After spending three minutes with the guy, you’d learn not only that he knew how to pilot a jumbo jet as well as a P-51 Mustang and a Mikoyan-Gurevitch Foxbat (yeah, he called it that instead of “a MiG-25,” just to be sure I “got it”)… but that he could also scale mountains, rocks, and buildings with and without ropes and carabiners… and that he had ranking in multiple martial arts, including Brazilian jujitsu, Wing Chun, Krav Maga, and Systema.
Longest three minutes of my life.
Wanna hear about the next three minutes? They’re the reason I know that Cole McAdams owned an extensive collection of guns from his films — including such exotic gear as the fully functional “hero prop” rocket-powered grenade launcher from Relentless 2 (“hero prop” is a fancy Hollywood term for “the real deal that looks good on camera and might even be fully functional”) — that he could free dive to a depth of a hundred feet for more than eight minutes, and that he had learned parkour from the Yamakasi, precision stunt driving from Rémy Julienne, and black-and-white war photography from James Nachtwey.
Then there were the singing and guitar lessons from Eddie Vedder that he took in preparation for his role as an ostensibly aging rocker in his 2014 relationship comedy, Tour Bus Blues.
Yeah. That one hurt.
Anyway, I knew something was wrong with Cole McAdams the first time I laid eyes on him. It had nothing to do with his fame, fortune, or hobbies.
It was the road rash.
Whenever Cole McAdams left his large, midcentury modern compound in the Hollywood Hills, assuming he wanted to drive himself that day, he decided among the dozen cars, and twice as many motorcycles, in his air-conditioned garage. Then, his assistant, a driver, and a bodyguard piled into a lumped-out Cadillac Escalade, which followed Cole McAdams and whatever conveyance he had selected for himself to his destination.
No matter where Cole McAdams went — an exclusive sushi joint in the foothills over the Sunset Strip or the private home of a fellow mogul — the Escalade and his vehicle du jour would wait for him at the entrance. Both with the engine idling. Whenever Cole McAdams was done doing whatever it was that Cole McAdams did, wherever it was that Cole McAdams did it, Cole McAdams would choose whether to get back in his private car, or bike, or the Escalade. If Cole McAdams got in the Escalade, then the assistant drove his car or motorcycle back home for him. If Cole McAdams got back in his car or bike, the Escalade, once again, followed at a close distance to ensure his privacy and safety.
In short: It’s good to be Cole McAdams.
On my first day visiting the production of Department Zero, filming on location in downtown Los Angeles on a Friday morning, Cole McAdams had chosen to ride to work on his custom-painted orange-and-gray Suzuki Hayabusa. In spite of his toned musculature and complete control over his mental and physical faculties, Cole McAdams somehow missed a pool of oil-based paint spilled near the prop master’s truck.
I had been instructed to show up first thing in the morning, while most of the crew were getting breakfast at the catering tent, and then further instructed by an assistant director to wait for Cole McAdams’s arrival at the door to his triple-wide motor home/trailer/dressing room/porta-mansion, parked near the props fabrication truck. So I alone saw him hit that puddle in 1080p hi-res.
I may be a grown-ass man, but I’m not above admitting a measure of envy over another guy’s sweet gear, which I could never afford… which is why the resulting wipeout was so uniquely satisfying.
Cole McAdams’s Suzuki Hayabusa screamed around the corner to the deserted midway between the parked production vehicles, mobile offices, and dressing room trailers. As if that weren’t enough, he then popped a wheelie on the last leg of the journey to his triple-wide. His face, visible through the transparent visor on his matte black helmet, was a study in steel-eyed intensity. Until his rear wheel went into a skid.
Then it became a study in wide-eyed hilarity. There are few things funnier than watching this cruel world show some poser just how little mastery he truly has over all he surveys.
The Escalade lumbered around the corner as I took a few steps toward the conflagration. Within seconds, Cole McAdams’s retinue surrounded him in a flurry of iPhones, loudly voiced concern for the meal ticket, and removal of witnesses.
By the time Cole McAdams’s Blond Mountain of a bodyguard shooed me away from the scene, well before any further onlookers could have twigged to the crash, my offer of assistance had been soundly rejected. I had also been asked to relinquish any cell phone video of the incident (I had none) and reminded that should word of this get out to something called “TMZ,” I would be held personally responsible for violating the ironclad terms of the nondisclosure agreement that made it possible for me to visit this location in the first place.
That’s when I noticed the compound fracture.
When 550 pounds of rice rocket lands on a man’s wrist, it’s gonna leave a mark. This one was a beautiful specimen, even viewed in passing as Cole McAdams’s assistant and driver under-the-shouldered him past me, three inches of pearly white in a foot-long lake of gore, road rash, and shredded motorcycle leather.
Now, I’ve seen some shit. And when you’ve seen shit like I’ve seen shit, you don’t go looking for shit. And you don’t go starting shit unless you’re ready to end some shit. But you sure as shit know some shit when you see it… and what I saw next was some shit.
I whiled away the hour after the incident on a folding plastic chair over at “extras holding” (a fancy Hollywood term for “the fucking ghetto of the untouchables”), and was then summoned by a production assistant (one of an army of young people in cargo pants, T-shirts, and headsets who beavered over every facet of the operation like some unholy mating of worker bees and Santa’s elves) and instructed to wait for Cole McAdams at the craft services table. Twenty minutes and one tedious exchange with a tattooed screenwriter later, my time in “the Presence” was afoot.
It wasn’t hard to spot McAdams coming toward me. Everywhere he went, he strode with purpose, and the world parted around him. Struggling to keep up with him was a young woman — couldn’t have been more than twenty-five — in cargo shorts, T-shirt, and headset.
Her name was Amy Garfunkel. She was the dictionary definition of “cute” and “eager”—bustling, unadorned, and wide-eyed — with a palpable brio that made it clear to all that she had come to work as hard as humanly possible in the hopes of making it in the circus. Unlike the sleek and tall actors running in packs around the makeup and wardrobe trailers, Amy had a beauty that came from a compact and practical place. It wasn’t looks that made her sparkle, but rather an enthusiastic work ethic that time wouldn’t mar nearly as easily.
As I watched them, I wondered when the last time was I had been that young. I also made note of Amy’s beaming smile as she listened to Cole McAdams.
She’d been given the gift to stare at the sun without injury.
As Cole McAdams ended his conversation with Amy, I felt the approach of the Blond Mountain behind me. I chose not to acknowledge it. Just as I chose not to snap his wrist when he put his hand on my shoulder.
“Cell phone, please,” he demanded.
“Excuse me?”