Short Fiction

The Ballad of Will Ferrell

He sat in a collapsible director’s chair; hunched over a dog-eared copy of some unjacketed hardback, his elbows balanced on the chair’s armrests, his fingers were knotted, while his thumbs fashioned a platform for his chin. His eyes darted back and forth across the pages, he was reading at a rate he didn’t know he was capable of while his stylist continued to poke and prod at his head. Why can’t I do something like this? I can do something like this, I’m not just a clown, I can be subtle, I will do something like this, what’s stopping me?, I don’t care what people expect, I’m going to do it; the more he read the more critical he became; his thoughts slowly pooling into a lake of indignation.

Ok, Mr. Ferrell, how does this look?

Will hesitated, read to a natural stopping point, and looked up. The mirror was framed by forty high wattage light bulbs that focused all attention in the trailer on him, irradiating every aspect of his face and hair, while seeming to dim his surroundings. His hair had been teased out into a six inch afro: a perfectly shaped crescent; the kind of hairdo only obtained through high paid stylists on movie sets.

I can be subtle, Maria, and poignant, and affecting. I don’t need to yell. I can write stuff. I don’t just make up everything on the spot. I have things to say, important things, funny things, important-funny things, funny-important things. I’m not a clown Maria. I have a voice.

Of course, Mr. Ferrell.

He stood up and walked to the full length mirror hanging on the outside of his closet door, his afro falling right in line with his face paint, blousy, bold-striped, top, red suspenders, and matching parachute pants.

I’m going to show them, Maria, I’m going to show them that I can make sense; I’m going to give them something to think about. I’m not just a fool here to say the first random, or dirty, or randomly dirty, or incredibly, uncomfortably, inappropriately, unpleasantly, nauseatingly dirty thing that comes to mind.

Good luck, Mr. Ferrell.

Before exiting the trailer, Will slipped on the size twenty red pleather shoes lying next to the mirror; as he applied pressure to the heels, he noticed a dog-toy like squeak.

Hey Maria, looks like Fred got the squeakers to work.

---

Will was in the middle of shooting a film called The Ballad of Randy Gunthrie, the story of America’s first homosexual rodeo clown trying to make his way to the top of the rodeo clown circuit. The movie was going to be a scathing attack on right wing conservatives and tea partiers, exploding their conservative social values and exposing their hypocrisies. The scene Will was headed to the set for now involved the first major confrontation between Randy and the movie’s villain, Texas Ted Texas, otherwise known as T, the top ranked bareback horse rider in the nation. The scene involved the oversized and awkwardly shaped Randy executing a series of precision ballet moves after T had been thrown from a disreputable bronco he was unfamiliar with. Embarrassed by the dumping, T disgustedly watches Randy while lying on the ground. After the bronco is penned T is helped up by his cronies, and they confront Randy with a suggestion for a different approach to rodeo clowning:

What’s with the dancing Gayndy? You know this is a rodeo, right, not some public rest stop?

These are very complex ballet moves, T, requiring the utmost concentration, I’m not just dancing all willy-nilly, besides, with the amount of room needed, I highly doubt you’d be able to execute these moves in a public restroom.

Yeah, well, I’m sure you know more about that than me. People come here to see riders, not some fat ass clown doing ballet; all you need to concern yourself with is getting that stud’s attention, jumping in one of those barrels, and staying the hell out of my way.

Stud huh? Didn’t realize you had such affection for the horses T.

Good one gayboy, now you want to be a clown. Hey, I got a better idea of how to make people laugh.

With a jerk of his head T signaled his back up to approach Randy. They grabbed him by the shoulders, wrapped their arms underneath his, and planted their feet in the manure riddled dirt. As Randy struggled to break free from the comically small restrictors T advanced slowly, and with a lightning quick swiftness struck Randy on the testicles.

Ow, my nuts!

The scene ends with T’s buddies dumping a hunched over Randy to the ground, his face landing next to a pile of horse muck, and strutting back to the locker room. After the director yelled cut, Will stood up and beat the dirt off of his billowing costume.

That’s good. Will, we’re going to do the “nuts” line again. I need something a little funnier than just “nuts.”

Ok.

Action.

Ow, my beans!

That’s good, let’s roll with the bean theme, just as many as you can think of.

Ok, sure.

Action.

Ow, my pinto beans! Ow, my black beans! Ow, my baked beans! Ow, my cannellini beans! Ow, my lima beans! Ow, my low sodium beans! Ow, my kidney beans!

Good. Let’s go in a different direction, whatever comes to mind, just a couple more. Action.

Ow, my dick spurs! Ow, my danglers! Ow, my truck nuts!

Ok, that’s good Will, let’s take a break.

The director stepped away from the camera and approached a group of writers who were watching from behind a lighting rig; they all held heavily worn and marked scripts in their hands. The committee formed a circle and began conferencing. Will was left standing in front of the camera, the surrounding lights slowly raising his temperature, beads of sweat forming at the base of his perfectly coiffed afro. He looked around at the rest of the crew, most of which were checking their phones or examining their nails; nobody seemed particularly interested in the spontaneous meeting, and after a few postural adjustments and head nods the whispering stopped and the director returned to his position next to the camera.

Will, we’re going to keep rolling, I want you to spit out as many as you can and we’ll find the best one in post.

Ok.

Action.

Ow, my bits! Ow, my buttons! Ow, my knobs! Ow, my jollies! Ow, my tallboys! Ow, my smallboys! Ow, my Munchkins! Ow, my hedgehogs! Ow, my nuggets! Ow, my berries! Ow, my kernels! Ow, my blinkers! Ow, my pellets! Ow, my BBs! Ow, my Black Eyed Peas! Ow, my apps! Ow, my truffles! Ow, my Cocoa Puffs! Ow, my cashews! Ow, my Jelly Bellies! Ow, my unsalted almonds! Ow, my Milk Duds! Ow, my Tootsie Pops!

That's enough food ones. Try to stay away from name brands, we don't want to have to pay licensing fees for a nut joke. Try to think hillbilly, but liberal-equality-hillbilly. You're from the country, but you're different from all the others, if there was such a thing as a blue state hillbilly that's what you'd be.

Ow, my…..Ow, my…male…vaginas...

Ow, my repressors!

Ow, my...gender pay gaps!

Ow, my…..danglers!

You said that one already.

Ow…..my beans!

We’ve got beans covered, Will.

FUCK YOU HOW MANY WORDS FOR BALLS DO YOU THINK I KNOW IHATEYOUDON’TIWANTDON’TIDON’TWANTTODOTHISANYMORE

The declaration spilled out of Will’s mouth like a torrent of water breaking through a shoddily constructed dam: words jumping in front of one another, jockeying for position, trying to be the first one out, racing to beat the oncoming sobs. Will didn’t stick around to see the crew’s reaction; he didn’t want them to see his frustration, to have to deal with their platitudes of compassion. He ran back to his trailer, using the excess fabric wafting from his forearms to wipe away his tears, unintentionally smudging the face paint he sat in make up for three hours to have applied, his shoes squeaking in stride.