Baughbird

"Cut," said the cook in awe. "Cut like a parish crowd in 1950s Alabama. You're a saint, Baughbird!"

A crisp bow. "No, not a saint. I'm just the arrow in Guy Gisborne's heart."

"End scene!" called Kidson coldly. "Hold your applause, people, until he's out of my fire."

The offscreen cast and crew wanted to clap, to whistle, and to rave. Was that not what Baughbird commanded by his mere presence? To say nothing of his delivery? His poise and fixture? He had ad-libbed, sure, but what could Kidson possibly rail against him for this time since he was the one who'd told Baughbird to freestyle his character's lines?

Dispersing from behind the cameras and lights barricading the set -though not till after a few good rounds of back-patting and whispered praises- the crowd gave the director and his scene their tense space.

The cameras weren't rolling anymore. Kidson was fuming.

"Darcy, we're switching to a solo cut for your reaction shot. I'm afraid your co-star has foiled my hopes for the longer pullback view. Please wipe the blood and parsley from your hand and be ready when I'm done cooking this goose."

"No," said the Marylander, though her accent slanted it closer to Naw.

Her face looked pricelessly French in the spotlights as she tilted her hips and the white sous chef's plume sloughing likewise.

"Clint, you'll give him the white ribbon and listen respectfully."

"Of course," accepted the actor playing Baughbird.

Darcy was one of the few people who still bothered with Clint DeGuiche's first name after two months of his constant method act for the role of the illustrious wandering character of Baughbird. To the grand majority of those working on this film, Clint was Baughbird. It made no discernable difference if the cameras were rolling or not. He seemed to never be out of character, though that meant he was frequently out of line.

Clint flung the white ribbon prop like a half-noose over Kidson's left shoulder. If you'd asked Kidson, he would have conversely insisted that it was his right shoulder and not his left. But the perspective of Baughbird was what everyone on this set revered, not the perspective of Kidson.

"What did I do wrong?" asked Baughbird neatly.

"Nothing," admitted Kidson. "That's what was wrong, Clint. You're supposed to be guiled by your success in finally impressing Miranda, not flourishing away like this was a normal magic show. You must tone down. You've just revealed one of your best tricks and have never done anything like that before. You're realizing quickly that you're going to have to keep losing if you want to win this game."

"Well, Kidson, I submit to you then that you stop pressing me to impress two very different people in two very different worlds in two very different ways. Let's all be happier and simpler, hm?"

It wasn't worth it to go on. Kidson walked away solemnly.

"Wait, Chris!" called Baughbird more gently. "Can't we keep this take?"

Kidson turned and shrugged. "Why?"

"Baughbird -a man on whom I think I might be something of an authority- actually would act sure of himself even in the midst of such a conflicting moment. He's used to living a facade. Every day is another life. Sure it hits him hard, but I can't sense him stuttering like a dumb fool. You hearing me?"

"Yeah," Kidson sighed. "Let me look over the take again. I'll be fair, but if I say we do it again we do it again with the separate shots. Ok?"

"Miss Morris offered to take the cast and I out to dinner once we're wrapped up here," Baughbird stated.

The air hung about awkwardly, though, and Kidson frowned.

"And?"

"After that? Your deal is the best I've heard today. Oh, yes, I know, roll your eyes, Chris! I know our game and I know you must play as you wish to play. Till next take."

"You're a saint, Baughbird," Darcy guffawed quietly.

He smiled and winked.

"An amateur magician, a secret cook, and an unfortunate lover. But not a saint. Even less so behind the scenes then in them."

An hour and a half later into the early evening, the organized party was dining in high fashion. Schubert was rippling like a waterfall in the background air out of the backwall stage's grand piano keys.

"How is the critic scene going?"

"Swimmingly. Though it makes me famished. Do let's eat!"

"Sure, sure."

Biting into a piece of garlic bread from the center basket, Baughbird looked across at the Australian actor Chever, who played the notorious critic Quentin Presario. This was the victim of the 'Guy Gisborne' taunt improvised earlier.

"Speaking of critics, I hope the rest of you aren't judging me for today as hard as Kidson is."

Chever smirked. "I was just thinking about that, and I don't think our private thoughts would worry you worse than Chris's. Know what? You should show us you can get the scene done, Man. Be Baughbird here, tonight."

"The latest kitchen scene?"

"Sure. There's no critics tonight except for us, but the setting seems not much different to me."

All expectations of further banter over the idea were stifled by Baughbird's immediate raising of eyebrows in pleasure and an agreeing huff. There was no discussion of how it was to be done or of the legality of the plan. He merely stood and promised to come and report his adventure to them after they'd all finished their well-made meals and left.

Baughbird slipped away in the general direction of the kitchen. Only half the party had noticed earlier where it was. Fewer had noticed that the door had recently been jammed open to let out a wide cart. Baughbird had the easiest time regaling himself in a spare apron once inside the bowels of the restaurant, hiding his face behind hanging pots and pans and searing flames from the ovens.

At the table, Chever was boosted by his challenge being accepted. He dominated the conversation, throwing out a question at Barbara.

"Was Guy Gisborne killed by an arrow?"

"Who?"

"Guy Gisborne. From the Robin Hood stories. Was he killed by an arrow like Baughbird says in his line?"

