Life in High Def

by Kimberly Cooper Griffin

  Even more vivid were her memories of the village in which she and the crew had stayed during shooting, in a section rented by the studio from the inhabitants, who were delighted to lend their homes in exchange for what to them was a fortune. There, the smell of damp earth, dust, and green things competed with the smell of open fires, meat cooking, and bread baking. Her mouth watered as she thought about waiting near the barbeque stand for the skinny fresh pork skewers marinated in tangy sauce that went so well with the warm, sweet rolls that melted in her mouth.

  In her mind, she was standing next to a sari-sari store, drinking Coke from a bottle, staring down the village’s one paved street that was comprised of more holes than street. She was walking down dirt paths, careful to avoid the open trenches where human waste flowed. Her eyes examined cinderblock houses, most in various stages of construction, where extended families lived and built on as they could afford it. The more solid structures were a step up from the bamboo shacks with tarp or plywood roofs that comprised some of the other homes.

  Every afternoon, a torrential rain had fallen, with drops so fat and heavy that afterward she had looked around in disbelief that the surrounding foliage hadn’t been crushed under its thrashing battery. She had watched, at first in near-horror, and then in amused interest, as the armies of walking—not hopping—frogs covered the landscape amid fairytale tendrils of mist that rose from the evaporating rain.

  She remembered picking up her shampoo bottle in the shower one day only to have her fingers wrap around a squirming gecko that had somehow breached the screens on the trailer and taken residence in the shower stall. Reilly thought about the trailer that she and her mother had stayed in, and how she had longed to sleep in one of the bamboo houses. It wasn’t long before she was grateful for the raised accommodations with screened doors and windows, though, because, to her mother’s disgust, the geckos and rice bugs seemed to outnumber the villagers by a million to one. The cockroaches were ten times that number.

  She thought of all of that, and more, in a fraction of a second, and a sense of sweet nostalgia hit her hard. The small village had been her home for just six weeks, but it had felt like so much longer.

  A long-forgotten face filled her mind.

  Imelda—the daughter of Angel, one of the guards from the local village, hired by the studio to protect the set.

  Imelda. Beautiful Imelda. With the grownup name, the big smile, and the eyes like melted milk chocolate. She spoke with her hands and twirled in her bare feet, always moving and always laughing. She could climb a tree to the top quick as a flash and without fear, but refused to cross the small stream that ran close to the village for fear of the ghosts that lived between the rocks. She was responsible to a fault when she took care of her six younger siblings, and like a child when she was unburdened from that chore. Reilly had never known a girl so full of contrasts.

  Reilly had first seen Imelda near the craft services tables on the first day of shooting. Because Imelda’s father worked for the studio, she had been one of the few children from the village allowed on set. Imelda had trailed after her security guard father as he attended to his important job, and Reilly had watched her for half of a day before she got up the courage to talk to her.

  Imelda spoke Tagalog with a smattering of English, while Reilly spoke only English. But despite the language barrier, they had become fast friends. Reilly showed Imelda around the set and inside her trailer, and Imelda took Reilly through her village during breaks in shooting. Fast friends, from that first day, they went everywhere together.

  With Imelda, it didn’t take long for Reilly to understand some of the feelings that had confused her about girls for most of her life. A frown darkened the grown up Reilly’s face when she remembered how Angel had found them kissing behind the local sari-sari store.

  Reilly still carried a rock of guilt around with her over what happened that day.

  Imelda had led Reilly behind the tiny cinderblock building that served as the village convenience store. Reilly couldn’t remember why. To catch a gecko? To look at a flower? It didn’t matter. She would have followed Imelda anywhere. But before Reilly knew what was happening, Imelda was kissing her. It was Reilly’s first real kiss, and it had been a revelation. The softness. The warmth. The feeling of butterflies in her belly.

  The memory turned painful, as she thought about the sudden absence of Imelda’s body against hers when Angel had lifted his daughter by the back of her shirt and carried her away. Reilly had just stood there, hot with shame and confusion—and something more, something that made her body shake. She remembered how her lips had still been tingling from Imelda’s kiss as she stood there for so long after Angel’s angry departure, wondering if—hoping that—Imelda would sneak back to her. She never did.

  Reilly had returned to the set and waited for Imelda there, but she hadn’t come back there, either. When Angel came back to work the next day, Imelda wasn’t with him, and he wouldn’t respond when Reilly asked where she was. The once warm and smiling man had become a closed off stranger. For the rest of the shoot, his eyes slid over Reilly, never again acknowledging her. Reilly went to Imelda’s house, and her grandmother had only shooed her away with an angry scowl, using sounds and gestures meant for a stray dog.

  Reilly had never seen Imelda again. But she had overheard one of the set designers tell the director that Angel had taken Imelda to a bar near one of the bigger cities. She hadn’t understood then, but years later, after hearing about the thriving prostitution trade in the Philippines, fueled by the sale of adolescent females by their families into the bar trade, Reilly hoped with all of her heart that Angel hadn’t punished Imelda by selling her into that life.

