Epilogue
Grace
A lot can change in five years.
After I lost my job, I got a lot of calls from people who had heard what I was trying to do at M.E. If that press conference was good for anything — debatable — at very least, it boosted my public image.
Still, it’s taken me this long to find a position that I really wanted to take.
I moved out of the city after Jace was told that he would keep his license, but he was fired from the hospital. There was nothing left for either of us there.
I’m waiting in Jace’s office for him to show up. Apparently, one of his patients came down with pneumonia, a result of chemotherapy’s assault on her immune system.
After a while, though, he finally comes in, saying, “Hey, Grace. How are you this morning?”
“Annoyed,” I tell him. “When I agreed to marry you, you told me that you’d give me the world, and now look at me.”
“I think you look great,” he says, scanning over the file in his hand.
“Whatever,” I tell him. “Your 10 o’clock is waiting in your office, and Mr. Landau called to say that he’s going to need you to come by. I guess his nurse called in sick and he can’t make it to the door on his own.”
“The help can’t make it to the door?”
“No, the patient,” I tell him. “You’re really going to do the grammar thing with me right now?”
“Give him a call and let him know that I can get out there on my lunch break,” he says.
“After your 10 o’clock,” I tell him, “you’re clear for the rest of the day.”
He stops before entering his office and says, “You know, in New York, I maintained a very busy schedule. Of course, I had competent help back then, too.”
He stops laughing when the stapler I throw dents the wall near his head.
“Jeez,” he says. “Calm down. I was just kidding.”
“So was I,” I tell him, looking back down at the crossword puzzle in front of me. “If I was serious, you’d probably be on the ground right now.”
Okay, so maybe being the secretary to my husband of three years isn’t the most glamorous job in the world, and I should know; I used to have one that was a lot closer to that particular peak.
I finally heard back from the station I’ve been wooing for the last few years or so, and they’re bringing me in for a second interview. Hopefully, that means I can stop treading water as Jace’s assistant — a term that I cling to dearly — and get back to doing what I’m good at.
Ironic as it may seem, after all the time I spent trying to put the now defunct Memento Entertainment in a position to acquire KJBP, I’ve found myself in a position where KJBP is trying to acquire me. I just hope it’s not Andrew asking the questions, or I think my chances might not be so great.
It only took the station five years to start taking me seriously.
Jace finishes up with the patient in his office and calls me in through the open door.
I get up and bring my purse, as there are no more patients in the office to see.
I’ve been telling him that we should have opened up his office a little closer to one of the major parts of the city, but he’s gotten to be very adamant about his free time nowadays.
“Yes, Doctor?” I ask in my best Marilyn Monroe voice.
“Sit down,” he says. “Your scans finally came in.”
He tells me that the oligodendroglioma is still in my head, but that it doesn’t seem to have shown any significant signs of growth. He’s been giving me the same speech for the last five years.
“I know you’d like to hear something different,” he says, “but with this thing being as slow growing as it is, it’s not likely we’re going to see much change month-to-month.”
“Yeah,” I respond absently.
“I have good news, though,” he says. “There’s a clinical trial coming up and I should be able to get you into it.”
I just start laughing.
“Are we going to have to go through the whole you being disbarred or whatever the hell it is they do to doctors again?” I ask.
“Disbarment is what they do to lawyers,” he says. “With doctors, they take away your license, and no, you actually qualify for this one. I won’t have to break any laws or ethical codes to get you in.”
“You’re still nailing your patient, though,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but I hardly think that’s relevant to the trial,” he says. “Besides, if you’ve never bothered to notice, I always fill out your paperwork under the name Zoe Brinkman.”
“Zoe Brinkman?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was a girl I used to date before I met Melissa. She was totally out of her head, but she was a demon in the sack.”
I think I may have rubbed off on him a little too much over the years.
“How charming,” I tell him. “So, what you’re saying is that you’re going to get me into the trial without lying this time, except when it comes to my name or the fact that we’re married, right?”
“Actually,” he says, “none of that’s going to matter. I called Dr. Marcum and he’s going to recommend your inclusion into the trial so we don’t have to falsify anything.”
“Yeah, except any and all records of me ever being his patient,” I scoff.
