Love, Camera, Action

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Cali fell through the door of her home for the next six weeks: a gleaming, spacious condo in Buckhead. She stumbled into the foyer with her suitcase, which she tripped over. Missed the black hallway table with her keys, and abandoned them where they lay on the polished hardwood floor. Then staggered to the pristine white sectional couch, where she crumpled more than sat. She put her head in her hands and debated whether she should cry.

What a fucking day.

After Howard left, a steel door had slammed down between her and the crew with a definitive clang. There was no room for joviality, let alone creativity—just the clear message: Don’t touch us with your wrong-side-of-the-producer cooties. Despite the collective cold shoulder, Cali had rescued the time she’d lost on what was now being called “the incident,” and ended the day fifteen minutes early. Not that anyone said anything.

Jory in particular had sunken into a deep—no deeper —freeze. He’d only spoken to her when necessary and had put as much space between them as he could. So much so that, at one point, she’d tried leaning toward him to see if he would fall out of his chair. Instead, he’d sprung up in a panther-like way and loosely walked over to the camera to bring a shot in line she hadn’t even realized was out.

Irrationally, she felt what had happened to Paolo, and the resulting chaos, was her fault. She could have kept to safe choices instead of endangering the actors or alienating the crew for a moment that might never see the light of day.

She sighed. There was no undoing the past; she could only move forward. She needed to distract herself from her own dumpster fire and focus on someone else’s. She picked up her phone and hit the only name on her Favorites list.

Her ever-snarky sister answered. “Took you long enough.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Whoa! How about hello? Or ‘How are you, darling sister’ ? You’ve got your director voice on, and I am not one of your crew.”

“Sorry. Hello, darling sister .” Cali rolled her eyes, hoping they were loud enough to be heard through the phone. “What’s wrong?”

“Nuh-uh, it’s still there. Primo bossy. What’s wrong with you , I might ask?”

Patsy was a genius deflector and incredibly stubborn. She was also incredibly beautiful. Her blond hair, brown eyes, and forest-animal features were diametrically opposed to Cali’s Valkyrie vibe, due to the fact they had different fathers. She was one of those people who was full of light when she wasn’t face deep in a pool of booze, crying over her latest breakup.

Her actual name was Clio, but when she was eleven, their mother thought she was getting too high and mighty over her smarts and looks, and so started calling her Cleopatra. Clio got fed up, and instead of ignoring the taunts, she leaned into the name, making everyone call her Cleopatra, including her teachers. It was eventually shortened to Pat, and then Patsy, which Mom despised because it reminded her of that “uppity bitch who sold Nevada tickets at the bingo hall.” Clio, of course, wouldn’t give it up, and she’d been Patsy ever since.

That same stubborn tone was in her sister’s voice now, and Cali didn’t think she had the strength to battle it. “I’m fucking up.”

“Really? Or are you just freaking out?”

“Yes.”

Cali listened to Patsy take a long drag from her cigarette. Patsy was waiting for Cali to spill. Her patience was legendary and her judgment profound. She’d sit there and smoke in silence for the next two hours if that’s what it took. Cali let out a groan of frustration and dropped her head forward into the hand that wasn’t holding the phone. “It’s hopeless. I’ve finally lucked my way onto a legitimate show, and I can’t deliver. Everyone knows I’m a hack . I can’t do this.”

It hadn’t been easy for Cali to learn how to direct. School hadn’t been an option, which meant she’d learned from experience. She’d started from the bottom, gathering knowledge on the ground in the most abused and underpaid positions, and then slowly worked her way up through the various departments while making her own films on weekends. Her education was trial by fire, and sometimes people could smell the ash.

“Do you want to bail?” Patsy asked.

“Yes, I want to bail. The showrunner thinks I’m a dud. The DP is one of my idols and also thinks I’m dud. He might be an asshole, but I can’t tell yet. And I got the lead actor kicked in the nuts because I couldn’t let go of an idea. They know I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Sorry, what was that one about the nuts?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” Cali jumped up from the couch in agitation, knocking over a freestanding lamp with her bag. She dropped the phone to scramble after the lamp before the glass shade could smash on the hardwood floor. She managed to catch one of the legs that made up the tripod stand and righted the lamp, but not before upending her bag and dumping all its contents onto the floor. She sat back down and brought the phone to her ear, catching her sister in mid-rant.

