Nicaragua

In Nicaragua I meet Jane Fonda.

I drive around a corner in the jungle and into a village. One of those abrupt transitions that happen all the time in Central and South America. Thick jungle one moment, main street of the village the next. Drive around the corner into blinding lights. Lights shining in my face and a huge crowd of people and lots of yelling and arm waving and I stop before running into a wooden wagon with shiny Chevy hubcaps on its wheels.

The wheels are from an old car or truck. The town policia, a fat man with a drooping mustache walks fast up to my window, belly bouncing as only fat bellies can bounce. He keeps his hand on the pistol in his holster, his face looks angry, sort of red and pinched together. He is speaking too fast in a local dialect for me to catch what he is saying. A woman who looks like Jane Fonda comes up behind him and puts a hand on his arm. He stops talking like somebody cut his words off with an ax.

"Could you back your car up, please?” the woman who looks like Jane Fonda says. “They're trying to shoot a scene for a film."

I look at her for a moment or two. Jane Fonda, I think. Movie, I think. Okay, I'll buy it, I think. I nod and put my car in reverse. Another thought keeps me from letting up the clutch right away. I lean out at her.

"If I park it around the corner,” I say, “Can we talk?"

Jane Fonda looks at me frowning, then lifts one shoulder and nods. I back up out of sight of the street and park the Mercedes. I roll up all the windows and lock the doors. I cut across some back yards on the edge of the jungle. I come out near the crowd of people just behind the camera. There seems to be more production people here than villagers. I can tell the production people because they all have walkie talkies and earphones and wires and little gortex bags full of stuff hanging from their belts.

"Reset!" someone yells, and two or three other people yell "Reset!" right after that, one of them from across the street. I hear children’s voices yelling “Reset” and then laughing.

Out in the middle of the street are two women, a man and a little girl about ten years old. The man and one woman wear hiking clothes like out of that magazine, the Patagonia one. The other woman and the child wear what most of the local women wear; old T shirts and white skirts. The woman and child walk to one side of the street. The couple with the expensive clothes go to the other side of the street and stand talking. A thin production crew woman in shorts and a T-shirt and a tan baseball hat holds an umbrella above the man and woman to shade them from the sun. The little girl and the other woman actor are in the shade of the buildings.

I hear the sound of a voice over a walkie talkie, but I can't understand what it’s saying. A woman near me grabs a small piece of plastic on a wire around her neck. Its hung on the left side of her chest, above the big pleated safari pocket over her breast.

"Go ahead," she says, hand on the plastic, aims it at her mouth. Stares off into the middle distance. Her voice sounds exotic, like a white stucco buildings with wrought iron balconies overlooking blue Mediterranean waters voice.

"That's a copy," she says, "But I think we are going to need..."

Her eyes move over me as if I’m not here.

"That is right," she says, "We will need one of those."

Her eyes come back to me. She squints them together like she’s trying to see a long way away. Trying to see something very small.

"All right," she says. She lets go of the plastic bit.

"Can I help you?” she says to me, “Are you part of the talent?"

"No," I say, "I'm here to see Ms. Fonda."

"Oh," she says, "Hold on."

She grabs the piece of plastic. Aims it at her mouth.

"Harley?” she says into the plastic. “There is a guy to see Ms Fonda."

She stares at my hair. I wonder if it’s sticking out at some weird angle or something.

"Oh, the guy in the Mercedes,” she says, “Yes, I mean that's a copy."

She lets go of her bit of plastic.

“You’re the guy in the Mercedes,” she says.

I nod. “That’s me.” I say.

"Around over that way," she points, "Be quiet, we are about to do another take."

I look around where she’s pointing. Jane Fonda is standing in the shade by an excited man wearing a safari hat. He looks excited. He’s bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet and waving his arms around. His head wags from side to side, and his eyes keep rolling up.

"Thank you," I say, but the woman is walking away, talking to herself with her hand on her chest, like she’s reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

The excited man is waving his arms around and yelling in bad English. He sounds Italian to me. I wonder what movie they are trying to make. I wonder what it’s about.

Jane Fonda excuses herself as I come up. The man glares at me like I’m a critic or an editor. He walks off stiff and leaning forward, calling everyone to their places.

"Settle!" he yells.

"Settle!" three other people around the set yell.

“Settle!” the children yell.

Jane Fonda looks at me like we’ve got some kind of secret together. Her face a little down eyes looking out from under eyebrows and mouth just a little up on one side. It feels good to have a secret with Jane Fonda.

