The Animators(20)

Brecky arched an eyebrow. “A little weird. Well, that’s one way of phrasing a public violation like that, I suppose.”

I smiled. It felt like passing gas.

Brecky held a hand up—dismissing me or excusing me, I have no idea—and said, “It’s fine. She’s having a rough time right now, I understand that. I was very sorry to hear about her mother, by the way.”

“We appreciate that.”

Brecky pursed her lips. “You know, I was impressed by Nashville Combat,” she said. “I hear it’s kind of your baby. Her story, maybe, but your project.”

I tried to mask my surprise. Where had she heard that? Had people been talking about me? Brecky thought it was my baby. It was nicer to hear than I wanted to admit. “It’s a joint effort,” I managed.

Brecky nodded okay, okay, like she was doing me a favor. I was suddenly less sorry that Mel tried to hump her head. “You’re talented,” she said. “Mel is, too. But she’s a liability.”

Brecky rose, gestured for me to follow her to the corridor. I glanced over my shoulder—Mel was being mobbed by students, signing DVDs—then followed Brecky out. When we were alone, she turned and said quietly, “I was curious as to whether you were working on any solo projects these days.”

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged and bit her lip, making it obvious she was holding back. Lifted her gaze to search for the right words. “We’re making room in this sort of…well, you might call it a collective, I guess, for a couple of like-minded people making art. We all share a space in Hell’s Kitchen. Sometimes we collaborate. You’ve come up in some discussions. Did I ever tell you I read your college thesis?”

“Ah, no.” The thesis I wrote on the side while Mel and I were producing our first shorts. A prof at Ballister liked it so much, he sent it to The Journal of Alternative Modern Art, where it was published the year after I graduated: an exploration of anthropomorphic animals in countercultural animation of the 1970s.

Brecky read my thesis? What the hell. “Where’d you find it?” I asked her, trying to sound casual.

“Alt Journal. I’ve had a subscription for years. I thought your approach was really interesting. The attention paid to those Soviet animated shorts? And those Ralph Bakshi films in particular. Love him. I’ve never understood all those R. Crumb disciples giving him shit. Animation is not comics. Totally different medium. Anyway.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “I know you have obligations right now. The project you’ll be doing with Vaught for the Hollingsworth.”

Our nonexistent project. Our horribly nonexistent project. “Uh huh.”

She cleared her throat. “But I should say something up front, to avoid awkwardness later. We’re not really looking to bring Mel in. We’re a little more low-key, as an organization. And collaborating with Mel Vaught sounds like more than a full-time job. I mean, she’s good. Super-talented. Unseen kind of talented. I think it’s unfortunate that a lot of the attention being paid to your movie is more circumstantial than merit-based.”

Was that a dig? That was a dig.

“She has a lot going on. Wouldn’t you agree?” She looked at me meaningfully. “Baggage-wise, I mean?”

I kept silent. I wouldn’t shit-talk Mel. As good as it might feel, I couldn’t do it with Brecky.

“Well,” she said, “in any case, we’re fans of yours. We like the way you think. We like your work. And we wanted to open the door to you.”

She reached into her breast pocket and pulled out a business card. “Let me give you one of these. It’s a bit douchey, I know, having these things, but my contact info’s there. Just think about it, okay? Keep me in the loop. Let me know how you’re doing.”

I rubbed the card between my fingers. Silky stock, thin but gauzy. It was the feel of the thing that counted. It surprised me that Brecky knew this. I looked around for Mel as I put the card in my pocket. “I will,” I told her.

—

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell Fenton. I follow him into the studio and put my bag down.

“Just wanted to confirm,” he says. “I’d hate to think of our guests being falsely slandered.”

Mel leans out, gives Fenton a loud, sharp kiss on the head. He shrieks. “It’s because you’re in love with me, Fen Fen. I get it.” She brushes past him into the sound booth.

He turns to me, mouth open. Fenton likes to talk. We’ll be hearing about this later, whispered aloud at a party with me conveniently in earshot.

The sound guy holds up something that looks like a Walkman. He attaches it to my hip. I feel his fingers against my pant seam. My face heats.

A few minutes later there are heels clicking down the cubicles: A short, stocky figure appears through the window, swathed entirely in gray silk. “Uh huh,” she says to someone. That voice. We freeze. That’s her. That’s Glynnis Havermeyer.

My palms are sweating. I flex my hands, drop the note cards I’m holding. Bend over to pick them up. It’s happening. I can’t help it. This is how I view the events in my life: This one will be the narrative’s peak, the game-changer. And it will be incredible if I just don’t fuck it up.

The door opens and there she is, in the flesh. Brief silver glasses, dark lipstick. Hair dyed a red so rich it’s nearly purple. Exactly the way a well-read punk should grow up to look. She’s smiling. Fenton glares at us over her shoulder.