Chapter Text
It was approximately 9:02 and 36 seconds when Petunia arrived at the costume shop. Not that he was counting, of course.
Unable to quell his nerves and increasingly put off by Daffy’s refusal to return, Porky had taken his moping operations into the sanctity of the costume shop. It was a small, cluttered building nestled off to the side of the studio lot. There was barely any source of ventilation—no heat in the winter, no air conditioning in the summer, and the slightly smudged windows that lined the perimeter of the building all refused to budge open. Dozens of mannequins and piles of clothing strewn haphazardly across the interior made it nearly impossible to navigate; it wasn’t a spot that people visited unless they absolutely had to.
Upon discovering this, Porky promptly transformed it into a little safe haven of his own. He’d retreat to the shop between takes, whether to memorize lines undisturbed, chat with Petunia on the instances he had forgotten she was still there (he tried to learn her schedule so he could strategize the times of his breaks and retreat when she wasn’t there), or just take a breather.
So, with this in mind, it was incredibly peculiar of him to be relieved at Petunia’s presence; as she strode in, concealed by the mound of clothing materials proudly piled in her arms, Porky immediately threw himself off of his chair and heaved an audible, despairing groan.
“Ceh-cee-eh-ehh-ceh-cee-christ, Petunia, weh-eh-what took you so luh-lee-eh-long!?”
Unfazed by his acidity, she began sorting out the pile in her arms and strategically laying out assorted costumes on a long work table that took up much of the shop’s interior. Porky wondered how many of those costumes were for him and how many were for other actors he didn’t talk to.
The studio technically had two different series’ running: Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies. Though Porky had debuted under a Merrie Melody, he was soon enough attached to the Looney Tunes name, which he now practically owned. The Merrie Melodies often flaunted a series of rotating cast members—it was rare for someone to ever reappear for a second cartoon. Between the operations of the studio and his own busy schedule, Porky hadn’t had time to fraternize with the other actors unless they were directly working with him.
“Good morning to you, too,” was all Petunia said. She didn’t ask why Porky was loitering in the costume shop or why he considered 2 and a half minutes “taking long”. Instead, that permanent smirk that permeated her every action and every thought and every word and every everything ground itself against Porky’s nerves. He’d be more satisfied if she had thrown him out and yelled at him.
Instead, he huddled to her side, fidgeting furiously with his fingers as he watched her scratch out a smudge with her fingernail on a pair of particularly hideous overalls. Those were likely reserved for him for another short.
“I-I-I’m goin’ nuh-nih-nu-eh-nu-eh-nuh-nu—crazy,” he whined, making a point to look her in the eye so that she had no choice but to pay attention to him. Her pupils didn’t even think about flicking their way towards him. “Ehhh-theeah-eh-thee-eh-eh-that duck is a teh-tuh-tee-eh-ih-total leh-loon!”
Petunia was eying a button on a particularly expensive tuxedo that Porky knew couldn’t be for him. “What duck?”
“The-the-the-the one I toldja uh-beh-beh-eh-about last night!” Though there was minimal space reserved for such histrionics, Porky threw his hands on his face as he paced back and forth helplessly, weaving in and out of piles of cloth strewn on the floor.
While he knew Petunia wasn’t intending to ignore him—she had work to do, and was very clearly preoccupied with it—her lax off-and-on nature still managed to bewilder him. She bothered to breathe a “That’s right!” while reaching for a sewing needle and spool of thread, attending to the button in question on the fancy tuxedo.
And that was that. Guessing further conversation was futile (at least, the two sided kind), Porky returned to his chosen corner at the back of the shop, sitting on a creaky wooden chair to obsessively flip discontentedly through his script. Two clothing racks plumped with heavy, woolen jackets, fur coats, thick dresses, and so forth provided a comfortable, cushy buffer between the chair. It also provided Porky with an excuse to hide behind the articles of the clothing, secluding himself from the outside world.
Such escapism wasn’t as effective in this moment that it usually was; his mind was too busy with thoughts of filming, little room for rehearsal, struggling in adapting to his new coworker, and Petunia’s presence. He barely had a moment to decide on where to focus his his eyes on the script when a frilly coo cut through the stuffy, wooden air.
“Oh Porky! Come here for a moment.”
More “Oh Porky”-ing never meant anything good. He strained to bite the bile back in his throat as he weighed his options; obsess more over his script, or be subject to whichever scheme Petunia was concocting. Both were inevitable—it was a matter of which he wanted to succumb to first. He supposed following Petunia’s bidding would at least be something new.
As he hesitantly peeled himself out of the chair, he noticed Petunia held a pile of cloth to her chest. All eyes were on him now as she eyed him with her usual plucky attentiveness. He was the priority now. Thus, that meant that the pile of clothes pressed to her torso were meant for him.
“Try this on while you’re here, won’t you?” Before he could gather what it was he was to try on, Petunia thrust the bundle in his care. It felt stiff and starchy, occasional blooms of cotton interrupting the flow of the fabric.
Holding out the bundle in front of him revealed a disgusting mess: it was a hunting outfit colored a depressing, muddy brown. Streaks of tan breached the protocol thanks to a clunky belt hanging loosely around the waist, as well as an obtrusive, singular plastic button to match. Petunia had also wedged a hunting cap in his grasp with the same scheme in terms of both color and general repulsiveness. A tan bow extended from the cotton hunting flaps erected on the sides and was tied neatly on the top for added embarrassment.
Despite not even trying it on, Porky knew it was one of the ugliest costumes he had ever been faced with the misfortune of seeing.
Even worse was that he instinctively knew it was for today’s performance. Whether he liked it or not, it was his burden and his alone.