“I sent him your file so he could send it to them,” Jace says. “You’re already in if you want to be in.”
“What kind of drug is it?” I ask. “Is it going to be better or worse than the chemo?”
“Part of the fun is finding out,” he says, and I’m now convinced that me rubbing off on him at all is a bad idea.
“All right,” I tell him, “but if it puts me in a bed unable to move, I’m going to have to insist on breast massages at least three times a day.”
“I’ll check with your trial doctors,” he says, and looks back to the paperwork on his desk.
A lot can certainly change in five years, but a lot stays the same, too.
I turned him down that night at the junkyard, but I did eventually relent and allow him to marry me — part of the deal was that he had to say it like that whenever he told anybody.
“You want to head to Mr. Landau’s place with me?” he asks, finishing up signing whatever it is that he’s signing. “There’s lunch in it for you if you do.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “I’ll go with you and you can eat out.”
“That’s what I just said.”
I give him my corniest wink, saying, “Is it?”
“You know,” he says, “I could swear I’m married to a teenage boy.”
“That’s disgusting. You’re way too old to be with a teenager.”
So, this is our life. We work together, we live together, I make juvenile comments, and we laugh about them together.
All in all, it’s not so bad.
The only thing I really miss when I left the city, and this was a surprise to me, was Mags.
Yeah, she was my secretary — excuse me, assistant — and I never really treated her that well, but she was always there in the background making my life run just a little bit smoother.
The good news for her is that she finally landed herself a millionaire, though he’s a lot younger than what she had in mind. Still though, she tells me, with the sheer volume of alcohol he consumes on a daily basis, it can’t be too long until he keels over.
I guess you’ve got to have goals.
Jace finishes up and we walk out of the office together. I forward any calls to my office to my cell phone, though I’m not anticipating any calls.
“So, after I start at the station, what are you going to do for a secretary?” I ask.
“I thought you were very adamant about being called an assistant,” he says.
“I am, but I’m sure whatever bimbo you hire is hardly going to measure up to my incredible skills.”
“You are by far,” he says, “the worst assistant I’ve ever had.”
“You do remember that Yuri got you fired from your last job, right?”
“Yeah, but at least she knew where the pens were,” he says. “I’ve got someone lined up. I still have to do a final interview, but she comes highly recommended.”
“It’s nobody I know, is it?” I ask.
“You don’t know anybody,” he says.
“I have friends.”
“Oh, right,” he says, “your coven. Forgive me if I don’t count the hateful women you bring over to my house as anybody.”
“They’re not hateful,” I tell him. “They’re spirited.”
“So, I was thinking,” Jace says. “After your clinical trial, maybe we could start trying to build our family a little bigger.”
This is about the only thing we argue about anymore. Okay, we argue quite a bit about a great many things, but this is the only topic that isn’t complete bullshit.
“You keep saying that we should build our family,” I tell him, “but what you’re forgetting is that it’s my vag that family’s going to have to come out of, and I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to figure out what that must be like, but I’ve seen pictures and it doesn’t look great.”
“I’m a doctor,” he says. “I’ve seen women give birth before.”
“Yeah? How was it?”
“It was thoroughly disturbing,” he says, “but I hear they give you some pretty killer drugs.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell him.
We pull up to Mr. Landau’s house, and Jace asks me if I’m coming in.
“Why? So he can stare at my boobs while you’re doing unspeakable things to him in the name of medicine?”
“Give the guy a break,” Jace says. “He’s got cancer. He may never see a nice pair again.”
“I have a brain tumor,” I tell him. “Does that mean that I get to scope out all the junk I want?”
“Are you coming in or not?”
“Fine,” I groan, “but I’m going to have to insist on some quid pro quo.”
“Well,” Jace says, “you may have to do most of the work, but I’m sure Mr. Landau would be all right with that.”
“Not what I meant.”
Jace gets out of the car, and hesitantly, I get out as well.
We walk up to the house, and I can’t help but think how much differently my life would have been if any other doctor had walked into the room that day I had my first seizure.
Attraction often has more to do with proximity than it does with any kind of actual chemistry, but with Jace, somehow I’ve found both.
