Taken by the Muse

by Anne Wheeler

“Look, Dale, you guys are in the middle of something, which is paying us, and it’s important. Rico would have to get in a car right now and drive into the night to be up there tomorrow morn —”

  “Rico says he could be up there tonight. Five hours.” Dale interrupts.

  I push on with my argument. “I doubt it. Then shoot all day? With hardly any sleep? Then what? Drive back down there? Listen to me. These guys just want someone to take a few shots of them tilling the soil. Riding the tractors. It’s simple stuff. Shots of wheels going around, people cheering. I’ll make it clear that this is a one-time situation and I won’t be shooting their precious movies, if that should happen. I will underscore that you, Dale, are in charge here, though I thought we were all in charge here, but I guess I’m an exception.”

  “You’re talking bullshit, Wheeler,” he interjects in a “brotherly” way, like I shouldn’t even imagine that there is any disparity. Shame on me for exaggerating the situation and getting snarky. Well, I feel snarky and I’m not folding. I come back at him in a “sisterly” way. Sweet and unyielding.

  “Listen, Dale, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation if I hadn’t answered the phone. He’s the one who hasn’t given us much time. But we can’t stop the tractor now. We gotta move on this — I gave ‘our’ word. So, please — do what is right here.”

  “Wait a minute,” he says uneasily. I can hear some of the guys coming into Dale’s room as he explains the situation to them. They start to argue.

  I press the receiver to my ear, trying to make out what is being said. I shout into the mouthpiece, “We are supposed to alternate, remember?” My ego has kicked in and I’m getting angry. No way are they going to take this away from me. “We take turns doing the jobs nobody wants to do, remember?!” No one but Dale can hear me. I imagine him holding the phone away from his ear. Then everything goes quiet — he has put me on hold or something. I wait. He comes back on the line. “Okay,” he says, sounding resigned, “we’re together in this ... you are the shooter.”

  I think I’m going to cry. He continues in a more accommodating tone, “But what are you going to do about a camera, Wheeler? We can’t send you one ... it won’t get there in time, and besides we need both of them here. We have a big day tomorrow, with two crews shooting non-stop.”

  What were they arguing about then? That we should cancel and send nobody, rather than send me? Forget that. “Stay calm,” I tell myself. “Not my hill to die on right now. I’m winning the battle.”

  “I have a camera flying in from Vancouver tonight,” I reply. “I’ll pick it up on my way out of town. I had to phone them right away so it could get sent here in time.”

  He seems caught off guard and slightly pleased. “Oh! Good. What kind of camera?”

  “A new Canon.” I haven’t a clue about this piece of equipment, but it was the only one they had. I exude confidence. “It’s a snap to use, they said, “everything is automatic — light meter, focus, everything.”

  “Oh. Wow! Nice.” Dale sounds positive. “How much are they charging?”

  “Same as for their Eclaire. With a tripod.”

  “All you need is a Bolex ... it’s too much.”

  “They didn’t have a Bolex. They had this and only this. I expect it’s on its way by now.” I am stone-cold serious now; he’d better back me up.

  “Oh. Well then,” says Dale, “that’s it, I guess. Good luck!”

  “Thanks. Hey! Don’t hang up.” I need a little support here. “So, ah, maybe you could call this guy. He said he gave you his card. Tell him you are sending a real pro.” I sound too sweet now, ingratiating. I hate myself.

  “Sure. He doesn’t know who’s coming, right?”

  “No. I just said someone would be there.”

  “Wish we could send someone with you. To help, that is. Do you want me to call around?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “He didn’t want sound?”

  “He didn’t mention it.” Actually, I didn’t think of it. Maybe I should have. “He implied that we had agreed to do this for free — you might want to talk to him about that. At least get something for the gas and the film and processing.”

  We’re both trying to smooth things over now. “Do you need some cash?” He sounds concerned.

  “No, I’m good.” I am good, relieved, much calmer now. “I’ll be fine. Trust me. It is supposed to be a glorious day. I’ll get some great shots.”

