At nine-thirty in the morning, Greg Oldfellow walked into the combination wardrobe and makeup trailer to start his day’s work. Today they would be filming a variety of patrol scenes both inside of the car and outside in rented tenement apartments and on the streets around the station. Mindy was already in the makeup chair when he entered. She was wearing a white robe to cover her upper body and a pair of tan dress slacks with tennis shoes on her legs and feet. Her hair had been pulled up into a bun that would have complied with CPD regulations for female uniformed officers. This had been one of the suggestions of Sergeant Mackle, their technical advisor, who had told them that if a reporter were actually riding along for more than a month in the manner that Lyndsay was doing in the film, the cops escorting her would have insisted upon such a hairstyle and that she wear a bullet-proof vest. Fletcher had balked at this initially, stating that the viewers wanted to see Mindy’s hair down and the swell of her tits in the scenes they were doing, but Mindy herself had pushed for the modifications to the wardrobe and makeup, stating that realism trumped tits any day, and, besides, the viewers were going to get a very good eyeful of her naked tits not just once, but twice in later scenes.
“Good morning,” Mindy greeted as Greg entered the room. Julie, the thirty-something year old makeup artist assigned to Mindy was currently brushing blush onto her cheeks.
“Good morning,” Greg returned. He was wearing a pair of dress slacks and a button-up Pierre Cardan long sleeved shirt. His makeup artist was Bradley Stout, a late-forties, flamboyantly gay man who fussed and fretted dramatically but was considered one of the best in the business. Also, there was little chance of Greg initiating an affair with him, a factor that may or may not have gone into Fletcher’s decision to assign him to Greg. Bradley was wearing a pair of tight, custom-fit jeans and a salmon colored shirt. His hair was done up just so and his little doorknocker beard (he enjoyed calling it “my target”) was neatly trimmed.
“It’s about time you got here,” Bradley said in disapproval. “I really wish you would make more of an effort to be punctual, Greg.”
Greg looked at his watch. “It’s nine-thirty,” he told him. “That is what time I’m supposed to report for makeup and wardrobe.”
“That is merely the official time,” Bradley insisted. “It is, however, understood that one should show up at least ten minutes early for the pre-makeup briefing.”
“The pre-makeup briefing?” Greg asked. He had never heard this term used before.
“That is correct,” Bradley said. “The briefing in which we discuss the scenes you will be shooting today and the proper application of makeup for what is being planned.”
“Fletcher sends one of his assistants over with a set of directions for that each morning, doesn’t he?”
“Of course he does,” Bradley said. “And it is then my responsibility to go over the proper use and care of the application with you.”
“I’m aware of what scenes I’m shooting when I walk in here,” Greg told him, starting to get annoyed now. “That information is given to me the night before by Fletcher himself.”
“Nevertheless,” Bradley said, “it is customary to arrive ten minutes earlier than required so that we can make sure we’re on the same page.”
“I have never heard of this custom,” Greg said. “I’ve been doing this acting thing for a few years now and I’ve always shown up at the time requested.”
“But now you are working with me,” Bradley said. “And when you’re working with me, the standard is ten minutes early. Please see that you adhere to that from here on out.”
Greg opened his mouth to light into him, to say something that Jake would likely have applauded, but then closed it again. This was one of those pick your battles kind of situations, he decided. If this prima donna cosmetologist wanted him to show up ten minutes early so they could discuss the day’s scenes, well ... why not?
“All right, Bradley,” he said with a sigh. “Ten minutes early from here on out.”
“Very good,” Bradley said with a smile. “Now go get changed. We’ll have to hold the briefing while I get started.”
“Sounds good,” Greg said.
He stepped into the wardrobe room and shut the door behind him. There were three cubby holes in the room, one for him, one for Mindy, and one for Lewis Stone, who played Boot, Haverty’s partner. In Greg’s and Lewis’ holes were authentic Chicago PD uniforms consisting of dark blue pants and light blue summer shirts complete with five-pointed star shaped badges (the cops always called them “stars”, never “badges”, according to Sergeant Mackle). In all three holes were authentic CPD issued Kevlar ballistic vests. Greg and Lewis would wear theirs under their uniform shirts. Mindy would wear hers over her shirts. All three actors had discovered how uncomfortable the vests were in the muggy late spring of the Midwest.
Greg unbuttoned his dress shirt and pulled it off, leaving him only in a plain white t-shirt above the waist. He hung up the dress shirt in his cubby and then pulled out the white robe he used for the makeup sessions. He left the t-shirt on, as it would go under his wardrobe uniform. And, since he was doing no shirtless scenes today, there was no need to put the pancake makeup all over his torso.
He put the robe on and walked back out into the main makeup area. He settled into his seat and Bradley delivered his pre-makeup briefing, explaining the scenes that Greg already knew he would be filming today and how that corresponded with the makeup and hairstyle he would be utilizing.
“Sounds good, Bradley,” Greg told him when the briefing was over. “Good talk.”
Bradley, satisfied that he was an essential production partner with a stake in how the project came out, then went to work on him, starting with his hair. He combed it out until it was as smooth as silk and then arranged it into a style that looked random and careless, to go along with the characterization of Frank Haverty, but was actually a meticulously planned and executed masterpiece. Once the hair was to his liking, he sprayed about a quarter of a can of maximum hold hairspray on it to cement it into place. He then began to work on Greg’s face, which, while quite handsome in person, would look pale and drawn on camera without a layer of pancake to darken it up.
“Hey, Greg,” Mindy said as Julie finished up her face area and began working on her neck. “I was wondering if you’ve heard from your agent today?”
“Johnny?” Greg said. “No. I haven’t talked to him in a few days now. Why do you ask?”
“Uh ... well ... there’s a little something coming down the pipeline,” she said, seemingly embarrassed. “Something about you and me.”
“You and me?” he asked. “What do you mean?”
“Well ... mostly me,” she said. “It has to do with my ex-boyfriend.”
“Which ex-boyfriend?” he asked. A fair question, he thought. She’d had a few, all of them extensively reported on in the entertainment media. “Are you talking about Jake?”
“No, not Jake,” she said. “My most recent ex-boyfriend. Raphael, the personal trainer. The one I broke up with just before coming to Chicago.”