“He will.”
“We’ll see you at the production meeting.”
“Of course, and thanks again,” Eddie said before hanging up.
He returned to the bathroom to flush the toilet, watching the amber water swirl around and realizing he really needed to clean the bathroom. Eddie looked at himself in the mirror, thought his eyes looked puffy, and decided he’d better get a haircut.
Another raspy hit from the pot pipe and he was off to Supercuts.
Chapter
TEN
Sheila arrived early to the production meeting at Carver Entertainment.
She parked on the street, three blocks away, and hoofed it to the building since she knew the underground garage was off-limits unless you chose to pay for parking. She’d made that mistake on the last movie and had to shell out twelve bucks. Cheap bastards. Carver Entertainment would not, under any circumstances, validate. There was no special treatment for below-the-line personnel.
Sheila had spent the last few evenings at her friend Samantha’s place and now had a raging headache. Samantha offered her refuge, both a guest room to sleep in and a shoulder to cry on. Not long ago, Samantha had also been betrayed by her boyfriend, so last night they ordered a thin-crust pizza and commiserated over bottles of Trader Joe’s Coastal Chardonnay. Samantha was the first friend she’d spoken to since the funeral, so Sheila detailed not only her boyfriend troubles but also the experience of burying her mother.
To talk to someone about it was therapeutic. It felt good to get it off her chest.
Even though Sheila was still tired from jet lag, they stayed up late and she could feel the residual effects from the wine and lack of sleep as she entered the office of Carver Entertainment. Dozens of movie posters decorated the walls, both theatrical B movies from years ago and more recent television titles. In the conference room, a handful of crew were already assembled, none of whom she recognized. She helped herself to a cup of coffee to calm her headache. Portable tables were set up, with foldable chairs surrounding the perimeter. Scripts, call sheets, and schedules on colored paper awaited each participant as if place settings at a dinner party. Sheila was spreading cream cheese on her bagel just as Giovanni arrived. They hugged.
“You all right?”
“Yeah … thanks for asking,” she said. “And thanks again for thinking of me. It couldn’t have come at a better time.”
“Of course, my darling. We’re a team, you and I,” he said. “I am so sorry to hear about your mother.”
“Thank you.”
“If you have second thoughts, or have to bail out for any reason …” he offered.
“I’ll be fine. Like I said, this came at a good time,” she said, not ready to tell him about Roland. She so wished Giovanni wasn’t gay. Why can’t I find a straight guy like him? Or, at the very least, one who won’t sleep with my roommate. Giovanni’s sexual orientation was a well-kept secret. Sheila tried to encourage him come out of the closet, but he told her, for professional reasons, he thought it best not to go public with his personal life.
“Giovanni, you work in show business,” she said one night as they drove back from a shoot in Santa Barbara. “Nobody cares.”
“The time is not right for me,” he said.
She knew him well enough to suspect Giovanni was afraid to admit he was gay to his mother, even though she lived in Palermo, thousands of miles away.
“I’m willing to bet,” Sheila said, “she already knows.”
“No, no … she doesn’t, I assure you,” he insisted.
“Trust me, mothers know everything.”
“If she did know she wouldn’t try to marry me off to her friends’ daughters every time I’m back home.”
“She just wants you to be happy,” Sheila teased.
“You should see these women. No man would be happy.”
Giovanni could always make her laugh.
They took a seat just as First Assistant Director Stuart Hardwicke made an entrance and plopped his oversized binder at the head table. Sheila remembered him from the previous Carver Entertainment production.
“Giovanni. Sheila. Good to see you guys again,” Stuart said.
“Hey, Stu,” she said, chewing her bagel.
“Looks like we’ve got the band back together, no?” Giovanni said.
“Indeed, my friend. And we’re gonna rock,” Stuart said, feigning air guitar, trying to make a joke but coming off awkward.
Sheila forced a laugh for his benefit.