  We hang up, and suddenly I’m shaky. I’ve been trying to prove myself to these guys who, truthfully, have been great. Really — I owe them. I knew nothing about making films before I started hanging out with them. With three older brothers, I guess I have a tendency to feel like a kid sister, and I have to pump myself up sometimes.

  WHEN I CAME HOME from travelling in Africa, I was absolutely broke. My mom had sold the family home and had rented a suite in a low-rise. I was happy to stay in her guest room. I’d been away from Edmonton for almost three years and was keen to see if any of my old friends were in town.

  The day after I landed, I called around and discovered that my friend, William, was back home, too, visiting his mom. I caught him halfway out the door, on his way to a wedding. Twenty minutes later, he picked me up and there I was, in the back of a jeep, drinking champagne with a group of guys I’d hung out with at university. We’d all gone our different directions and lost touch.

  “How have you been, Wheeler? I thought you were teaching high school out in Vancouver?”

  “Ya, I was. Did some theatre out there too ... musical theatre. Hard to make it as an actor unless you go somewhere like New York. I liked teaching, but not marching band music. I got restless so I decided to travel some more — went to France, studied French, you know, stayed with a family ... worked a little, then the plan was to circle the globe but I ran out of money halfway through Africa. And you guys?”

  “We’re making movies!”

  “What?!? Far out!”

  “Ya ... it’s wild. Documentaries. About the West ... we’ve made a few.”

  “In fact, we need an on-camera interviewer for a little thing we’re doing ... want to try it?”

  “Of course! When?”

  “Day after tomorrow.”

  “I’m in!”

  It was that fast! I couldn’t believe my luck. There was no pay, of course, but it would be so much fun, with guys I knew, great guys! And soon after that, they doubled up with another group of like-minded filmmakers, formed a new company, and called it Filmwest. I sort of slid in there, unnoticed.

  It’s been two years now since we set up shop in this old house, and for me it’s been a self-guided degree in filmmaking. All of us have jobs on the side. I’m still trying to finish a master’s degree, but I work as a teaching assistant at the university. We use most of our earnings from making films to buy equipment and to pay for the overhead, which includes an office manager. It’s been a challenge, but we share what we know, read everything we can, and the rest we figure out by doing it. When you are paying for your mistakes, you don’t make them twice.

  I LOVE THE PROCESS of making films from beginning to end: identifying the issue, finding the story, writing the proposal, raising the money, doing the research, meeting the people, filming, editing, adding music, designing the sound. It is an unpredictable journey and the hours are crazy, but I am such an eclectic person that it suits me very well — except when I’m in the basement synchronizing rushes.

  I have only shot film with the two movie cameras we own — a wind-up Bolex and a bigger Arriflex. Both of them are old school; everything is manual. You have to load them in a black bag, void of light, and figure out your f-stop and depth of field by using a meter and a chart. It is more of a science than an art sometimes; I’ve almost memorized the manuals. I figure that this automatic Canon camera should be a breeze with so little to do. “Just point and shoot,” the guy said.

  “It takes care of everything. You don’t even need a light meter!” Our offices are
in an old house near the U of A campus, and I live just down the alley in a sweet bungalow that I share with a couple of other students. It’s a great old neighbourhood with big trees and mature gardens. On this beautiful breezy evening with crabapple blossoms raining down like feathers, I lock up and try not to worry about tomorrow. I’m going to my mom’s for dinner, as I do every Wednesday night.

  I drop in on my mechanic, Kostas, who strongly advises me not to drive my feeble Fiat out of the city. “The tires are treadless!” he warns me. “The metal is so rusted — it’s like phyllo pastry. I could put my foot through the floor. This is a for-city-only car, Annie! It’s Italian! Cheap. Listen to it.” He opens the hood and it sounds like a threshing machine. “Everything is out of whack!”

  “I know it needs a complete overhaul but I don’t have the time or the money, so please ... do what you need to — check the tires for air, change the oil and all the liquids. You know what to do.” I’m flirting. We both know it. “Just make it work better, Kostas. I’ll drive slowly, carefully.”

