VI Jack
VI
Jack
“Right here is good, thanks,” I tell the driver as he pulls up to the lot.
I flash my badge at the security guard in the booth, whose tossed-off nod of approval indicates he doesn’t notice or care who I am.
I’ve been on plenty of sets, but it is my first time shooting on a studio lot, and the very idea of it—the old-school energy it conjures—gives me a real thrill. Like I could summon the spirits of Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor tap dancing in Singin’ in the Rain or Frank Sinatra and Marlon Brando bantering in Guys and Dolls .
Allowing myself to be consumed by this nostalgia is a balm. Knots in my stomach put me off anything for breakfast except a piece of toast and a cup of tea.
Flames Flicker Eternal was a sleeper hit; everyone on production went in knowing it was a small, quiet piece of work made on a shoestring budget. We never expected it to set certain parts of the world on fire. And while the Bone Collector series was a big step for me, I was but one part of the dark superhero-based-on-a-popular-graphic-novel-series ensemble. Since, I’d been the younger version of Colin Firth in a well-liked but little-seen indie and a well-meaning love interest in a romantic comedy wherein American expat Dakota Johnson ultimately chooses herself. I hadn’t quite realized until the ink was dry that this particular role would make me a colead in a film with studio backing for the first time; Gatsby could determine whether I have “box office bankability.” Whether I’m a celebrity with a nice film career or an actor who can have his pick of roles.
Golf carts whip past me. Extras clad in period attire take calls and text during breaks, some productions already hours into shooting for the day. At Building 22 on Lot1, I steel myself for a second and inhale a breath of warm, dry California air.
“Mind grabbing the door for me there, buddy?” a burly man in a flannel button-down calls out in a deep baritone, hauling a ladder on his shoulder.
I’m blocking the doorway for a gaggle of crew members trying to load in. I fumble for the handle and gesture for them to walk in before me. As I turn to enter after them, I see it: the interior of Gatsby’s house. It’s a showstopper. Endless intricate details have been constructed for the modern-day take on his living room: impeccably carved floor-to-ceiling windows with art deco varnishing, a matte-gold coffee table, a sprawling C-shaped camel suede couch, and a magnificent Murano glass chandelier descending from the ceiling.
Scores of people mill about, but I hardly notice them. My original aim of using my extra time on set to take in the broad landscape of this production has narrowed considerably with my urge to study every piece.
I move in for a closer look and gravitate toward the mantel and its rows of Fabergé eggs—a nod to the East and West Egg of Gatsby’s world. I hold my breath as I bring my face closer to one of them. It looks too grand to be plastic, like it has a heft to it. With a glance over my left shoulder, then my right, I find that the rest of the crew is too busy rigging the lights and setting up the first shot of the day to be bothered by me nosing around.
I reach toward the egg and am cut off by a sharp “Hey!” A woman is rushing toward me. Average height, with blond hair piled atop her head, wearing pitch-black coveralls and a headset around her neck. My eyes put together the person in front of me like they’re assembling a thousand-piece puzzle. The caramel-brown eyes. The slightly upturned nose. The strong arms. Cara.
“Do me a favor?” she asks in a tone that suggests it’s not really a question. “Please don’t touch the set dressing.”
I search her eyes for a flicker of recognition.
“Cara?” Her eyes meet mine with a gaze that reveals nothing. Does she not remember me? “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the production designer,” she replies simply.
“I thought the production designer was CJ Ericson.”
“I am CJ Ericson.”
I wait for her to say something, anything else that acknowledges a history that predates this very moment.
“Jack. I’m Jack. I’m playing Nick in the movie.” The words fall out of my mouth on their own, my brain buzzing too loudly to function properly. “We’ve met before.”
“Yeah, I know,” Cara—or CJ , rather—says with a laugh. She arches her eyebrow.
“I thought you were Cara...” I trail off.
“I only went by Cara at the bar as a ploy.”
“A ploy?”
“To see if using a more feminine name got me more tips.”
“And?”
“It did,” she replies with a shrug.
Her walkie-talkie burbles, and she laughs again. “I usually save my Abbott and Costello routines for after 10a.m.,” she jokes.
“They told me a CJ Ericson was working on the movie, but I didn’t know it was you, or...” I trail off.
“Or what?” she asks, eyeing me suspiciously, as though I am about to tear a mask off to reveal myself to be something or someone else entirely. “Listen, if this is going to be a problem...”
“Oh, God, no. Not a problem at all.” I cringe.
“The sets are spectacular,” I tell her as I move around the space, an attempt to give myself a few feet of distance to process this turn.
“Thank you.” I hear the grin in her voice and look over my shoulder to see it. She’s standing still, arms crossed, sizing me up or surveilling me; it’s hard to tell which. Witnessing her in her element on set makes seeing her in that bar all those years ago feel, well, like seeing those background actors on the lot in period garb. They were—and she was—out of context. I sense I’m getting a more complete picture now. Her self-possession has a worthy outlet here. She is calm and assured, her posture and stillness projecting a stature betrayed by her actual height. She isn’t capitulating to me or working to make me, number two on the call sheet, feel more comfortable. It’s the same dynamic she established that night at the bar, and it’s having the same effect on me now as it did then.
“Wait until you see the rest of them,” she says, dropping her voice slightly and taking a small step toward me. I catch the scent of her, and she smells... familiar. Basil and something floral. Lavender, maybe.
“I can’t wait,” I reply, not bothering to hide my eagerness. “If you have some time later, I’d love to see some of the set specs, or anything else...”
Excitement enters CJ’s eyes and then vacates so abruptly I think I might have imagined it.
“I need to get home as quickly as I can once I’m wrapped.” She looks down for one beat. “For my daughter, Agnes.”
There’s a bubble in my throat like I swallowed a large rock. “Daughter! Wow.” Christ, you’re an actor. Do better. “How old is she?” In the last five years, she has managed to reinvigorate her career and have a child. I have lost one, two, and, as of a few weeks ago, three People’s Choice Awards.
“She’s four.” There’s barely a pause before she continues, answering the question that’s surely registered on my face. “I had Agnes with my ex.”
Relief washes over me at the word “ex.” “Look, I hope this isn’t... weird or anything.” I pause to search for the right next words but come up short. “Because of how we know each other.” That sounded so much more workplace-appropriate in my head.
“It’s nothing,” CJ says as she spots a PA balancing three martini coupes in his hands. “Don’t carry the glasses like that! Use the case!” she calls after him.
“Mr.Felgate?” I turn to find a crew member behind me, clutching a clipboard and wearing a T-shirt that reads “ This Is Us Season6.” “You’re early. Do you need help finding your trailer?” I give CJ a wave as I’m led away, and she gives me a distracted nod back.