He’s still a pain in my ass, but I do love him. Yeah, it’s probably going to be a while before he convinces me to squeeze out a kid or two, and it’s just as possible that that never happens, but I do know that I’m glad to be spending my life with him.
“Do you really think he’d go for it?” I ask as Jace rings the doorbell.
“Who?” Jace asks.
“Mr. Landau,” I answer. “You’ve seen his bits; do you think it’d be worth my time or would it be like trying to make it to England in a rowboat?”
“Seriously, I’m married to a teenage boy.”
“Seriously, that’s gross.”
We’re waiting at the door for a few minutes.
“You know what we forgot?” I ask him.
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Landau did say that he couldn’t make it to the door,” I answer. “Do we just let ourselves in or what?”
“Call him back and let him know that we’re coming in,” Jace says. “I don’t want to give the poor guy a heart attack.”
“How sensitive of you,” I answer.
I give Mr. Landau a call and he gives us permission to enter, so we do. Jace calls out for him, and from the back, a feeble voice answers.
“Do you really think he’s at risk for a heart attack?” I ask as we’re making our way down the hall.
“Actually,” Jace answers, “his heart is probably the only part of him that’s still holding strong. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” I tell him.
We get into the room, and Mr. Landau is lying in bed watching the morning news.
“How are you doing today, Mr. Landau?” Jace asks.
“Oh, I’ve been better,” the man says.
“Well, let’s see what we can do about that,” Jace says. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought my assistant along with me today.”
“I can see her,” the man says. To prove it, his eyes move to me and settle on my breasts as they always do.
“Dr. Churchill?” I ask.
“Yes, Assistant Miller?” he returns in his asshat way. This is why I didn’t take his last name.
“You’re certain the patient’s cardiac health is stable?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?”
“Well, like you said, I should give the poor guy a break,” I tell him, and lift my shirt. “Is that better, Mr. Landau?”
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 Claire Adams
The Loose Bet
Emma
This is it. Today’s the day.
I’ve been waiting for this moment all my life and now that it’s here, I wish I were somewhere else. I wish I were someone else.
It’s not that I lack gratitude or an understanding of just what a big deal this moment is for me personally as well as professionally. I’m nothing but gratitude right now.
No, what’s bothering me is that I can’t remember any of my lines and I’m going to be working with quite possibly the greatest actor of my generation: Damian Jones.
The problem with reaching the top is that there are other people, people who have been there for a while. I’ve been rather clever so far, working in near anonymity and only ever being recognized as that chick from that tampon commercial.
It’s not the best kind of notoriety I could have hoped for, but it paid the rent.
Now, though, all eyes are going to be on me, and I know exactly what everyone’s thinking. They’re all just sitting back, waiting and hoping that they’ll have a front row seat when I inevitably prove just how unqualified I am to be here.
Or maybe that’s just my own personal insecurity.
Regardless, I think it’s time that I start betting against myself here. My cheeks have been red for the last ten minutes, and I’ve been having a hell of a time breathing at what anyone might consider a natural pace.
“Emma,” Lane, my on-set assistant, says, poking his head through the door of my trailer, “they’re ready for you.”
I take a breath.
Here we go.
Ten minutes later and I’m back in my trailer, waiting for them to get the lighting set up for the next scene.
I’ve been in movies before, just nothing you would have seen. There were a few low-budget, sci-fi flicks where I was either the lusty heroine, or more likely, damsel in distress who is rescued by the superpower-wielding hero, or I was the space vixen who’s basically just walking cleavage that completely fails as a character.
My biggest moment before landing this film was in Mega Leopard vs. Megalodon IV: Rise of the Phoenixes, where I had a 30-second monologue in which I’m trying to reassure the rest of the captives—all buxom women like myself, each character with a different reason why the front of her shirt is torn open, exposing everything but areola—they’re going to survive the machinations of the Cult of Megalodon culminating in the glorious words, “We are not fodder for monsters; no! We are women and women fight!”
Sure, it’s a nice thought from a feminist standpoint, but the writing left a lot to be desired.
Now, though, I’m on the set of a motion picture that doesn’t only have one of Hollywood’s biggest stars, but it actually has financial backing and a decent script.