Executive Producer Sam Carver entered, flanked by his assistant, Mike. They greeted everyone before sitting at the table alongside Stuart.
Eddie Lyons arrived next. This came as a surprise to Sheila. “I thought Chris Sanderson was directing,” she whispered to Giovanni.
“Apparently it didn’t work out,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” Sheila said, hushed. “I’ll explain later,” just as Eddie sat down next to them.
“Giovanni, my friend,” Eddie greeted him with a slap to the cinematographer’s back. And then to her he said, “And, hey, Sheila. What’s up?”
“Hey Eddie,” she said and paged through her paperwork to avoid making eye contact. Eddie took a seat next to Sam Carver and Sheila sunk low into her flimsy foldable chair, avoiding his gaze.
Before she met Roland, at the wrap party of Sam Carver’s last film, she had slept with Eddie. She was drunk. He was drunk. Sheila wrote it off as a stupid, tequila-induced mistake.
Eddie was nice enough, but not really her type.
She remembered his hairy back and pale-white gut. The worst part was waking up in his dingy apartment, walls covered in vintage movie posters, and making awkward conversation the morning after. Sheila pretended to be late for a yoga class so she could get out of there and tripped over his Xbox on the way out. She went home to nurse the hangover, regretting it all.
He phoned her that afternoon but she didn’t return his call. Eddie continued to leave messages, so she finally called him back and they went out a couple of times, but didn’t have sex again. When she realized he wasn’t right for her, Sheila broke it to Eddie, told him that she “wasn’t in a place to see anyone right now.” He seemed disappointed and never called again.
Had she known Eddie was directing this project she would have reconsidered the gig. More awkward shit to deal with. Her headache throbbed even worse.
Next, the chief electrician, Paul, entered with the key grip, John, both potbellied guys in their early fifties. Sheila playfully saluted them and they waved back before getting something to eat. Both wore long surfer shorts with industry branded T-shirts. Sheila knew these guys from the last movie. They were a lot of fun, but definitely second-tier crew, or maybe even third, working for the same low wage as she was.
Sheila realized the people in this room, including herself, were not sought-after professionals at the top of their game but rather reliable, workmanlike, below-the-line craftspeople agreeing to Sam Carver’s meager, flat day rate. Top dogs worked on theatrical pictures with real budgets and realistic shooting schedules at a semirelaxed pace. Top dogs were hired on movies and TV shows that were shot on comfortable sound stages, with free parking. They earned big bucks in overtime and only needed to work a few projects a year to get by. Between lucrative gigs they enjoyed extended time off and went on vacations with loved ones.
Deep down, Sheila realized the crews working these flat-rate, take-it-or-leave-it indie quickies made up what she referred to as the bottom feeders of the industry.
Bottom feeders.
Sheila didn’t want to be a bottom feeder anymore. She aspired to rise to the surface and work on legitimate unionized movies and TV shows that people had actually heard of. But no, instead she was shackled to yet another forgettable television movie her friends would never see, unless they, by chance, stumbled acro
ss it on daytime cable.
Bottom feeder. That’s me.
The trick, she realized, was to keep working. And rise to the top.
Next, three overaccessorized women entered and sat side by side. One of them had a large black portfolio and propped it up beside her chair. Once settled in, all three pulled sleek aluminum water bottles from their bags and immediately began texting the outside world. Sheila knew the type—wardrobe, hair, and makeup.
There were others Sheila did not recognize, a pair of cowboys, a handful of dressed-down types, and as the room filled out, Stuart called the meeting to order.
Sam Carver began and welcomed everyone. He announced how excited he was to be embarking on a project with such a positive message. He suggested they start the meeting with everyone introducing themselves. Sam insisted director Eddie Lyons go first.
Eddie stood and explained how fortunate he was to be back working with Carver Entertainment. “And for those who haven’t worked with me before,” Eddie said, “feel free to approach with questions, concerns, ideas, wild stories, recipes, what-have-you. This is not my movie, but rather ours. In the end, it’s the sum of all our hard work, blood, sweat, and tears. Well … hopefully not blood, or too many tears, but you get the idea.”