“For fuck’s sake, so what if you don’t know what you’re doing? No one else knows what they’re doing either. No one. And the ones who think they know what they’re doing are sociopaths who for sure don’t know what they’re doing—they just don’t know it.”

Cali huffed out a laugh.

“Have you eaten something?” Patsy demanded.

“Um …” Cali surveyed the open-concept layout of her blindingly modernist chrome-and-white kitchen that looked like every surface was coated with an industrial cleaner. It was glorious.

“Go eat something. You know how you get. I’ll wait.”

When Patsy was six and Cali was nine, Patsy had figured out that when Cali couldn’t remember the plot to Patsy’s toilet-paper-roll-doll plays, it was a sign that she needed to eat. Patsy would go to the kitchen and bring back whatever she could find—usually candy canes from two Christmases before because that was all she could reach. Or was all they had.

Cali sighed. There would be nothing waiting for her in the fridge, but as she lowered her eyes in defeat, she saw the glint of cellophane peaking from under the couch—a casualty of her bag’s battle with the lamp.

She grabbed the granola bar she’d taken from the on-set food table earlier that day and hastily ripped it open. She’d barely eaten because of her nerves, but that hadn’t stopped her from obsessively shoving food into her bag. An absurd move since snacks were abundant, but if she didn’t always have something to eat at her fingertips her judgment got clouded. Now, after a full day on set with an empty stomach, the granola bar could have been Soylent Green and she would’ve eaten it. Actually, Soylent Green would’ve been preferable. Lots of protein in Soylent Green.

Cali took a bite and garbled into the phone, “I’m eating.”

“Okay, so go back to the basics. Aphrodite gives Psyche—”

“How are Aphrodite and Psyche the basics?”

“The Greek gods are always the basics, you uncultured boob. When Aphrodite found out Psyche got together with her son Eros, she was pissed and decided to give Psyche the bullshit task of separating a mound of mixed-up seeds before dawn, or Psyche would be killed.”

“As goddesses do.”

“As goddesses do. Psyche’s all ‘Waaaah, I’ve lost my hot boyfriend, and I’ll never see my family again, and my mother-in-law’s a bitch,’ when an army of ants comes to her rescue and sorts out the seeds one at a time until they’re all in neat little piles, infuriating Aphrodite and getting Psyche one step closer to reuniting with Eros. Which is representative of the soul becoming whole, but that’s another thing. So. Be the ants.”

“Be the ants.”

“Take it one seed at a time.”

A burn had started in Cali’s throat, an itch climbing up her nose. She fought it because they didn’t cry with each other, having made that unspoken pact even before Patsy knew where to get the old candy canes. Pushing the feeling away, Cali skimmed her hand across the rise in the upholstery of the couch, back and forth, creating dark and light patterns. “This place is the polar opposite of our apartment. It’s so clean. I’m sitting on a white couch, and there isn’t one wine stain on it.”

“Clean is for the rich or for people who don’t have anything else better to—

“—do with their time. Yes, yes. Some people just like to be clean, you know.”

“I rebuke those people.” Patsy dragged on her cigarette.

Cali pulled herself back into big sister mode. “So what is wrong? You sent me an ellipsis.”

“I sent you no ellipsis. Ellipses are for the weak.”

Cali tried a different tack. “How’s Colin?”

“He’s terrific. Really terrific. Did I tell you he’s taking me to his cottage?”

There was something slightly manic edging into her voice despite the air of casualness. Cali’s anxiety stirred. Patsy could just be in the honeymoon phase of her new train wreck and wanting to keep the high to herself, or something deeper was at play, like the relationship was about to implode and her along with it. “You did. Is there a thing?”

“I don’t think there’s a thing. If there was, it’s not a thing anymore.”

“If there is a thing and you’re not telling me because of my thing, then there will be a thing.”

“Don’t you have a play to read?”

“Screenplay. Teleplay to be exact.”

“Huh. Go read your tele play.”

“You can just call it a script.”