It should be a lot harder to be cynical, but I’m starting to find myself longing for the days where the director didn’t care if the lighting was right or whether the sun was two hours higher in the sky in one shot than it is in the next. At least then, I could put in a day’s work and be done.
Now, all I have is time to sit here and freak out because of where ‘here’ is.
Lane opens the door to my trailer to ask me if I need anything. I ask him what he means by anything.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Are you hungry, thirsty? Is there anything I could bring you that would help to pass the time? I could read lines with you, whatever you need.”
“If I were to ask you to do something to help me pass the time, you’d probably do it?” I ask.
“Sure,” he answers.
“So if I were to tell you that I wanted an eight ball of coke, two hookers of questionable character and gender, a fifth of Jack, along with a quarter of whatever they were giving Snoop Dogg back in the early 2000s, and, just to round it out, at least a dozen people old enough to die in a war but not old enough to drink legally with whom I can enjoy all of the above with me, you’d do it?” I ask.
“Obviously,” he says, “I couldn’t knowingly participate in an illegal action. That said, I haven’t really checked the laws that recently, so I may miss a few things.”
“Excellent,” I tell him.
“So, did you actually want any of that or were you just looking to prove a point?” he asks. “My hooker guy likes to have as much notice as possible—otherwise he has a lot more trouble finding just the right one.”
“You’re not joking, are you?” I ask.
“I guess we’ll never know,” he says. “Is there anything I can get you?”
“No, I’m good,” I tell him.
“All right,” he says. “Let me know if you change your mind. I’ll be around.”
He leaves the trailer and I take a moment to really appreciate the fact that I have, at my beck and call, someone who has a “hooker guy.”
That’s power.
There’s a knock on my trailer door and I call for whoever’s there to come in.
“Hey, I just wanted to see how you were settling in,” a very familiar voice says.
I look up, and there, ducking his head as he enters my trailer, is Damian Jones.
“Shit,” I say and try to stand up, managing to bend everything except my knees in the process. If it looks half as awkward as it feels, I’m in serious trouble.
“You don’t have to get up,” he says, a partial smile on his full lips.
Damian Jones is one of those people you can just tell was born to be in the movies. He’s one of those guys you just know came out of the womb with perfectly straight, white teeth and the kind of smile that would provide untold masses of women the motivation to try masturbation for the first time.
It helps that his dirty blond hair always looks like it’s five minutes out of the stylist, and that he’s frequently beefing up for this or that role.
He’s ducking his head a little as he makes his way over to my makeshift couch. He doesn’t find a spot and ends up sitting on my coffee table.
I’m a little messy.
“Just as well,” I tell him. “My legs seem to have forgotten how to work. I’m Emma Roxy.”
No matter what I do at this point, his first impression of me is going to involve the word clumsy. All I have left is the remote possibility that I can add the word charmingly to the front end of the title.
“I’ve seen some of your work,” he says. “You’re good. To tell you the truth, I always thought you weren’t getting the kind of roles that you deserved.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, wondering if I should have put a question mark at the end of the statement. “I’m obviously a great admirer of yours as well.”
“Obviously,” he says.
He’s a little smug.
“So, I hear you got your first scene in and done. How’d that go?” he asks.
My phone starts ringing on the coffee table next to Damian, and for whatever reason, I decide that I don’t want Damian Jones to see who’s calling me. No, it doesn’t make any sense, but I’m still pretty new to this.
I snatch the phone off the table and mute it with my thumb.
Damian is looking up at me, but he’s not saying anything.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “This is just a little weird for me.”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“You’re Damian Jones,” I tell him, “and you’re sitting on my coffee table.”
“Sorry about that,” he says, getting up. “You had to have known that we’d cross paths at one point or another, though, right?” he asks. “We are the main romance plot to the film, you know.”
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“No point. So,” he says with a flash of his dark green eyes, “are you into tall, handsome actors?”
“You know, for someone who’s always in the tabloids with a different woman on his arm, I would have thought you’d have a lot more game,” I tell him.
“Game?” he asks. “What do you mean?”
“You’re hitting on me,” I tell him, “and you’re not the slightest bit good at it. Maybe it’s just one of those sad things that tend to happen when fantasy meets reality.”
