Act One, Sixty Year Olds Screen Odyssey

Mark Edward had been doing acting and background movie work for over four decades. It was never his bread-and-butter occupation but rather a refuge/escape from the demands of his full-time job, which often meant working with street-entrenched youth, street people, and parolees. Acting and background work allowed Mark to escape his life and become someone else for a few hours. He had enjoyed meeting new people and sometimes found that some took themselves far too seriously while others seemed to go with the flow. Some professional actors he would brush against on sets were funny, polite, and kind to those around them. Others, though, were pompous asses who appeared to believe the production or series would fail without their presence. This also often applies to crews, directors, and others on set. He thought of all these things, but today was different.

His agent had worked her magic and got him a small part in a miniseries filming about one hundred and twenty kilometres from his home. He had spent a great deal of time learning his few lines. The day before this event, he had been a background actor in a commercial. He wondered if he drove some of the others around him crazy that day by constantly repeating those few lines.

He waited and did not sleep well the night before as he became increasingly excited about his coming opportunity. He had everything packed and ready to go; he looked like a dapper man, with his hair neatly combed and beard brushed. The Costume Department approved the wardrobe; he had printed instructions on finding his way to the set. He put gasoline in his old Mustang and was ready, excited, motivated, and a little scared of the day ahead.

Mark felt eager and optimistic despite the downpour and the convertible roof's occasional water drip. His cellphone playlist roared out a blend of tunes that spanned the days of his youth. A few days earlier, his mechanical genius son had fixed an alternator problem, so all seemed good with his old Mustang and life in general. As the storm worsened and the drip became more noticeable, Mark rehearsed his lines and sang his favourite songs. As he went to pass, a semi-truck disaster struck; his signals were not working. Almost right out of a suspense or dramatic comedy film, the old Mustang was more challenging to handle as the wipers slowed. Having driven and loved cars all his life, he instantly knew the problem. The new alternator had betrayed him just as a fun day was falling into place.

He got off the highway and went to a nearly back road in the fast-growing city in the province. He pulled over as the old Mustang's engine sputtered, choked, and turned off. He glided into a spot behind an old motorhome. The engine was dead, the power was fading, and he found himself on a backroad that seemed to be the setting for an RV homeless camp.

He sighed loudly as his cell phone played, " Shout, Shout, shout it all out; these are the things I can do without."

He decided to call his son first, waking him up some thirty kilometres away from his home. His son was not working that stormy Sunday morning and agreed to come out and drive him to his set. Mark texted his agent next with the news that his car was deceased, at least for the moment, and he was still at least forty-five minutes to an hour away. He decided to text home next, where his wife offered to rush to his aid, offering to help, but she was tethered to a very active puppy she was looking after. He finally messaged his agent to let her know what was happening.

As he finished composing another series of messages, a knock on his driver's window caught his attention. He turned to see a man close to his age standing there. As his power windows lacked power, he cracked his door open.

"Got any spare change," the man said to his. Though the man was at least a few feet away, Mark could still feel the foul smell of his breath.

Mark reached into his back and handed the man a small tin of biscuits. "I have no money; my car is dead, but I have some cookies on me."

"Seeing your dress, I thought you might be going to the Whore House up the block." He said this as he opened the tin of biscuits.

"No, I am not looking for a bordello; my car's battery is dead." He replied.

"I'll Offer to jump you, but my motorhome is dead, too." He said it with a half-grin. "Good luck, partner."

He waved as he wandered back to an old motorhome, and for a moment, Mark laughed to himself. His 1980s car was dead next to old, derelict motorhomes from the same era.

He texted his agent, the Assistant Director, a few times, telling them he would have a ride in thirty minutes and be back on the road. His plans came to a screaming halt suddenly, and his son phoned; it seemed the rescue plan was halted because his son's vehicle had also lost power and was dead a few blocks from his home.

Mark looked out of his windows as water dripped onto his nose. He began texting everyone once more, with a bead of sweat on his forehead. This led to another possible rescue plan to get him to set and be about an hour late. A friend who lived in the Upper Valley area was willing to get up and drive for an hour to get to him. Mark disliked disrupting so many people's lives but agreed to it.

Ten minutes later, the dreaded, feared text appeared on his phone. The production had found an alternative solution: They would get back to him if they wanted him for another scene in a few days. He could see it from their point of view: "The show must go on," and they had invested lots of their time, energy, and money; a 1980s Ford Mustang was not going to disrupt things further.