But Patsy had already hung up. Cali peered down at the now empty granola bar wrapper. Still hungry, she found an orange had rolled under the glass table. After inhaling a few segments, her blood sugar began to rise, and she was able to mull over the day.

One seed at a time.

A big seed was undoubtedly Jory. Cali had learned from the many sets she’d been on that one’s inner voice was paramount, and that inner voice was telling her that, while Jory Blair might be an asshole (scratch that: a hot asshole), he also cared about the craft . Someone who created such beautiful images had to care. If she could get him onside, it would be easier to finesse the even bigger seed that was Howard. Howard had worked on some of the greats, so it made sense he would be tough. All he needed was some time, and maybe a good word put in by a certain DP, to see Cali was the right choice.

Despite Jory’s coldness toward her, she couldn’t help but flush at the thought of him. His body hummed with electricity as he moved around the set. She would blame her fascination on her dry spell between hookups, but there was something else that held her interest. The way he took control of his team yet helped with the grunt work that wasn’t his responsibility, lifting and moving the heavy cameras that made his shoulders bunch and flex under their weight. In the way he dryly flirted with the matronly catering woman, eliciting giggles and arm smacks. How she’d catch the tail end of him considering her before he looked away. She’d had to switch all of her settings to “Ignore” just so she could get through the day.

Regardless of his appeal, he’d made it clear he did not appreciate her ideas. If she wanted to excel at this gig, she would have to turn him into an ally.

So.

Option one: Sweeten him up. Cajole him into an easy relationship that could lead to collaboration.

She rejected that option immediately. Jory would see the tactic a mile away and would capitalize on it until he had complete control of the set. He needed a firm hand so he knew who was boss. Not in a sexy way, of course. Although maybe she’d entertain that scenario later in her mind.

Option two: Go head-to-head.

Cali didn’t think she’d come out on top if she dug in her heels and went against him. The show had already been shooting for four months with Jory as the constant while directors came and went. Jory would have the crew on his side. Once she finished her episode, she and her “vision” would be long gone, leaving Jory and the crew to finish the series under his creative watch. Plus, directors could get blacklisted on a dime if they were deemed difficult to work with, especially women.

Option three: …

What was option three?

Option three always held the answer. Hopefully, it would materialize before she was fired.

The orange now nothing but peel, she found one last bit of contraband spilled from her bag: a theme-appropriate poppy-seed muffin. She put it on the practically invisible glass coffee table, placed her script beside it, and began to plan the next day, one seed at a time.

Jory listened to his heavy footsteps thud on the foyer’s walnut floor and his keys clatter onto the teak table. He’d been living in this bougie chrome-and-white McCondo for over four months, and he didn’t feel like one speck of his skin dust inhabited the place. He was suspicious that some tiny condo elf came out during the day and removed all the molecules that didn’t belong there. All of his molecules.

Right about now his cousins and aunts would be settling in on the back deck of the beach house, having invaded each room with kids and pets and water toys. They’d all eat too much pie as they toasted his father and Astrid’s engagement, one eye on the kids to make sure they didn’t drown in the sunset-lit water, the other on their wineglasses to make sure they didn’t get too low.

And he was here. Working. Alone.

What a fucking day.

He walked into the kitchen, carrying the box he’d picked up from the concierge, and poured himself a glass of water from the filtered tap. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, needing to prep for the endoscopy he’d finally scheduled and then canceled in the wake of the new director. So that meant … a croissant. And coffee. He tested his breath to judge whether it was on the meltable scale or not. It seemed fine, which was a minor miracle. He should have some protein and cruciferous vegetables to maintain the strict diet he’d put in place to optimize his digestion, but was too tired to do anything about it. Easier to try again tomorrow.

He moved to the living room and sank onto the white couch that seemed to come with all rented condos. “Millennial-rubbish design,” his grandmother called it. He gingerly placed the box on the glass coffee table and pulled back the cardboard flaps. Reaching inside, he lifted out a black leather case slightly bigger than his hand. He ran his fingers over its surface, softly wiping away the embedded dust that had burrowed its way into the textured rise. He felt along the underside and found the button, turned it over to delicately pop open the catch, then lifted the case top. With reverence, he pulled out a 1970s Canon 310XL.

