of the south you’re channeling anymore.”

“If’n ya’ll insist on tugging the reigns of this here horse, won’t take long till the entire valley knows yer all hat’n no cattle.” Should you continue to persist with this asinine idea, the movie will lose all authenticity with our audience.

“I give up!”

“So hwat’s it gonna be, pardner? We gon’ get along to get along, or is it high noon?” I’m prepared to fight over this decision of yours. 

Somehow, I went from charming southern drawl to blazing saddles. Told you I’d need more practice than a week. My soon to be ex-teacher buried her face in her hands.

“I… uh… well. Probably best we shelve this idea, don’t you think, Bas? International audiences might complain about regional dialects.” 

“Alright, alright, alriiight.” Fuck you, and have a nice day.

---

Santa Fe, California. August 2005.

To most people, it would make sense that at fifteen they would find themselves at a high school first thing in the morning.

It was strange to think that Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo High would be the first proper school I stepped foot into since my days back at the orphanage, even if I was restricted to the carpark. There weren’t any teachers here to take attendance, but as I placidly watched the production assistants scurrying underfoot, I was more than ready to take class. 

Even though the fall semester wouldn’t start for another couple of weeks, I found myself surrounded by students my age. 

None of whom (thankfully) suffered from 30-year-old teenager syndrome.

“Gather round guys.” Justin Lin, if the headphones around his neck and the cap on his head were any indication, was in full director mode. “We’ve pretty much got the shots for this scene already, but I’d like a few more takes for posterity.” My two co-stars and I huddled with Justin next to the bright red Dodge Viper and my dusty old Monte Carlo.

“Hey,” I butted in. “If that’s the case, how about we change up the scene a smidgen?”

“I mean… yeah. I don’t see why not.” I gave the two teens acting beside me a thumbs up at Justin’s approval. “So, what did you have in mind?”

Obviously, I’d discussed my idea with them ahead of time, so they weren’t caught off guard. Both were completely on board. After all, what fresh young actor wouldn’t welcome the opportunity for more nuanced character work, more lines, and screen time?

“For starters, maybe we don’t have the sixteen-year-old girl offer to prostitute herself out?”

Maybe it hadn’t quite clicked for anyone until now, but my bluntly spelling it brought grimaces to faces. “... Fair point. I guess you have a fix for it?”

“I’ll never point out a problem I can’t give you the solution for.”

“What are you? A used car salesman?”

“Scott!” The boy hired to play the stereotypical bully jumped in his baseball uniform when I abruptly startled him. “Who is your character?”

“Um… a big dumb jock?”

I snapped my fingers, “precisely! And who is it that enjoys dating the big dumb jocks?”

“The mean girls.” Katrina, who played little miss popular, chimed in. “And they hate it when their boyfriends aren’t giving them attention.” Clearly, we rehearsed more than just the script.

“That’s experience talking there, Justin.” I threw my thumb at her. “So enlighten us. What would a girl like you do to get a stupid boy’s attention?”

Her smile was wide and terrifying. “Find an even stupider boy to make my beau jealous. And when I get what I want, I kick that other loser to the curb.”

I grandly gestured down my torso. “Entre moi. The idiot who believed that a cute girl was hitting on him because he was, in his own mind, just that cool. But in reality is just as cringy as every other high school kid.”

Justin looked at all three of our hopeful faces, rubbed his temples, sighed. “Alright. I’m sold.” More like fed up. 

He twirled his finger in the air and adjusted his headphones. “Let’s run it and see how it goes. Places everyone.”

[I stood on my mark, adjusted the strap on my shoulder, and made my way towards the car. The camera trailed behind me. I turned my head, and the lens followed my line of sight.

The camera panned up her legs, but since the costume department had elected not to raid the Playboy Mansion’s wardrobe this time, instead of getting an upshot of her miniskirt, she wore a pair of daisy dukes and a tight shirt that got the point across without making her look like a pornstar.

