Chapter One
Carrie Laemelle desperately searches her black and white striped Victoria’s Secret Free Getaway bag for her black Forever 21 Crepe shorts. She remembers packing them yesterday, after she finished the laundry. Well, not so much finished as pulled a few items out of the dryer while it was on the “no press” cycle and crammed them into the bag for today. She knew it was unlikely she’d make it home last night, which she hadn’t, and that she might need them today if it turned out to be warm at work, which it had. In fact, it’s supposed to get into the high 90s, which will be tough on the people in costume.
Shit. No shorts, at least she doesn’t think so. All manner of clothing and toiletries are scattered on the floor in front of her locker. Her locker. Maybe she put them in there? She’s definitely going to need shorts today. Black pants would be a killer, especially since she’s probably already a little sticky. She hasn’t had a chance to take a shower yet, and she did break a sweat last night, even if it was only mercy break-up sex. She had taken Eric for a pretty feverish cowgirl ride. Eric knew how to screw, and he packed a pretty nice piece, but the guy was just plain full of himself. Carrie thinks she needs a strong, silent type. Someone who doesn’t talk on the phone or use a computer all day. Someone more like Monroe Stahr, the hot facilities manager, which is corporate language for handy man, but he does seem like a man who’d be handy to have around. Unfotunately, he seems to be totally in his own world, never noticing Carrie or any of the female tour guides. He doesn’t seem to focus on the men either, though. Perhaps there’s just more going on behind those smoldering eyes and under that messy head of hair than appears to be the case. Or maybe there’s less. Either could be good…
She dials her locker combination: 21-21-21, so easy to remember, and carefully peers inside. It’s as if a small nuclear device has gone off. Despite her care, an entire wardrobe of clothes, costumes, and brick-a-brack cascades out, engulfing her bare feet. She checks the Big Clock. 8:47 a.m. She’s seriously gotta move. Around her, other women are already dressed, scrolling through the day’s directives on the CosmoPad each is issued – the repository of all information confirming the ever-changing tour schedule for the day. The Park is first and foremost a working studio lot, as well as an event venue and endless construction site, so the Glam-Tram is the only park ride that is rarely the same from one day to the next, in order to work around shooting schedules, repairs, and renovations. Carrie makes a mental note not to forget her CosmoPad on her way out the door.
She paws through the pile on the floor. Her shorts must be here somewhere. Most the other guides wear long pants, but then again, most the other guides don’t have Carrie’s legs, perhaps her only truly remarkable physical trait. Legs like hers only come from spending most of your formative years in the pool or on the track, as opposed to in the ocean or on the beach. 8:49 a.m. Carrie starts cramming clothes back into the locker. Its contents are no help. She looks around for another Size 4 guide who might have an extra pair of cute black shorts. It’s pretty unlikely given that most the guides are already out of the dressing room.
She could ask Star Gale over there, except that she’s already wearing black shorts, and she’s probably a size zero anyway, the bitch. Hers look like the $295 Phillip Lim pleated shorts, and if Carrie wanted to get hyper technical, she’d point out they are Phantom Blue, not black. The distinction is very small, however, and Carrie doesn’t want to encourage her superiors to be too strict about the rules anyway. People who live in glass houses and all that…
Wait a minute. There they are. Her shorts were hiding inside a sweatshirt. They’re a little wrinkled, but they’ll be fine. She finishes stuffing the rest of the crap back into her locker and slams it shut, then she begins putting yesterday’s clothes in the Getaway bag. She pulls her pink hoodie off over her head and drops it in, then peels off her black Pink yoga pants, which have to be forced in on top of the rest.
Carrie grabs her make-up bag, sets it on the counter, and stands in front of the mirror, checking herself out. Her long, honey-colored hair is pretty bed-heady yet, so she quickly runs a brush through it, and it miraculously falls in gentle waves to her shoulders. She gives her head a shake and takes another look in the mirror. A quick couple of strokes of mascara, a touch of blush, a light application of eye shadow, and a quick lick with a lipstick, and she’s looking good. 8:54 a.m. Crap.
She yanks on the crepe shorts, up her long stretch of tan, toned, runner’s leg, tugging them over her powerful hips and booty, and cinching them against her soft, flat belly. She slips her feet into her worn, Lincoln green Bass Weejuns. Finally, the one item of clothing she knows she can always trust – Cosmos provides all its tour guides with a starched, white, cotton blouse (or Oxford shirt in the case of the guys) with a Cosmos logo on the pocket. Since it’s taken care of in-house, it always looks sharp and professional. Probably why Cosmos started doing it. She pulls it on and buttons it up over her lacy, pale pink bra, and the illusion of competence is suddenly complete. 8: 58 a.m. She’s gotta fly.