The camera was small, light, and simple—designed for home movies. It sounded clich é , but these cameras were built to last, mainly because of the materials available at the time: metal components instead of plastic, leather casing instead of synthetics.

He’d spotted this one in a pawnshop while on location scout a few days before, and he’d had one of the production assistants deliver it. Jory examined every detail of the camera, checking for dings or grime, scratches on the lens, or misaligned threads. As he did, he mused about the new director.

He’d watched Cali closely all day while considering what tactic he should take to keep her in line. She seemed to be everywhere at once—checking in with Lighting, Makeup, Wardrobe. Jory’s usual MO was to assume everyone knew what they were doing and only made comments when something went off the rails. Cali instead took time to notice what was going right and marked it, which meant the crew was gaining respect for her despite the rocky morning.

On the surface it seemed as though she came up with her ideas in the moment—a state of being that made Jory’s nerves sizzle. His craft was built on precision and focus. He had no time for notions of spontaneity, because that usually meant the director wasn’t prepared. But Cali seemed to gather her spontaneity from preparation. As though she’d gathered all the possibilities and then waited for the right one to reveal itself. The thought made him nauseous.

Howard’s tacit order should have made Jory happy. Well, at least comfortable. He didn’t think his job made him happy anymore. But there was something about controlling this new director that rubbed him the wrong way, and his inner gray deepened as the silence of the night came on—an old friend and relentless enemy.

Jory checked his phone notifications and tapped his voicemail. When he heard who it was, his body relaxed.

“Hi, Jor.” His father’s voice had a smile in it, like Astrid had just told him a joke. “Hope the shoot is going well. I’m up to my ears in wedding plans, since Astrid keeps asking me what I think. I never knew I had so many opinions on seat covers. I don’t even know why we need seat covers. But still, I had opinions. Maybe I should get into the wedding business. It’s a real racket.”

His father uncharacteristically paused, and Jory guessed what was coming next.

“Just wondering if you’d gone in for that checkup yet to get the all clear? Don’t want to pry, but I won’t say I’m not a little anxious about it. Anyway. Hope the shoot’s going well. Oh. I think I said that. Okay. Talk soon.”

Guilt and worry flooded his body. When Jory’s mother had been diagnosed with stomach cancer, the tests showed that she also had Lynch syndrome, a condition that raised the risks of certain types of cancers. There was a fifty-percent chance Lynch syndrome would show up in her children, and the year before, Jory’s father had insisted Jory get tested. It came back positive. And it also revealed a suspicious growth.

The growth was benign, but the doctors wanted to test him again in a year to make sure it stayed that way. Jory knew he needed to get the test, just to put his father’s well-founded fears at ease, instead of continually postponing the appointment for the flimsiest of reasons, shoving it to the back burner every chance he got. His dad didn’t want to lose his son the same way he had his wife. But the thought of doctors and hospitals and clinics turned Jory’s stomach, and so he’d delayed. Jory should stop being a chicken and call the clinic again. Call them now, in fact, and leave a message on their machine.

He started to do just that when the phone rang, making him start. The name that lit up his screen made him groan. As it rang, Jory debated whether to pick it up, hoping it would go to voicemail early so he could hide. He pressed “Accept.”

“Howard.”

“Blair!” Jory could feel the bombast blow through the digital waves. “What the fuck was that all about today? I gave Melanie some slack to find a director on her own, and this is who she gets?”

He should agree. Keeping Howard onside would further his ambitions as a director. But to deny the flair Cali had brought to her scenes felt like a betrayal of the work. Not of her, of course. “I don’t know—I think she has potential.”

“Do you? You’re more generous than I am. Hopefully, she can make it through the two-parter. I’ll have to keep a tighter rein on Melanie to make sure she doesn’t make any more blunders.”

Jory rubbed his face. Melanie didn’t make blunders. Besides being incredible at her job, she couldn’t afford to, and Howard was why. Howard’s old-school vibe bled into his worldview, and that came along with comments no longer deemed appropriate. Like “Thalia doesn’t look fuckable.” Or “Paolo needs to step up like a man.” Melanie always scrambled to clean up the mess, not because she wanted to endorse his behavior, but because she knew the network would pull out if Howard was gone. Experience still trumped being woke.