He replied, expressing his regret for disrupting the production and causing them problems and stress. He also texted his agent and thanked her for her time.

His attention turned back to the task at hand: how to get the Mustang home without spending hundreds of dollars. He moved things around in the small back seat of his convertible and found his small battery charger.

He was resolved to get the Mustang home without spending a lot of money. On his phone, he spoke to his son's friend, whose uncontrolled laughter always put a smile on his face. Mark's master plan to get the Mustang home seemed amusing to him, though he did agree to a rendezvous point.

With hope and a prayer, he connected the charger, reminiscing briefly about the hassles of calling a tow truck back in the day, watching the large cables come off the truck, and the cumbersome process. He hooked this little wonder up, and he thought, "Somethings from the eighties did suck."

Moments seemed like hours until the engine roared to life. "Victory!" Mark shouted as he waved goodbye to two RV types who were watching the morning drama. Mark was determined to get his Mustang home; he slammed the hood shut and started this journey. The rendezvous point loomed thirty kilometres away, a distant beacon of fast food, gasoline, and, hopefully, his son's friend.

A moment later, he was navigating his traffic through some city traffic until he reached the highway. He quickly discovered his signals had faltered once more in only a few minutes, but he had reached the highway. Gary Newman's famed song from the 1980s came on his cellphone, "Cars." It was like an anthem for the journey.

As the rain fell heavier again, Mark belted the song "Cars" by Gary Newman, "Here in my car…."

Despite traffic and nearly stalling out twice, his Mustang bravely roared forward into the stormy morning light. Chris De Burgh's song, "Don't Pay the Ferryman," distracted Mark for the moment. He had never truly understood the lyrics and pondered them momentarily as the rain came pouring down.

He was pleasantly surprised and relieved as the exit he sought came into view. He turned onto the exit, hoaxing the struggling engine to stay engaged. As his Mustang rolled to a stop, the engine died out again, but he had reached his destination. Mark's head was thumping, and his shoulders and neck were very sore, but the first phase of bringing the Mustang home was completed, and he felt a true sense of accomplishment.

He scanned the area around him, opening the door to listen to the familiar tone of laughter, but he did not see or hear anything. Mark let his eyes close for a moment as he collected his thoughts. As his eyes slowly opened, he was grateful to see the old, two-tone Ford Aerostar pull in behind him. Mark sprang out of the Mustang suddenly.

As he entered the gas station, he noticed a young man heading towards the washroom. Mark bellowed out, "Bursting Blatter!"

A few moments later, he was back in the Mustang; his mini charger, this time, would not start the old Mustang. Ryan, his son's friend, pulled out a cheap set of cables and, with a hardy laugh and a big smile, set to the task at hand. With a sputter and a roar, the Mustang was back to life as if inspired by the energy of the men around it. As Mark sat in the Mustang waiting for an opening in traffic to get back to the highway, the 1970s song by the band "Sweet," "Ballroom Blitz," blasted out of his cell phone.

As the traffic opened, "Alright, Fellows, let's go..." screamed out of the speaker, Mark crossing himself, saying a silent prayer once more that he makes it home in one piece, his knuckles white on the old steering wheel that groaned under his tight grip. The Mustang almost seemed bedevilled by the song's beat, fishtailed as it roared across traffic lines, the roads wet with rain and slick as an ice rank. As the Mustang swung onto the road, Mark imagined himself in the Wayne's World movie, driving the big limousine as it spun across the freeway, and the music boomed out, "Yha, Yha, Yha…."

As the little Mustang ripped through the storm, it seemed possessed by the madness of the "Rocky Horror Picture Show" song "Time Warp." As the hail bounced off the highway and the thunder echoed from above, the Mustang, for the moment, belonged to the "Time Warp." Mark marvelled as they passed a slow-moving Corolla. The Mustang's wipers squealed as they barely moved.

Mark's thoughts and worries were hijacked for a moment as "Bob" Seger's" "Hollywood Nights" came to life. "He had lost all control…" resonated with Mark as he wondered if other sixty-year-old men found themselves lost in this storm.

As he passed from one municipality to another, he felt like letting out a mighty cheer. He was sure he would get to at least his home city. Suddenly, a large tracker trailer could be seen in his side mirror, coming through the storm like a bat out of hell. The truck was weaving in and out of traffic and, a moment later, was close behind him. As he looked in his mirror, the song "Neutron Dance" came on his cellphone, and he could almost imagine this being the destructive truck in the "Beverly Hills Cop" movie. The truck swung around him a moment later and disappeared in the storm.