The dressing room has emptied, quiet without the sounds of lockers slamming, women chatting, faucets flowing, and people hurrying about. They’re already all standing in front of their trams, like Navy pilots assembled before their planes on an aircraft carrier, awaiting final orders from their fearless leader. Carrie bolts through the door and races down Technicolor Road toward the Tour Center and Tram Station. There’s no one on the street. That’s a bad sign. Everyone is already in the Company Meeting in the Visitor Tour Center, and Carrie should be there too. Her worn loafers slap the pavement as she sprints the last stretch around back of a line of the Oscar-gold vehicles in Tram Station, skidding into the Visitor Tour Center and the crowd of administrators, security personnel, technicians, ride operators, actors, costumed performers, musicians, carpenters, concessionaires, and tour guides, both tram and foot.
Gladys Fontana steps purposefully out of her office at exactly 9:00 a.m., just as the world’s largest rooster crows over the powerful sound system, ringing across the park, echoing off buildings, through tunnels and mazes, announcing that it’s morning and the park is now open for business. Gladys carries a clipboard and wears black pants and a blue polo with the Cosmos logo on the breast and the word OPERATIONS on the back.
“Park is now a hot set,” she announces in a voice that is strong, but not necessarily loud. She’s doesn’t shout, nor even raise her voice, she’s just being heard. Carrie doesn’t quite know how she does it, but she admires the effect. Gladys continues, “All right people, settle; let’s listen up. We’ve got a full day today, and it looks like it’s going to be a hot one. Air conditioning in the tunnels and Starway is undergoing maintenance and may be spotty. Sorry about that, so try to stay cool. We’ve set out extra water and encourage you to drink a lot of it. Costumed Performers, be extra careful, especially you newer ones, that silicone doesn’t breathe.”
Carrie quietly blends in as best as possible with the other tour guides and drivers, bunched together by the Tram Station. She surveys her surroundings to see whether she has been missed, and Star Gale stares right at her, smirking. Carrie tries for the self-deprecatory approach, rolling her eyes heavenward, her lips creasing in a rueful smile. When she looks back, Star is smiling sweetly and gives her a wink. “That’s comforting; Star’s not so bad,” Carrie thinks. “It’s not her fault that she’s unpopular just because her father runs the studio, even if everyone knows she got her job the old-fashioned Hollywood way. And so what if those $295 shorts make her butt look just a bit too cute?”
Carrie tunes back in as Gladys wraps up, “So remember to use your walkies and stay in close contact with Tour Center. We’re working with the new digital switch and location protocol today, so the more information we get, the better Jamie can fine-tune it. Have fun out there, make the audience happy, be safe, and break a leg.”
Gladys turns around and heads back to her office, and the Company scatters to First Positions. Film speak is pervasive at Cosmos. Carrie needs to be on her tram, pronto. During the Company Meeting, the first batch of patrons passed through ticketing and are now heading to their initial destinations, most of them for the trams that tour the lot providing an introduction of the whole facility before they visit the other rides and attractions. Carrie wonders who her driver is today and what tram she’s riding. She freezes. She forgot to pick up her CosmoPad. She doesn’t know which tram to get on. She spins around in terror – automatically looking back toward the dressing rooms, but if she goes all the way there and back, she’ll make both her driver and her late. What to do?
“Trouble, hon?” asks Star. Carrie starts. Star has a habit of sneaking up on people. Maybe it’s because she’s so tiny (except for her tits, of course). She looks up at Carrie innocently. “Can I help?” She has her CosmoPad in her hands.
Carrie breathes a sigh of gratitude. “Star really is misunderstood,” she muses, and then blurts out, “I forgot my ComsoPad, Star. I don’t know where my first ride is.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” Star replies. “I can check for you if you want…”
“That’d be so helpful! Thanks, Star,” Carrie gushes. Star slides her finger over the CosmoPad screen and types with blazing one-handed speed. She looks up at Carrie.
“Looks like you’d better get goin’, baby, you’ve got the VIP Fast Forward on Woody Woodpecker. You’re the first tram onto the lot.”
“Holy crap,” Carrie breathes. “I’ve never led a Fast Forward tour.” The VIP Fast Forward is for special guests who want to enjoy the regular tour but want it to go fast and don’t want to interact with other tourists. It’s always the first tram onto the lot, and it goes through all the sights via the most direct route. There are a variety of tour types in addition to Standard – partial, photo friendly (read, “slow”), various foreign language tours, and site specific. Even Standard tours travel a variety of routes, depending on factors such as time of day, how many people are in the park, short and long term delays, and the like. On a good day, almost 50,000 patrons pass through the gates of Cosmos Studios, and almost all of them take at least part of a tram tour. The trams are technically the theme park’s most popular ride.