“You’re the man with the street cred.” It was a benign enough comment. Jory took a drink to settle his clenching stomach.

“That I am. That I am. Listen, I just got off the phone with Jeff Cummings, singing your praises.”

Jory almost choked on his water. Jeff Cummings was the new darling in prestige TV, helming three hit series in the past five years. His shows were progressive in style and content, and he had a reputation for being a creative powerhouse. Jory would kill to work with him. “That’s great, Howard, thanks. I love what Jeff is doing.”

“Turns out he’s got a little show that’s starting up with a small budget, and he’s looking for a director who could also double up on camera. I told him you might be his man.”

Jory couldn’t believe it. When he’d put out the word he wanted to move into directing, he’d imagined he’d do one or two episodes on some backwater show. He couldn’t have asked for a better launch with Jeff Cummings, or a more frightening one. Business lore was if you screwed up once, his doors would close for good. Jory didn’t mind the pressure; he thrived on it. To direct and shoot meant the creative control would be entirely in his hands. He was almost giddy at the thought. “I’ll give him a call.”

“Not so fast there, Jory. It’s not a done deal. These things have to be managed with a delicate hand.”

“Sure, sure.” Jory’s excitement escaped with his exhale. He should have remembered there was always a catch with Howard.

“I’ll keep working on Jeff so you’re free to focus on The Demon . I need someone to be my eyes and ears down on the floor. Saves me a lot of hassle knowing I have someone there I can trust.”

It sounded like Howard wanted Jory to be his spy on set and was dangling Jeff Cummings to solidify it. The trick would be to keep Howard happy while avoiding being his errand boy. Jory rubbed at a sudden cramp in his neck. “You know me, Howard. I want what’s best for the show.”

“Great, great. Glad we’re on the same page. Gotta give Melanie hell for another thing she’s screwed up.”

Before Jory could say another word, Howard hung up. Jory heard a crack and felt something snap.

He looked down and saw the camera groaning under the pressure of his clenching hand. Anxiety flooded him as he quickly gentled his grip, delicately turning the camera to see if he’d done any damage. Luckily he’d just pushed a clasp off its hinge. He breathed out his relief. He forced his attention back to the camera, letting its fragility take over his musings and banish the worries he would have to confront in the morning. As he realigned the threads on the clasp, a rush of memories hit.

Opening up his first camcorder on the floor under the Christmas tree, his mom’s eyes brimming with excitement. Jumping in and around the guests at his parent’s vow renewal ceremony on the beach. The light from a window, softly cutting across his mother’s hospital bed. The crack in a door framing his father at his desk, the desolation on his countenance softening when he realized he wasn’t alone.

Jory tipped the camera over, and his finger grazed the tiny window that revealed a yellow square behind it. This was what he wanted. The camera itself was a find, but what was in the camera was the real gold. A film cartridge, loaded perhaps dozens of years before, with images recorded and forgotten, sold along with the camera until it found its way into Jory’s hands.

The day sloughed off him as his skin prickled with possibility. This little gem used eight-millimeter film cartridges that only lasted about three minutes. Three minutes of whatever bit of life this stranger needed to capture—a kiss over a wedding cake, the table at Passover, a winter afternoon as a toddler learned how to skate. Three minutes out of billions, immortalized as golden moments dancing across the frames.

He suddenly wondered how Cali would react to whatever might be on this film. If that childlike glow would alight like it did when she was watching a good scene unfold before her. If her focus would be as intense, as engaged, as curious as what he saw in these forgotten images.

The roll wasn’t finished and needed to be shot out so he could get it developed. He slid his fingers through the camera’s handgrip as he stood and walked to his chrome and white bathroom, ignoring the soft sound of despair that floated through his consciousness, finding it replaced with Cali’s infectious energy. He couldn’t help but smile at that returned wink of hers, the sass of it, of her. Flipping on the light and staring into the mirror, Jory aimed the lens at himself and rolled the camera, using up the last of the film inside.