Fluffy(6)

“We don’t have an extra hour,” he declares, cutting me off.

“Do you know how important it is that the qi move properly in this room?” I protest, slapping my hands onto my hips so hard, I stagger a little. “You really don’t understand how severe this is. You risk bankruptcy, medical problems, and even loss of reputation!”

“I ain’t worried about my reputation, Mal,” Spatula cracks, bringing everyone in the room to roiling laughter.

“But surely you want the room to look good and to have good energy. Any show set is about prosperity. Optimizing health and wealth.”

A suspicious look comes my way. “Health? What kind of medical problems are you talking about?”

“You name it. If the energy flows too fast or too slow, it can ruin everything.”

He nods. “I get that. Happens all the time on set. We have pills and, well,” he sniffs, “you for that.”

I point to the red ottoman. “Red is the color of passion, so you’re off to a good start.”

“Great!” He shouts to ZZ Top. “Lenny! Get me more red in there. But don’t move nothin’. We ain’t got an hour to spare.” The shrug he throws my way isn’t an apology.

It’s an order.

“It would be really helpful if you gave me some specs,” I snap, deciding I need to be more forceful.

“Specs?”

“Design specs. You know. What’s the look you’re going for here? How I arrange everything will depend on that.”

“The... look?” He has a rat-like face, small eyes set close together, the bill of his baseball cap making them seem like they’re peeking out from a dark cave.

“Yes.” I wait, suppressing my natural instinct to chatter on. During the last month of my extended unemployment, I’ve turned to female empowerment books as a way to up my game. The careful pause gives me the upper hand.

As silence stretches between us, I’m starting to think the only hand this is giving me is one with a middle finger poking up out of it. My palms start to sweat as Spatula frowns.

Finally, a dawning look hits him and he says, “We’re going for height.”

“Height?” Great. Something I can work with. I look up at the twelve-foot ceiling. “The light in here is really good for that. The room could use some color.”

“I thought you said red was good.”

“It is. But we need more.” I tap my fingernail against my front teeth. “Coral. Or, no... how about some soft flesh tones, and maybe a little tan?”

“You like to work with flesh?” he asks, chin set in an admiring way, as if I’ve passed some test.

“Of course! What pro in this industry doesn’t?” I give him a confident grin designed to make it clear I know what I’m doing and we are definitely on the same page.

The skeptical look melts off his face as he laughs, a phlegmy sound that matches his reek of cigarette smoke. “You’re a hoot, Mal. Can I call you Mal? Or is it Mallory?”

“Either. My friends call me Mal.”

“Ok, then. Mal it is. You know, if you work well with Beastman, this could be the first of a lot of gigs.”

My pulse picks up, the spot on my neck where I can feel it against my collarbone like a signal. “Seriously?” I don’t ask him to repeat the name, but I’m a bit puzzled. Did he say Beastman? No way. Must have been Eastman. Maybe a nickname? I heard it wrong.

Energy shoots through me like a drug. I’ve hit the jackpot.

These folks have lots of work for me, and the money is excellent.

I rub my palms together and raise my eyebrows, eagerness pumping through me. “My hands are itching to get to work.”

He frowns again. “Itching? You’re not contagious, are you? Because we don’t normally screen fluffers for diseases, but...”

My turn to laugh. “What? No!” I hold out my palms to show him. “It’s an expression. You know. It means I’m eager to get down to business and show you how I can make this all come together.”

“Beastman is a pro at coming together,” Spatula says.

If I were Perky, who has a mind that lives in the gutter with occasional side trips to Decentland, I’d be snickering.

“Sounds like Beastman knows what’s he’s doing,” I say, staying neutral. Professionals don’t go looking for sexual innuendos in every work situation. That’s for amateurs.

And barista best friends.

He doesn’t seem happy about it. “We’ve told him before about not moving too fast, but it works for the creampie scenes. Makes them really pop on screen.”

Some part of me relaxes. Of course. Cooking is all about getting moving parts to work together for a perfectly timed finale. I turn around and look back at the stainless steel kitchen, the Sub-Zero refrigerator, the Bertazzoni range. Oooo, a Bosch built-in coffee maker! Someone knows their kitchen design.

None of the crew is working in there. All the lighting and camera guys are moving down the hallway in this direction. Huh. You’d think the kitchen would be the center of activity at this point.

As I look around, I realize I'm the only woman here. Huh, redux. That's weird.

“Calibrating is hard work,” I say, trying to show him I know my stuff as I make eye contact and smile. “Timing is everything.”