Arguing was fruitless, but Porky did so anyway on the off chance that he would be privy to a last minute miracle and swapped with a much less humiliating alternative. “Yeh-yee-eh-ya mean I-I have to wear the-thee-eh-this!?”
When Petunia “Oh Porky”’d him some more in response, he couldn’t help but moan audibly in woeful resignation. Everything had to be a plea, a bargain, a guilt with her. He screwed his eyes shut to avoid her puppy dog stare as she hovered over his shoulder. “You know you do!”
Just because she was right didn’t mean the sting was any less ferocious. Another ailed noise of desperation slipped past his tongue as he placed the cap down on the nearby table, shouldering the hunting jacket with as much passive aggressive tugging as possible. He was only wearing a rather thin white button down shirt and green bow-tie, so the jacket slipped on with insulting ease. A part of him had hoped it would be too small and that the whole outfit would be a bust.
Wouldn’t it be nice to be so lucky.
No, in fact, it was quite the result. If anything, the assemblage was too roomy—not an issue Porky dealt with often. After begrudgingly slapping the ridiculous hunting cap on top of his ridiculous head, wearing his ridiculous hunting uniform, he spared a hesitant glance at the full body wooden mirror nestled against the wall in front of him.
He was horrified at what he saw.
For one thing, his belt was giant. It was littered with empty holsters that Petunia reassured would be the responsibility of the prop department; just one more hurdle he had to jump through for the day. It covered about a third of his entire torso, and was strapped around his midriff on top of the shirt rather than around his waist. Thanks to the big size of the uniform, the belt seemed to hang flaccid around his middle.
Wrinkles and creases multiplied like a parasite with every movement he made. They were particularly prevalent around the belt and at his feet. Despite the belt hanging at his middle, it still possessed a miraculous ability to garner folds and wrinkles. In an enigmatic feat, he appeared to both suffocate the uniform and drown in it at the same time.
Boasting such a sallow, pitiful expression on his face certainly didn’t aid in boosting the ensemble. Especially juxtaposed against the vivacious energy exuded by Petunia, who put her chin on his shoulder excitedly, grabbing both of his arms as she forced his attention on the mirror.
“Oh, just look at you!” As she shook his shoulders in bubbly affirmation, he sought to sink deeper into himself. “You look so cute!”
How he hated that word. So enveloped in his frustrations, he didn’t even try to conceal the blush crimsoning his face.
“I-I-I-I’m eh-nuh-nee-eh-not cute,” he spat, maintaining the same vocal ferocity and authority as a pouting toddler. “I leh-luh-lee-eh-leh-look like a ceh-comple-eh-teh-eh-beh-complete idiot!”
As she always did, Petunia refused to pay any mind to Porky’s complaints. Instead, she playfully poked at his cheeks, prompting him to swat her away and cover his face.
“You’re just in one of your moods,” she sighed with an exacting flippantness. Frequent diagnoses like these, he certainly did not care for.
“Oh, eh-I-I’m seh-eh-so nervous uhb-beh-about this one…” Porky remained cemented at his post as Petunia left his side to retrieve something else. “We—uh-weh-well, I-I’m no—he’s… weh-we’re not prepared at-at-eh-at all, and they ehh-duh-dee-ehhh-don’t give us time feh-eh-for rih-reee-eh-reh-rehe-rehearsals, and he ran out on muh-mih-me, and now I-I-I gotta deh-dee-do this wink and-and-and make myself more luh-lee-eh-likable, an’—“
Petunia’s cryptic authority prevailed as she thrust a pair of black, shiny boots in Porky’s arms, effectively cutting off his rambling. He had no idea whether she had heard a word he had said or not. As he examined the boots in his possession, wincing as he could see his sour mug reflected in the shiny vinyl, he had hoped that the brief silence occupying the costume shop would lead to some sort of consolation or reassurance of his worries. At the very least, an acknowledgement.
But, as to be expected, that was too good for him. She merely ordered him to put the boots on—“then see what you think!”
His opinion stayed the same. In fact, it worsened. He still sulked in an outfit that was both too large and too tight—yet now, he looked even more ridiculous with his baggy pants tucked dutifully into his shiny, polished boots.
“I-it’s too big,” he whined, feeling just as stupid as his words. Resignation was dredging him down; his desire to be argumentative was fading. It was hardly 9 o’clock in the morning, and he had already been sapped of his energy for the day.
Clapping sounds interrupted his thoughts as Petunia seemed delighted. “That’s good! They wanted it to be a little roomy. Oh, you are such a darling!”
A darling was the last thing he wanted to be. It was also the last word on earth he would ever use to describe himself. Especially knowing that his buffoonish appearance was all a matter of director’s orders; he couldn’t stand being a laughing stock. It made him itch and writhe and squirm—there was a comedic artistry to it, sure, but it wasn’t one he could appreciate. He felt like a dress up doll more than he ever did an actor.
“I don’t eh-luh-lee-eh-leh-like this ceh-color,” he protested, wrinkling his snout as he observed himself some more. Between the browns and the tans, he felt like a walking mud puddle. “It’s depre-eh-deh-deh-pehh… eh-deeah-depresseh-eh-geh… i-it’s he-eh-he-eh-hid-hiduh-dee-ehh-eh-dehh… it stinks.”
Though he should have expected as such, his complaints refused to deter Petunia. She merely gave his shoulders a shake as she slid into her pouty voice. That wretched, ear shattering pouty voice. “But it’ll just pop in black and white! Nobody is going to know… oh, Porky, you know that!”
Unable to think of a contrarian retort, Porky resigned himself to standing miserably in front of the mirror. He looked like he could cry; seeing Petunia’s chipper, smiling mug beaming next to his own didn’t do much to boost his confidence. He hadn’t felt this viscerally insecure since he first began acting.
