Stuntman 1: The Stuntman (eBook)

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Why did I become a stuntman?
So I could get paid to perform calculated acts of recklessness.
Like jumping this KTM 790 DUKE motorcycle onto the roof of a moving train.
I blew into my cupped hands to fight the nervousness fluttering in my belly as I waited for Tony Brennan, the stunt coordinator, and Tim Beecher, the second unit director—the guy in charge of filming all the action sequences, background footage, scenery, or anything else deemed too dangerous or too expensive for the first unit—to get around to shooting the biggest stunt in the movie.
From my vantage point, I could see Tony having a heated discussion with Beecher, a short guy with flame-red hair and a temper to match. Production management had saddled director Lance Jefferies—and us—with Beecher as the second unit director for this picture, even though Lance had wanted Tony. The studio, however, felt Tony wasn’t ready for directorial responsibilities, so we were stuck.
Everyone on set could tell Beecher wasn’t happy. Even studio management had heard about the friction between Beecher and Tony and had threatened to fire them if they didn’t figure out how to get along. The contempt was palpable, but they were struggling to make things work. Put it this way: I don’t think they’ll ever be drinking buddies.
Part of the reason for the friction between them was that Beecher had his own stunt crew and coordinator that he liked to work with and wanted to bring along for the shoot, but Lance Jefferies had vetoed him. Lance trusted Tony to get the job done, as Tony had been a stuntman on many of the commercials Lance had filmed before breaking into the motion picture business.
In my opinion, the stunt community is like the Mafia. If you do that one big “gag”—what we in the biz call a stunt—then you’re a “made man.” You get a reputation for being a go-to guy. I guess Beecher wanted to “make” one of his crew, but Tony had won out. I was already a “made man” in the stunt community, and Tony knew I could do this stunt, so I’d gotten the “blessing” instead of Beecher’s guy.
Tony threw up his hands and walked away from Beecher. He called me over to “One,” the position from which I would start the stunt.
“What was that all about?” I asked, coasting the KTM up to the line.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tony replied, though his expression didn’t match his words. “Just concentrate on the jump.”
I nodded and fired up the bike, and focused on the gag ahead.
“I know you practiced landing on the box,” Tony shouted into my helmet, “but Beecher wants to live-action the train through. You good with that?”
I nodded. I had to do it at some point. It might as well be now.
“Did you spray it with Coke?” I asked.
To help the motorcycle’s hot tires gain traction when landing on the train’s roof, we’d stolen a technique from the Bond film No Time to Die and hosed the whole thing down with Coca-Cola. The Bond crew had dumped a couple thousand gallons of Coke on the cobbled streets of Matera, Italy, to manipulate surface conditions for their stunt rider. Not only does Coke make the landing surface sticky, but it also makes everything shine when you clean it off.
“Yeah, everything is set!” Tony shouted back. “I’ll count you down. You’ve got this, Luke!”
I snapped the helmet visor shut and waited as the second unit director called for sound and film to roll. An assistant slammed the clapper on the slate. I kept one eye on Tony as the KTM’s engine purred beneath me. She was a beast.
My fingers ached from holding the clutch and the front brake. I was using the old trials rider technique of one finger on each lever at all times for control. I forced myself to take a deep breath to relax and then shut everything else out of my mind.
I concentrated on nothing but the gag and not fucking it up.
Tony held up three fingers, then two, then one, and finally a fist. I could hear the train coming and feel the street vibrating. I wicked the throttle open and shot forward, executed the shift points flawlessly, and was traveling at a speed of sixty miles per hour when the KTM’s front tire hit the ramp, which the props department had painstakingly painted to look like stairs.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the silver train cars streaking past. They looked like they were moving at the speed of light. I shifted my gaze back to the ramp.
When we plan a stunt like this, we try to control everything, and it can take weeks or months to set it all up―but nature is one of those things we just can’t account for.
Racing up to the ramp, I felt something smack me on the collarbone and slide under the collar of my shirt. The pissed-off bee planted its stinger in the side of my neck as I tried to control the flight of the big KTM through the air. Unable to take my hands off the handlebars to slap or dig at the bee, I just had to power through it.
Except the sting robbed me of all my concentration.
While still in flight, I was front wheel high and wouldn’t stick the landing as I had trained to do, so I tapped the rear brake to bring the front wheel down. My foot was still on the brake pedal when I landed.
With the brake locked up, the tire slid on the roof, and I knew I was going down.
The bee had just fucked up a perfectly good stunt, and I was about to die.
The soda didn’t help me stick the awkward landing, and the tires slipped out from under the bike. Instinctively, I killed the engine and dove for the roof to escape the falling motorcycle. I landed hard on my right side, and the bike pinned my leg underneath it.
The slight curve of the train car roof, built to shed rain, caused the KTM to slide toward the side. The foot peg caught on my pant leg and started pulling me off the train. I reached for the safety rail built along the edge of the roof for just such an occasion but missed it by millimeters.
As the heavy KTM slid over the side of the train, I flailed my arms, trying to grab something to save myself.
The train had moved past the catch nets the riggers had constructed under the bridge, and we were now on the downslope with the train gaining speed. If I went over the edge now, I would plunge all the way to the street, some twenty feet below.
My heart rate spiked into oblivion as more adrenaline hammered through my veins. As I slid across the top of the train on my way to certain death, I felt time slow down. I saw the glint of the sun off the silver roof. A palm tree flashed past. I could smell the diesel from the truck pulling the three-car train. My sweaty palms glided across the sticky Coke-covered roof.
I wondered if Tony was watching me plunge to my death in real time via the various cameras placed around the train.
I had the sudden, bizarre thought that my wife was going to kill me if I got hurt. We were supposed to go to dinner tonight.
In a stroke of stuntman luck, the sole of my right riding boot hit the safety rail, and my pant leg tore. The bike fell over the side of the train, bouncing and rolling along the track as it shredded itself to pieces. Without the KTM dragging me down, my momentum slowed. I grabbed for the safety rail with my left hand and missed.
Suddenly, I was staring straight down at the street. A lump formed in my throat.
I was going to die on my birthday.