  “What about your boyfriends, you have so many. Take one of their cars ... or get one of them to drive you.”

  “I don’t have a boyfriend. Those are not my boyfriends — they are my business associates.”

  He gives me the once-over, like suddenly I’m worthy of consideration. I look like I’m ready for war in my army surplus pants, Frye boots, and hunting vest. “You’re not bad-looking,” he says, kindly. “You could have a boyfriend if you wanted —”

  “My mother thanks you.”

  Since my dad died, my mom has asked very little of me. I’m just squeezing out a living, but I’m happy and am not looking for anything from her. Her financial situation is a mystery to me in any case. I think my older brother has been kind enough to give her advice and make sure her affairs are in good order.

  I’ve never been able to figure out why she isn’t playing piano in some kind of band. Sure, she was a doctor’s wife but she plays honky-tonk piano like nobody else, lighting up the room with her laughter and her music. Her style is so raucous that you can’t put a drink on the piano, ’cause she will rock it right off!

  I have never seen her cry; that part of herself she holds in tight. I know she hates being alone, but she never complains. There is a whole lot I don’t know about my mother, but we’re close. She’s why I came back to Alberta.

  Unlike my cousins, I have not “settled down” with a man who would love and provide for me. The whole idea of marriage scares me. I don’t know why. It’s too complicated to figure out, so I don’t. As soon as marriage becomes a possibility, I bolt.

  Maybe I don’t want to suffer the way my mother did when my father died, ten years ago. I have never stopped to consider how it scrambled my life as well. He was a strict but a much-loved and respected father; I was the only child left at home and suddenly there was no strong authority figure. Within a week of his death, I was back at high school, determined to graduate and not be dependent on my mother.

  Growing up, she and I were a musical duo — I sang and she played. We were regulars at hospitals, veterans’ residences, charity fashion shows, and the like, and I had assumed that in some way I would be a performer. I attended the Banff School of Fine Arts as a teenager one summer, and when I got home my dad and I had a talk. It was time to choose my high school courses for university entry. He insisted that I drop my drama and music options and pick up some extra sciences. So, without argument, I did just that. I never thought to question his authority.

  A few weeks later, he had a massive heart attack and was gone.

  Today, when I park behind Mom’s walk-up, I hear her playing the piano with a joy that rings familiar. I remember being three years old, dressed up in frilly frocks like Shirley Temple with my pathetic, ultra-fine hair bouncing in sparse ringlets. I loved belting out the words to the old songs, trying to match her flamboyant style. Hearing her play like that again, I enter her apartment singing, “First you put your two knees, close up tight, then you twist them to the left then you twist them to the right.” Louis Armstrong, move over ’cause we are off with gusto. “Walk around the room kinda nice and light, then you twist around and twist around with all your might.” I do all the actions, dancing my butt off and she’s delighted. “Spread your lovin’ arms way out in space, then do the Eagle Rock with style and grace. Swing your foot around then swing it back. Now that’s what I call ‘Ballin’ the Jack’!” I fling my hips to punctuate the ending and she lands a big ten-finger chord.

  I don’t notice that she has a visitor, until he claps enthusiastically, yelling, “Fantastic, absolutely fantastic!”

  Aghast, I turn to face a short man with a newly barbered haircut, dressed formally in a suit, shouting “More! More!” Putting her hands on her knees, Mom abruptly gets up to introduce us. “Joe, this is Anne ... Anne, Joe.” We shake hands. He’s beaming, seemingly gobsmacked by his good fortune. Mom realizes she still has her apron on. She whips it off to reveal a smashing cocktail dress.

  She’s in a super mood. “Joe and I were out. We bought some wine. Both kinds.”

  My mind registers the word we with a shudder.

  “Would you like some?” Joe offers.

  “Sure!” I reply. “White would be good.”

  He has a bottle already open and the table is set. “So you’re doing a master’s degree, I hear?” I am aware of him looking at me and registering the work boots.

  “Yes. Yes. Well I’ve finished the course work, and I’m doing the research, but I haven’t finished my thesis.”