  The sound of music mingled with running water brought Reilly back from her reflective journey, and her eyes once again focused on the fruit that she held in her hand. Drew adjusted the volume on a portable device and the gentle sounds filled the room.

  “Ah. There you are. I felt you disappear for a minute there,” smiled Drew, as she squeezed Reilly’s arm and moved past her to stand next to her mat.

  The brief contact was like an electric current that helped to anchor Reilly back in the present. She shivered and wondered if Drew felt the same electric charge when they were together.

  “Sorry. I just had a moment of perspective,” said Reilly, dropping the fruit back in to the basket. She picked up her yoga mat and unrolled it on the floor across from Drew’s.

  Drew smiled but didn’t ask for more explanation.

  “I brought some things to help set the tone. Atmosphere plays a large part in bringing your mind and body into balance,” said Drew as she lowered herself with a graceful ease onto her mat.

  Reilly noticed a light scent of lavender and saw a few fresh branches lying on the counter. Two candles were lit beside it, and a small gong sat on the floor near Drew’s yoga mat. Drew had already drawn the shades and turned off the lights so that the trailer was in partial shadow.

  “I like it. It’s very zen. I might keep the trailer like this all the time,” smiled Reilly, as she lowered herself onto her own mat.

  “Ready?” asked Drew with a smile. She pulled her shoulders back to strike the perfect lotus position.

  “Always,” said Reilly, doing the same and closing her eyes.

  Not a Date

  “SO, TOMORROW’S THE LAST DAY on set,” said Reilly, her voice little more than a whisper. She was lying on her back on her yoga mat, eyes closed. Drew had been coming out to the set four days a week for the past five weeks. Long enough to have developed a comfortable routine, and for Reilly to have almost gotten used to the constant buzz she felt in Drew’s presence. The familiar scent of the shampoo that Drew used wafted near. If she wanted to, she could reach out and touch her. Instead, she kept her arms where they were, stretched out along her side, palms up, completely at ease. It was how they ended their sessions now. Lying on the floor, head to head, in the corpse pose. Reilly didn’t want the best part of her d
ays to end.

  “Does that mean that you’ll start coming to my studio classes again?” asked Drew, rolling onto her left side, easing out of the pose. Her voice was still low and relaxed, the same tones she used as she guided Reilly through the poses of their sessions. It travelled through Reilly’s skin and settled in her stomach with a flutter.

  “As much as I can,” said Reilly, rolling onto her left side, too. “When my schedule allows it. We still have a little location work to do.”

  “So, you’ll be travelling?” Reilly wondered if she heard disappointment in Drew’s voice.

  “Malibu resembles Cuba, it turns out. So most of it’s pretty local. Then after that, things get a little hectic at the beginning of editing as they figure out what needs to be done. Reshoots, voiceovers. And there’s always the publicity shoots. The director gets most of that during filming, but there will be some things to redo. There always are.”

  “Why don’t we go over your schedule, and see where we can align it with mine? Maybe we can work in some ad hoc on-site stuff if you’d like.”

  “Are you this accommodating to all of your clients?” asked Reilly. She tilted her head to see Drew.

  Drew tilted her head too, and smiled. Reilly’s stomach did a somersault.

  “Only the ones whose studios pay out the ass for on-site visits.”

  Reilly’s spirits sank at the statement. She didn’t know what she expected, but after five weeks of one-on-one sessions, she realized that she wanted Drew’s special attention to be more than just part of a job.

  Drew must have sensed her thoughts.

  “That doesn’t mean that I won’t miss having you to myself. I’ve enjoyed these sessions.”

  Reilly’s disappointment disappeared and she smiled at Drew.

  “Me too,” said Reilly.

  They lay on the floor for a few more minutes, and then Reilly sat up. She reached up in a lazy stretch and watched Drew do the same. Drew moved in ways that made Reilly want to stare.

  “So, I was wondering—” Reilly started, but then chickened out. She ran her finger along the edge of her yoga mat and grew embarrassed at the lengthening silence.

  “Wondering what?” prompted Drew, when Reilly didn’t continue.

  Reilly had tried to muster the courage to ask Drew to a studio event for the last week and had given up. She was surprised when the invitation had just come partially out of her mouth, and now she still didn’t know how to finish asking her.

  “Well, I have this thing that I have to go to.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “The kind of thing where I have to dress up and bring someone with me. You know, the kind of thing where people pay ghastly amounts of money to eat over-rated food, at over-rated places, so they can rub elbows with over-rated people. The studio makes me go to pose for pictures with people I barely know. That kind of thing.”

  Reilly realized that she wasn’t painting a very appealing picture of the event and wondered why she was trying to talk Drew out of going with her before she even asked.

  “And?”