Carrie jumps to it. “You’re an absolute life saver, Star. I seriously owe you!” she shouts as she races off in search of the tram bearing the huge image of Woody Woodpecker. All the trams are named after characters, rather than having boring old numbers. She expects it to be near the front with easy access onto the lot, but the first tram she comes to is Woody, and sure enough, patrons are already boarding it. She jogs to the front, where she finds that her driver is Pat Brady. Pat’s been around for years and knows the park like the back of his hand. He’s a crusty curmudgeon, but he’s got a dry sense of humor that Carrie enjoys. The last of the passengers are just getting settled as Pat is finishing his walk-around.
“Hey Pat! Great to see you,” Carrie enthuses.
“Uh huh,” responds Pat. He kicks one of the tram tires. It doesn’t kick back. He grunts in satisfaction.
“Ready to go?” Carrie asks, as she looks around and sees other trams loading.
Pat grabs one of the aluminum stanchions supporting the roof and gives it a shake, testing its condition. The roof rattles a bit, but it does not collapse. Pat grunts again.
Carrie anxiously jumps aboard and sits in the rear-facing elevated front right seat. She grabs the clipboard hanging from the back of the entry and reads down the pre-tour checklist:
She looks into Woody’s passenger compartment for a quick VIP tally. The morning sun streams brightly through the rear of the tram, making it difficult to count, but she can make out the silhouette of row upon row of six heads left to right. Each tramcar seats six per row and has ten rows, and most tours have two or three trams coupled together, with special tours sometimes having only a single one. It looks like the front car of this double-banger is full, which is what Carrie expects of a Fast Forward tour.
A helicopter chops loudly through the sky above, coming in fast and low, banking over the studio. Carrie looks up at it. “Snowden’s getting here early today,” she mentally notes. Snowden Gale is the President and CEO of Cosmos, and on most days that he works, which requires two assumptions that aren’t often true, he commutes by helicopter. It’s a deafening beast, and everyone but Snowden hates it.
Carrie hops back down from Woody and peaks into the rear tram; it too looks pretty full, and boarding seems to have ended. She raises her voice, “Tour leader?” The helicopter descends and hovers, then begins its slow approach to the landing zone. The sound is deafening. A silhouette leans out of the tram. “Must be the tour leader,” Carrie assumes. She gives him a questioning thumbs up to make sure everyone who should be is on board; although, it’s not entirely clear how she means to distinguish her inquisitive thumbs up from her “let’s rock, dude” one. As if to prove the point, the assumed tour leader sends back either a questioning or a party-prone or even a gladiator approving thumbs up. Although unclear, it’s good enough for Carrie. She wants to get going and get her VIPs out ahead of everyone else.
“Ready, Pat?” she calls out to her driver over the din of the helicopter, which lands simultaneously with Carrie finishing up her checklist.
Pat stands right behind her and startles her terribly when he shouts in her ear, “What’s the rush?” She jumps out of her skin. Pat chuckles evilly. Carrie hears the sound of the tour group laughing at her. Oh well, at least she’s already entertaining them.
“We gotta get out in front. We’re Fast Forward!” Carrie explains.
“We are?” says Pat. He squints and knits his brows. This is the first he’s been told they’re Fast Forward. “Oh well, what’s it matter anyway?” he thinks.
“Yes. It’s my first Fast Forward. I want to make sure nothing slows us down,” says Carrie.
“Keep yer hot pants on,” Pat says. “I’m comin’.”
Carrie and Pat hop into the tram, sit down, buckle up, and get to business.
Chapter Two
Pat pulls Woody out of the Tram Station slot and onto Backlot Road. He wrestles the wheel sharply left and leaves the others trams behind, still boarding hoards of tourists who arrived early for gate opening. Carrie switches the toggles to red/red and picks up the microphone, pressing the thumb switch. The speakers crackle. “Good morning everyone, and welcome to the Cosmos Studios tour,” announces Carrie, brightly. “My name is Carrie and your driver today is Pat, and it’s our pleasure to give you a behind-the-scenes introduction to Cosmos Studios, one of seven major Hollywood studios and the largest working backlot in North America. Right now we’re leaving the Tour Center in the upper lot and, at the top of this hill, you’ll have a panoramic view of our lot, the Warner Bros. lot, and the City of Los Angeles downtown skyline.