The journey continued as the Mustang and Mark moved towards home. As they passed, each exit let out a sigh of relief. He talked kindly to the Mustang, which almost replied with renewed energy. As his headache worsened, he finally saw the outskirts of their home city. The "Blues Brother's" song, "Sweet Home Chicago," came on, and he sang out loudly, changing Chicago to the name of his town.

Soon, Mark had an important choice: take the dangerous highway S-Curves or go up a long ramp off the highway and hope the car did not stall. As he approached the exit, he turned slightly right and went up the ramp. On the ramp, he could stall, and on the S-Curves, losing power could mean the junkyard for the Mustang and a body bag for him.

As the Mustang moved up the off-ramp, a vehicle swerved around him, causing Mark to hit the brake pedal. A moment later, the Mustang was electrically dead. Mark let the Mustang drift back a little off the road and called Ryan. "Next exit, I am there," he said to Ryan.

A few minutes passed, and the old Aerostar appeared. Unfortunately, the battery pack could not quite get the old Mustang started. For the next few minutes, Mark directed Ryan as he turned his Aerostar around and pointed down the ramp so he could manually jump-start the Mustang. After a few more minutes, the Mustang roared to life once more.

Ryan drove off to meet Mark on a side Farm Road across the highway overpass. Mark slowly moved the Mustang forward, but it stalled.

Ryan drove off to meet Mark on a side Farm Road across the highway overpass. Mark slowly moved the Mustang forward, but it stalled. Mark looked up to see the old Ford van disappear across the overpass. He called Ryan on his cell phone. "Yha Ryan, you disappeared too quickly, my friend." He exclaimed over the phone.

Mark agreed to meet Ryan at the top of the overpass. As he walked up, a Volkswagen Golf slowed down and stopped near him. A kindly-looking black lady moved her children's things off the passenger front seat and offered him a ride. He was taken aback by this kind offer to a stranger. He thanked her and explained his ride was coming. She smiled politely and slowly drove off.

Mark stepped into the battered old Aerostar van, its exterior a testament to its age and use. Inside, he was greeted by a sight that made him believe he was back at the homeless RV camp. He looked at a large selection of old meal containers, over a dozen empty energy drink cans and bottles, and an uncountable number of Pepsi cans and bottles scattered about. Ryan, seeing Mark's reaction, joined in the laughter.

A few minutes later, Ryan dropped Mark off at his home. Mark's new plan was to put the charger on a quick charge and go back out within the hour. He thanked Ryan for his kindness and generosity and promised to take him out for a Buffet or meal of his choice within the week.

Mark did his task inside the home, putting the charger on a charge. He went out to his old pick-up truck sitting at the side of the house; he placed jumper cables inside the truck, made sure it started o.k. and prepared for what was to be the final stage of the plan to get the Mustang home.

He alerted the family members present at the home of his plan, and shortly after that, he prepared to leave in his truck. His plan was simple: drive the truck to where the Mustang sits. He would use the charger to boost the Mustang; once the Mustang was running, he would take certain selected back roads toward home. If everything went perfectly, he would be back at the house in thirty minutes. Within forty-five minutes, he would be driven back to the truck, and home within the hour.

His family looked kindly at Mark, though he could tell no one believed this would work out this easily. In the past, such plans ended with cars on fire, cars out of fuel, tow trucks arriving at the house, or Mark lying in a puddle near one of the vehicles.

Mark took a large gas container, a quarter filled with gasoline, with him; he had jumper cables, his cell phone partially charged, a jacket, and the charger and the truck started immediately. He was ready to put his plan into action, though deep inside, he wondered what would happen.

Mark arrived ten minutes later at his Ford Mustang, which was still right where he had left it. He hooked the charger up to the battery, waited for the green light to go on, and once it was ready, sat behind the wheel.

"Alright, it is just you and me," he roared as his hands clutched the steering wheel, "It is time to go home." He slowly turned the key and heard the motor sputter momentarily before going silent. "We can do better." He turned the key as he pumped the gas pedal, and a moment later, the car revved to life. He quickly removed the cables and dropped the car's hood; he got back behind the wheel just as it appeared it would stall out.

"Come on now, let's be reasonable." He pumped the pedal, and the car came back to life. He slowly moved the car up the slope; at the stop sign, he looked in both directions as "Raise a Little Hell" by the Canadian Band "Trooper" echoed. The car took off across the overpass, heading towards home. Moments seemed like hours as he drove the vehicle down several quiet farm roads, or at least they should have been quiet farm roads. One road has a large farm vehicle towing a gigantic poop gun moving slowly along. He breathed a sigh of relief when it suddenly turned off to a farm.

