The Extra (25 page)

“What in blazes is going on out here?!” said Watkins, all of his senses alert.

“This man was causing a disturbance but we managed to subdue him in the back of the car,” the police captain answered.  “It’s under control.”

“It sure as hell doesn’t look like it’s under control!”

“That’s Warren August in there!” Rallston called out.  “They’re arresting Warren August!” 

Watkins peered into the car with curiosity.  “Is this true?” he asked.  “Warren August?  The nominee?”

“I believe so, yes,” the captain answered with resignation.

Watkins’ face turned red as he tried to control his temper.  “What is a nominee doing in the back of your car?!”

“He was trying to get past security without a pass, sir.  We were forced to detain him.”

“What part of nominee don’t you understand?!”

“He didn’t have a pass, sir.”

“Get him out of that car right away!  We need to get him inside immediately!”

The police captain’s expression went dark.  “Yes, sir, Mr. Watkins.”  The captain moved reached in the front door to lift the loudspeaker handset from its cradle.  He turned up the volume and brought the handset to his mouth.  “Will everyone please make room!” he announced.  “So that we can escort Mr. August inside!”

A great cheer went up as people waved their arms in the air in celebration.  Between the car and the theater entrance, the crowd parted.  The captain looked at Watkins one more time and then opened the back door of the police car.  Warren still sat where he was, staring straight ahead as his mind swirled with an overload of thoughts and emotions, so overwhelmed that he hardly knew where he was anymore. 

“Excuse me, Mr. August?” the police captain called out.  Warren turned his head toward the open door.  When he saw the uniformed officer standing outside he was confused.  Were they at the station already?  The officer licked his lips before he continued.  “If you please, we would like to escort you inside to the ceremonies.”

Warren narrowed his eyes.  Was this man serious?  Or was it some sort of a hoax?  The officer took one step backward.  Tentatively, Warren poked a head out of the car.  Hundreds of eyes stared back at him.  He was hit by the bright glare of television lights and the popping of flashbulbs.  A low rumbling emitted from the spectators, all wondering what might happen next.  Warren climbed out slowly and stood on his feet in the center of the buzzing crowd.  On one side was the police captain.  On the other was Watkins.  Warren stayed where he was for a few seconds, expecting to be pounced upon once again.  Instead, Watkins raised an arm and motioned along the red carpet.  “After you, Mr. August,” he said.  Warren took a few steps forward.  The spectators immediately broke in to applause.  “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding,” Watkins added as they moved toward the theater entrance.  It was happening, Warren thought.  After all he’d been through, it was really happening.  They moved up the front stairs with a reinvigorated Warren picking up his pace as he strode forward to meet his fate.

Inside the theater, butterflies swirled in Bridget’s stomach.  She was still there, safe in the audience with Warren’s category coming up next.  She breathed a deep sigh of relief as they came back from commercial break with no sign of her seat’s rightful occupant.  It was time.  She could barely handle the suspense.

“Welcome back to the Academy Awards, live from the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood,” said the host.  “No award this year has generated as much controversy, buzz and downright suspense as best actor in a supporting role.  We’ve got a politician playing a spy, a former soldier playing an MIA, and one actual MIA! Here to present this year’s nominees, Academy Award winners Victoria Crawford and Jordan Williams!”

Bridget watched Crawford and Williams stride majestically onto the stage.  “Well, here we are again,” said Williams.

“I can’t think of a better place to be,” said Crawford.  “As we both know, dedication to the craft of acting stretches from the top stars all the way down to the smallest of roles.”

“And while supporting players rarely get the same attention as those above the title, their commitment and their contributions can be just as great,” said Williams.

“That is why we are honored to present this award for best actor in a supporting role.  The nominations are, Timothy McGuinn as a solider looking for answers in
Gates of Paradise
, said Crawford.  An image of a soldier in the jungle appeared on a giant overhead screen. 

“Warren August, playing an undercover cop in
The South Side
,” said Williams, with a picture of Warren in a police uniform. 

