by Nick Cole
“Wait here,” he said.
A few minutes later he was back, holding two ice cream cones. She stepped outside the car and he handed her one. They ate them in the parking lot, racing to finish the ice cream before the heat of the afternoon bouncing up from the hot pavement melted their treats.
“Thank you,” she said after a few minutes. Without warning, she reached up and kissed him. It was a long kiss. It was a good kiss.
“I love you, you know,” she said, her lips still close to his.
“I know.”
“You’ve been weird lately.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” he sighed.
“That’s okay.” She paused. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”
He waited, looking away at passing traffic.
“You can tell me,” she whispered.
He thought about death. About changing his ways. He wondered how strong love actually was.
“I’m afraid… sometimes. All the time… in fact.”
“You shouldn’t be. What’s there to be afraid of?” Her eyes were wide, her voice soft.
He laughed. At himself.
“No really, tell me,” she said seriously.
“Death.”
“Death?”
“Death.”
She looked at him. Then she kissed him again. Deeply. A kiss they had not shared for years. A long, passionate, come up for air, go back in deep, tongue kiss. She dropped her ice cream cone, put her arms around his shoulders, and kicked her foot up in that romantic comedy kind of way. He was still holding his ice cream, and thinking, “Wow! Whatta kiss!”
He was suddenly self-conscious. He felt goofy at being kissed by this devastatingly beautiful woman who was his mate for life, in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, at the top of a profession he’d dreamt about his entire life. For a brief moment he wanted to feel sad, guilty, paranoid, ashamed, angry, and fearful. Instead he dropped his ice cream and kissed her back. Forgetting all those things as best he could.
“I love you,” she said. “Is that enough?”
“Yes.”
And then they kissed again.
***
Lying in bed that night, his wife curled next to him, her soft breath on his chest, the Great Director lay awake thinking and unafraid.
Maybe I was afraid because I didn’t want to fail, he thought. I didn’t want to make a bad movie when I was trying to make a good movie. So I made a bad movie on purpose. Maybe I didn’t want to live this Hollywood life because I felt I couldn’t create anymore. The last thing I wanted to be was washed up. I never wanted to be that. I just wanted to make movies. They got tougher through the years. Sometimes the stress got so bad I felt like I was going to pitch over dead with that pain in my chest and neck.
But I still loved it, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
No matter how hard I tried to destroy my films, as soon as the lights dim, as soon as I hear the film threading its way through the camera, knowing the speed at which it passes through the mechanisms, capturing this world as I see it, I know it. As I watch the actors prepare to show me and then to amaze me more than I even thought possible, I love it. I truly adore it at that moment. It’s all the other elements I’m afraid of. The people, the power, the deals, the stars, the stress, the failure. I’m afraid of those things. Not the actual act of creating film. I love that. I still do.
But it’s gone now. “I’ve wrecked the movie,” he whispered in the dark.
Then he was afraid again. For a long moment he stared into the darkness, seeing the damage he’d done over the past months. It was irreparable. The money was spent. The film had multiple lawsuits pending. Powerful talent agencies were lobbying to seize the film outright. He’d betrayed all those who’d invested their trust in him. Now the studio was in chaos because of his choice to wreck the film.
And he had not counted the human cost.
People would lose their jobs.
What can I do?
Outside, a car passed in the night, going somewhere quickly.
***
Back at Roger’s house, Kurt Dalton packed his bags as Roger sat on the bed. In the kitchen, Roger’s mother finished the dishes. Roger’s grandfather had resumed his place in the garden, string in hand.
“I think this more than bad gambling for you,” announced Roger.
Kurt continued to pack, shoving clothes into a blue gym bag.
“She trouble. Bad trouble. I know what she do. She burn down everything. Now you want to marry her.”
Kurt sighed.
“Then why you go live with her? If not marry woman, then no need to live with her. Otherwise bad for everyone. Plus, more fun not to live with woman. All they tell you is not smoke, not play cards, stay home be good! I will not get married.”
“Where were you when I got married last time?” joked Kurt. “For that matter, where were you the time before that?” He laughed as he stretched out on his belly to reach a sock that had slithered away underneath Roger’s bed.
Roger was silent for a moment. “Now, I tell you truth again. You making big mistake with firebug-lady. One night you wake up and your bed on fire. Then I laugh ha ha ha.” He paused. “You bad gambler. Always gamble and lose every ting. This time you lose life.”
Kurt grabbed the sock and sat up on his knees.
“This time I’m gambling on myself.”
He shoved the recaptured sock into the bag.
“What that mean, ‘This time I gambling on myself? You know what odds are for you at any type gambling. They like three hundred million to one. You never win. No really, I figure one night your odds for every ting. You have more luck getting hit by lightning after winning lottery. You very unlucky guy, all us Asians see that for miles away. We say, ‘Hey look at unlucky guy, he very bad at gambling. Let’s play cards with him.’”