“We’re so happy to have you with us today. If you’ll bear with me for just a moment, I’d like to play a brief safety announcement, and then we’ll get the tour started,” she continues. Woody does indeed peak a hill, and the promised view spreads out before them. Carrie shifts the Announcement toggle and its light changes from orange to green. The speakers issue forth a cheaply made recording listing the various safety features of the tram: “Welcome to Cosmos Studios. For your safety, please keep your hands and feet inside the moving tram at all times. Please enter from the outside only on green lights and exit from the inside only on green lights. All children…”
Carrie tunes out the recording she has heard dozens of times and preps for what’s to come. Normally right now she would use the CosmoPad to input the name of the group, number of passengers, time underway, and time at mile markers, as well as any passenger or operator notes or comments. Without her CosmoPad, however, she’ll have to remember the relevant information and input it as soon as she gets back so it’ll look like she had it all along. Hopefully they don’t check in continuously along the way, and it’s just an end of day thing for their records. Somehow she doesn’t think that’s likely, but there’s no sense worrying about it now when she can’t change anything. The safety recording wraps up, so Carrie stands and grabs the microphone, pastes her biggest welcoming smile on her face, and prepares to start her shtick, the sun flooding into the tram on what’s rapidly becoming a beautiful day, one of those rare ones in Los Angeles after the Santa Ana winds have blown out the smog, and the air is clear, at least for a few more rush hours.
“Again, I’m so pleased to be able to spend a little of this beautiful day with you,” she intones. “If you look out the right side of the tram, you’ll see the lower lot. We’ll be paying a visit to many of the attractions when we get down there, but let me point out a few facts about the studio itself. Cosmos produces on average 24 big budget feature films per year; around half of those are filmed primarily here on the lot.” Carrie thinks about how much she’d love to be in one of those productions some day. A lot of actors and directors started off as tour guides, some who became successful into comedies, which is exactly what she wants . She has always loved performing. She loves to make people laugh, and she’s willing to take any opportunity to do it, even a group of tourists. She knows it’s one of the longest shots in the world, as her dad reminds her almost all the time, but she can’t help it. She loves it.
“Cosmos Studios has been a mainstay of Hollywood since it’s very earliest days,” Carrie continues. “Carl Laemmle, lovingly known as Uncle Carl, founded the studio in New Jersey in 1906 in the infancy of motion pictures and was among the first to move to California, in 1914, to take advantage of the year-around film production weather. The movie business is hard and risky, and to support the studio’s production efforts, Uncle Carl and his brother Claude ran a chicken ranch on the land that now encompasses much of this theme park. One of the highlights of studio tours back then was a fried chicken lunch.” Carrie looks at the front row of tourists, all of whom are Asians who appear confused and a little concerned. “Perhaps they’re vegetarians,” she muses. “Don’t worry. It’s not a part of the tour anymore,” she ad libs brightly, flashing her audience her friendliest smile. The front row smiles back at her broadly, if still with some confusion.
Pat slows Woody down as they approach the entrance to the lower lot. “Attention, humans… You are entering a restricted area,” warns a menacing, mechanical voice. A pair of armor-clad robots wielding a laser cannon, red lights flashing around them, veer out from roadside to intercept the tram. Pat slows down gently, but pushes a button on his console that creates the sound of squealing brakes, and lights inside the tram flash from back to front, creating a sense of screeching to a halt. Carrie watches the front couple of rows of tourists smile and laugh with excitement, pointing and raising their phones to begin recording the experience.
Carrie begins her scripted role in the scene. “Excuse me, Mr. Space Robot Guy, but I’m just giving a tour here. We’re no threat to you, sir.”
Mr. Space Robot responds by shooting his cannon. Zap! A cloud of dense, silver fog engulfs Pat, who plays along by slumping down in his seat. “It looks like they’re a threat to us, everybody!” Carrie shouts. More loud electronic zaps and bangs ring out, and the tram slowly glides past the robots, revealing a huge spaceship dominating their path. Double cargo doors open before them. The tram, moving on a carwash conveyer belt while Pat pretends to be unconscious (and is probably actually napping), enters the belly of the ship. “We’re caught in its tractor beam…” Carrie continues as they exit the heat and sunshine for the dark interior of a Krabulean Battle Cruiser from the Cosmos evergreen property Space Wars. Carrie clips the microphone back in place in the dim light and swings around an aluminum pole, athletically exiting the tram, where she falls into the embrace of a bi-pedal encephalopod. It wraps her in its rubbery tentacles, and a familiar surfer-dude voice whispers in her ear, “Who’s this?”
“It’s Carrie, Denny. Try not to grope me too much today, OK?” Carries responds to the actor, who would be pretty cute if he weren’t just way too short for her. She’d gone on a couple of dates with him a year or so ago and sucked face in his car, but he ultimately just didn’t do it for her. He became a buddy, someone she saw at the beach pretty frequently, where his surfing skills made him seem much bigger in the water than he turned out to be on the beach. Since then, however, he repeatedly tried to use this opportunity to charm her. Bang! The doors slam shut behind them and they’re in total blackness for a moment.