“When do you have to go?” Apparently Petunia had decided she was done toying with him, as she returned back to the interminable swarm of cloth and costumes on the table. He was just as grateful as he was offended that she didn’t ask why he was intruding on her space to begin with.
“Ten,” he moaned, wincing at the small blue clock hanging above the doorway. It was only 9:13. Conversely, it was already 9:13. Though he was thankful for the opportunity to bask in debatable solitude some more, a more desperate voice wished to get it all over with. Anticipation was always the worst part.
Petunia merely made a noise that was indiscernible in its intent. She seemed to do that often. More often than what allowed for Porky’s liking.
At the very least, she seemed to grow more receptive to “one of his moods”, as she asked if he’d like to help her sort through the costumes. Unable to concentrate effectively, he declined; at least he’d seem more productive staring at his script.
He didn’t even bother to strip himself of his costume—what was the use? Already was he thrown in the coffin. No use to make an escape when a shovelful of dirt loomed ahead.
Part of his malaise came from a general lack of attachment to the story itself. Spending hours noting and marking up his script, he came out of the other end feeling worse than when he had started. A few beats and gags were politely interesting—he was to throw a duck call on the ground, which would lodge itself in the mouth of his hunting dog, prompting a quack to substitute his every bark and prompt hunters to shoot at them. It would be interesting to see how they would pull that off. Likewise again with the scene where Daffy was to swallow an electric eel.
Other than that, however, the story was run of the mill at best and passively insulting at worst. He was to get punched in the nose twice by a crotchety neighbor after shooting a hole in his ceiling (twice), at one point he was to nearly shoot himself and capsize his boat after a swarm of ducks distract him from eating a sandwich—he had a particular disdain towards those kinds of jokes about his weight, especially when he had toiled to lose nearly half of his body mass; he had hoped that if he slimmed down enough, those jokes would stop. Evidently, that was not the case, even after they had asked him to lose the weight in the first place—and he was to deliver humiliating corny lines such as “There’s something fishy about that” after a school of drunken fish were to sing a song number.
Cartoons with much less cohesive writing certainly existed, just as he had certainly starred in them. However, after two years of getting accustomed to the routine, he was constantly searching for ways to elevate his performance. Whether that was making mental acting notes and decisions or running new gags and story points by the directors. Most of the time, he just allowed the shorts to exist on the surface level, growing exhausted with arguing; he was getting paid, he was paying his dues, that should be enough.
Yet, for some reason, he felt he had an obligation to this particular cartoon. It frustrated him that he couldn’t think of a grand way to elevate the writing. Still locked in the process of acquainting himself with the material didn’t prove to be incredibly helpful, either; despite the new “spontaneous” direction taken by the studio, he at least had a couple days' notice to pour over the script before heading to film. Whether this short needed to be rushed or they simply forgot to tell him about it (which, as absurd as it sounded, he couldn’t entirely discount), he didn’t know. In the end, it didn’t really matter what the case was—it posed a major obstacle regardless.
Being thrown into the lion’s den with a new face he had never seen before in his life certainly didn’t help, either. At least, not a face that was so obtrusive and high maintenance. While he always felt he had to make a point to watch how he presented himself to others, he hadn’t felt such a carnal desire to actually prove himself. Gabby didn’t seem to care what he did. He’d object to it regardless. Porky likewise didn’t talk as much with his previous costars to gauge their perception of him; it helped that he was still considered a part of an ensemble in those days and that they were all on equal footing.
Daffy was different. A staggering understatement, but one that was true. He couldn’t pose what it was about him that seemed so intimidating. His introduction as a fan? His impossible-to-discern nature? His ability to switch from 0 to 100 with absolutely no warning? His mischievous innocence? His all consuming attention? His all consuming lack of attention?
Daffy was different. He had a lot going on. And all of it, Porky found impossible to discern.
Minutes slowly trudged on, and Porky didn’t accomplish anything through any of them. Instead, he entangled himself in a ritual: flip aimlessly through his script, force himself to look at a line or a note, struggle to think of how he would approach it, get distracted by how much of a failure he was, suddenly grow exceedingly aware of his cravenness hiding in the costume shop moping over his lines, spare a grunt or a sigh or a moan or a curse, rinse and repeat.
Petunia tended to her work with surprising diligence—a part of Porky was hoping she would talk his ear off so ferociously that he’d be deafened and be unable to show up for filming. Or, as a more plausible alternative, be so distracted by her millions of conversations that he’d have to strain to remember what was bothering him in the first place.
Instead, physical silence suffocated and tugged at his throat. Mental cacophony drowned him.
So, when he spent ten minutes straight watching the clock move, he finally decided to meet his fate at the fresh time of 9:49 and 45 seconds. If he walked very, very, very slowly, he could approach the soundstage right at 10 o’clock. No more, and certainly no less.
“I geh-gee-eh-guh-gih-ih-guess I-I’ll be going…” His voice barely cut over the sound of Petunia's sewing machine. She was tending to a ridiculously small yellow dress that didn’t look like it would fit more than a mouse. Another article of clothing most decidedly not for him.
Petunia only nodded in response. Porky didn’t budge from his spot.
“I-I said I’ll beh-geh-be going,” he pushed again, unnerved by the lack of an audible reaffirmation. He knew he was stalling, but it was instinctual.
“I heard you,” Petunia hummed. Though Porky knew she hadn’t meant to come off as passive aggressive, rather just stating a fact, the reply still stung. What sort of response was he fishing for her to even give? He had no clue. Thus, it was unfair to act slighted when he didn’t get it.