Kurt stood up and surveyed the room one last time. When he was satisfied he’d packed up everything, he extended his hand toward Roger. “Thanks. I mean it.”
“Next time, when you come back, I have burn cream ready.”
“Okay.”
Kurt walked out the bedroom door. In the kitchen, he said goodbye to Roger’s mom. Then he looked at Roger’s grandfather, jiggling his string in the back yard under the lanterns. “What’s that all about, anyway?”
“Oh,” said Roger’s mother. “He is fishing for cat.”
“What?” asked Kurt.
“Where we came from, cats are very lucky. They bring good fortune, wealth, and harmony,” answered Roger’s mother.
“Cat keep away mice, that way mice not eat up all your money. Ha ha ha,” laughed Roger.
“There is more truth in that,” said Roger’s mother gently. “Cats like harmony. Happy homes are best for cats. If a cat comes to stay with you, then it means you have a happy home. So my father tries to lure a cat to our home.” She sighed. “It is an old way in a new country, and he feels it is his job.”
For a long moment, they stood still in the dark of the room, watching the old man under the lanterns that were strung through the garden, jiggling the string ever so slightly. He is watching the bushes. He is waiting.
At any moment you have to be ready for good things to happen.
***
“Jay Jameson speaking.”
“Hi,” said the Great Director into his phone. He was in his study.
“How’s it going? You doing okay?” replied Jay, his voice genuine with concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, I want to know how possible it would be for me finish this film?”
A long pause.
“I don’t even know if there’s going to be a film,” began Jay. “I’ll be frank with you, this picture’s in a lot of financial and legal trouble. I haven’t had a chance to even look at the footage. I…”
“Don’t,” interrupted the Great Director. “Don’t look at the footage. Just give me a chance to fix it. There’s a film there. It just needs to be dug out, if you know what I mean.”
“I do.”
They were both silent for a long moment, and then Jay finally spoke.
“I’ll do what I can. To tell you the truth, I need to get this film into distribution just to keep my brother out of jail. My dad would kill me.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll try,” said Jay. “It’s all I can do.”
“Your brother did a good job. I mean, mostly. I know there are some problems with the money, but we got all our locations and almost every shot I wanted. He even got Goreitsky. Can you believe that?”
“No. I didn’t think it was possible. Maybe that’s what was needed. Someone who didn’t know it was impossible.”
“You should be proud of him,” said the Great Director. “I mean mad at him, but proud of him too.”
“I am, and I am. I love my brother. Thanks.”
There was a silence on the line between them as each waited for the other to say something more.
“Get me back on this film. Okay?” asked the Great Director.
“I’ll try,” said Jay.
Chapter Thirty-Four
We’ll Fix It in Post
The Great Director sat down heavily in the office chair inside the editing bay.
He had received his reprieve. Have a rough cut ready in one week, or else! The “or else!” was so ominous that it was delivered from the very top of the studio.
Now, early in the morning, he and his assistant were loading footage and notes into the editing bay software.
It would be good to be locked away, he thought.
Already rumors were flying, heralding the end of his career.
Maybe there’s something here we can use, he thought, fighting the feeling of being suddenly overwhelmed by the immensity and impossibility of the task as he looked at all the files of footage.
The Great Director took a moment to catalogue all the material. There was a lot of it. Almost too much.
Had he finally destroyed his career like he’d meant to?
He felt all those Sunday nights of youth’s undone homework deadlines come back to mock him one last time. As a student, he’d promised himself it would be different each assignment. It never was. Time after time the major report or project loomed until the last possible moment.
Build a shoebox diorama for a book report.
Using lentils, make a map of your favorite state.
Construct a replica of one of the historic missions of California with popsicle sticks.
He had high hopes each afternoon as he walked home from school. Elaborate visions of the perfect project. But each time it ended the same way. A black cloud hovering for weeks at the periphery of his schedule. Barely bearing fruit on the last evening before it was due. The stores closing, cutting off access to valuable supplies of glue, plaster, and paint. Rummaging through family desks, pins, string, oatmeal, food coloring, anything, just to put it all together and get it in on time, or sometimes, by the maximum do-not-exceed date.
All those weekends of pick-up kickball games, building forts, and making movies. All those glorious hours that seemed like days and promised to last forever; they too passed.
Here he was, once again. In over his head and far behind schedule.
Maybe he’d wrecked the film?
Even though he’d gotten the extension, he doubted if it was possible to meet the deadline. He’d already made up his mind to get as much done as he could, then ask for more time based on the product he could show. In essence, he would beg for mercy.
How was mercy calculated in the gross?
They would think of that.
His editor walks in, takes one glance at the screen showing all the footage files, allows a small look of shock to cross his face, and sits down with his clipboard and a large cup of coffee.
