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“It’s ridiculous, he’s——he’s a goddamn maniac,” Rick says with an irritated, twangy flourish that only he is capable of. It’s the end of a larger ramble, the same thing he’s been going on and on about since the crew broke for lunch fifteen minutes ago.
“He’s ad-libbing,” Cliff corrects, and sticks a cigarette in Rick’s hand before he can start to gesture emphatically, and work himself up even more than he already has. He lights it. “Calm down, partner. It’s not the end of the world.”
“I can’t fuckin’——I don’t ad-lib.” Rick scowls. “I don’t work with improv.” He says the last word with more disgust than he does some slurs.
“You can carry on a conversation just fine,” Cliff tells him. “Same thing.”
“Jake Cahill doesn’t have a goddamn stutter.”
“They’ll fix it when they edit,” Cliff says, and knows immediately that was the wrong thing to tell Rick, because he puffs up all like a pissed cat.
“That is n-not the point! He’s ruining my goddamn reputation,” Rick snaps. Cliff thinks that Rick’s perfectly capable of doing that all on his own, but he has the feeling that Rick wouldn’t appreciate hearing that. Never mind the fact that it’s the truth, and probably played no small role in the fact that this is their last season. What they’re gonna do after this, Cliff doesn’t know. He also doesn’t know when he started thinking of himself and Rick as a we, like they’re some kind of unit, and not just coworkers, but here they are.
“Well then you’ve just gotta go out and show him who’s boss, boss.” Cliff takes a drag of his cigarette after he finishes speaking. If nothing else, all this’ll do is make the animosity between the characters feel real. Not like ad-libbing should be cause for a second act near-death brawl, but Rick’s always been peculiar like that——making mountains out of molehills, boulders out of pebbles, enemies out of Burt Reynolds, and the like.
Why Rick is so intimidated by the guy, Cliff can’t fathom. He’s the prissy kind of theater-type of actor, there and gone in one episode, hasn’t done much and probably won’t go on to do much either. Nothing for Rick to shit his pants over, if you ask Cliff, but no one does. Anyway, he knows better than to assume the whole thing will blow over easy; Rick’s never been good at keeping his cool, and that’s one of the reasons why the crew keeps Cliff on as Rick’s double: he’s good at keeping Rick in check. Better at it than anyone else on set, anyway.
“What would Jake Cahill do?” Cliff asks.
“K-kick his ass,” Rick gripes.
“Maybe don’t do that,” Cliff responds. Reynolds might not seem all that tough, but he ain’t short on muscle. He’s more athletic than Rick anyway——not like that’s a hard thing to do——but the man does his own stunts. Cliff doesn’t think he’s seen Reynolds’ double do a thing but chain-smoke and make eyes at the guy he’s supposed to be taking punches for. Not like Cliff can judge the man for that when he’s been doing the exact same thing in Rick’s direction.
“Maybe,” Rick echoes.
“How about I tag him in the fight scene?” Cliff asks. “Good enough for you?”
“Sure,” Rick says. He doesn’t sound happy, but it’s as good as he’s getting.
Figures that’s the one thing all day that the other guy uses his double for. Cliff thinks it’s funny enough, but he can tell by the look on Rick’s face that he’ll be getting an earful at the bar tonight.
He’s not complaining though, it’s all part of the job.