The Fan Letter (2 page)

About the Author

“
H
ey, Bob, have you seen…. Oh, never mind. There he is. Mr. Beck? Mr. Beck, wait a minute!” The aide hurried across the noisy set to the actor who was now turning to see who had just called him. The aide was smiling. The actor was not.

“Mr. Beck? These papers came for you. The Fan Club asked me to bring them down. They knew you were shooting today,” he hurriedly explained as he handed the bundle to Phillip Beck. The aide then turned to go, and he added with a smile, “Cute bunny!”

A confused expression crossed Phillip's face at this comment. “Bunny?…Er, thanks, uhm…Andy,” he mumbled after reading the security I.D. badge hanging off the young man's lanyard. Phillip looked down at the photograph clipped on the top of a letter and what looked like a script. There was a six-foot tall amusement park rabbit hugging a brown-haired woman. The rabbit he could identify. The woman he could not.

Still staring at the rabbit, he slowly shook his head. “Now what do
they
want?” he asked himself with a sigh. “They” referred to John Q. Public. Always wanting something from him. Always asking favors of him.

Phillip glanced at his watch and realized he was due in Make-Up in fifteen minutes. As he hurried off to his dressing room he was somewhat irritated that he was now behind schedule. He hadn't even looked at his script changes for that day's shoot or changed into his costume.

“Thanks, bunny,” he grumbled as he quickly tossed the papers onto the one over-stuffed chair in his dressing room and got into costume. He grabbed up the daily changes that were waiting for him on the mirrored dresser. Reading as he walked, he headed for Make-Up. So far nothing major had been changed, he noticed.

One of the regular stars of “The Time Police” was already seated and being worked on by one of the make-up artists. Eddie Chase, who played the romantic lead and rated second billing, smiled his greeting. “Hey, Phillip, you're late! This is a first. Thought we'd have to replace you!” he kidded, as Jill, the make-up gal, smiled but stayed silent.

Phillip eased his six-foot-one frame into the comfortable make-up chair and replied straight-faced to Eddie's reflection in the brightly-lit mirror. “Some aide brought down a letter from the fan club.
He
seemed to think it was humorous.” He automatically lifted his chin as a make-up cape was draped over his costume and snapped into place at the back of his neck.

“Thanks, Jill,” Eddie said as she finished with him. He swung his chair around to face Phillip, a look of interest on his ruggedly handsome face. “A fan letter, huh? We usually never see ours. What'd it say?”

“I have no idea.” Phillip's attention was back on the change sheets. “I guess I should look it over during the lunch break…. Now why in the world did they change scene four? It was fine the way it was,” as he slapped the papers with the back of his hand.

Eddie shrugged as he rose from his seat and checked his hair. “They said it ran too long. Don't worry,” he grinned with the small charming type of grin that was plastered all over his publicity photos, “they just cut out most of your lines!”

Phillip didn't return the smile. He didn't even take note of Eddie's humorous comment. “No kidding,” as he flipped through the rest of the pages. “All I have to do now is just lie there and react…. Edward,” he called offhandedly, as his co-worker headed for the set. “You said you usually don't see your mail. None of it? How come?”

Already out the door when he heard his name—or rather, Phillip's formal use of his name—his head peered around the doorframe. His shrug went unseen. “Too many letters, too much legality, I guess,” he answered. “The volume is overwhelming. Especially Tom. They tell us his Loner character gets more mail than any of us. See you on the set. Don't forget your lines now!” he laughed as he headed out again.

Phillip Beck didn't respond. He didn't even hear that last crack of Eddie's. He was thinking back on his run with the popular television series. “The Time Police” had been on the air for three years now and was consistently in the Top Ten. He had guest-starred as Professor Rex Farrell five times in those three years. This would be his sixth show. How many letters had he received? Ten? Twelve? Fifteen from the fans of the show? They were always the same. “I want an autograph.” “I want a picture.” “What is Tom Young really like?” “Will you give Eddie Chase my phone number?” “Are you at all like the Professor?”

The make-up artist was startled when Phillip suddenly laughed dryly to himself and shook his head. His eyes looked a million miles away. She quietly finished her work, removed the cape, and left the room.

Phillip hadn't noticed any of this. He was thinking back to that Friday three years ago when his agent, Bill Michaels, had told him about a new television show that was being developed.

“
P
hil, you're going to love it! It's called “The Time Police” and it's about a group of special police officers who travel back and forth in time with this time machine. The Professor who invents the machine starts off as one of them, but an accident affects his brain, you see? He becomes super intelligent and a little demented. Now he disappears into time and causes problems that the squad has to correct. The lead, Sir Charles, is the time expert and squad leaded. The brains of the group is Jack “The Loner” Newby. Then there's two more stars in the plot, a guy and a girl for the romantic parts. What an idea! The squad goes wherever they are needed to fix all the wrongs—like correcting serial killers, or to help prepare people before major disasters! This Professor guy starts fooling around with established events. It becomes a game to him!”

Bill finished out of breath. He could tell this would be big and he wanted his long-time client and friend to be part of it. He waited patiently as Phillip mulled over the plot in his mind. Phillip never did anything quickly.

Looking over the pilot script that Bill had handed him, he eventually nodded. “I could do this,” he murmured more to himself than to Bill. “I could put a little grey in my hair for Sir Charles. A little age, a little more dignity.”