  “Well, I know this will sound weird, and don’t hesitate to say no if you don’t want to, but I was wondering if you would go with me. I’ve seen how comfortable you seem to be at Hollywood things. And well… I… well…”

  “When is it?” asked Drew, standing up and rolling her mat.

  “This Friday. I know it’s last minute. It wouldn’t be a date or anything,” said Reilly, rolling up her own mat, and hoping that Drew’s question meant that she was at least thinking about it. She didn’t know if she could bring herself to go if Drew didn’t go with her.

  “Sure.”

  “Really?” Reilly asked, looking up, surprised. “Because you don’t have to. You aren’t obligated or anything.”

  “I know that, Reilly. I’ll be happy to go with you. Even if it isn’t a date.”

  Reilly felt like twirling around in circles, but just smiled. She thought about Drew’s last words for the rest of the day.

  Lunch with Cray

  CRAY LEANED OVER AND TOOK one of Reilly’s sweet potato fries. Reilly swatted at his hand, though she knew that she wouldn’t eat them all, anyway. They had spent even more time hanging out together outside of work than they had during the first film they had worked on. Their friendship had blossomed since she had found out about him and Hank. He was so much like Hank in some ways, and she was happy that they had found each other. Cray looked like he was finally settling down. And Hank seemed happier than she had ever seen him. Hank was out of town, so she and Cray were eating lunch without him after a morning interview to promote the release of the movie.

  They sat on the patio of an out-of-the-way little vegan restaurant off of Santa Monica Boulevard near Hank’s warehouse. Even though they wore sunglasses and ball caps, the number of double takes by the infrequent passing pedestrians had increased, so Reilly knew it wouldn’t be long before fans approached them for autographs. She lowered the bill of the ball cap she was wearing and slouched down a little more into her chair.

  “You don’t have to go with me to that thing on Friday,” she said. “I found someone else to go with me. You can do your skater thing down in La Costa, or wherever it is Hank wanted to take you.”

  “It’s a fashion show. Excellent! He’ll be so—”

  Reilly raised a hand as if to block his voice.

  “Stop! Don’t you say stoked,” interrupted Reilly, lowering the wrap that had been halfway to her mouth. There was one thing that Reilly didn’t like about Hank’s influence on Cray. Cray’s vocabulary had degraded at an alarming rate since he’d started hanging out at the warehouse. Hank didn’t even talk that way. But the kids who were always there had somehow rubbed off on Cray. She had been listening to him talk in skater slang all morning, and her jaw ached from grinding her teeth to keep from saying anything. She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Don’t you even say stoked!”

  “What? I wasn’t going to say stoked. Who says stoked anymore? It’s so… so…” Cray searched for the right word.

  “So what?” asked Reilly when Cray just stared at her and didn’t answer. “Huh, skater punk? If you weren’t going to say stoked, what were you going to say?”

  “I was going to say amped.”

  “Oh my god, Cray!” she said, sitting back in her chair and laughing. “Don’t you hear yourself? You talk just like them!”

  “I do not!”

  “You do, too!”

  “Do not,” said Cray, taking another fry. “Anyway, what’s so bad about talking like them? They’re Hank’s crowd. Hank’s supposed to be your friend.”

  “He is. And I like the way he talks. But it suits him. It doesn’t suit you.”

  Reilly didn’t have the heart to tell him that he had taken it to an extreme level, that even Hank sounded like a Rhodes scholar compared to Cray.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hank and the people he works with dress the way they talk. They look the part,” she gestured at him. “You’re more of a Calvin Klein model. You can’t talk like that. I almost peed my pants when you told Ellen that the wrap party for Salsa Nights was super dope.”

  “I did not!” he said, covering his mouth. “I did? How embarrassing.”

  “Come on! You didn’t pick up on her making fun of you with that exaggerated Valley Girl accent just afterwards? Seriously?”

  “Hey, you’re one to talk.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Reilly with her mouth full, wondering how he was going to switch the tables.

  “Ms. I need to focus my energy. Ms. I feel so Zen. Ms. My chakras are all out of alignment.”

  “What?” asked Reilly. She was the indignant one now. “I have never said that chakra thing!”

  “Well, you might as well have.” He leaned toward her with a glint in his eyes. “You, my friend, are starting to sound just like Drew.”

  Cray threw her off by mentioning Drew. She was always on Reilly’s mind and she wondered if Cra
y could tell.

  “I thought you liked Drew,” she asked after a pause.

  “I do. I love Drew. She’s my other favorite lesbian. But she’s a yoga teacher and you aren’t,” replied Cray with a shrug of his shoulders. He took a bite of his tofu burger.

  “Whatever.”

  “Don’t you mean touché?” he asked in a smug manner as he set his burger down.

  “I mean bite me,” she said as she chomped down on a fry.

  “I love you, you know,” he smiled as he took another bite of his burger.

  “I know you do. I love you, too,” she said, as she lifted her plate and dumped the rest of her fries onto his.