I quickly averted my gaze when she caught me staring at her sitting on top of the Viper. I opened the door of my car and chucked my bag in. 

“Nice ride.”

My eyes shot up to my eyebrows in surprise, but as I turned to face mean girl, I schooled my expression into a small grin. “Does the job.” I affectionately thumped the hood of the Monte Carlo.

She opened her mouth to respond, but a sudden cheer behind us stole our attention. 

We both glanced back and saw dumb jock and posse cheering. Mean girl narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips and double backed to stare at me. “Let me guess, pizza delivery.”

Amused, I blew a puff of air out of my nose. “Sure.” I went with the bit. Caveman brain activate. Girl talk about car, girl cool. Cool girl laugh at joke, girl like me. Girl like me equal girl sex me. “How about I come around your place with an order of extra sausage?” 

“Ew! You’re like, so gross!” She pretended I didn’t totally blunder my attempt at flirting and laughed uproariously.

The camera rack-focused, blurring the two of us in the foreground and zooming into dumb jock who suddenly noticed what was happening. And like every territorial terrier, he came running out to mark his territory by pissing on his property.

“What do you think you’re doing talking to him?” 

She rolled her eyes, hopped off the Viper, and took two exaggerated steps to approach me. “I just said I like his car.” She ran a poisoned finger over the vehicle’s hood, getting dangerously close to me, until she trailed her nail over my clavicle. “Besides, I can talk to and make friends with whoever I want.”

He circled the Viper, snatched her arm, and pulled her away. “Don’t touch him. You’ll catch something.” Ouch. “Beat it trash. Don’t you have a trailer that needs pulling somewhere?”

I scoffed. The Monte Carlo had a ten liter V8 engine putting down seven hundred horse power on to racing slicks. There wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that a naturally aspirated sports car could compete. “Even if I had to haul a double wide, I ain’t losing to your hotwheel.” 

Pride sufficiently attacked, dumb jock defended his hurt ego. “My beast has a broiler exhaust system,” like that mattered, “pushing out five hundred horses.” See what I mean? “I’d leave you in my rear-view mirror in four seconds.”

“Wow!” I stifled a laugh and feigned being impressed. “You read the brochure!” I got into my car, keyed the ignition, and reversed out of the parking space. 

I leaned out of the window and smirked at his reddening face. “Tell mommy I think her Viper’s cute.” I shifted into first and leisurely drove off. 

I inched towards the predefined marker. Dumb jock would be filmed throwing the ball in a different scene, because in order to smash through the breakaway glass an air cannon would be used for my interior shot.

The launched baseball shattered the rear window. I flinched as a glass rained behind me and the ball crashed into the dash. “Motherf-!” No f-bombs in this PG-13 movie.

I nabbed the ball, leapt out of the car, and slammed the door shut. I reached the back end of the Monte Carlo clenched my jaw when I saw the damage and glared at dumb jock and posse hollering and high-fiving at each other. “Whoops, my hand slipped.”

They jeered at me as I marched towards them. “I don’t care how much you like playing with slippery balls, you’re still paying for that.”

He turned out his pockets. “Sorry, I don’t have any change on me.”

“That’s fine. I’ll just pawn your car off when I win it off you after I beat you in a race.”

“Hell no! I’m not putting up eighty grand against that rust bucket.” He laughed me off.

Seeing my chance disappearing, I glanced at mean girl, who was clearly enjoying two boys fight over her - if I was reading her psycho expression right. I realized what perverted game she was playing. Time to push some buttons. “Guess he likes the car more than you, huh?” 

That smug grin immediately fell off the mean girl’s face. She whipped around and pressed her hand on dumb jock’s chest. “Do it, babe. For me.” might be a controversial take, but manipulative bitch was a better look than a raging whore.

I tossed the ball up and down in my hand. “Guess I’m not the only one with your junk clenched in my fist.”

Cue dramatic music and closeup dolly zooms.

The race was on.]

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