Chapter 62: Such a Cruel World
In the West Village of New York in March, the night wind still carried a biting chill. Bruce parked in front of the apartment building, rolled up the window, and got out with Grace. The two had just returned from dinner at the Italian restaurant two blocks away—their first shared meal in days of hectic work schedules.
The moment Bruce stepped out he spotted his friends on the couch through Central Perk's windows, so he took Grace's hand and walked in.
"Whoa! Look who's here?" Chandler's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Bruce, back from the set via time machine!"
Bruce laughed. "I've been coming and going at odd hours, so I rarely see you guys, but I still come home every day—just earlier tonight."
"Hey, Director Bruce!" Phoebe leaned toward Grace. "Your movie—what was it—Lock, Stock something? How's prep going?"
All eyes turned to him. "Progress is crazy, like we're at war, but it's mostly smooth," Bruce said. "Main cast is basically locked in—a bunch of talented, affordable newcomers. One guy's agent called to say he'd crashed his motorcycle and is in the hospital,
so we're recasting. We've locked down about fifteen locations, mostly in the back alleys of Brooklyn and Queens; to find them, Assistant Director Sam and I searched every corner of both boroughs."
Ross asked, "So when does shooting start?"
Bruce held up two fingers, voice firm: "Two weeks, max. No turning back."
"That fast? Like a rocket launch!"
"Exactly. Time's another cost I have to cut," Bruce shrugged. Only he knew the pressure: "Launch on schedule or crash and burn."
"Hey! Quiet!" Ross suddenly hissed, eyes glued to his pager. It buzzed insistently with a number.
Ross went pale, hands shaking. "Oh God—Carol! The baby's coming! I've got to get to the hospital!" He scrambled up, nearly spilling Monica's coffee.
"Ross, sit!" Grace pressed him back, glanced at the pager, and frowned. "Are you sure Carol gave you that number? Think—what did she say the code would be?"
Ross checked the pager again, confused.
"That's not Carol's number," Grace said, voice rising with disbelief. "That's the infamous adult hotline number in the city. I just handled a case where people want to sue the company for harassment. Carol would never give you that number!"
As if to prove her point, the pager buzzed again with another suggestive message.
Chandler grinned. "Wow, sounds urgent—maybe you should call back. What could be more urgent than childbirth?"
"That's the third time tonight!" Ross ignored him. "Each time I think it's Carol! My heart almost stops—plus I've banged my knee on the table twice!"
Bruce bit back a laugh, glanced at the pager, and an idea struck.
"Listen, Ross," he tapped the table, "stop torturing yourself. Go home, call Carol, and agree on a private code—say, 911? Or 'Baby Time.' When that shows up, you'll know you're really about to be a dad. Ignore anything else."
Ross's eyes lit up. "A secret code! Baby Time! Great idea—I'll call her tonight!"
As the laughter faded and the gang kept teasing Ross about his pager mishap, the café door burst open, letting in a gust of cold air.
Joey shuffled in, shoulders sagging like he'd just been kicked.
"Joey?" Rachel noticed his mood first. "What's wrong?"
Joey lifted his head, voice heavy: "Guys... I got scammed. Totally cleaned out."
"What happened?" Monica pressed.
Joey rubbed his face, looking defeated. "The fifteen-grand advance I got from Inglourious Basterds—it's all gone."
"Tell us everything."
"That damn con artist!" Joey grabbed someone's coffee and drank it. "He said there's a 'Golden Coast Retirement Resort' in Palm Beach, Florida—can't lose, thirty-percent return! Just a fifty-grand deposit to secure future profits on a luxury condo!" His voice cracked with anger and shame. "He said spots were limited, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity... so I wired him everything!"
"But you just said the deposit was fifty, and you only had fifteen grand?" Chandler had a bad feeling.
"That's what I told him, then the guy made a call and said he'd gotten me a special discount—fifteen would work!" Joey said miserably.
"Oh my God!" everyone said in unison, unsure whether to blame Joey for missing the obvious warning signs or the scammer for being evil.
Joey continued: "Then the guy vanished with my money—and who knows how many other people's! The cops told me the 'Golden Coast' is a swamp full of alligators—total scam. The money... basically gone."
Grace asked, "Joey, before you handed over that much, why didn't you check with us first?"
"They wouldn't give me time—limited spots, super urgent, one minute late and the opportunity's gone!"
Grace sighed. "Classic pressure tactic. They cut off your thinking time so friends can't spot the con."
After a brief silence Chandler muttered, "Ross keeps getting spam pages, Joey gets scammed—what a cruel world."
"Joey, need cash to get by? I can lend you some," Monica offered suddenly.
"I've got savings too!" Phoebe raised her hand.
Joey looked at his friends, grateful and embarrassed. "Thanks, guys... but I've still got a little money left."
"Joey," Bruce cut in, "when does your crew ship out for Europe?"
Joey blinked. "Originally two weeks... but the Bavaria set didn't pass safety inspection, so they're rebuilding. Four, maybe five weeks now."
"Four to five weeks—perfect. Listen, my film has this character, Billy. The original actor broke his leg; the part's open." Bruce pointed at Joey. "You're playing him."
"Me?" Joey sat up straight, pointing at himself.
"Exactly you," Bruce said. "Big guy, not too bright, cowardly comic relief, always paired with someone even dumber. Decent screen time, memorable moments, a few key group and action scenes."
Fire lit Joey's eyes; he grabbed Bruce's arm. "I can do it! I need every gig I can get right now—thank you, Bruce!"
Bruce grinned. "Wait, here's the best part: there's pay—small, but enough to carry you until Inglourious Basterds pays out."
Joey asked, "So what's the number?"
"Miramax's line producer handles contracts, but actors with your screen time typically get eight to ten grand. Tight budget, that's the ceiling. Shoot's intense—about ten days straight."
"I'm in," Joey said, "but... those ten days are consecutive, right? No conflict with Basterds?"
"Absolutely. I'll call Sam, rearrange the schedule, front-load all your scenes in week one."
"Man, you're saving me!" Joey lunged to hug him.
"Sit down, Joey." Bruce laughed, then turned serious. "Listen—tomorrow!"
"Tomorrow what?" Joey blinked.
"Tomorrow!" Bruce checked his watch. "I'm out all day on technical scouts with Sam, the cinematographer, art department, sound—locked in on locations. Can't walk you through to meet casting."
"So 9 a.m. sharp, head to the Old Mill warehouse in Brooklyn—our casting location. Ask for Ms. Martha, the casting director. I'll brief her tonight."
Bruce eyed Joey's nice coat and neat sweater. "Billy's no slick hustler—picture a guy who's lived in a Queens tenement for ten years. Dig out a worn hoodie or a faded diner T-shirt and ripped jeans—baggy, stained, anything that screams 'loser.' Martha will fit you properly, shoot your screen tests."
"Rough and dumb, got it!" Joey glanced down, then brightened. "Leave it to me! Nine a.m., Old Mill, Martha!" He gave a mock salute, buzzing with renewed hope.
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