Free The Ferrari in the Bedroom by Jean Shepherd Page B

down the valley, in knee-deep snow, tracking through virgin drifts, getting colder by the second. A half mile away, the cameras ground.
    “You fall down, Shep, and I’ll reach down and drag you out of the snow.”
    I flopped over sideways, my arms flailing like semaphores. Snow trickled down my neck. John reached down and grabbed my scarf, dragging me to my feet. We pretended to struggle forward. He stumbled and fell headlong. I reached down and pulled him to his feet and the two of us, bowing into the wind (which was real, very real) tottered onward, dragging our little sled behind. Through the sigh ofthe wind a distant shout drifted down into the valley. It was Fenton, letting us know the scene had been shot.
    “Fantastic! You guys looked like something right out of the frozen Yukon, like the Mounties were after you.”
    “My god, is it cold!”
    John blew his nose into a mitten. Icicles hung from the brim of my Robin Hood hat. This job was rapidly ceasing to be fun. We trudged on down to the site they had set up on the surface of the pond where we were to “ice fish.” As a gag Fenton had had the crew lay a red carpet on the ice. Two holes had been bored through the ice and through the carpet. We were to fish through a red carpet for elegance. Behind us, a two-man green pop tent leaned into the wind. A table and two chairs on the red carpet was where we would play out our dramatic scene.
    Now began the process of delay, backing and filling, bitching, recrimination, and total boredom that accompanies every shooting sequence in the film world, whether it is a monster Biblical epic or an innocent one-minute commercial for disposable baby diapers. It is this predictable yet unavoidable period which causes film stars to take up all manner of vice, from heady gambling sprees in Las Vegas to forays into politics. The intense boredom that a performer feels while the crew battles endlessly the elements and the equipment, while delay piles upon delay until there is nothing left but a dull buzzing in the head as the hours meander by, can be tolerated, but barely, in the confines of a warm studio, even mildly enjoyed when shooting in the tropics; but this day on the ice at the pond within snowball range of the most luxurious pleasure dome in the country it became sheer frigid torture.
    First the camera froze solid. Then the heater which had been brought down from the hotel refused to work. Thewind was causing bad noises in the sound man’s earphones, and the holes which had been cut in the ice for fishing kept freezing over. The camera was wearing what looked like a little Arctic parka, under which Jack would peek from time to time, swearing delicately. Roy, his assistant, fiddled with the cables. John and I sat at the table, pretending to fish, rehearsing our lines.
    “I GOT IT!” Jack shouted into the howling gale. “WE GOTTA GET WARM FILM CARTRIDGES AND SHOOT BEFORE THEY FREEZE UP.”
    It was the cartridges and not the camera that were causing us trouble, apparently, so a party was sent up to the hotel to get cartridges. We were using a big Johnson Sno Horse which roared up and down constantly, sending up clouds of fine snow. We were racing against time, as the Wisconsin January night comes on fast. We still had no clear idea of what to say or do on screen, even if the camera did work.
    Simultaneously all three of us, John, Fenton and myself, arrived at a “Story line.” The camera would open on John fishing alone. He would call me out of the tent. After introducing me, I would appear, sit down, and we would have a short, snappy scene. This was Take One.
    “Let’s go, you guys, before this magazine freezes up. It’s working!”
    Roy and Jack huddled over the camera protectively. I crouched in the icy tent which was loaded with film cans, reflectors, spare cables and props for the next scene. This would, of course, not be visible to the audience. Slim had set up our fishing gear, complete with tip-ups and tiny ice