They start surveying the material. After an hour the Great Director looks at his editor and asks, “Can you do it?”
“Can I do what?” He is a very precise man.
“Can you put it all together? I won’t lie to you, we might have some narrative trouble. There’s a deceptive amount of redundant footage. I messed up. I’m sorry.”
The Editor taps a few keys and scans the master file list.
He thinks for a second.
He’s a sober man. A quiet man. He is good at what he does. He is used to these kinds of situations. Directors in way over their heads, looking for a miracle. It helps when they realize how lost they are.
Sometimes we just make it up as we go along. We think, Don’t worry, we’ll fix it later. Other times, we think we are so right that we can’t be wrong. Only we are. The Editor knows a lot about these times. He’s been here before. He knows the back roads and the shortcuts. He’s thrown a lifesaver to a drowning production once or twice before. Don’t worry, he’s a good man at putting things together. Fixing what seems to be un-fixable. He’s an editor.
The Great Director combs through his, and other haphazard, notes he’s collected. He’s worried. It’s late and time is running out. He sighs, and the Editor lifts his fingers from the console and cracks his knuckles once. He lifts his paper cup of coffee to his mouth. He takes a sip.
“Yes,” says the Editor. “It’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”
It’s part of the job to reassure. Even when things look bleak.
Things don’t just look bleak. They are bleak.
And then he is back to editing. Looking up at the screens, down at the notes. He’s a good man to have in your corner.
***
“It just doesn’t work,” moans the Great Director.
The machines in the editing bay beep and hum. Air-conditioning pumps fresh air into the room. The Editor taps a few keys and sets the rough cut to run again.
It’s true the narrative isn’t coherent. The scenes, individually brilliant, are too loose. Too disconnected.
The Editor knows it can be done. He knows in his heart it can work. He does it all the time.
Even in his own life.
He has a wife with a teenage daughter from another marriage. Somehow, they are a family.
Now, faced with a goulash of shots and continuity. A lot of one, too little of the other. The clock is ticking, always ticking. It seems impossible. It is three fifteen in the morning. Sunday morning. Already the post-production company that runs the editing facility is warning the Great Director he’ll need to vacate the bay. It’s been booked for the editing of Death Truck 3. A hip urban horror flick centered around the fast-paced world of midnight monster-truck racing.
Asking for another week won’t solve the inherent problems of the movie. The movie seems too dream-like, too fantastic. The characters are way too dramatic for too much of the movie. It’s not the bleak winter drama the studio had hoped for. A serious piece for the serious Sunday afternoon crowd. A film about hard choices for ordinary people. Instead it seems over the top. Almost a triumph-of-the-spirit dark comedy.
The Great Director throws his hands in the air and swivels to face the glass wall behind him. The Editor says nothing while still tapping the keys. He’s convinced there is a key to this puzzle, and as he works through his notes, backwards and forwards, calculating and adding, quietly he says, “I can give you about seven minutes of film.”
“What?”
“Seven minutes. I can shave seven minutes off this film and still tell the story.”
“All right, now it will be a shorter bad film. It’s the story that’s broken. It doesn’t work.”
“I know. It doesn’t work as the story it’s supposed to be. What I am saying is, I can give you seven minutes to repackage the story.”
“Repackage?”
It’s quiet in the editing bay. The machines continue to click and hum. The Great Director sits in his chair, his shoulders slumped. He puts his head down on his fist, which is balanced on his knee. He scours every plot device and storytelling trick his brain knows.
What will work?
He doesn’t know, and the longer he does not know, the closer the clock moves toward the appointed hour when he must present himself in front of the studio brass and show them a film. If he shows them what he has now, there will be no more work. No more Hollywood. And for the first time in years, that makes him sad.
He thinks about his wife.
She loves him.
He loves her.
There is enough in that to keep going even if he has to face death.
It’s like my whole life was a nightmare until the ice cream kiss. Since then it’s been like a dream.
He’s still afraid of dying. But as long as she truly loves him…
… If you have love, maybe that’s enough to keep trying, he’s decided.
Maybe, he thinks, I haven’t worked it all out in my head yet. But I’m afraid if I destroy this film I’ll destroy what she loves about me. What if failure, the failure of this film, manifests itself like some evil bird looming over our door?
Can our love survive that?
He wants it to. Wants to survive, wants to go on being happy with her. Wants to go on loving her. If that means saving this film, then he’s going to do it. He doesn’t want to find out what would happen if he doesn’t.
Even if it might kill him, he does not want to find out.
For the first time in my life, and I’ve never realized it until now, I am more afraid of losing the love of my wife than death, thinks the Great Director.
I don’t want to wake up from this dream and find out she doesn’t exist.
“I have an idea!” The Great Director spins around.