"I told him you were a representative of the British investors," Jane Fonda says, "here to check on his progress. I'm afraid you'll have to go along with it, or I'll lose all credibility."

"Well, I dare say I can scare up a bit of Brit, what?" I say, trying to sound like Ringo.

"Rolling!" someone yells.

"Rolling!" three other people yell.

“Roll..Ow!” a child’s voice yells.

"Don't overdo it," Jane Fonda says, "I told him you were American from New York."

"Yeah, yeah, sista, waddeva ya say." I say.

Jane Fonda laughs. I am trying too hard to impress her. Feel my face getting warm. Can’t think of anything else to say.

"Background!" someone yells.

"Background!" two other people yell.

"Action!" someone yells.

"So," Jane Fonda says, “What did you want to talk about?"

"Shh!" a man with wires in his ears says. He’s waving his hand at us.

Jane Fonda tilts her head over to one side, away from the crowd of people behind the cameras. She turns and I turn in that direction, being quiet, walking quietly.

"You realize," Jane Fonda says, "that the only reason I agreed to talk to you was because you're an American here where there doesn't happen to be many, and I was lonesome for the accent, or lack of one."

"I just was curious about this film." I say, "What's it all about? Who's doing it and where will it be showing, like that."

She begins explaining while we watch the filming. I’m not really paying attention, but I nod and uh-huh at appropriate times.

"Cut!" The director yells,

"Cut!" Three other people and two children yell.

"Reset!" Someone yells.

"Reset!" Two other people yell.

"He keeps calling for this scene to be done over," Jane Fonda says, "First he didn't like the donkeys, then he didn't like the actor's clothes, then it was the background actors, too many of them, not enough of them."

Jane Fonda takes in a big breath and lets it out with a little ahh sound, real quiet.

"I'm really just a minor investor," Jane Fonda says, "but I've been interested in this director since I saw a short of his at the Cannes Film Festival last year."

"He had such a fresh way of doing things," Jane Fonda says, "so spontaneous, it seemed."

"Cut!" the director yells. "Reset!"

Jane looks at me with her mouth all off to one side.

"You want to get a beer?" Jane Fonda says.

"Sounds good to me," I say.

We walk over to the Cantina.

Inside, it is dark and cooler. The Cantina is pretty much empty. A young girl who had been staring out the window when we came in waits on us but she doesn't seem able to turn her head away from the film crew outside. She brings us two beers, running little steps across the floor, drops them at the table without stopping and goes right back to the window.

A tall man with a huge walrus mustache eyes us from behind the bar. He wipes the bar continuously, starting at one end and moving down to the other. Then he walks back to the first end of the bar, shaking out the towel and refolding it. When he gets to the other end of the bar, he starts in to wiping again. He looks unhappy, like he's been eating lemons. My guess is he’s more annoyed with having to stay in the bar where he cannot watch the filming outside.

I pick up my beer. Jane picks up her beer. We click them together and drink.

"So what about you?" Jane Fonda says, "What's your story? What brings you to the boondocks of Nicaragua?"

I wonder how much to tell her. I wonder if I tell her the truth, if she will think I am some kind of coward for running off. I think back to Portland and the house and it seems like some other life lived by some other person. I guess I’m taking too long.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “It was too forward of me...”

"No, it's okay," I say "I just.... I was trying to think how to begin. Or where to begin, really."

Jane Fonda cranes her neck to see outside through the narrow window. I follow her gaze to see the director talking to his female lead. His face is redder than ever, and his mouth blisters and pops over and over, sending little spurts of spittle into the air around him. He waves his arms and bounces up and down on his feet. Her mouth is set in a hard line and she stares at the ground in front of her and taps her foot. Her arms are crossed. She looks exactly like that example of bad listening habits we were shown in that corporate Effective Listening class we had to take.

"We've got all afternoon." Jane Fonda says, "I'm game for a story."

"Well, sure..." I say. I can feel my face getting red.

"I'll tell you if you're boring," she says. She’s smiling with her mouth off to one side again. Her eyes look into my soul. Jane Fonda really has the most remarkable eyes.

I take a deep breath and plunge in. I warm to the subject, trying to explain the real feelings and motivations behind what I was doing. Jane Fonda’s eyes get kind of wide when I tell her my ultimate destination.

"Antarctica?" Jane Fonda says.

"Yeah," I say, "Or as close as I can get."

Jane Fonda is looking at me, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking by the way she is looking. Or maybe I just don’t want to admit that she looks a little worried.