It wasn’t until he stepped outside of the door frame that he heard a cheery “You’ll do great!” from behind him.
Whirling around, he hit his shoulder against the wall from the ferocity of his turn. All for naught, too; Petunia wasn’t even looking at him. Instead, she was still fiddling with the buttercream dress in her possession.
Still, he had known he heard it. And while he couldn’t bring himself to thank her or even smile, a brief pressure tugged at his heart. A jolt—very slight, but noticeable—that almost seemed to steer him towards reassurance. The feeling wasn’t strong, but it was a feeling, and one that was present. For that, he was grateful.
“Eh-we-eh-we’ll see,” was his cryptic way of expressing thanks.
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Carefully concocted schemes of taking his sweet time in order to approach the soundstage at exactly 10 were not realized. Not because he was gifted with a newfound confidence thanks to Petunia’s reassurance, and certainly not because he had overcome his arbitrary anxiety.
Rather, he had entangled himself so deeply in his anxieties that he had completely forgotten to monitor his steps. So, his trek to the studio was really only about three minutes rather than eleven. When he first came face to face with the wooden doors, he cursed audibly to himself; mainly because he knew there was no way he could escape now. Even if the soundstage was limited to crew only, it was still an area of concentrated foot traffic. Being the face of the studio likewise didn’t allow for easy camouflage—he’d make a bigger scene trying to hide than he would if he didn’t.
So, he took a breath.
He shut his eyes.
He counted to three.
…Four.
…Five.
He counted to ten, just to be safe.
…Eleven.
…Twelve.
Better make it twenty.
He took another breath. A shake of the head. A tighter screwing of the eyes.
…Four.
…Five.
Alright, this time for sure.
One…
Two…
Just as he began to concoct the next excuse as to why he wouldn’t be opening the door on “three”, a familiarly unfamiliar piercing sensation squeezed his insides.
The soundstage was infamously not soundproofed. All across the studio, the walls were paper thin and conversations lingered in every corner. There was never truly a quiet moment, unless you were to arrive or stay until some ungodly hour. It was another reason as to why he preferred to retreat to the studio so early.
A lack of soundproofing meant a lack of Daffy proofing as well. Even separated through the slabs of oak wood, Porky’s insides curdled inquisitively at the sound of the duck’s shrieking laughter emanating from inside the stage. It was the same crack he heard explode in his dressing room the night before when Daffy had introduced himself. A sensation more than a sound, it was a feeling that electrified Porky to his core, and not in a particularly pleasant way. Not in a particularly repugnant way, either. But a way that marked the unmistakable, indisputable presence of one Daffy Duck.
Thus answered his earlier question of where on earth he had run off to.
Curiosity getting the best of him, Porky supposed he had Daffy to thank for pushing him to go inside just as he had him to thank for his reluctance in the first place. He didn’t stop to observe the sets (though a giant vat of water meant to simulate a lake did catch his eye in passing), he didn’t stop to check if anyone was waving him down, he didn’t even check to see who was present.
His first and only priority was looking for Daffy.
Thankfully, his search didn’t take very long. Another spine tingling clap of laughter directed his attention over to the leftmost wall; Porky’s stomach dropped as he realized he was fraternizing with the director.
Their director for this particular short was a nice enough gentleman, and Porky always valued that the scripts provided for his cartoons were at least more interesting and rife with ideas than others—this particular cartoon being an exception. Likewise, he knew Daffy had just as much of a right to talk to the director as he did; he was starring in the short too. To enforce an embargo like that would be juvenile at best and insulting at worst.
Nevertheless, for some, indiscernible reason, Porky felt as though he were responsible for his deeds—if Daffy annoyed the director, then somehow that was his fault. If Daffy flubbed a line or ruined a take, that would be his responsibility, too.
Before he could drown in the potential responsibilities and “what if”s that weighed on his shoulders, a tickling sensation bore into the spot between his eyes.
Snapping his head up revealed that Daffy was staring right at him across the soundstage. As he had done when Porky forked over his signature, a smile seemed to slither onto his face in real time, eyes brightening, chest perking. It was when he started waving his hands and yelling “Hey, Porky!” that he knew he had no choice but to submit himself to his fate. It would reflect poorly on him to continue standing and sulking in broad stage light.
Porky shuffled forth, mumbling his share of “gee-eh-good morning”s and “eh-hi”s to the production crew as he passed them by and they passed him. Make no mistake, he was grateful for the amiability of the crew. Everyone he worked with ranged from reasonable to nice, and he would normally be pleased to be worthy of something as gratifying as a “good morning”. However, on days where he didn’t feel like talking (or, in today’s case, not being seen at all), it posed an impediment more than it did a polite gesture.
“Look at you!” Attempts to bury himself further into the sewer colored starch that hung on his body were futile, but that certainly didn’t stop him from trying as Daffy excitedly scrutinized his assemblage. “Ya look fit for the role!”
While he didn’t know what was meant to be implied by that, at least Daffy didn’t call him cute. Unable to coerce the words out, Porky just scuffed his heels and looked at the ground. “Hmm,” was his wildly fascinating response.
It was only until he asked an ambiguously friendly inquiry of “Are you ready for today?” that Porky even remembered the director was there, causing him to snap his head up once more and feign attentiveness.
“Yee-eh-yes, sir.” The lie warbled in his throat. He hasn’t uttered such stiff formalities since the infancy of his career; his words were as starchy as his costume.
Thankfully, the director thought nothing of it. “We’ll go through your scenes together first thing to make it easier, so see if there are any loose ends you need to tie up.”