Dim lighting comes up in the Battle Cruiser cargo hold, dry ice machines spilling fog for colored lights to dance through, as Carrie pretends to struggle with the creature pawing her. “Ahhh, he’s got me!” she cries, as the tour group watches her get dragged away. Camera flashes go off, and a metallic voice booms, “Take the prisoner to cell block K for interrogation. We’ll give the rest of these humans what they deserve.” Carrie continues to pretend to struggle, and she accidentally elbows Denny sharply in his solar plexus. He wheezes “ooof” and doubles over as he drags her off-stage. The Space Wars show commences on the hot set, using animatronics, live actors, and video playback. Carrie dimly sees her group scrambling to don headphones as Denny bends over, hands on his knees, his chest heaving from having the wind knocked out.
“That hurt,” he chokes, entering the wings.
“Sorry, Denny,” Carrie apologizes.
“Is that payback for telling you my tentacles were turgid last week?” he wheezed. “It was a joke you know. Turgid is a funny word…”
“No, Denny it was an accident. I didn’t mean to elbow you and I really am sorry,” she answered. “But just for our information, there’s nothing funny about sexual harassment, and organizations like Cosmos really shouldn’t tolerate it, even if they are in the entertainment industry.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” he gasped, sitting down.
Her father had made a big deal out of this before Carrie left. He wasn’t crazy about her getting into the movie business at all, even though he knew she was a hilariously talented performer and that it was what she loved. He was from a simple family of chicken farmers in the hick town of Barstow, California, where Carrie had been born, and both he and his Carrie’s grandmother still harbored hopes that Carrie would change her mind about the whole industry, but she had to try.
Carrie knew the job could be dangerous when she took it, but that didn’t make it right. She agrees with her family about that much. She knows that there isn’t just a risk of inappropriate sexual conduct; there is a near certainty of it. Sexual harassment is standard operating procedure not only at the park, but also throughout Hollywood. Carrie hopes, nonetheless, to be an exception to that rule, which is one of the reasons she wants to pursue comedy. She hopes that perhaps being funny will put her in a separate category from the other merely pretty girls, of which there are many, and for whom the casting couch may be their only shot at getting a part.
Backstage, Denny straightens and breathes more easily. Carrie smiles at him, and he returns the grin. “Sorry,” she repeats.
“You need to give me a kiss to make it better,” he says.
“I didn’t hit you in the mouth,” Carrie responds.
“I didn’t say it had to be on the mouth,” Denny says, eyes glinting.
Carrie rolls her eyes. Men are so stupid and childish.
“I wouldn’t touch your dick if your entire body were in a condom, which it is, jerko!”
“Hot,” Denny comments. Carrie rolls her eyes at him again. He grins, as if to let het know once again that this Neanderthal way of joking is how he truly communicates with women. She pities him.
“Time to get back to it,” he sighs, replacing his helmet. Carrie nods and places her body back into the tentacles’ grasp. Denny puts his hands around her waist like a gentleman. She bops her head against his shoulder, and then gets back into character.
A loud bang cues them to return to the stage, struggling again, but Carrie breaks free and sprints toward the tram. She detours slightly to punch a glowing, red button, then jumps on board and shakes Pat. “I hit the door opener, Pat! Wake up!” she pleads. He comes to and grabs the wheel as the front doors slide open.
“Hang on, everybody!” Carrie shouts, grabbing the pole centered in the front of the tram. The carwash conveyer accelerates surprisingly rapidly, and the tram fairly flies out of the cargo hold, the tourists shoved back in their seats, eyes wide with surprise and excitement. They burst into the sunlight, and Pat restarts the electric engine and presses the accelerator, bringing them smoothly back onto the road, but then gently slowing back to tour speed. Carrie flashes a huge smile at her group, then stops dead. They are all wearing headsets, and it’s not only the front row – everyone on the tram is Chinese.
“Great General Cho’s Ghost,” Carrie thinks, stunned. The headsets are for language translations during the performance and video portions of the tour, but a live Mandarin-speaking tour guide should be on this tram, not only for the guests’ enjoyment, but also for safety! It dawns on Carrie suddenly – that sneaky Star Gale set her up! Carrie’s on the wrong tram, and when Gladys finds out, there’s going to be hell to pay.
The guests smile at her expectantly as Pat maneuvers Woody off the main road and onto the dusty Main Street of a Wild West town. They enter the oldest part of the studio, the original lot where Uncle Carl produced one-reel Westerns. Back then, most of Main Street’s buildings were administrative offices that doubled as false front sets for filming, and many Cosmos executives and staff lived in Main Street adjacent homes, prior to the sleepy Los Angeles real estate market boom response to the entertainment industry invasion, when scores of mansions were suddenly built for the newly minted rich denizens of Beverly Hills, Hollywood, Culver City, and Santa Monica.
