11. Graham
GRAHAM
NOW
Crew members scurry around the soundstage, shouting orders and performing last checks on equipment. It’s organized chaos, but everyone works toward a unified goal. Months of planning and long meetings have led us to this day—the first day of principal photography.
I stand on the perimeter of the bustling activity, grinning from ear to ear.
A heady energy thrums in the concrete beneath my sneakers and courses through my veins.
To anyone glancing my way, I look calm on the outside.
On the inside, however, a lonely kid from rural Colorado is racing up a mountain with his arms raised in a warrior’s victory cry.
And the teenager who moved to LA with a duffel bag and four years of drama club under his belt? He’s really fucking proud.
I spent a decade working my ass off on the other side of the camera, the actor who did as he was told. Go again, adjust your mark, add more emotion to your delivery, be the perfect heartthrob. Now, I’m the one at the helm of this creative endeavor because I’m the goddamn director.
A giddy shiver zips down my spine as I turn on my heel and come face to face with Kristen Soriano, my first and only AD.
A production backed by a major studio would have more than one assistant director, but independent filmmakers often have to make do with less of everything.
She’s the second person I called when hiring my crew. The first was Maisy.
Kristen pats the black bun coiled on top of her head, checking for strays. The bags under eyes indicate she didn’t sleep well last night. Neither did I. While she was probably obsessing over production details, I battled restlessness from all the excitement.
“The cast is here. They’re wearing pajamas,” she says, tapping away on her tablet.
“It’s six a.m., and they’re young. What did you expect, suits and ties?”
She doesn’t reply as we fall into step and head outdoors where the orange haze of dawn and mild winter air greet us. It’ll be sunny today, a weather forecast that reflects my current disposition. Not even Kristen’s refusal to laugh at my jokes could put a damper on my good mood.
I know little about her, except that she was born in the Philippines, her wife is a chef, and they rescue animals.
Kristen was an AD on a couple of movies I starred in but never the first AD.
Her efficiency and strong intuition left a lasting impression on me, and I trust her to make quick decisions while keeping the departments on schedule.
“I have a feeling working with this many kids will be like herding cats,” she says.
My film is about high school students who spend a summer at camp, discovering and accepting hidden parts of themselves. The actors are over eighteen, some of them barely, but they’re kids compared to us.
“Lucky for me, you’re a cat whisperer. Don’t you and Lizzy have two or three at home?”
“Four. We took in a kitten last month.”
I smile at her. “See? I knew you’d be perfect for this job.”
She grunts as we reach the parking lot and go our separate ways. Base camp consists of eight trailers, most of them serving more than one purpose. Mine, for instance, stores the overstock of food and drinks for the craft services table.
Despite an embarrassingly low budget, I’ve managed to stretch every dollar. Affordable location. Young, eager actors. Talented but unseasoned crew. Having a best friend with unmatched skills in hair, makeup, and wardrobe also helps. Somehow, everything has fallen into place.
My steps falter, and the smile I’ve worn all morning slides off my face. Rooted to the spot, I spin in a slow circle, searching the paved lot for whatever is missing from the scene.
A cold sweat breaks out on my forehead. A vise grips my chest. I stagger toward Maisy’s trailer while fighting for small doses of air.
By the time I get there, it feels like I’ve run a marathon.
I brace a hand on the exterior and rub my sternum with the other.
The grip on my lungs persists as my body plays tug-of-war with the air I need to survive.
Bending over, I grab my knees. As my lungs begin to expand and my vision clears, other realizations come to light, like the fact I’m out in the open. Frantic, I search the lot again, this time for witnesses. When I find none, a gust of relief bursts from my burning chest.
I sag against the trailer, tapping the back of my head on the vinyl siding. “Get it together, Graham. You’re not going to fail at this. At any of it,” I whisper.
I’ve found professional success and great friends whom I consider family, but my love life ended in epic failure. Despite all my plans coming together, there’s no guarantee I’ll succeed with Miguel or the movie.
As for the movie, a failsafe is in place.
I haven’t announced my official retirement from acting, keeping the news quiet in case my directorial debut flops.
If I’m forced to run back to acting with my tail between my legs, at least I won’t look like a fool to the public.
With Miguel, no such failsafe exists. He’ll come home, or he won’t.
The trailer door flies open before Maisy pokes her head out. “I thought I heard something.” She frowns, a reasonable reaction to someone leaning on a structure for support. “Your face looks pale. Are you sick or something?”
With a hand flat on my chest, I check my heart rate. “No,” I lie. My heart’s a jackhammer. “I came by to let you know the actors are headed your way soon. Be nice to them.”
She rolls a cotton swab between her fingers. “How long do I have?”
“Long enough to put on your friendliest face.”
“I’ll do what I can.” The hand plastered to my sternum catches her notice. “Are you really okay?”
Standing tall, I spread my arms. “I’m fine. See? I got excited and haven’t had breakfast yet.”
From the way Maisy purses her lips, I’m guessing neither of those things is related to the other. My odd behavior might also be a reason for the side-eye she’s giving me.
“Tell them to knock first.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute as the door swings shut.
The sun crests the horizon as I make my way to the trailer where the cast members can kick back and relax during breaks. My good spirits and confidence have tanked, but I’m breathing normally again.
I rap a knuckle on the door to announce my arrival before stepping inside. Sleepy faces peek out from the nests of blankets and pillows on the sofas in the dim space. Once they realize who has joined them, the drowsy expressions become alert. Six pairs of owlish eyes are blinking at me.
I’ve met with the actors several times, but they haven’t accepted that I’m a regular person. After a couple of grueling, twelve-hour days on set, I’d wager they’ll no longer be starstruck in my presence.
Pasting on a fake smile, I sing, “Good morning. Who’s ready to make a movie?”