“Do you smoke?” he asks.
“Smoke what?” I return.
“Let’s start with tobacco and go from there,” he says.
“No,” I tell him. “I don’t smoke anything. I hate the smell.”
“That’s good,” he says. “It’s terrible on the lungs and it makes you age like crazy.”
“Why do you ask, then?” I question.
“I was going to see if you’d be cool with me lighting up a cigarette in here,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I tell him without thinking. “Just open a window.”
“I think I’d better not,” he says. “You’re not a smoker, so you’re going to get sick of the smell really fast.”
“Why are you here?” I ask.
“I heard you were nervous,” he says. “I also heard that you were trying to throw a party for teenagers involving cocaine and prostitutes and I wanted to see if you were actually that jaded—I was coming here to make sure I got an invite if it went that way—or if you’ve just got a sense of humor.”
“And?” I ask.
“And,” he says, “I have found that I’ve still only just met you and couldn’t possibly pass that kind of judgment so quickly.”
“I see,” I tell him. “Well, I’ve got another scene coming up in a little while, and I kind of like to—”
“Oh, you’ve got your own trailer ritual, huh?” he asks. “Carl Ivan had one of those that involved a rubber turkey leg, a pint of Southern Comfort, and a still of Stockard Channing from Grease. He never really said how it worked or even whether it worked or not. Come to think of it, I’m not sure exactly what he was hoping to accomplish, but—”
“Mr. Jones,” I interrupt.
“Damian,” he says. “You’re Emma and I’m Damian; pleased to meet you.”
“You’re a very strange man,” I tell him.
“Nah,” he scoffs, “strange is for the commoners. I’m rich, ergo, I’m not strange. I’m unconventional, dynamic.”
“The commoners?” I ask.
This is the most surreal moment of my life. I have no idea how to take him. He can’t really be this conceited, can he?
“You know,” he says, “this is going to be my sixth Academy Award.”
“What is?” I ask.
“This film,” he answers, “the one we just started shooting.”
“Are you actually going for the Babe Ruth thing?” I ask. “You’re trying to call your award?”
“I’d almost say yes to that,” he says, “only, I object to the word ‘try.’ I’m not trying to call anything. I’m simply stating a fact. I’ve read hundreds of scripts and I’ve done dozens of movies. Trust me. They’d need to screw this up pretty monumentally for me not to get the Oscar nod. Hey, if you play your cards right, there might be a Golden Globe or something in it for you, too.”
“Got it,” I tell him.
“Got what?” he asks.
“I was trying to figure out whether you’re just doing some kind of shtick or if you’re actually this full of yourself. From everything I’ve seen, the latter is pretty clearly the case and I’m just trying to keep the stiff upper lip and not mourn the person I thought you were when I was growing up. That is, until you’re gone and out of my trailer,” I tell him.
“Wow, dramatic,” he says. “Anyway, just wanted to pop by and offer my services.”
“I don’t think I’ll be requiring them,” I tell him, “but thank you for the thought.”
“Not a problem,” he says. “It’s my duty as your mentor.”
“Mentor?” I ask. “When did this happen?”
“The moment we both signed on to play these parts,” he says. “This is your—sorry, but this is your first real film and you’re working with real people top to bottom. I know how that can be intimidating to a new actor, and I think I might be able to help you get through the initial growing pains with a bit more ease.”
“How admirable,” I tell him. “Your altruism is truly touching and not in the least bit condescending and offensive.”
“I’m glad you see it for what it is,” he says, ignoring my sarcasm. “Now, I should let you get to whatever kind of voodoo it is that you do as a trailer ritual. Just do me a favor and don’t tell me if you make any wax dolls of me. I mean, do what you want, but I don’t want to hear about it. That stuff skeeves me right the hell out.”
“What are you even talking about?” I ask.
“Never mind,” he says. “Keep your secrets. I’m off to talk to a man about something else.”
“I think unconventional might be too mild a word,” I tell him.
“Think whatever you like,” he says. “Mark my words, though. Before filming is wrapped, you are going to come to me for my sage advice. You’re going to say, ‘Mr. Jones—Damian, you were right. This is a big, scary world and I was wrong to so casually dismiss your kind offers of assistance.’ I’m sure you’ll be able to convince me. I just wish we could get to the part where you appreciate me for the supernatural gem that I really am and skip all this other nonsense.”
