VIII Jack
VIII
Jack
“OK, cut!” Timmy’s voice booms from a megaphone behind a row of screens at video village. A week into filming, we’re tackling some of the one-on-one scenes between Nick and Gatsby outside his manse. I pull Nick’s fake glasses off my face for a moment, blinking and gathering myself as Timmy makes his way toward Boone and me underneath the warm lights. Standing next to Timmy, observing us intently, is CJ.
I’ve only seen her in passing since our first day of production. Her team is always a few days ahead of the filming schedule, readying the next sets for us. But if her opinion is needed on final set-decorating touches, she sits with Timmy during filming. Like she is today.
I look over at Boone, who’s having his face dabbed by a makeup assistant between takes. He’s a 6′5″ Australian with a well-above-average resting heart rate who subsists on vegemite and bangers, and after a few minutes of filming, he is often dripping sweat. I once attempted a viral video detailing his workout and couldn’t make it past the first minute.
Timmy sidles up to us. “Great stuff. I’m loving it.”
I brace for whatever note comes next. So far, Timmy’s direction has been... unorthodox, with instructions like “Try saying your lines like you have a really bad sinus infection.”
“Jack,” Timmy says, leaning in slightly before dropping his voice to a whisper, “I think you may be overselling it a bit.”
I blush, both at his gentle directness and at the realization that I’ve reverted to the type of just-showy performance I gave when I was greener and doing live theater with friends in the audience. I was attempting to impress them then, and I am attempting to impress CJ now. “Consider it fixed.”
“Wait,” CJ calls out and holds up a finger before walking up to Timmy to share her thoughts in a low voice I can’t quite hear. Whatever she says, Timmy considers it, cocks an eyebrow, and nods his head.
With that, CJ steps toward me briskly, and I take in a gulp of air. My heart climbs into my throat as she comes closer, like she’s tugging on it with a chain. Suddenly, she’s directly in front of me, her chin tilted up so I can make out each freckle on the bridge of her nose. I turn down to look at her, and I can feel her breath and smell whatever hair products she uses. Her eyes are locked on mine. It’s entirely unclear to me what’s going to happen next, and it takes all of my will to remember we are at work , on set , and were I to get hard in this moment, it would be inappropriate at best and maybe an OSHA violation at worst.
“Can I see those for a second?” she asks, gesturing toward my glasses.
I nod and seal my lips, realizing only now they were parted.
CJ reaches for the glasses and gently pulls them from my face, her finger grazing my ear.
She considers them for a moment, round and horn-rimmed. Then, with remarkable conviction, she uses the button on the cuff of her shirt to put a scratch in the lens.
I wince. She grins.
“He’s surrounded by all this insane wealth,” she says, handing them back to me. “But he’s wearing scraped glasses. He can’t see things clearly, and he can’t afford new ones.”
I put the glasses back on my face. She has a point, but I also have no trouble seeing her. The line of her jaw and the collar of her shirt, open at the neck. Is she warm under the lights, or is she blushing?
“Brilliant,” I say. It’s a one-word answer and a full sentence. She goes back behind the monitor, and moments later, we’re rolling again.
I take Timmy’s direction, but between takes, I steal glances at CJ, curious if I can catch any sort of reaction. Her face is completely impassive; if this were the World Series of Poker championship, she’d bring home the whole pot.
“Cut! We got it!” Timmy claps triumphantly. “We’re moving on!” A bell rings, and the crew gets to work prepping for a romantic scene between Daisy and Gatsby.
I stand motionless as everyone scurries around me. When CJ hurries off for her next agenda item of the day, I chase after her without a specific end goal in mind.
“Hey,” I say at her back, a few decibels too loud.
“Hey,” she says, stopping short and turning around.
“Thank you for the adjustment back there. It made a difference for me.”
“It’s my job,” CJ says, but she’s glowing.
This shirt she’s wearing—boxy cut, thick fabric—should distract from her form, but it’s having the opposite effect. I am back to thinking of the time I saw her wearing nothing at all, the things we did and said, the way she slipped on my shirt to go to the loo after—
I cut these thoughts off at the pass, feeling like I am somehow invading her privacy by accessing my own memories.
She opens her mouth to say something, then pauses, our eyes locked. Color rushes to her cheeks. I know it’s not the lights now.
“It was nice to watch filming today and not just the dailies,” she says, her voice softer. “The way you’re bringing out the deadpan humor in the script is so good. It’s very Metropolitan .”
“My favorite Whit Stillman,” I beam, ready to gush.
But before I can, there’s a swift energy shift from CJ, and she’s back to buttoned-up. “I should get going. I have a meeting with Wardrobe.” She sighs out a rush of air, turns, and walks off.
Normally, I’d be in my trailer already. Costume hung, makeup off, with an eye toward plans for the evening if the next morning’s call time isn’t too early. But I’m not ready to go yet. I want to see how all of the pieces of the production are coming together. I want to see what other changes CJ might make on the fly. I want to see CJ.
Well, there’s no rule I have to leave , I think. I follow in her wake.