Giovanni was next. He stood and proudly said, “I am Giovanni, your devoted director of photography. Since I am Italian, and representing the greatest country in the world, as you all know, I will now freely admit my secret agenda: I vow to make this film a Spaghetti Western.” He mimicked drawing guns and firing, held his heart as if shot, then plopped down in his chair. Laughs followed.
A hard act to follow. Sheila briefly introduced herself as the first assistant cameraperson and, with the driest, deadpan delivery she could muster, promised to keep marinara sauce off the lens. More laughs.
Next came John and Paul as key grip and gaffer, tied at the hip, both introducing themselves while still chewing food. The cowboys, named Jimmy and Lucky, were next. By no surprise, they were the animal wranglers. Jimmy spoke about the talented cast of horses whose names included Patches, Misty McCool, and Widowmaker. Before they passed the torch, the assistant wrangler, Lucky, turned to Eddie and said, “I’ve got snakes and reptiles too if you have need for ’em, sir.”
The oldest of the crew, the soft-spoken, gray-haired production designer named Seth, mumbled something about the color palette Sheila didn’t entirely understand. To fight boredom, she amused herself with an imaginary backstory for him, that this old hippie had recently escaped from a Santa Fe nudist colony and somehow found his way onto the film.
There were young production assistants, the wiry sound man, a gruff transportation captain with a massive beer gut, and assorted production staff. Two women named Karen and Linda hailed to be the makeup, hair, and wardrobe departments combined.
Finally, the three hipster women introduced themselves as Connie, Miss Roman’s “makeup specialist”; Bonnie, Miss Roman’s “hair specialist”; and the youngest of the three, Diane, Miss Roman’s “stylist.” Bonnie and Connie appeared to be in their midforties but were dressed younger in skinny jeans and graphic tees. Diane was in her twenties and the most athletic of the three. She wore a formfitting sheath dress that Sheila admired.
Stuart explained Tami would have her own makeup trailer and additional staff would be brought in to dress background extras. As they discussed other details, Sheila got the impression Karen and Linda, the other makeup and wardrobe team, were not entirely happy that Tami brought in outside personnel. Sheila predicted there would be much cattiness among the ranks and she was glad to be working with the boys.
Stuart Hardwicke took over the meeting and walked everyone through the fourteen-day schedule which included a Saturday start with six days on, one day off, six on again, one more off, and then two more days shooting to complete the picture. It wasn’t the first time Sheila had worked this low-budget schedule designed around picking up equipment on Friday and returning everything on the Monday two weeks later. She knew the drill. Since the camera, grip, and vehicle rental facilities are closed over the weekends this schedule maximized the two-week rate. She was all too familiar. Top dog gigs start on Mondays. Bottom feeders begin shooting on Saturdays.
Then Stuart began the tedious journey through every page of the script, detailing concerns for each scene, asking the room if there were any questions. The ninety-six-page script took just under two hours. Sheila was incredibly bored and couldn’t wait to get out of there. She needed to prep the camera package and she didn’t need to be here. This was an incredible waste of time.
Stuart spoke about their accommodations, the historic Gold Strike Lodge. During the winter months, the hotel housed skiers and snowboarders, and he explained, “As luck would have it, there is a hot tub and a mini indoor pool. Bring swimsuits if you got ’em.”
The hotel would be closed to guests not working on the film so the production office would be located in the lobby. Housekeeping staff would service rooms only twice a week. A credit card was required at check-in for incidentals. He also informed everyone that, unfortunately, there was no cell phone reception up the hill at the movie ranch location, so they should plan accordingly.
There was a collective moan.
Tami’s stylist Diane raised her hand with a question.
“Yes,” Stuart said.
“How are we going to check our messages without reception?” she asked.