I’ve been so busy trying to ignore the oozing cesspool issuing from Damian’s mouth that I didn’t notice the door to the trailer open.
“Emma, they’re ready for you,” Lane says.
“Thanks, Lane,” I answer with a healthy dose of gratitude.
“Make me look good,” Damian says as I get up and walk past him out of the trailer.
What a self-important prick.
Lane walks with me toward the set. I ask him, “Is that guy really as pompous as he comes off?”
“No,” Lane answers. “He’s not really that pompous. He just likes to mess with new people he thinks may be, in some way, intimidated by his fame. He thinks that by giving them a bad impression that confirms their worst fears about him, he can start anew from zero and do a better job showing them how he’s not like that. I guess he thinks that coming off like an ass makes him approachable or something, although I can’t imagine that really working. Of course, the fact that he sees people as playthings, which he feels the need to personally inform them of is pretty damn pompous, so I guess the answer to your question is yes.”
“You’re wonderful company, you know that?” I ask. “Most people would just give a quick answer and be done, but you choose the less taken road of answering just about everything but what’s been asked.”
“I answered,” he says.
“Not in a helpful way,” I tell him.
From here it’s wardrobe. From wardrobe, it’s makeup. From makeup, it’s to the set for my next 20-second scene.
Ah, the life of a movie star is a wondrous thing, indeed.
* * *
Everything’s going fine. I’m nailing my lines and I’m solid on the acting. Really, I should be feeling pretty good about myself right now.
That’s what I’m thinking right up until it’s time for my first scene with Damian.
When he’s not in my trailer acting like he’s the secret and mystical key to an aspiring young actor’s dreams and ambitions, apparently he’s on the set, arguing with the director and basically anyone else that strays too close to ground zero.
It used to be I was waiting for lighting or my makeup artist. Now I have to wait until there’s nothing even close to the set that doesn’t meet with Damian Jones’s odd and often contradictory standards.
After he’s finished a particularly nonsensical tirade regarding the reflection off one of the framed pictures hanging on the wall, he takes a moment to pace and I’m just trying to stay as far away from him as I can.
Unfortunately, that’s become rather difficult, as he’s now walking right toward me.
I turn to leave, but am nearly run over by one of the prop guys.
If this really is all an act on Damian’s part, he’s a more skilled thespian than anyone I’ve ever known. He’s absolutely nailing the role of irritating douchebag.
“Emma,” he says, and I give up hope of escape.
I turn and face him, responding, “Damian.”
“Things still going well?” he asks. “I know that it can be difficult being so close to one of the great cinematic gods of our time, but I’m sure you’ll get used to it. Anyway, I just had a couple of ideas for you.”
“Ideas?” I ask. “What kind of ideas?”
“Well,” he says, “we’ve never worked together before, and I thought maybe I could give you a couple of ideas on motions and tones you can take to get the best response out of me.”
“Acting tips?” I ask. “Are you seriously trying to make your performance my responsibility?”
“Well,” he says, “at the end of the day, it’s everyone’s responsibility, including mine. If there’s anything I can do to help get the best out of you,” he winks, “you just let me know.”
I’m pretty certain he just propositioned me.
Twelve-hours-ago-me would have ripped her top off, shoved it (the top) into her own mouth—for reasons which are unclear to me still—and leapt spread-eagle through the air at such a suggestion.
Twelve-hours-ago-me was an idiot.
“What did you have in mind?” I ask him.
“Well, I was thinking that if you say this first line with a kind of restrained anger, something just boiling to the surface rather than going straight explosive on it, that’d really be the way to go with the scene. We’d have somewhere to go, you know,” he says.
“What did you think I was going to do?” I ask. “Did you think I was going to come into the room screaming and throwing stuff?”
“A lot of people would,” he says. “But you’ve got to remember, this is Glen on the screenplay, so you’ve got to realize that there’s more to the page than the sum total of the words on it.”
“And you’ve got the only correct interpretation of it?” I ask. “You sound like you’re trying to start a religion.”