Out in the lobby, the real Warren stood face-to-face with the show’s assistant producer, tall and thin with a headset, a clipboard and an attitude.  This man was the only thing left between Warren and the theater doors.  “You do not understand!” said the producer, reveling in this chance to exercise his power.  “The show is carefully choreographed.  You can’t just go running in there in the middle of everything!”

“You have two seconds to get out of my way,” said Warren.

“You’re not going in there,” said the producer.

“What if he wins the award?” said Watkins.

“He should have thought of that when the invitations went out!”

From inside the theater, they heard the last of the nominee announcements fade out.  There was silence as all attention turned back to the podium, and then the voice of Victoria Crawford; “And the Oscar for best actor in a supporting role goes to…” she said, followed by silence again as she peeled open the envelope.  “Warren August,
The South Side
!” she announced.  The audience seemed stunned by this revelation, but then the applause slowly swelled to a frenzy.  “Here to accept the award in his honor is producer Roger Craddock!” said Williams.

“That bastard is not accepting my award!” Warren shouted.  Adrenaline coursed through his veins.  There was nothing that could keep him from going through those doors.  Especially not one pencil-necked geek with an oversized sense of importance.  Not after all Warren had gone through.  He grabbed the man by the lapels and threw him out of the way.  Watkins did nothing to stop him.  Warren defiantly marched into the theater.  He saw Victoria Crawford standing at the podium with his Oscar in her hands.  He saw Roger Craddock skipping up the steps to the stage.  Warren hurried down the aisle.  He was halfway to the stage when he saw Craddock reach for the statuette.  “Stop!!” Warren called out.  “That belongs to me!”

A collective gasp rose from the audience.  Who was this man, and what was he doing here?  Could it really be?  Nobody seemed to know, but they watched in awe as Warren continued on his way with single-minded purpose.  When he reached the stage, he snatched the Oscar statuette from Crawford’s hands as a dumbfounded Craddock stood by.  “Warren…,” the producer didn’t know what else to say.  The room whole room went quiet.  Crawford moved off stage right, trying to distance herself from this lunatic.  “I guess you can take it from here,” Craddock added before walking back down the stairs and off the stage.  Warren looked at the gold statuette in his hands and then at all of the people sitting before him.  He saw the lights and the television cameras.  He was seized with panic.  These people, so many of whom he recognized, had confusion in their eyes.  As he stood staring back at them, time stood still.  He was overtaken by the urge to flee, but then the orchestra began to play.  Deep in the recesses of his mind he knew his opportunity to speak was about to vanish.  Warren couldn’t let that happen.  “No!” he shouted.  “Not yet!”  He moved to the podium and leaned close to the microphone.  “Hold the music, I have something to say!” 

The orchestra stopped playing.  Warren couldn’t feel his legs or his arms.  It was as though he were floating in some other dimension.   He reminded himself why he was here.  More than anything it was for Bridget.  She was out there somewhere, watching him on television at this very moment.  This might be his very last chance to tell her how he felt.  The crowd waited expectantly.  “My name is Warren August,” he began, surprised by the sound of his own voice.  Shocked that the words were coming out at all. 

In the audience, Bridget wondered why he didn’t see her, sitting so near.  She saw the fear and hesitation in his eyes.  She wished she could calm him.  She wanted to tell him that everything would be all right.  She wanted to let him know how proud she was.  Instead she gripped tightly to the armrests, too frightened to call out. 

Warren waited another few anxious seconds before he cleared his throat and began to speak again, slowly at first.  “Six months ago, something happened that changed my life,” he said.  “Or at least I thought it did.  I got to be a movie actor, for four glorious weeks.  I went from the gutter to the stars.  But when it was over, I was thrown right back in the gutter.  You may think I came here tonight for this award; this hunk of metal.  You’d be wrong.  I’m here because I learned something in all of this.  I learned what a fool I have been for so long.”  Warren looked down at the podium.  He cleared his throat and forced himself to go on.  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life.  That’s not hard to admit.  I was blinded by love.  At least that’s what I thought.  It ends up I didn’t know what love was.”

The entire crowd was rapt at attention.  This was no boring, pre-scripted monologue they were witnessing.  This was a man speaking from the heart.  He might rise to the level of greatness, or just as easily go down in flames.  It was like watching a stock car race and waiting for the grisly pileup that could come at any moment.