"Oh, I'm not the one to be asking."

"I could swear it was a sword fight they got into."

"Wasn't Robin Hood an archer though?"

"Yeah. Maybe that's what's supposed to be funny about it?"

"Maybe." She looked around the group's faces. No one else had any clues either. "The one guy who probably could've told you for sure is in the kitchens."

Kirk laughed. "I'll second that. Not much of a Robin Hood fan myself-."

He stopped short as he realized Green and Annalese were exchanging wry glances with everyone.

"Guys, the scriptwriters are sitting right here. Anyone want to ask us?"

Curses and self-abrading exclamations flew around in a seamless mist of sudden idiocy. A pond of ducks would sound most like the upheaval.

When there was some measurable quiet again, Annalese supplied the answer.

"It is a sword that kills Guy of Gisborne. Robin Hood's sword." She tipped back a glass of lemon water. "And his head gets cut off."

Darcy Kim Morris groaned. "Perhaps Maid Marion and Miranda should have gone with our charming, quirky rogue."

In the kitchen, Baughbird was sidling up to one of the middle-aged cooks towards the rear of the kitchen, bearing a bin of ingredients and tacking three fresh orders to the bar above their heads.

The cook cocked his head. "Your station being warsh'd?"

"I'm with you tonight. Extra hands, eh? I'm a temp."

"Temp?"

"A temp. Here for tonight. Well, until break."

The cook stared as his hands kept working. He shook his head and shoved into his processing of the tomatoes from the garnish rack. Why they were there, no one knew. Probably forgotten in the lunch rush.

The cook looked quizzically at Baughbird again, knowing he couldn't place the face.

"What are you?"

"A man."

"No, like whadaya do? Outside a kitchen?"

"I'm an actor."

"Get out a' town," basked the cook. "For reals?"

"For reals, fellow."

The cook squinted. "Sorry, yer not lookin' mighty familiar..."

"Clint DeGuiche," grunted the man.

"Hm. Well, pleased to be in business with ya tonight all the same, Mista DeGuiche."

Garlic was sprinkled liberally, an oventop blaze doused with a rag and further smothered with a pot from the next station over which needed it boiling.

"Do-" resumed the cook, "Do you have many movies made, Clint?"

"A good handful."

"You can be honest. I won't envy."

"I'm being honest. I'm not the kind of person who bothers to keep track of tight numbers. Plenty of people in our world would consider my name very big and very enviable. What do you say to that?"

There was a clatter of wares that must have smothered the friendly question, since no answer ever came. Zucchini slices, cookie-thin, were scraped off the cutting board by knife and sizzled. Heat gushed from the stovetop as potatoes simmered. The pot from the neighboring station was passed over again as a burner space was freed up. A glance over the cook's shoulder told Baughbird the dish was one of his group's orders.

"Hey, how you know so much about cooking? You do it for your movies?"

"Yes and no."

"S'plain."

"Well, I'm actually playing a restaurant manager in my current project. We work not too far from here. You get a chance you look out the glass at Table Nine. My fellow cast members and our storyboard team."

"Wow. I'll look, for sure. Special occasion?"

"Just out on the town tonight."

"Gotcha. So what's the No part of your answer?"

"Both my parents were wizards in the kitchen," he winked. "I know my way around more than a parsley snip." And he wiped the counter once effortlessly as he picked up his finished dishes.

"Hey, wow, that's a piece o' beauty there. You bringing it up? Or are you done? Probably your girl's order, huh."

"I have no idea who's order this is, but it's not from my table. Great guess though. Will you-"

A shout of new meal orders flooded the choked kitchen atmosphere too thick for more words. The cook slunk off to clean some trays before setting to those. A cloth was slung over his neck for holding and some muttered thanks for the extra hands and skill show of his partner lingered.

As the yelling subsided, Baughbird looked around and sighed, abruptly alone. He dug some green strips from under his fingernails and set a drip on another plate of meat.

Failing to learn someone's name left them a stranger still, as if their conversation hadn't ever happened. Quite disappointing. Hadn't even gotten around to asking about the wife and kids. Surely the man had buried dreams and talents, probably a dog, maybe a mortgage he was trying to pay off. It was to be forgotten now.

Baughbird had mingled for a night with a lower class, though! That was movie-Baughbird's arc of redemption, or at least the beginning of it. Perhaps tomorrow he would do another good deed.

He plucked forth an onion and leaned against the counter with the fine knife, carving it to peeled perfection.

"Cut, cut like a parish crowd!" he whispered in a fit of mimicry. Darcy's voice was like a northern coastlander's hand at mixed gumbo. But he was having it. And here on his tongue was the perfect sample phrase, straight from her script! Did it mean less said only to himself? No. In her voice was exquisite lingual art put through any mortal tongue. He would certainly utter it, for its being spoken aloud yet alone was no boast. Only a rubbing of pride. And he was worthy of some reward for pleasing Kidson, wasn't he?

On second thought -he reflected as the voice in his throat came hushed and unbidden but untraceable to any but the director- wouldn't it sound but sweeter come from the tongue of one who would never volunteer even a syllable of the phrase? It was settled, and so the faux director spoke his phony line.

"You're a saint, Baughbird."