Carrie pantomimes to the guests to remove their headsets and picks up her microphone. They do as she prompts, and that gives her an idea. She puts the microphone under her arm and points to her throat, hugs herself and rocks back and forth, closing her arms and screaming silently to signify the struggle she went through with Denny in Space Wars, then points at her throat again, then into her open mouth, and then makes a hand-slicing gesture across her neck and shrugs, tossing the microphone aside. The group sympathetically nods as one, indicating their understanding that she has lost her voice. They look on, expectantly, and Carrie gives them another big shrug and a grin and proceeds with the tour.
Carrie steps forward, giving herself more room to move, and she spreads her arms to indicate the whole of the area they’re entering. She pantomimes riding a horse and shooting a six gun, and the Chinese guests all smile and nod emphatically that they understand they’re now in the Old West. Pat, noticing the surprising quiet, looks over and watches Carrie. He takes a long look in his rear view mirror, his first since the tour started, as he prides himself on paying attention to his driving, and he realizes what must have happened. Crap on a cracker. Damn Carrie is going to get his ass fired, after over two decades on the job, not counting the childhood years spent here helping his father. He shakes his head in consternation. He’s never going to solve the mystery of Cosmos Studios if he gets canned…
Carrie makes clipping and shaving motions to point out the old barbershop, typing motions for the newspaper office, drinking and staggering for the saloon, and she puts her hands behind her back as if handcuffed when she points out the jail. The group laughs and points, taking pictures and video of everything. Main Street no longer contains real buildings. They’re foreshortened structures with false fronts easily repainted to look different for each shoot or even have laminate fronts attached to them to look entirely original. Carrie can’t effectively communicate this to her audience, but when they leave Main Street and turn down a side street full of small western homes, she pantomimes office work to convey that these buildings are offices. She can’t express that they house various studio-based production companies where former Cosmos executives comfortably live out their golden parachute retirements engaging in the very casting couch shenanigans Carrie’s family fears. This thought gives her an idea for describing the largest house off Main Street. It’s one of the last genuine historical remnants of Uncle Carl’s original Cosmos Studios.
The Chicken Ranch dates from when the surrounding area was farmed to provide food and liquidity to Cosmos during its early years. It was the Laemmle’s home for some time, before being turned into a set, where it served as one of the houses in the studio’s earliest blockbuster, Ballyhoo. It continued for decades to be used as a set, most recently and famously serving as the brothel in the western/musical The Best Little Massage Parlor in Barstow.
Carrie points to the structure and mimes a seductive, hip-swaying walk, opens her hands in offering to an imaginary suitor, then thrusts her hips and elbows, emulating sex. The Chinese group looks away in embarrassment, but keeps Carrie in view from the corners of their eyes. She rubs her thumb and fingers together, signifying money, nodding meaningfully. The group feigns shock, but nods comprehendingly. Pat watches with a small smile on his face. He resigns himself to unemployment, and decides he might as well enjoy the show.
Chapter Three
Woody continues on his merry way through the lower lot, carrying Pat, Carrie, and some 100 Chinese VIPs as the heat rises into the low 90s. Carrie breaks a sweat as she energetically pantomimes descriptions of the various attractions they will revisit in-depth after the tram tour ends. Carrie fervently hopes that the Mandarin-speaking guide leading them will be understanding and forgiving.
Sometimes she plays music from her iPhone to tell the story. When they pass through Cosmos-town USA, a Norman Rockwell-inspired central square featured in dozens of films, she plays Born in the USA. Its centerpiece is the courthouse featured in The Future Is Past and its sequel The Past Is Future, both scheduled for remake by Cosmos soon, as is the big Western, Ballyhoo. It occurs to Carrie that pretty much since Snowden Gale and his helicopter took over Cosmos (bringing with him his lovely daughter Star, the new bane of Carrie’s existence), the studio’s production slate has consisted solely of sequels and remakes, especially of many of its most famous old movies. Carrie loves old movies, and she always likes to revisit those stories, but she thinks the past should sometimes be left untouched.
The next attraction is another where the tram travels on conveyor belt, but this one doesn’t require Carrie’s involvement. Woody plays the part of an elevated train in nighttime New York City. An oncoming train’s blinding headlight shines and grows as it rapidly approaches, but suddenly the light cuts off, followed by a cacophonous roar of squealing brakes and tortured, twisting metal. A huge explosion and tower of flame erupts, causing Carrie’s guests to jump and Woody to halt abruptly. When the smoke clears, they see the remains of a smashed el train below, the twisted metal of a crushed bridge encasing it. Suddenly a spotlight shines on a building near them, and they cover their ears at the din of an approaching helicopter. Carrie amuses herself by pretending that Snowden is on his way to offer a three-picture deal to the tour’s next train wreck of a star.
