Spin (Songs of Corruption #1)(15)

“You have to f**k her,” Katrina said with real urgency. “You’re not getting it.”

“I’m getting it.”

Katrina hauled off and slapped Michael in the face. The sound echoed in the halls and rooms of my brain. I flinched and looked at them. I wasn’t supposed to. That was very personal actor/director business, and everyone else had the good sense to ignore it.

Michael made eye contact with me as it happened.

“That,” she said. “That feeling. Right now.”

“I have it,” he said, putting his hand to his lips as if he wanted to hide his face.

“Good. Get to makeup.” She winked at me as Michael strode off, then she called to the cameraman, “We’re shooting him from the right. Have the stand in mark it.” She walked off, barking more orders, and I marked the change in angle on my clipboard.

We would be filming late, and I girded myself with coffee and the knowledge that helping Katrina, even in the tiny role as part-time script supervisor, would right a great wrong that had been done her.

Michael played the scene, which did not include the woman in question, but her best friend. His character was about to bed her out of spite, like a man on a mission to save his testicles. He was riveting. He seized the scene, the set, the crew, and the mousy character who had no idea what she was getting embroiled in. He put his hands up her skirt as if he owned what was under it, but his character didn’t take an ounce of responsibility for what he was doing.

“Cut!” shouted Katrina.

I noted the shot and take, but only after the scene was fully broken. “There’s your Oscar,” I mumbled to Katrina.

“I just want someone to touch this thing with a ten-footer.” She took my clipboard and flipped through the pages on it. “We never got that last line on page thirty. I think we can ADR it.”

“I think WDE will get behind you. Honestly. As long as you promise not to sue anyone again.”

She made a pfft sound that promised nothing. “Dinner break, everyone!”

A production assistant ran up to me as I tucked my papers away. “There’s a man here asking for you.”

It took me about half a second to figure out who he was. “Dark hair and brown eyes?”

“Yeah. He brought dinner.”

“Of course he brought me dinner.” I had to process that while fixing my hair and straightening my sleeves.

“No,” he said. “He brought everyone dinner. He brought you wine.”

***

Movie sets that weren’t dependent on sunlight stayed up all day. So though I’d shown up at six p.m. to relieve the other script supervisor, the set had already been up for twelve hours. Because no one left when there was work to be done, meals and snacks were provided to the entire crew. Bigger productions got more services, with above the line crew (actors, director, producers) getting gourmet catering, and below the line crew (camera, grips, gaffe, PA, AD, on and on and on) getting something good but less noteworthy. On Katrina’s set, everyone got the same mediocre food from a truck wedged into the corner of the parking lot. A few long tables with folding chairs took up parking spaces. The day Antonio showed up for dinner, our French fry and burger habit was broken.

He had a bottle of red wine tucked under his arm and wore a grey sports coat with blood red polo. A woman in her sixties stood under his arm as he talked to Katrina. In front of them were four chafing dishes, plates, utensils, and a line of people.

“You do not get to invade my set,” Katrina said, but I saw her eye the food ravenously. It was peasant food—meaty, saucy deliciousness that would satiate everyone for another four or five hours.

“Mea culpa,” he said. “Your script supervisor accepted a dinner invitation, and Zia Giovana thought it would be rude to bring only for us.”

“It’s my fault,” I said. “I forgot to tell you.”

She spun and gave a smirk just for me. “You lie.”

“If it means you can just eat, I’m guilty as charged.” I pointed at Antonio. “You, sir, are pushy.”

“As charged,” he said. “Let me make it up to you.”

“I think you just did.” A plate of lasagna was pushed into my hands, but Antonio took it from me and passed it to the person behind me.

“Come on. I’m not feeding you outside a trailer.”

He pulled me, but I yanked back. “I have to work.”

Katrina didn’t even look up from her food. “We have to set up the next shot. I’ll text you when I need you. Get out of here.”

I let Antonio put his arm around me and lead me onto the sidewalk. He held the wine bottle by the neck with his free hand. The neighborhood was light-industrial hip, with factories being converted into lofts and warehouses housing upscale restaurants.

“There’s a place around the corner,” he said. “No liquor license yet, so you bring your own.”

“Let me see.” I held my hand out for the bottle and inspected the label. “Napa? You brought a California wine?”

“It’s not good?”

“It’s a great wine, but I figured, you know, Italian?”

He laughed. “I was trying to not be pushy. Meet you halfway.”

“This is how you say ‘not pushy’?”