Chapter One #2
I had no way of knowing, as I sat there with Marlon discussing the coming weekend, that Ben would soon be making unpredictable appearances in my life for the next few months.
That I would know exactly how that perfect hair smelled after a day of sand and sun.
That my hunch about his good-natured character was both right and slightly over simplified.
I hadn’t had a date in five years, almost to the day.
I hadn’t been a nun—a gal can get by on several wrap-party trysts with acrobatic, muscled grips in the coatroom, even a few ill-advised vacation flings with groomsmen at destination weddings.
But Kendal, my last real boyfriend, and I broke up the spring after college because we realized that we did not want to get serious despite being together for five years.
I didn’t want him to move into my apartment, with his Saint Bernard I was mildly allergic to, who once ate an entire roast chicken from the counter when I turned my back.
Sometimes we watched TV because we had little to say to each other.
When he told me he’d been accepted to grad school in California, there was no part of me that wanted to follow him there.
And if you don’t want to follow someone to California, that’s good information. I mean, just ask Rory Gilmore.
Ben was attractive. But I didn’t take note of that right away. If you’re around actors a lot, poise, charm, and attractiveness
stop being remarkable. All actors have to pass a certain casual beauty test, but that’s not my job. I’m just the writer, watching
a director turn what used to be several beautiful scenes of pathos and connection into corny trash. I’d been holding my tongue
all day.
Marlon had set up a picnic on some pink plastic milk crates behind the trailer. I was always happy to see Marlon, who had
an ability to truly roll with whatever. My sister Kate would say that Marlon “regulated my nervous system” because I have
been a little high-strung most of my life. I trusted Marlon. He was brutally honest when he had to be, but he was thoughtful,
caring, present. We were each other’s first phone call in a crisis. I would drop anything if Marlon needed me, though he rarely
did since he got together with Kris. Kris was a soft-spoken angel of a man. I’d only recently stopped being friend-jealous
of his constant presence.
We ate our salads in silence for a few beats, looking out at a group of stand-ins and extras scrolling their phones or sleeping with their heads on card tables.
Beyond them were the exterior sets of Cassie’s house and the diner where the big kiss in act three was going to knock our socks off.
Sometimes I still got a jolt of childlike thrill to see the sets, to take in all the moving parts of this magical setting.
Other times I could only see the ways in which I had not yet met my goal of making my own films. I was staring at my iPad, frowning.
Marlon put his hand on the screen just like his tiny dog, Rufus, does when he needs attention. It’s effective.
“That better be your film script if you’re on your union ten.”
“Jeff sent my film to producers two weeks ago, and it’s off to the Best New Filmmakers Under 35 contest. I’ve let go and let
God on that one.”
“It’s such a good script, babe. It will get made. It just takes time. What?”
“He has not called me back. It’s not high priority for him, I guess, since fifteen percent commission on nothing is nothing.
At least I make him money on these gigs.”
Marlon loved doing props but his true passion was sculpture. He’d had some promising gallery shows but his dream was to be
able to make his work full-time. My dream was to make independent movies.
“But no, I am looking at the script for today. It’s a bloodbath again.”
“What did he do now?”
“He cut the best line. Cassie has to say that she’s scared to risk her heart again, otherwise the stakes aren’t clear!”
“Can’t we just see it in her face?” he asked, and then laughed. “I’m kidding, I know Miss Top of the Call Sheet can’t handle
face acting yet.”
“I’m going to go tell him.”
“Nah, don’t do that. Be quiet and collect your paycheque.”
“This is my name on the credits. I like what I write. It’s not all cornball!”
“I admire your integrity, and your commitment to your craft, but if you make us late for champagne in the limo, I will kill
you.”
“Kate will kill us both. But I know how to handle narcissists like Jason. I had plenty of experience with my mom.”
“You said it, not me.”
“You just make them think it’s their idea.”
“Did your mom RSVP for the bachelorette weekend yet?”
“Last I heard she was in the wind.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Don’t tell Katie. Sarah and I have been trying to keep her flakiness a secret. It would crush her. I feel bad when I call
her a narcissist, she’s just a complicated lady.”
“As your friend since second grade, I will simply remark that this is a generous perspective.”
“Is Kris coming this weekend?” I already knew he was coming, I just wanted to change the subject.
“Of course. He never misses a chance to drink wine by a lake like a real housewife.”
Marlon looked at his phone. “I have to go yell at an underling for the tree situation. Good luck standing up for yourself
with Mr. Ego if you decide to do that,” he said, then switched into his more masc-sound boss voice. “Go for Marlon,” he said
into his mic as he gave me quick hug.
I went back to the writers’ trailer to rehearse what I’d say to Jason but forgot that my co-writer, Daniel, who preferred
to play video games on his phone while eating his fifteenth craft services salad (the “Daniel” was M we all
had camp nicknames. (Mine was Goldy for some reason.) But his real name was Dave. He taught directing, and I taught writing.
I wrote a short film about us called Buckeye and Goldy Raid the Tuck Shop. We spent six weeks up north together teaching kids to make short films and write plays. We wrote each other these love letters
by hand on the back of birchbark and left them in the staff cubby boxes, writing new ones as we were falling asleep, cabins
full of snoring ten-year-olds, and dropping them off before breakfast. Sometimes we’d meet by the canoes at midnight to make
out and make nineteen- and twenty-year-olds’ promises to each other. The night before the end of camp, we had sex for the
first time in a canoe while it bobbed about near the shoreline. Afterwards, as we stumbled back up the forest path half-dressed
to our tents, he said, “Oh Elise, I’m afraid to risk my heart with you.” Unlike me, who had never had a boyfriend or really
been kissed until that very summer, Buckeye had known heartache. I wrote that line in my diary.
Ironically, it was me who should’ve been concerned about how much I was risking with Buckeye. But that’s another story. Being
nineteen is often a year-long lesson in humility and irony.
Filled with renewed confidence as I walked back to the set, I was just in time to see Jason erupt again, this time at Cassie.
“You are supposed to be seducing him! You are as sexy as a box of hammers!”
Cassie burst into tears and ran off. Ben followed her.
The snow machine clicked off. It was eerily silent.
Everyone was looking at Jason, unsure what to do.
It really was a curiosity how hot Cassie could be, and how confidently she hooked up with people off-screen, but onscreen she was quite wooden. He wasn’t wrong.
My phone started buzzing. Over and over. My agent’s face. Everyone could hear it.
“Elise, for god’s sake, go get her! Maybe she’ll hear it from a woman. Bring her back here in thirty, ready to look like she’s
a human being who has kissed another human being before.”
“Ten-four. I’ll fix this.”
It was a short distance to Cassie’s trailer. I pictured Jason falling into a pool of razor blades with every step. The temptation
to answer my phone was strong, especially since Jeff was calling back instead of leaving a voicemail, which could only mean
good news. It had been a long winter and a clumsy spring; I could really use some hope.