Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

Am I seriously getting hard in the middle of a crisis?

I don’t regret one minute of it, but this is what I get. The more I think about it on the way to Neevah’s room, the more annoyed I become. With myself and with her. We’ll have to be smarter than this, better than this if we expect our relationship to work, on set and off. And if we expect other people to respect it.

I reach her room and don’t bother knocking, but use the key she gave me last night.

“Neevah!” I yell as soon as I enter the cottage.

No response.

I walk down the short hall to her bedroom. Wearing her white terrycloth bathrobe over her costume, she’s asleep on the bed.

“Really?” I say harshly, but shake her shoulder gently. “Neevah, wake up.”

Her lashes flutter, and I steel myself against the big brown eyes that come into focus. She smiles sleepily at me and reaches up to touch my beard. “Hey, you.”

I jerk my head back. “Neevah, what the fuck? The whole crew is waiting for you.”

She frowns, tilting her head like she’s not sure what I could be talking about, but then she glances down at her bathrobe, reaches up to touch her wig.

“Crap!” she says, scrambling from the bed.

“Rule number one. Never be late to my set.”

“I wasn’t late.” She rushes to the mirror to check her makeup and the wig. “I was on time. I just came back here because with the power out, we couldn’t do anything. I was feeling so . . . I’m sorry.”

“I can’t put sorry on film. Don’t be sorry. Be on time. Be where you’re supposed to be. Be prepared, dammit.”

“Are you kidding right now?” She whirls from the mirror to face me, indignation splashed across her expression. “I miss one call time in four months and you light into me like this?”

“What should I do when one of my actors is late? Give you a gold star for every time you weren’t?”

“You’re being a dick.”

“I’m being the director, Neevah. I can’t play favorites.”

“Favorites? Who’s asking you to?”

“You’ve put me in a position where my crew is wondering if I’ll go easy on you because we’re—”

“Fucking? Is that what you were gonna say?”

The word torpedoes between us, sounding coarse in this room where we made love last night. When it was lusty and tender and perfect. All the things I don’t have time to consider when I’m burning money having a damn lover’s quarrel.

“Don’t do this shit with me, Neevah. Not today. Of all days, not today. I don’t have time for it. We’re behind, and we’re gonna fuck around and lose my light.”

“Ever think there might be something more important than your damn light?”

“No, because that’s my job to think there is nothing more important than my damn light, and it’s your job to be ready when I have it.” I leave the room and yell over my shoulder, “Cameras roll in two minutes.”

51

Dessi Blue

EXTERIOR – LONDON – NIGHT

Dessi and Cal walk swiftly through Central London, both looking around as if unsure where they are. Both carry gas masks. Cal also totes his trumpet case. The streets have steady traffic with a few people milling about.

* * *

DESSI

It’s Surrey Street, you said?

* * *

CAL

Yeah. I don’t see—oh, wait. I think it’s . . . here’s The Strand.

* * *

DESSI

We the blind leading the blind. Why we have to do this tonight?

* * *

CAL

We need to meet this cat, see if he can play. A band with no drummer—what’s that?

* * *

DESSI

I hate you had to fire Bird. He’s been with us since the beginning.

* * *

CAL

Bird is on that hop and not even trying to get off that ride. Not showing up for gigs, missing cues, falling asleep onstage—he gotta get clean before he can be in my band.

* * *

DESSI

I know. At least he’s going home.

* * *

CAL

What’s so great about home? Why you think Langston Hughes, James Baldwin and all them come over here? America don’t love us.

* * *

DESSI

Sometimes home ain’t great, but it’s still home. I miss my mama. You know the last time I saw my mama? Had her fried chicken?

* * *

A group of uniformed British soldiers walk by. Dessi turns her head to follow their progress before turning back to Cal.

* * *

DESSI

Been five years since Mama moved back to Alabama.

At least there ain’t war at home. We running outta France to escape the Germans. Now we running underground in London, hiding from the Germans. Bombs dropping.

* * *

Dessi holds up her gas mask.

* * *

DESSI

Gotta wear these just to stay alive.

* * *

CAL

You know what we are? Working. Making music and seeing the world. You get tired of that, let me know, and you can catch the next boat with Bird back to the States. I don’t miss America and it don’t feel like home. Where I can make money with this horn right here and don’t have to fear for my life just for looking at a white woman? That feels like home.