Floyd Kelly

The Craigslist ad was a masterpiece of misplaced optimism. It promised a “major film role $$$” was open to all ages, and, most ironically, literally specified “no drama”—a rule I knew had been broken the second I walked into the studio. It was a condemned warehouse, really. Dangling wires hung like sad party streamers over a catering table whose only offerings were generic cola and donuts, already being claimed by circling flies. The director, Mr. Broekus, I think that was his name, a man who seemed less human and more like a person after 3 espressos, immediately shoved a flimsy, child-sized monster costume at me. The tag from the dollar store dangling.

My co-stars were a vampire trying to look menacing in a cheap cape and a werewolf whose mask was on backward. Our antagonist? A medium-sized pumpkin on an apple box.

On a card table sat the sound department: two ancient, 1970s-era cassette players. The vampire pointed. “What’s the deal with those?”

Mr. Broekus swelled with a pride. “Sound!” he proclaimed, patting one machine. “The master soundtrack!” He patted the other. “And this is for your brilliant dialogue!”

He jabbed PLAY on the cassette player, unleashing from its tinny speaker a disturbing soundscape—a mishmash of monster roars, plodding footsteps, static, and a country western singer crooning about his boring life. This, apparently, was our cue for the roaring crowd sounds interjected with enthusiasm.

“Lights! Action!” he screamed through a used-up paper towel roll.

I shuffled forward. Tripped. A table, a sheet, a sleeping monkey—the big reveal. The monkey didn’t even stir. Mr. Broekus saw not failure, but metaphor. “Genius!” he yelled. “The beast’s roar is an internal struggle! Now, Vampire, seduce the pumpkin! I want to feel the forbidden love between vampire and gourd!”

The vampire pointing at his fangs. “Dude, it’s a pumpkin—how am I going to bite into a pumpkin with these plastic fangs? There’s no blood in a pumpkin. Where are the cameras?”

He got all hippity, “It’s a CHARACTER! —Now, big monster! Your rage! Your artist’s rage at their tragic love! Give me interpretive dance! Give me some hip-hop!”

The vampire’s fangs fell out, the werewolf’s mask came off, and the three of us just stood there—all of us staring down at our director wannabe while the country singer on the tape lamented about losing his truck keys again.

The werewolf finally broke the silence. “Dude, I don’t know if you just got off a spaceship or something, but you might want to just go chill out at the beach.”

“Yeah,” the vampire added, holding his hand out flat. “And the Craigslist ad said fifty bucks.”