VII CJ
VII
CJ
So, he does remember me. I flip that knowledge over again and again in my head.
Maybe I’d be less surprised if I hadn’t spent the time it took to brew and drink my morning coffee burrowing further down the rabbit hole of his love life. According to WhosDatedWho.com, Jack’s had more flings than a rubber band. He’s rumored to have dated every single March sister in 2019’s Little Women and possibly one from the 1994 production too. And that’s just the start.
When we met five years ago, he had puppy-dog eyes that couldn’t quite believe his good fortune in the industry. Today, those eyes have a few more lines around them, but they still hold wonder in a way that ignites something in me. I’ve seen people adjust to celebrity overnight and lose their enchantment with Hollywood faster than their checks could clear. He seems to have maintained a firm grasp of his awe.
An hour after my second first encounter with Jack, I stand with the rest of my department waiting for our director, Timmy, to give his big speech before he starts blocking the first scene. Brianna, a prop master I worked with on The Bee’s Knees and brought on for Gatsby , puts her hand over her mouth to stifle a yawn. Getting back into the swing of early call times is tough—maybe even more so when you don’t have a kid at home with her own crack-of-dawn production schedule.
My mind loops back to my interaction with Jack, rewinding and playing it again from the beginning. Had he been nervous? It’s not that I wasn’t, exactly—just that I didn’t really see the point of dwelling on it.
It’s not like I haven’t dabbled in on-set relationships before. But those were clandestine hookups, fueled by forced proximity and the euphoric haziness that comes with making something out of nothing. They were always with someone who was in a different department, who handled a wholly separate part of production, who would have no say as to whether I could be hired on another project. Almost like being a teenager dating someone who went to a different school. Jack, though—he’s one of the stars of this film. No one cares if a best boy grip is sneaking off with someone from hair and makeup, but many, many people are invested in the health and happiness of lead actors. The two of us would be as confusing and unlikely as when the basket case and the athlete get together at the end of The Breakfast Club .
My brain replays the tape on another memory: one of my earliest gigs as an art department PA on a raunchy, big-budget, R-rated comedy. A woman in makeup made the mistake of hooking up with a comedian who wasn’t exactly known for his tact. He told anyone and everyone who would listen, in great detail, what happened between them. At some point, she stopped showing up for work. I shudder at the thought of it and how quickly everyone moved on and she was replaced.
“You OK?” Brianna gently elbows me in the ribs, and I realize that I’ve been so lost in my own thoughts that I missed Timmy making his entrance, wearing his signature New York Knicks flat-brimmed hat.
“Totally, yes. Mental to-do list,” I respond, and Brianna bites her lip anxiously. This film is a big deal for her too, and I feel the weight of that—of wanting to do right by my whole team and to open up doors for them.
“The first time I read The Great Gatsby , I wept,” Timmy starts from his perch on an apple box. “I was twenty-seven years old. How had I never read it before? Well, for one, I paid someone to write my term paper on it in high school. But now I know what I missed: Here we have a story about love, about money, about the American dream. It permeated my consciousness. I knew, then and there, that I needed to adapt this film. To do something modern and new but true.”
I scan the faces of the hundreds of people who make up the cast and crew. About half are giving earnest nods, newcomers who either think Timmy is a genuine visionary or are overcome with excitement to be on the movie, or both. The other half are industry vets who have been working longer than Timmy has been alive and have learned to mask their disinterest with expressions that read “I’m listening.” Their thoughts are more likely on the crafty table, brimming with bags of chips and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.
I’m standing toward the back of the crowd, but I can still see Jack sitting in his actor’s chair. He looks game, making those eager, engaged eyes. The way his foot is hooked on the chair’s rung tugs at my memory—it’s like I can almost feel the tequila in my stomach and the way he lifted me onto the bar. The mix of confidence and nerves that he wore so well and appears to still.
On either side of him are the actresses playing Jordan Baker and Daisy Buchanan, each of them waifish and compelling in their own way. And then there’s Gatsby himself: a strapping, husky, Australian blond named Boone, who manages to make Jack look almost like a pipsqueak. An attractive, charming, British pipsqueak who once went down on me at my place of business and then took me to his hotel after.
Timmy pulls a tattered paperback out of his back jeans pocket and brandishes it for the crowd to see. He has the kind of youthful, long and lean body that suggests an appetite for destruction yet bears none of the markers of excess. “ This is my copy.” Timmy flips through the book for effect, rotating his body so that we can all see. “I’ve read it countless times. I feel that every character in this book—Gatsby, Nick, Daisy—is an extension of myself. And I think that is why this book has remained so beloved, because these people, in their search for meaning... connection... success, are Just. Like. Us. ”
I am not good at drinking the Kool-Aid, but making it in this world requires the ability to give a convincing “Mmm!” while taking the tiniest sips of it possible. It’s the professional equivalent of playing tea party with Agnes. I do my best to commit every word of Timmy’s monologue to memory so that I can recite it to Stuart later when I relieve him of his babysitting duties. I feel a pang in my heart as I realize he’s probably buckling her into a car seat for school right about now. And then I chastise myself for my inability to keep my attention on what’s happening in front of me.
“I am so honored that every single one of you has entrusted me to lead you on this journey.” Timmy pauses. “I’d like to think that if F. Scott was here, he would approve of what we’re doing. But if he didn’t...” Timmy trails off, appearing to really weigh what F.Scott Fitzgerald might say to him. “Well, the book is in the public domain now.”
I surprise myself by joining the scatter of laughs from the crowd. Timmy is brash, overconfident, but at least the tiniest bit self-aware.
“I am so grateful to each of you for trusting me to steer this ship and believing in my vision. And you know what they say: There are no small parts, only small houses on the Northern Shore of Long Island.”
“OK, first unit, places in five!” The assistant director calls, and people begin to mill about.
I smile and nod toward Brianna and the rest of my department, and they look as eager as I am to get down to it. Walking away, I cast a glance over my shoulder and see Jack looking my way. Our eyes lock, and he dips his head ever so slightly in my direction, as though he is tipping his hat to me. He smiles a private smile, and I give him one back.