Too many to count, Porky bemoaned internally. He had figured they would film together first—that was always how it went when filming with Gabby or any other co-stars—but hearing it solidified in the director’s words made his stomach churn.
Glancing at Daffy, a core detail that he had somehow completely missed until now rocked him off his heels. He should have known as soon as Daffy had flagged him over. His tiny, black, feathery hands were decidedly script-less.
“Wee-eh-weh-wuh-where’s your script?” The grip on his own script tightened as he cautioned his words. If he didn’t relax, there would be enough folds and creases and crumples to rival Daffy’s own pad of paper.
Daffy was completely oblivious to his tone, boasting a proud, matter of fact smile. “Don’t need it!”
Feeling his knees buckle, Porky strained not to put a physical voice to his mental anguish as he bit back a wordless exclamation. Overconfidence or sheer stupidity, he couldn’t decide which was the culprit. Both seemed likely; the insecurities that he struggled to write off as irrational completely ambushed his monologue.
“I-I reh-ih-re-re-eh-rih-really think you-you-you deh-do,” he warbled, tapping furiously at his own script as a means to physically release his anxieties. He realized just as soon as he was doing it that it could read as a passive aggressive gesture, but he didn’t possess the agency to really care nor stop. At the very least, Daffy’s grin refused to falter. “If-eef-i-if it’s your first teh-tuh-tih-tehh-eh-tuh-tee-ti-ti-eh-teh-time…”
When he said nothing, just staring at him with that penetrable, suffocating, smiley vacancy, Porky found himself unable to cork the verbal concerns spilling from his tongue. Sounds of pages flipping wildly in his grasp coagulated with his vibrating timbre as he tore through his script. It was as though if he were to stare at his own notes long enough, maybe he could somehow mentally impart that information into Daffy’s own head.
“Weh-why, I-I-I’ve eh-beh-been do-do-doin’ this for yee-ih-yeh-years, an-an-aa-and even I’m not rih-ree-eh-read-eh-rea… ehh… wih-we haven’t… I-I-I-I rr-really think… th.. yee-yee-yee-ih-yuh-you weh-eh-wanted tuh-to-to…”
A despairing noise that served as a cross between a laugh, a sob, and a whine lodged itself in his throat and wedged between his words. Daffy only continued to stare. It was impossible to gauge what was on his mind; it was impossible to gauge if there was anything on his mind at all.
One thing was for certain: Porky was not and would not get anywhere with him.
As such, he pardoned a gusty sigh, fiddling with his script as a means to mindlessly wean his anxiety. Filming was rapidly approaching, and he was in no mindset to get into character. Then, the portions of the cartoon he could control—or, at least, take accountability for, would be ruined through his lack of conviction and shattered nerves. That was arguably much more mortifying than any sort of unpredictability Daffy would toss into the short.
Edits could be made. The director was there to direct, after all. Even if the short wouldn’t be in pristine condition, and Porky would forever be known as the guy who starred alongside the crazy duck in that one film who seemed to have no idea what he was doing, and there was a possibility that legacy would tank his career in itself, and then he’d have to explain himself to Petunia, and then decide whether or not to live a life of solitude on the farm or dance on the street corners for scraps, at the very least, he would be in control of himself.
So, after he stuffed his script inside his hunting jacket (conveniently laden with inside pockets, a benefit if there were any to be had), he strained to contort a smile on his face. It wasn’t really a grin, but a sign that screamed “PHONY” in big, flashing letters.
“I-I’ll ehhh-seh-see you on set,” he pushed, sparing a curt nod. Whether out of the goodness of his heart or sheer oblivion, Daffy seemed oblivious to any and all indications that Porky was fighting for his life to twist the ends of his mouth into a curve.
Before Daffy even had a chance to speak, he excused himself with another shy nod. He cautioned a wave to the director—more accurately, he held his hand limp in front of his chest for a few seconds—to indicate that he can be called when ready. Hopefully that wouldn’t be too soon.
It’s not like he was impossible to find; Porky merely shuffled off to another corner of the soundstage, an area with less foot traffic and where conversations were more unintelligible. He could retreat to his dressing room, but a mental barrier prevented him from doing so—it was as though his reclusiveness would somehow be susceptible to suspicion only if he were to retire to the one part of the studio that was unequivocally his. Hiding in dark corners and obscured by an entanglement of equipment be damned, he was still in the presence of the people.
In a way, at least.
Leaning against the wall, Porky nestled himself between two standing lights that weren’t on, again aided his inconspicuousness. It was then that he allowed himself to survey his surroundings and familiarize himself with the set.
Of the most visual interest was the giant vat of water simulating the appearance of a lake. There were many instances in filming where Porky wanted to protest that shooting on location would be less of a hassle—surely finding a remote lake with reeds and slopes of dirt and cattails of true authenticity would be easier. Then again, Hollywood wasn’t exactly known for its abundant population of ponds. Attempts to bring the real into the fake were certainly impressive, and if Porky turned his head a certain angle, the mounds of artificial dirt and reeds strategically clustered around the water almost looked real when juxtaposed against the inky backdrops of hazy morning sky.
In another corner of the soundstage was a much more quaint set that Porky immediately recognized as his “home”. Blocky blobs of hideous, unstable furniture littered the perimeter, clashing against hideous, unstable fake walls. Many liberties were meticulously executed to make the set seem more lived in—painted cracks on the fake walls, ruffles in rugs on the ground, picture frames winking at a slanted angle, pillows strewn on a couch and a bed.
While he understood the attempts were to evoke personality, making the surroundings feel lived in, flavorful, it made Porky feel like a slob. He wrinkled his snout and chewed on a contemplative grunt.
