Prelude #2
“Go, Trojans.” I smile and return the bump, recalling Canon also attended USC’s film school. “Took forever, but I finally finished after working in the industry for years. I was only a few credits shy of graduating when I moved out here to LA, so I figured why not?”
“For sure,” Canon says. “But you also spent a year at Finley, right?”
I’m not sure how to respond. My time at Finley, though brief, was extremely formative for me as a writer. As a person.
Had it not been for all the drama in my junior year, I would have gladly finished my degree at the Georgia HBCU. However, that year was also one of the most painful of my life, as confusing as it was illuminating.
“Um, yeah,” I reply into the expectant silence. “Actually, I wasn’t there even a full year. Really only a semester and a half.”
The server brings out our entrées, so I endure the few moments it takes to get our meals served and replenish drinks. Back on edge at the mention of Finley, I bounce my foot under the table, nerves strung tight.
Canon and Evan take first bites of their meals, so I force myself to eat, though the salad may as well be glue I’m so distracted by the turn the conversation has taken.
“I’m surprised you even heard about Finley,” I say as casually as I can between bites. “It’s such a fantastic place, but I was there so briefly.”
I leave room for Canon to elaborate on why he brought it up, but he shifts gears.
“One of the reasons I see you as uniquely qualified to write Dessi’s story,” Canon says, “is your double major in film and African American history. I’ve seen a few interviews where you discussed the Harlem Renaissance specifically, and your passion for the era really came through.”
“Hmmm,” I grunt neutrally, and take another bite of my salad, letting him lead where we go next.
“There’s no doubt in my mind I’m supposed to direct this film,” Canon says. “I’d never heard of Dessi until I was in Alabama a few years ago doing research for a documentary and saw a sign on the road that read Dessi Blue Was Born Here. That sent me down a rabbit hole.”
Canon puts his fork down and leans back in his seat, giving the conversation his full attention. “I know I’m supposed to direct this biopic, but I also know a Black woman should write it.”
I can’t hold back my smile because not all male directors recognize the importance of a female gaze even with stories so uniquely a woman’s.
“That’s pretty amazing,” I say. “That you want to protect her legacy that way.”
“And I’m not looking for someone who’ll deliver the script and then disappear until the premiere,” Canon goes on, not bothering to acknowledge my praise.
“If you accept the project, I’d want you deeply involved.
I’d want you on set to consult and be accessible for rewrites, revisions. You’d help me shape it the whole time.”
This kind of opportunity comes along maybe once or twice in a lifetime. It starts to sink in that this could be a real turning point in my career. The dramedy I won the Golden Globe for would be dwarfed by a project of this scope. My fingers go numb I’m clenching my fists so tightly in my lap.
“We honestly think you’re perfect for this script,” Evan adds.
“Thank you very much.” I rest my chin in my hand. “This sounds amazing. I don’t know if you’re waiting to formally offer, but it’ll be an immediate yes.”
“You don’t need to talk to your agent first?” Canon queries.
“She’ll be in touch to hammer out the details, but I’d fire any agent who told me to turn this down.”
“Well, we can work out the specifics.” Canon smiles, obviously pleased. “But I’m glad you’re at least interested in taking the next steps.”
After another thirty minutes discussing the project, we stand and exit the restaurant. I’m riding the elevator down with Evan and Canon, and the air is alive with possibilities.
“Our biggest challenge now,” Canon says, his good mood souring into a frown, “is finding the lead actress.”
Evan rolls his eyes. “Don’t even ask how many auditions and reels and actresses we’ve already seen.”
“And none of them have been right.” Canon’s jaw juts at a stubborn angle, his eyes fixed on the lit descending numbers as we travel to The V’s lobby. “I’ll know her when I see her.”
“I mean, it’s a huge role,” I say. “You gotta be sure to cast the right person.”
“The way Canon acts,” Evan grumbles, “you’d think this woman doesn’t even exist.”
“Oh, she exists,” Canon counters. “I just haven’t met her yet.”
“At least we know who’s doing the score.” Evan gestures for me to walk ahead of him when the elevator doors open. “He and Canon go way back. With something like this, the music is almost as important as the script itself.”
“He’ll be a pain in my ass,” Canon complains even as he yields a lopsided grin. “But there’s no one better.”
“That’s exciting.” I smile up at them, the wind at my back and hopes soaring as we walk through The V’s tastefully decorated lobby. “Who’s doing the music?”
“I think you know him,” Canon says. “He was actually the one who mentioned you attended Finley together. Wright Bellamy, but you probably knew him as Monk.”
I trip over my feet, but manage to catch myself with a hand against the wall before I hit the marble floor.
“You okay?” Evan asks, lightly grasping my elbow for support.
“Yeah.” I paste on some facsimile of a smile. “I’m great.”
Besides the fact that the universe hates me.
Despite the heat of the day, I shiver at the memory of my brief time at Finley. There was so much promise when I first arrived on campus. It was supposed to be a place where I could remake myself.
Instead it’s where I broke.
Monk broke me.
Wait, that’s not fair.
We broke each other.
Even after all these years, I’m still not sure I’ve picked up all the pieces.