  “She’s a teaching assistant,” my mom calls out proudly. “She teaches teachers. Like her brother. And she has a radio show too, on CBC, for kids! Every Monday afternoon at two o’clock.”

  “Good for you!” He’s trying too hard. “I’m at the university, too. I have a good job there — overseeing new construction.” I nod, and he leans into me, conspiring. “I just love your mother. She is the finest woman I have ever met.”

  “How did you two meet?” I inquire.

  “I live down the hall here, 352, suite 352. I saw her when she moved in and I thought to myself, now that is one classy woman.”

  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, looking stunned and grubby. “I’d better wash up, Joe. I had to take my car in — had to buy a couple of retreads, and I’m filthy. I’ll just be a minute.”

  I scoot through the kitchen past Mom.“Where’s that dress I left here last time?”

  She’s relieved I asked. “Hanging up in the hall closet. All fixed.”

  “Thanks!” I grab it and rush into the bathroom. I can hear them talk, getting supper on the table, as I miraculously transform myself into a girl. It’s not the first time I’ve “borrowed” her makeup and perfume, since I don’t have any of my own. I realize I should have worn a bra. Oh well.

  It’s oddly formal as we sit down at the table, pulling out our napkins. “I’m driving up north tomorrow, near St. Paul, to do some filming.” I have decided not to reveal that I’m going to an Indian reserve.

  “Why?” my mother asks.

  “We’re hoping to get a contract — up there.”

  “Who is we?” asks Joe.

  “We call ourselves Filmwest. We make films — about Western Canada mostly.”

  “It’s like a hobby,” adds my mother.

  “It is not a hobby, Mom,” I say evenly. “We have an office, and equipment. A couple of our shows were on television last year.”

  Joe turns to my Mom, “Have you seen any of them?”

  “No,” she truthfully responds. “I missed them. I don’t know how she can afford the time when she’s so busy at school. But she manages, I guess.”

  “Well, it must be a lot of fun,” Joe suggests. He wants me to like him. I appreciate his support.

  My mother knows me too well. She senses my lack of enthusiasm in regards to my degree and makes eye contact, “Don’t you quit school now.”

  “My thesis topic is being reviewed
,” I assure her. “I can’t do anything until it’s approved.”

  “You’ve been saying that for some time now,” she adds. This is an old conversation between my mother and me. Joe is uncomfortable with our lack of consensus.

  “Well, good for her for taking a job in the meantime. Too many young people are unmotivated these days ... travelling around, wasting time. How many people are in the company, Anne? Who’s the boss?” he asks, pleasantly.

  “Nobody is the boss really. There are ten of us. We’re a collective.”

  “Ah. Like a — commune?” Joe asks. The word commune sticks in the back of his throat, like he’s never said it before, as though it’s blasphemy. The world is, after all, in the midst of a cold war and “communism” is the evil force. Maybe I should not have used collective, but I could not help myself. I knew it would test him.

  “We’re incorporated,” I confirm our legitimacy. “We have offices on the corner of 88th Avenue and 110th Street.”

  He thinks for a moment, nodding. “Red brick house?”

  “Yes! You know it?” He must have lived in Garneau. What a coincidence!

  “We’re tearing all those houses down next year.” He speaks with authority. “The university is going to expand in that direction. The new law building will be going in on that block, big parking lot —”

  “What?! All those beautiful old houses are coming down?” I’m horrified.

  “Yes, well. They’re beyond repair. Fact is they were not built very well in the first place. And not maintained.”

  I have to protest. “Those houses are historic sites. Nellie McClung lived on that block! So did the Mannings. I love that neighbourhood! I live on 87th!”

  He is taken aback by my opposition. “Sorry,” he says, with a quick glance to Mom.

  “It’s a terrible little place she lives in.” She’s siding with him, looking at me with that look that says, not here, not now, please.

  “It’s what I can afford right now,” I say in my defence, “and it’s close to the university, too close obviously.”

  “You’ll get a good job as soon as you complete this master’s.” My mother softens. “Anne has always been a good student. Honours. Has a math degree.”