“You’re going to have to wait until the end of the day when you’re back down at the hotel,” he said, then to everyone Stuart suggested, “which means you’ll want to put your phones in airplane mode so the battery doesn’t run down searching for a connection all day. A reminder will be in the call sheet.”
“You’re kidding,” Diane replied, clearly not happy.
“I wish I was, but it is what it is,” said Stuart.
Diane sat down shaking her head in disgust. Many in the room shifted in their chairs at the thought of not being connected throughout the day.
Finally, Stuart wrapped up the meeting on a stern, downer note reminding all that it was fire season and that smoking anywhere but the designated areas would not be tolerated and would be grounds for immediate dismissal, no exceptions. “This,” he added, “is especially important in the Western town since so much of the wood is aged and dry.”
Sheila was glad she gave up smoking years ago and didn’t have to worry about it.
Lastly, Stuart urged everyone to carpool to the location and detailed maps were provided in their packets. With that, the meeting came to an end.
Thank God.
Sheila made plans to ride up with Giovanni tomorrow afternoon. She gathered her things and was heading off to the camera rental house to prepare the package when Eddie found her. “I’m glad you’re on board,” he said. She suspected what he really meant was Maybe we can sleep together again.
“I thought Chris Sanderson was directing,” was all she could think to say.
Sheila could see that she’d struck a nerve. “Nah … Sanderson’s a hack,” Eddie said with bravado just before he was interrupted by Stuart.
On the way out, she passed Tami’s vanity team, arguing with the young receptionist about validating their parking.
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Diane said, aghast.
Good luck with that, Sheila thought. Welcome to the world of bottom feeders.
Chapter
ELEVEN
Eddie was given a sealed manila envelope addressed to Susan Pike Casting. “Since you’re going over there, give this to Susan, will you?” Sam asked him. “You’ll save me the expense of sending a messenger. Make sure Susan gets it.”
“Sure thing,” Eddie agreed.
“Call me after the session,” Sam said. “Fill me in on who your top choices are.”
“Sounds good.”
“And here,” Sam gave Eddie a
window envelope with a check inside. “Even though we don’t have a signed deal yet, here’s a little walking-around money, in good faith, in case you need it.”
“Thanks, Sam. Appreciate it.” Eddie knew it would take at least a week before his lawyer would get around to looking at his contract, and by then they’d be halfway through principal photography. Eddie was definitely a back-burner client when it came to his lawyer, with little priority because the fees he’d earned were so low. He figured Sam knew that too.
“Don’t forget to give Susan that package.”
In the elevator Eddie examined the check. It was made out to him for four thousand dollars.
Nice.
Stuck in traffic, curiosity got the best of him. Eddie was certain he could pry open the envelope without anyone knowing, so he did. There were two stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound by bank-issued paper bands—$5,000 each. There was also a note written on a yellow Post-it, “Sue, dear, sorry for the delay,” with Sam’s familiar chicken-scratch signature. Eddie put it back and resealed the envelope. He had never seen so much cash before. No wonder Sam didn’t send a messenger.
Sam had mentioned he was not borrowing from the bank on this movie and that it was funded by investors from back East. This much cash—could these people, whoever they are, be laundering money? Why hadn’t Sam given him cash as a start-up fee, as his walking-around money? Cash would have been very cool, and maybe even nontaxable. Eddie figured Sam probably needed a paper trail of his payment as proof to the Directors Guild.
That must be it.
Eddie had heard stories from other directors of movies financed with cash, some of them shot overseas; no 1099 tax forms and no reason to claim the income. Or maybe Susan Pike insisted on cash. It seemed weird.
Susan Pike Casting was in a three-story office building on Magnolia Boulevard in Burbank. The directory in the lobby showed an assortment of small-business tenants: insurance agents, tax accountants, and a few production and music companies. He took the stairs to the top floor. A handful of actors were seated in the reception area studying their lines.
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