Heads of the Colored People(23)
“We’ll set up across the street for the long shots of the house, and then you’ll set up again in the driveway and come in close on the family.” Mike flattened the collar on his fitted pink polo shirt and walked up the drive toward the front door. A few men in jeans and Dickies began unloading cameras and stands from the van, the large man with the boom watching awkwardly, not really helping anyone.
Before Mike could ring the doorbell, Lisbeth opened the red oversize door, a mismatch for the otherwise English architecture, and told him to come in.
“Liz. Good to see you. So we’re setting up outside, for now. Where’s the family?”
Mike had gotten used to Lisbeth’s appearance and the appearance of the inner house after their first few meetings. Her small frame was all angles and melasmic patches of skin, the missing tooth jarring, yet she might have been pretty at some point. He made a mental note to ask for pictures of her younger self.
Inside, the house at 406 Wedgewood was immaculately organized but felt almost third world if not vaguely tropical. Each of the three times he’d previously visited to talk about the pilot, the smell—a mix of sulfuric eggs and perspiration—had overwhelmed Mike before he saw its source. Eighteen-quart storage tubs of bananas, young coconuts, mangoes, tomatoes, and durians sat in a neat row along the perimeter of the kitchen, each fruit type separated into its own tub, the durians’ essence overpowering the freshness of the other food and permeating the few pieces of furniture. Mike wondered how the lighting guys could best capture the gnats and vinegar flies surrounding the tubs. Each common room included bookcases and at least one papasan chair, but there were no couches. A couple of twin mattresses without frames lined the floors of two of the three bedrooms; the mattresses, covered with gray-green and navy blue sheets, seemed to absorb the smell of the durians as well.
“They got the schedule, but they’re out, actually,” Lisbeth said, and Mike sensed irritation in her voice. “Ryan’s not answering his phone, but knowing him, he probably lost it.”
“Out,” Mike repeated, running through possible revisions that wouldn’t waste the daylight needed for the exterior shots with the whole family. He’d already stressed in his phone calls and emails the importance of call times and the tightness of the schedule. “Okay,” he started. A better director would have pried for more information about Ryan’s silence. Were the marital problems escalating? Maybe he should get Lisbeth to say that again on camera. The story arc should show the lifestyle’s strain on the family.
“I was thinking we could rearrange the shooting schedule and you could get some footage of me working on the blog or in the back gardens,” Lisbeth said, walking him through the kitchen to the family room but offering him no place to sit.
Mike didn’t like it when the talent tried to direct, even if she had a point. “When do you think Ryan and Inedia will be back?” he asked, shaking his hand no at the maca-matcha tea Lisbeth offered.
“I don’t know,” Lisbeth said, flicking a matted blond dread over her shoulder. “I could talk more about the lifestyle. Why can’t we just shoot me?”
He couldn’t put his finger on what Lisbeth reminded him of, but he could use that sound bite for all kinds of things; a crescendo, for instance: “Why don’t you just shoot me? Just shoot me. Shoot me.”
? ? ?
“Please, Daddy.” Ryan paused to look warningly at Inedia, who pointed to a bright blue sleeping bag with Disney characters printed on it. “I mean, Ryan,” she self-corrected. “Could we get this one?”
Her quiet begging seemed muffled among the voices of shrieking, crying, or otherwise noisy children in Walmart as Inedia’s eyes darted around the warehouse, taking in the colors. The lights buzzed in Ryan’s ears, punctuated the grinding sensation around the right side of his forehead, loosening teeth from his jaws. His prana hurt.
Ryan had given up on his search for a used children’s sleeping bag after the fourth thrift store, on the other side of town, produced no results. Probably because even thrift stores wouldn’t take dingy used sleeping bags stained with child’s pee and drool. A bag from Walmart or any other big-box store—he imagined Lisbeth lecturing—sent the wrong message, as did Snow White, Elsa, and any other Disney princess who came in a full line of pastel products, but at least the sleeping bag would be clean.
He shook his head, not looking at Inedia, but at the large cage-like display of children’s sleeping bags. He pointed to his left, where the utilitarian bags were stacked, and touched the fabric of a gray adult-size bag. The adult bag cost $49.95; Elsa, $14.99. The adult bag was weatherproofed and down filled; Elsa, flimsy and filled with synthetics.
? ? ?
“This one,” he said, pointing again to the gray bag, though it pained him to pay extra for a bag they needed only for show.
Inedia didn’t cry like most kids would, and there was something about her lack of reaction that made Ryan both angry and sympathetic. He had not set out to be subversive that morning, to miss his call time while scouring Goodwills from El Camino to Santa Cruz only to end up at Walmart, but he was here now. Lisbeth would already be mad. Mike was really missing out, he thought, by not capturing this.
? ? ?
FUELED BY A surge of spontaneity, he placed the Elsa bag into their basket and felt a small sense of fulfillment. He could make choices, too; she was his daughter, too.