“I thought that if I wanted something badly enough…someone badly enough…that it was love,” Warren continued.  “I’ve since come to realize that was just obsession.  Love is not a one-way street.  Love is two people caring for each other.  I found that out the hard way.  I met someone in all of this that really did care for me.  And I let her down.”

Jessica put her hands over her eyes.  This couldn’t be happening, she thought.  After one night together?  Was he really going to proclaim his love for her in front of the whole world?  She snuck a peek down her row toward the nearest exit.  Perhaps she could slink out while there was still time.

“I came here tonight for one reason,” Warren went on, struggling to put his emotions into words.  “I came because I should have been a better man.  The only thing I have left to say is this… wherever you are, Bridget, I’m sorry.”

Jessica peeked out from behind her fingers.  Did he just say Bridget?  Who was Bridget?  And how dare he fall in love with someone else?!  Two rows back, Bridget herself sat bolt upright.  Could he not see her?  Was he blind?  The orchestra began to play again.  With both hands on the podium, Warren took one last look at the crowd, then picked up his Oscar from the podium and turned to go.

“Warren!!!!!” Bridget shouted at the top of her lungs.  “Warren!!!!” she cried out again.  Warren stopped and turned back toward the audience.  He saw Bridget jump to her feet with one hand outstretched, as if she could reach out and touch him.  “Warren, I’m
here
!”

 “Bridget?” he said quietly to himself.

“Warren!” she yelled again, and then rushed down her row.  Warren watched in disbelief for a moment and then flew toward her in a mad dash.  They met in the aisle, stopping a few feet apart to face each other uncertainly.

“Bridget, what are you doing here?” said Warren.

“I can’t believe you made it,” she answered, looking him over.  “I’ve been so worried.”

“I’m sorry, Bridget,” he said.  “About everything.”

“Oh, shut up, Warren!” she said, grasping him in her arms. 

Warren held her tightly in return.  “I love you, Bridget.  And only you.”

“I know you do.”

The applause was slow and uncertain at first, but when he kissed her it grew and grew until everyone in the theater was on their feet, mad with spontaneous joy.  Even Jessica Turnbull couldn’t help but smile.  Warren and Bridget clung to one another, afraid to let go.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Warren August held court at a table surrounded by his closest friends.  To his left was a beaming Dorothy, who didn’t want to take her eyes off her long lost brother, lest he somehow disappear once again.  To his right was Bridget in her formal dress, her heart full to bursting after their fairy tale evening.  Arranged in other seats around the table were Smiley, Slim and Duke, guzzling champagne from pint glasses.  Beside Dorothy sat Sydney Rallston with a smile on his face and a glass of whisky in his hand.  On the table in front of them all rested the gleaming Oscar statuette, drawing nearly as many stares from the other restaurant patrons as the motley group surrounding it.

Behind the table hovered a waiter with bottles of champagne in each hand.  The restaurant manager nervously attended to their every want and desire.  It was the same manager who unceremoniously gave the group the boot so many months before, but this time he had an Oscar winner on his hands; the most unlikely and sensational winner in the history of the awards.

“Garcon!  More champagne!” shouted Duke and the waiter hurried over, filling his glass nearly to the rim.

“We should be at the parties, man!” said Smiley.  “With all them big shots!”

“This is where I want to be,” said Warren.  “With my friends.  And the two most beautiful women in the world.”  Warren leaned over toward Dorothy.  “By the way,” he whispered.  “Can you cover this?”

She gave him a look of mock exasperation.  “This time,” Dorothy said.

“No, this one’s on the Hollywood Reporter!” said Rallston, pulling out a company credit card with a flourish.  “As long as I’m getting the story, we might as well let them pick up the tab.”

“I told you our man was a movie star!” said Smiley.  “I knew it all along!”

“To the movie star,” said Bridget, holding up her champagne glass.

“To the movie star,” said Dorothy.  The group tapped their glasses together and took a drink.

“You know that every agent in town is going to be desperate to sign you now,” said Bridget.  “You’ll have to fight them off with a stick.  If you had a phone it would be ringing off the hook.”