“No, no,” Bill broke in. “Maxwell Marlowe has already signed for Sir Charles. Majestic Studio has been after him for months.”

Phillip glanced up briefly. Maxwell Marlowe. Big guns. “Good casting,” he nodded. Changing gears, he weighed the other option. “The Loner. Jack Newby,” as he mulled over the name as if feeling them out.

“Tom Young,” Bill cut in again. “He contracted last week. We want you for the Professor.”

Phillip noticed the omission of the other male lead character, Andrew Fox, the romantic adventurer. “I'm not sure I want to commit to a full-time series. I had enough of that off-Broadway. I'd like to keep my options open.”

“You didn't read the fine print. The Professor is a recurring character. You'd be in the first two shows to establish what happened and set it up. Then, probably two, three episodes a season. It's a great part, Phil,” the agent added unnecessarily. “Think of the possibilities for the character! He can go anywhere and do anything!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The actor looked away from the script and out the window that overlooked the heart of Los Angeles. He had wanted the lead. Badly. He'd been in the business for fifteen years and never once…. “When do you need an answer?” he asked as he stood to go, still holding onto the pilot.

“Wednesday,” was the reply. Bill wasn't worried. He knew that, once Phillip read the entire script, he'd get a call. Probably Monday.

Phillip hesitated at the door, his hand on the doorknob. “Where is this “Time Police” based?”

“The Silicon Valley about one hundred years in the future. Apparently our future isn't very pretty and the squad works on things like corrupt politicians, polluting industrialists, land grabbers, stuff like that as well as established historical events.”

The spark of interest had grown. The actor raised a hand good-bye and shut the door quietly behind him. Bill Michaels sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Naw. He'll call me Sunday at home!”

P
hillip did indeed call Bill at home on Sunday just as Bill had predicted. He had been irritated, however, when Bill told him the contract was already drawn and just needed his signature. He liked to make his own decisions.

Sarah, Phillip's wife, had urged him to accept the role. “It's a great opportunity for exposure,” she had said. But, she always said that. Sarah felt every two-bit part that came along was right for him, he reflected. As a much sought-after model, she seemed a lot more selective with the commercials she was offered than she was with
his
career. But, then, every major company was clamoring for the beautiful model. Cosmetics. Appliances. Cars. Travel companies. Food. Even foreign companies had been contacting her agent lately.

All it takes is hard work and the right part for that great breakout role…and Phillip knew that this really entails careful deliberation…not snapping up everything thrown in your face. And Bill Michaels sent him almost every new series and small movie part that appeared on his desk. Phillip spent days pouring through the scripts Bill sent him looking for that one prime role. He found good leads—but they were always filled by “names.” The lead's wife's girlfriend's uncle was available, though. “It's a small part, Phillip, but it is vital for the scene.”

Okay
, Phillip argued with himself, the
Professor was quite different from his other roles
. It had become an enjoyable character to play. And the writers were giving him more to do as the series progressed. The shows he had previously appeared in were some of the highest rated. But, still….

Fifteen letters in three years. “I should have gotten Sir Charles,” he groused.

T
he sound of Phillip's own deep voice startled him out of his reflective mood. He hadn't even realized he had just spoken aloud. Quickly glancing around the room, he was relieved to see that he was alone. Looking back to the mirror, he experienced a shock. His face was a ghastly shade of white with red blotches…. Oh, right. The Professor had been injured in a blast meant for the squad. He was supposed to look like he could die at any minute. He did.

Leaning closer to the mirror to study the bleeding gashes, he saw the face of a seventeen-year-old boy peer around the doorframe. He was the producer's nephew. “Mr. Beck? You're wanted on the sound stage. They're finished with the lighting tests.”

I'll be there when I'm good and ready
, he said in his mind as his voice calmly replied, “On my way.”

I
t was a private joke on the set of “The Time Police” that the director got his name because he always got his five-cents worth into whatever was going on. Ron Nickles, however, was unaware of the pun and wouldn't have been interested anyway. His joy in living was his job and it quickly became obvious to onlookers that he knew what he was doing. Ron had just turned fifty and was actually proud of the fact that his hair had turned grey twenty years earlier. He blamed the phenomenon on his job and the stress level under which he worked and thrived.

At this point in the day, he was in his glory—behind schedule, over budget, and understaffed because of a flu epidemic. The whole crew respected and admired his on-the-edge-of-a-breakdown methods and now they awaited their first shot for the day's filming.

Glasses pushed on top of his head, Ron was putting the actors through their lines and actions and showing them their marks.

“Okay, people, listen up. We're already behind schedule today, so let's not have to do too many takes. Eddie. The scenes are quiet, the action shots have already taken place—nice you could join us, Mr. Beck—and you are all now working over the injured Professor.

“Places. Eddie and Cindy, over by the mark for the time portal. Eddie, your hands off Cindy and folded over your chest. Look disgusted. Cindy, you're worried. Maxwell, further to the left. Where's the computer prop? Good. Just keep working calculations. Phillip, Tom, on the floor center stage. Cameras two and three, both get the shots. Three, you come in closer. We need some more smoke coming out of the rubble!

“Are we ready? Tom, down on both knees, please, not one. You look like you are going to propose in that position…. Quiet! Slate…. Roll….”

“Cut!” yelled Nickles’ voice. “Phillip, you're giving me too much energy. You're half dead, remember. Begin again. Slate it…. Action.”