Soon another crashing sound echoes in their ears and the rhythmic whopwhopwhop of the chopper blades changes to a mournful mwyermwyermwyr as an injured police helicopter plummets from the sky, crashing atop the wrecked train. Carrie does her part and screams to Pat to get them out of there, and the tram accelerates slowly, just avoiding the arrival of a massive, menacing gorilla that bares its teeth, roaring mightily at them.
They safely exit the train tracks, arriving back in urban life, gliding along another street, this one doubling for an American city. One side of the street is all offices and store fronts, the other all residential – apartment buildings and brownstones with front stoops and fire hydrants that make her think how fun it would be right now to knock a valve off a hydrant and dance in the cold water in the hot sun. Her Asian audience continues to improve at both charades and name that tune, getting more and more into the game, smiling and laughing in self-congratulation as they solve her clues about the sights around them. By pretending to lay bricks, and then indicating that she’s not laying bricks, Carrie manages to convey that none of these buildings is real. She bounces a pretend building and points at the walls to show they are all made of foam rubber rather than stone, masonry, or steel. She puts on Scott Joplin’s piano classic, The Entertainer, to remind them that these streets had been used to portray 1930s New York and Chicago in The Sting.
They arrive at the doors of a huge warehouse, and Carrie happily takes a break, as this attraction is pretty self-explanatory. It’s a massive repository of props – literally everything on a movie set that isn’t nailed down, from paper clips to weapons and furniture to vehicles. As the tram idles through, she returns to her seat and looks warily at Pat. He looks back at her expectantly. She shrugs apologetically, and he shakes his head. “It wasn’t my fault, Pat,” she whispers. “I was in a hurry, and I forgot my CosmoPad and then that little bitch Star told me I was on Woody today and that it was a first out VIP Fast Forward….” She trails off as she sees a look of amazement in Pat’s eyes.
“You forgot your CosmoPad?” he asks. Carrie nods. “You haven’t been sending times and mile-marker notations?” A shake of her head. “You do know we’re both totally fired, right? They don’t know where we are, what we’re doing with this group of foreigners who are supposed to be supplied with a translator, and they don’t know our ETA.” Carrie hasn’t considered all this. Pat firmly declares, “You gotta get on the horn and let ‘em know what’s going on, or else they’re going to come after us like we stole somethin’.”
“No way, José,” Carrie thinks, but she just nods. “Right after we get through the Red Sea,” she promises. “I’m pretty busy until then.” She hops up and retrieves her mic as Woody exits into the blazing sun, descending into a jungle environment. She stands in front of the crowd and points out the vegetation surrounding them, increasing in density the farther they advance, until they are completely shaded, the canopy entombing Woody. The temperature drops and the humidity rises; it’s not a special effect, but a reality of this manmade microclimate. Carrie puts a finger to her lips; the tram grows quiet, its electric engine silent, the scrunch of tires virtually the only sound. Except for the birds. Carrie has everyone listening to the sounds of the birds, some real and others canned music of tropical varieties. Most guides talk right through this moment of beauty on the tour. Carrie herself has done it many times. She is reminded of the time a couple of years earlier when she was first dating Eric; she violated almost every park rule in the book by taking her boyfriend on a private after hours tour. Here, on the jungle set, they went for a midnight skinny dip in the lagoon and made love on soft, dewy grass. After, they lay quietly, and she noticed the birds singing. Now she uses that knowledge to create a special and memorable moment for her charges.
Then, with everyone nodding along to the birdsong, grooving on the quiet, contemplative moment, no one paying her any attention, Carrie raises the mic and lets out a fierce Tarzan call! AAAAHYAUHAYAUHAYAUHAYHAAAA! The Chinese VIPs collectively jump out of their seats, in search of the jolting source of the noise. Carrie smiles and winks at them, and they laugh uproariously, cheering and clapping. Carrie cups her hand to her ear, and they grow quiet again. Another Tarzan call roars out of the jungle, this time a male one, and then, just moments later, the ripped King of the Apes swings past the lagoon shore. Once again they clap and cheer.
Pat directs Woody around a bend in the road, and a river flows next to them, emerging from the lagoon. A hundred yards later, the river falls away, and a roaring sound builds. A bit farther down the road, the river abruptly tumbles over a waterfall, then bends sharply to the right, and there the road crosses it by way of a rickety, narrow bridge. The VIPs immediately look at Carrie, their faces saying, “We’re not going over that, are we?” Her wicked smile responds to them that indeed they are.