All seemed to be going well until a small vehicle cut across a side road without stopping at a stop sign. Mark pressed the brakes and thought he had prevented the stall, but a few moments later, the vehicle stalled out. Mark was not feeling well at this point in the journey; his shoulders and neck were very sore, and his migraine was now very throbbing. The Mustang slowly drifted across the road to a stop at the end of a big puddle. Mark felt emotionally, physically, and maybe even spiritually done; he called his house, and a vehicle went out to get him.

After being picked up, he asked his life partner, his beloved wife, to go to a nearby gas station and that he needed to get to their washroom quickly. As they drove toward the station, he thought up a phrase to describe this part of the journey, but he thought it best not to mention it.

Once at the station, he burst into the washroom, forgetting for a moment that he had suspenders on. Mark discovered that this washroom was without toilet paper and had limited paper towels. Fifteen minutes later, he was back in the car and heading toward the truck to get it and take it to where the Mustang was.

As they drove toward where the truck was, both the driver and the passenger slowly opened their windows as the overwhelming smell of the recent trip to the gas station overtook both of them.

Mark was pleased that the truck had started immediately, and he drove to where the Mustang was. Despite his best efforts, he had to step into the puddle several times as he jumped and started the car. Once again, Mark found himself behind the wheel of the Mustang, this time driving quickly along a road used by a great deal of traffic. But ahead was one of the two last danger spots he thought of. Mark could not avoid these two, the first being a traffic roundabout where a highway and this main road met. The second was the high, long hill he had to go up to home.

As Mark approached the roundabout in the Mustang, the vehicle abruptly stalled. A car behind him impatiently honked and swerved over the median to overtake him. With his right shoulder and arm incapacitated, Mark was left to push the vehicle using his left arm and shoulder alone. Just when he felt the weight of his predicament, a large group of young Asian men appeared out of nowhere, offering their assistance. The Mustang, now safely across the roundabout, began its descent down the hill towards home, its power completely depleted.

He called his spouse for one more ride to where the truck was. The latest revised plan was pretty simple. He would drive the truck to where the Mustang was at the base of their big hill. He would jump-start the car with his vehicle and drive the car home. Once at home, he would walk down the steeply sloping road with his trusted companion, his doodle dog. They would drive the truck home together and, once home, watch the end of the NHL hockey game on television.

His wife met him at the base of the hill; the car smelt like air fresher, and she wore a mask. “Is it that bad,” Mark exclaimed.

Her silence spoke volumes; they were at the truck five minutes later. This time, she waited until the truck started before starting her journey home.

Mark drove quickly to where the Mustang sat resting; he was not surprised when he noticed one of his neighbours driving by his slowly as he hooked up the cables to the Mustang. Mark, tired and not caring about much at this point, saluted the neighbour, who politely waved as he went by. Two other neighbours drove by, one with an expression mark they had seen many times before. “The Edward’s and all their old crappy vehicles.”

He expected to see a letter from the Strata Executive listing concerns regarding his vehicles and asking if they were all appropriately licensed. But for the moment, the problem was getting the Mustang home. He let the Mustang run and connect to the truck for a few extra moments. He closed both hoods and began to take the car up the hill. At this point, Mark expected almost all to happen, from the motor falling out of the Mustang to the start of a Zombie Apocalypse, but to his shock and surprise, no neighbours watching from windows or front lawns, no vehicles cutting out in front of him and not one Zombie. The Mustang made it safely home.

He took his K-9 companion with him for a pleasant walk down the hill, only to see one solo wild rabbit as they went down to the truck. A few moments later, the adventure was nearly and thankfully over. He drove the truck up to the home, parked it took the dog inside and was in time to watch the Vancouver Canucks have an incredible comeback win in the NHL playoff game.

Author's Notes:

Within this story lies many truths that resonate with those striving to reach an acting audition or set promptly. While very much inspired by actual events, certain details such as names, facts, and vehicles have been altered to safeguard the anonymity of those connected or suspected to relate to these events.

This narrative is a tribute to individuals who have endured head injuries, to those who grace the stage, and screen, and to those who work tirelessly behind the scenes. It also honours the agents and their teams who must navigate the egos and misadventures of the talent they represent with grace and understanding.

I included some of the music from the story to help understand the mood, nature and feelings of the main character Mark Edward.

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