“How were you going to play the scene?” he asks.
“I was thinking that I would come into the room, see him sitting in the chair by the dresser and start soft, but deliberate, so that I could build into the climax of the dialogue,” I tell him. It’s exactly what he was saying I should do, and I know that he knows it. “By the time you get into the room, I’ll be yelling—otherwise your character would never hear me well enough to know what’s going on—but I wasn’t just going to go in there guns blazing.”
“I think that sounds like a brilliant plan,” he says.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I’m happy enough that he doesn’t know I was absolutely planning on coming into the room at the beginning of the next scene breaking a few things while I screamed at Mack, the guy playing my husband, in the first 20 minutes of the film. I had the whole scene played through in my head. That blue lamp was going to be the first to go.
I was going to try and show Damian that I’m just as worthy of being here as he is by playing strong right from our first scene together. Instead, I’m going to be doing exactly what he tells me to do because there’s a reasonable chance he’d ridicule me otherwise.
“You’re pretty,” he says. “You haven’t done any porn, have you?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“You’d be surprised how many people in our business have dabbled,” he says. “Most people who start out that way don’t really make it past the occasional cameo or early morning talk show, but there is a more substantial population than you’d think who owe very successful careers to the fact that at one point in their life, they fucked for money. I’m not saying everyone does it. I’m just saying that I’ve been around it enough to have some wisdom on the subject if that’s something you’d like to talk about.”
“I haven’t done any porn,” I tell him, “but thanks for asking. It wasn’t presumptuous or asinine at all.”
“You’re sarcastic,” he says. “I wonder if that’s because you’re seeing the humor in the moment or if you’re hiding behind a smile, hoping that nobody sees what’s really going on inside you.”
“We’re ready,” the prop guy calls out to the director, who makes a few last-minute adjustments before we’re anywhere near action.
“You think you know everything about people,” I tell him, “but you don’t.”
“I never said I know everything about people,” he answers. “I just know what it’s like to show up on set and feel like, at any moment, everyone’s going to realize just how far from good enough you really are and they’re going to send you back to the Midwest or wherever you came from. The ones that end up doing porn are usually from the Midwest,” he continues, “that’s why I’m asking.”
“I’ve never done porn,” I tell him.
He was right on the verge of saying something helpful. I’d thought he actually did say something helpful, but he just kept talking until I was cured of that opinion.
“I was right about the rest of it, though,” he says, “wasn’t I?”
“No,” I tell him. “I know that you’d love to see me as some shriveling neophyte who’s so overwhelmed by the big lights that she feels helpless without your guidance, but I’m here because I earned it, you smug son of a bitch.”
“Calm down. I’m not saying you didn’t earn it,” he says. “I’m just saying that I know the feeling.”
“Let me guess,” I start, “this is the part where you tell me how you used to feel that way when you were first starting out, right? It might be thoughtful if it weren’t so incredibly condescending.”
“You’re not quite right,” he says. “I still feel that way.” He leans toward me and whispers, “Do you really think that I would get as belligerent as I just did because I looked the wrong way and got light in my eyes? I did that because I’m terrified of everything that comes after he says action. Every second those cameras are going is a separate opportunity for me to fuck it all up and bring an end to my career, just to prove how not good enough I really am. I’m not saying you feel that way because it’s a weakness or some obstacle you’re just going to get past. I’m saying you feel that way because it would be inhuman not to.”
“All right, and Emma, you’re out of the room, coming in to confront your husband about the affair,” Dutch, the director, calls out.
I walk to my place off-camera and wait for my cue.
This is the part of the movie where Charlotte, that’s me, comes home to find a half-naked woman climbing down the drainpipe from the bedroom window on the second floor and confronts her husband about it.
As this is a comedy, my husband is a well-known, septuagenarian standup comic, and Damian comes into play here, as he’s my husband’s granddaughter’s English tutor who overhears the argument and quits his job in solidarity with my character leaving her husband—it’s kind of a reverse Jerry Maguire moment.
This isn’t my first scene of the day, but it will be the first one with Damian. I’m not entirely sure how he did it, but with his confession, I’ve forgotten myself to the point that, if I’m not careful, I’m going to end up liking Damian Jones.