They roll up to the bridge. Pat stops the tram. Normally the driver and guide have a little chat at this point about how the driver doesn’t think it’s safe to cross the bridge, and the guide thinks it is, or sometimes the opposite, but in any event, as Carrie considers the best approach, Pat takes matters into his own hands. He exits the tram and walks away. Carrie grins to herself. Brilliant! The tour group looks at her, bemused. She claps her hands sharply. Pat turns and looks at her. She indicates he must return. He declines. She indicates he must return to drive the tram. He declines sharply. She indicates he must return to drive the tram because he is the tram driver! He doffs his hat and chucks it in the river! Carrie almost loses it. Terrific improv! The crowd laughs hysterically, looking at her expectantly. Where will she go from here?
Carrie indicates that Pat must come back and drive the tram because he is the tram driver, and if he doesn’t, she is going to drive the tram. The VIPs groan in mock horror. They’re totally playing along.
Pat looks at the crowd. He looks at the bridge. He looks at Carrie. He looks at the bridge. He looks at Carrie. He looks long and hard at the passengers.
Pat returns to drive the tram.
The crowd cheers him on, and he drives across the bridge, waving to them happily, a big smile on his face. Carrie sits down and straps in. She gestures to the VIPs to hold tight!
The bridge collapses.
At least it seems to collapse. The bridge surface gives way, creaking and groaning, but not too abruptly, directly before and under Woody, dropping the front car at about a 45-degree angle to its partner behind. The VIPs scream and laugh at the same time. Carrie smiles as Pat stays in character, banging his fist on the steering wheel. Carrie unbuckles herself and awkwardly climbs back to her pole, resting her butt against the half wall she generally sits behind. She quiets the crowd, then points to her head, and then makes a muscle. She does it again and raises her eyebrows to the crowd, as if to say, “You get it, I’m mentally strong, right?” They applaud. She nods her head, and then points to them and goes through the same motions. “You’re mentally strong, right?” She points at Pat, who is holding his head in his hands. She looks back at them and shakes her head, “No. Not so much.” They laugh, but she quiets them again. She clears her voice and begins to sing quietly.
“Ooh eee ooh ah ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang. Ooh eee ooh ooh ah ah, ting tang walla walla bing bang!.” They look at her as if she has lost her mind. Pat looks at her as if she has lost her mind. Carrie looks at them confidently. She sings again, a little louder, “Ooh eee ooh ah ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang. Ooh eee ooh ooh ah ah, ting tang walla walla bing bang!” Everyone begins to smile. She says it again slowly, “Ooh eee ooh ah ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang. Ooh eee ooh ooh ah ah, ting tang walla walla bing bang.” Then she motions for them to sing it with her. And they do.
“Ooh eee ooh ah ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang. Ooh eee ooh ooh ah ah, ting tang walla walla bing bang!” They repeat it, louder and faster, “Ooh eee ooh ah ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang. Ooh eee ooh ooh ah ah, ting tang walla walla bing bang!” The bridge begins to right itself. They all sing it again, louder and faster, and the bridge continues to rise, “Ooh eee ooh ah ah, ting, tang, walla walla bing bang. Ooh eee ooh ooh ah ah, ting tang walla walla bing bang!” They keep on singing it, and before anyone realizes, they’re underway again, singing along, the international jungle magic theme song ringing out across the park.
They’re still singing upon arrival at the Red Sea attraction. Carrie decides that, rather than try to explain to a carload of Buddhists about The 10 Commandments and Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea, she will stick with what’s working. So, Pat simply drives straight into the large pond that has been in dozens and dozens of films and television shows, and the VIPs take it as given that the sea divides and flows in waterfalls on either side of them. It feels like they’re sinking, but actually, sections of the pond are rising around them. They applaud again, and it occurs to Carrie that, despite the language barrier, this is turning into one of the most fun tours she’s ever led.
As if on cue, a disturbing mechanical knocking and clanging issues from beneath the Red Sea, and the waterfalls stop flowing. It grows eerily quiet – the group’s singing tailing off. Carrie and Pat notice that the water on the roadway is rising rapidly, at least as fast as it seemed to fall when it parted. Pat drives forward, but there’s quite a way to go, and the water rises faster than they approach the far shore. Soon it’s in excess of half way over the wheels, and it begins sloshing into the tram entry. Pat and Carrie exchange concerned glances, then look at the VIPs, only to find them expectantly returning the look. The Asian group appears to say, “Is this just another fun trick, or do we have a problem here?” Carrie eyes Pat, who wrestles with the wheel, trying to drive through rapidly deepening water, when the electric motor simply shuts off. He looks at Carrie and mouths the words: “We have a problem.”