There wasn’t much else to it. Most of the story did take place around that pond, clusters of reeds offering vague cinematic intermissions when necessary. A prop boat was nestled along a simulated bank, a combination of painted plaster and real dirt to render the environments natural. He wondered how forgiving it would be to his balance. Or lack thereof, anyway.
An indiscernible amount of time therefore slogged by—it couldn’t have been long, but it provided enough of a noticeable buffer for Porky to get lost in his thoughts. Thoughts thankfully focusing more on his cartoon work; the set, the story, what he could do to enrich his performance and feel more natural on set. Taking responsibility for himself and himself alone.
Despite his anxieties never quelling (that was just a given), he did feel somewhat more centered than he had all morning. Or, at the very least, more willing to face potential disaster.
Therefore, it was startlingly convenient for him to be jostled violently out of his thoughts. Metaphorically and physically.
It took him a few moments to discern what was happening, much less what he was even seeing. So caught up in his ponderings, he hadn’t noticed that Daffy had approached him and was now tugging and fiddling at the holsters hanging on his belt. He said nothing. He probably thought nothing, either. Just a permanent grin on his face as Porky felt a peculiar weight chafe against his hips. It never went away.
“Bullets,” Daffy grinned as he carelessly deposited the remainder of his supply. He didn’t seem to mind that Porky was gaping at him, face blanched, mouth quivering as no words refused to even entertain the idea of sneaking out of his maw.
Part of his stupefaction came from knowing the spontaneity was somewhat warranted. Petunia had mentioned the holsters, after all. He just hadn’t expected the prop department to be his personal little headache.
Thus, Porky only remained frozen, standing with his arms out, hands twitching to grapple some unknown stability potentially hanging in the air. Content with the lack of a reply, Daffy gave Porky’s sides a reaffirming pat—clearly not a believer in personal boundaries—before leaning back and admiring him like a work of art.
That insufferable grin.
“Oh yeah,” breathed the duck, grin immediately dropping as he snapped into diligent reality. Another curious indication of his off-and-on awareness. “You’re wanted on set! An’ that’s a good thing, ‘cause so’m I!”
He wondered if that was true, or if Daffy just wanted an excuse to hound him some more. He hadn’t heard any sort of indication that he was wanted. Then again, that was a purposeful decision—a consequence of his personal quest for solitude. Likewise, Daffy didn’t have much reason to lie. Or any at all, to that matter.
Forcing himself to cling to his on and off philosophy of accepting his fate, Porky cautiously ventured a foot forward. Then another. Then one after that. Slowly but surely, he found himself trailing behind his exuberant cohort—who was sparing eager grins past his shoulder with an unbridled air of confidentiality, like a kid about to get into trouble—and over to the director. Tapping his side reassured that his script was still with him. He ran through a mental recitation of his lines for safekeeping.
And, just as suddenly as he found himself start walking, he found himself halting. It was as though someone had breached entry inside his brain and given him orders he had no choice to follow. Just as calming as it was highly unnerving. He knew it was out of necessity, to get into the mental calm—or, at the very least, stagnancy—demanded for a cognizant performance.
“Alright, boys.” A firm, somewhat reassuring, more so incidentally commanding voice instinctively prompted Potky to stand at attention. He made sure to speed through his lines as best he could without losing focus; it was a skill he had learned to better in his short experience. “Any questions before we start?”
Whether he had them or not was irrelevant. Porky shook his head no regardless. More questions meant more time, which meant more stalling, which meant more agonizing. He was in the opposite mindset of where he started—get it done swiftly and quickly.
Interestingly, Daffy didn’t utter a word himself; a rather shocking revelation. A glance from his peripherals revealed that he was standing firm next to Porky, arms pushed behind his back, chest out, an amiable grin on his face to indicate he was listening.
The director shared their silence, as he only nodded. A stuffy pause wedged its way in as he stopped to analyze a laundry list of notes on his clipboard. A few lackeys and production assistants lingered behind him, clinging to their cameras and light stands with equal bated repose as Porky and Daffy. Porky used the downtime to run an accelerator through his lines once more, desperately trying not to fixate on how many eyes would be watching him. He felt like it was his first day of filming all over again.
“Now, Porky.” Before the director even finished his sentence, Porky instinctively snapped his eyes up in attention towards him. “The first scene with you two together is with the decoys. Would you like to start from the top, with putting the decoys in the water? Or would it be better to start with Daffy’s cue?”
Words tumbled out of his mouth before he could even process them. He was in autopilot mode—taking and answering orders from the chief. There was a logic behind his thoughts, as he wasn’t spewing nonsense. His answers were genuine. But the inhibitions that had teased and chided him so cruelly just seemed to melt away; or, at the very least, retreat to the corners.
“Eh-theh-eh-eh-the top,” he answered dutifully, attempting to ignore the itch of Daffy’s eyes staring into his peripherals. “Please. It’ll help t’-to eh-warm up.”
Once more, he found himself chuckling without knowing why or how.
Thankfully, he was reciprocated with a smile from the director. A quick one, but a smile nevertheless. “You’re a responsible one. Go ahead, then. You follow him,”—he was addressing Daffy now, who perked his eyebrows up with a hungry inquisitively—“and wait for your cue.”
The mush mouthed “Yessir,” that emanated from Daffy nearly caused Porky to have a coronary. He didn’t realize that “sir” was even a part of his vocabulary.
And that was that. Sparked by momentary eye contact, an unspoken understanding between pig and duck was cemented. Slowly, Porky began to shuffle off to the giant vat of water, maintaining a glance over his shoulder to ensure Daffy would follow. Rhythmic, jovial slaps behind him indicated that he was rightfully being trailed.
“Are ya nervous?”
It was a repeat of the same question he asked the night before. Granted, Daffy’s inquiry was much more boisterous and curious than the former occasion. Porky felt as though he were being trailed by a curious puppy who wouldn’t untwine himself from his ankles.
Porky merely continued to stare down at his feet, jamming his hands in his pocket. He had a habit of fiddling and flexing his fingers when he was anxious—if his words wouldn’t betray him, his actions would.
“Eh-yee-eh-yeh-you’ll be feh-fine,” he mumbled, his cheeks burning.
Out of his good grace, Daffy didn’t respond. Porky could still feel his prickling stare burning into the back of his neck, the slapping of his feet continuing in rhythmic time. In that moment, he was exceedingly aware of his status as a role model; for him to concede to his nerves would set a bad precedent for Daffy.
Then again, Daffy didn’t seem like a fellow who knew what “nervous” even felt like.
With that, they approached the springboard for the cartoon. The vat of water was cleverly disguised through fake dirt, sand, and grass, plastic reefs and a painted backdrop sky offering enough of a safety net for the cameras to obey their trickery. Likewise, parts of the vat itself were visible to the crew—one side of the tub was completely exposed through a clear window that looked into the interior.
Porky figured that was to accommodate the needs of the script, which called for him to sneak along with his gun underwater, duck decoy tied to his head. The camera would use that glass to look in, following Porky’s movements in a pan before cutting to a more neutral angle as he rose to the surface. Not much of a swimmer, Porky had spent a hearty portion of the night before attempting to practice holding his breath. He hoped he wouldn’t look like too much of a boob on camera.
Thus, Porky climbed the metal ladder attached to the exposed side of the metal vat to get into his position. Each rung he grabbed with a shaking hand was a step closer to sealing his fate. With each movement, he could feel himself being pulled closer and closer to finality.
It proved difficult not to feel intimidated.
Daffy followed behind; his maneuvering of the ladder was much more deft and playful, a spring in his step as he hauled himself up with ease. A cocktail of admiration, apprehension, and plain confusion churned into a fine amalgam within Porky’s insides.
“Alright, boys.” The sound of the director’s voice immediately jolted him back to acting mode, “yes sir,” “no sir”, “thank you sir” mode.
Though they were at opposite ends of the sound stage, Porky could hear and see him just fine. No megaphones were involved in the production; everyone just settled for old fashioned projection of the voice. Most of the time, it was a bunch of men shouting from opposite corners—they got along alright.
A sour irony twinged at the corner of Porky’s lips as he mused about Daffy seemingly having no trouble with such accommodations.
“Daffy, you head off to the side. You’ll fly in once Porky’s gotten out of the water. Porky, the decoys should be right on the edge of the water. We’ll start once you’re in and you’ve got them steady.”
“Eh-thee-eh-theh-eh-thank you,” was Porky’s nondescript answer. He didn’t even know why he was thanking him. It just happened.
Just as he went to reach for the box of decoys nestled between some plastic prongs of cattails, the sound of a familiar, mush-mouthed voice snapped him back to reality:
“Break a leg!”
He started. Porky was slightly bent over, arms outstretched to grab the prop when he jerked his head up. Daffy was already making his way towards the other end of the vat, which was cushioned by the sprawling plaster ground. His arms were folded contentedly behind his back, his chest puffed as he swung his legs out, taking backwards steps towards his own designated starting area. He looked exactly how he did when he first burst into Porky’s dressing room—that same stance, that same smile, that same good nature.
And it was in that moment that Porky realized none of his other co-stars had ever wished him good luck.
Not out of ill will, of course. Gabby just wasn’t a guy who expressed sentiments of good tidings. Beans was amiable, but stuck to his own affairs just as Porky stuck to his. Outside of some “hello”s and “goodbye”s, maybe an occasional “good job”, they never really spoke much unless directed to.
So, as stupid as it was, he could only gawk. Just gawk at the duck traipsing away from him, eyes gleaming, not a single care in the world as he maintained his stare. Porky continued to stand like a deer frozen in headlights.
“Ooh-uh-okay,” was the only word that entertained the idea of coming out of his mouth. He was too stunned to even say a proper thank you.
“Lights up!”
That, too, snapped Porky back to his senses, permanently this time. Snatching the box of decoys, he immediately stared down at the ground.
“Look down,” he garbled to Daffy at a moment’s notice. He didn’t even know if he heard him—he didn’t care. The lights they used on set were blinding. At all times, but especially when they first blazed to life. Accidentally looking into them (or even in their general vicinity) would hazard a migraine more deadly than a gunshot.
Porky had discovered this the hard way.
As distressed as he had been over the entire ordeal of filming, the familiar hum of the lights and crescendo of brightness reflected off the artificial ground allowed him a chance to get sucked back into his role. No longer was he Porky Pig, bumbling fool extraordinaire, Porky Pig, professional worrywart. He was Porky Pig, smiling, befuddled innocent. Porky Pig, earnest comic relief.
It wasn’t a transformation he had any choice in.
Once the harsh blaze of the lights were finally tamed, Porky snapped his head back up. To his satisfaction, he noticed that Daffy had his head bowed—he had heard and followed his directions.
“Uh-eh-ooh-okay,” he urged again, which Daffy was thankfully able to interpret as intended. Porky could see Daffy’s eyes dart over to his direction before he snapped his head up; another proud grin spidered on his beak as he puffed out his chest. That was reciprocated by an approving nod from Porky.
“Quiet—we’re rolling.”
Caught up in the excitement of ensuring Daffy didn’t blind himself, Porky nearly forgot to position himself correctly. He was to start out standing in the “lake”, placing the decoys in the water like the good little hunter he never was. There was no time to worry about the logistics of getting soaked, how he would get dry, how cold or warm the water would be, how the water would react to his clothing. All of these were little details he would normally obsess about and calculate—they, instead, were all thrown out the window in fretting about Daffy.
Thus, he scrambled to stand waist deep in the water, gripping the box of decoys tightly to his side so he wouldn’t accidentally drop them. As he had guessed, the water was cold; the feeling of it sinking into his boots, his skin, crawling up his pant legs was truly heinous. Having to walk around with his costume sticking to his legs, boots squelching and squeaking, tracking water around the soundstage made him want to jump out of his skin, but he couldn’t afford to worry about that now.
Once he was settled, he made eye contact with the director, who nodded affirmingly. He tried his damnest to ignore the itch tickling the back of his neck from Daffy’s penetrating stare.
With that, the director gave those two faithful words:
“Okay, Porky.”
Grabbing the wooden decoys in the box, he dutifully placed them in the water around him. He bore a grin that screamed of disingenuousness to him, but of charm and endearment to the audience. The texture of the wooden ducks in his grip was the link grounding him to unreality—every time he wanted to protest, to worry, to fret, he thought about the glossy sleekness beneath his fingers, the way the bobbed in the water, the way the water licked and kissed his waist.
This ritual was sustained until he placed the very last duck in the water. Some were all white with a black finish. Some were all black with a white finish, not unlike Daffy himself. Others were a mix. The decoys were relatively crude and simple, but enough to offer a buffer for Daffy to blend in with. He wondered if they had buckled to the expense of mail ordering the decoys, or if they were the responsibility of the prop department.
Keeping all of this in mind was enough to slowly ease him into a state of unbroken concentration. What Daffy did or didn’t do was no longer his responsibility. Only he was his responsibility.
After untangling his fingers from the neck of the last wooden decoy, he took a slight beat to admire his handiwork, grin still plastered on his face. He tried to inject such pauses, such beats, such glimpses of humanity into his work whenever he could—a beat has emphasis, which has power, and allowing himself to linger just a second longer could allow just one more second to endear himself to the audience.
Likewise, it made him feel more in control. He got to decide where to put these beats, he got to decide how he would occupy them. In these moments, he wasn’t a slave to a script or a stage direction. These moments could be fleeting, but he liked them best.
He thusly marched out of the water, still staring behind his shoulder to maintain a coherent flow of action. The audience was following him—if he were to look off screen too soon, they would look off screen too soon. The decoys wouldn’t be the priority anymore, which would make Daffy’s entrance in the following scene seem fragmented and incomprehension.
Acting was a career of trial and error. Porky felt he experienced the “error” part much more than the former. Still, even in his limited experience, he had been able to teach himself these little quirks that, in his mind, enriched his performance. He hoped it would pay off.
When he finally took his last step out of the water, he knew that was the moment of truth. Daffy was to come in right then and there. Porky was conscious to maintain his grin—only faltering when he placed the box of decoys down—but the anticipation and apprehension inside of him was cacophonous. He forced himself to concentrate on the feeling of the set, the buzz of the lights, the stare of the cameras. There was no room to croak.
So, just as he was about to grab his gun (conveniently propped within reach on dry land), he took note of the flashes of black skipping out of his peripherals. Though he leaned toward the gun, the corners of his eyes were fixated on the space behind him; a gentle splash within the water indicated that Daffy had landed.
The alleviation of weight that followed regarding his chest was not lost by Porky. He hadn’t missed his cue.
Likewise for the snapping crackle of the quack that boomed right behind him. It was the same honk Daffy had demonstrated so proudly earlier this morning. If he didn’t know any better, he’d truly believe there was a feral duck hovering behind him.
But he did know better. Particularly because the script called for him to delegate his full attention to said duck. He did so, whipping his head over his shoulder. A blink for good measure to convey his artificial befuddlement. He kept his hands splayed out in the air, communicating the disruption to his regularly scheduled gun retrieving activities.
There he sat; with his wings tucked so dutifully at his sides, his posture rigid, he really did look like one of the decoys. Any differences were slight—he had his pupils cocked toward the ceiling to convey innocence, not daring to make eye contact. A sharp acting decision that mingled nicely against the vacant, wooden stares of the decoys. Likewise, he bobbed in the water at a marginally different rate of speed than the others. He was actually going so far as to imitate their bobbing motion.
A dull tug smarted in Porky’s chest—a guilt for doubting his acting abilities, and a guilt that would have to be processed later. Acting and cartoons took precedence.
He did have to admit, the second time Daffy repeated his quacking bit, Porky felt a slight twinge of confidence seep back into his body. This just might work out.
To accentuate his growing comfort, Porky spared the expense of scratching his head and casting a frown. A way to add a crescendo to his actions and ensuring his reactions weren’t repetitive nor dull.
It would serve as the perfect stepping stone to the moment of truth: the fated wink.
So, when the time came, Porky took a few beats to embrace the creeping frustration of the scenario. More befuddled blinks—quick and rapid this time to indicate more activity, more emotion—before cushioning his chin with his thumb and forefinger in contemplative disdain. Daffy seemed to pay no attention to him at all.
Thus, with that out of the way, Porky redirected his way to the nearest camera. Doing his best to disregard the wide-eyed expression of the unexpecting camera man, he directed a grin onto his face. A wink was urged to follow.
Immediately, his chest tugged in that same, cumbersome pinching sensation he felt after signing Daffy’s script upon hearing the chuckles and laughs scattered through the soundstage. Nothing uproarious or disruptive, but enough to indicate that there was a method to Daffy’s madness.
It had all paid off.
“Cut!”