“Will I have one again?” he asked. “What causes them?”
“We don’t know. All we can suggest is to break from the inciting incident and relax for a while. Usually, it’s just a single, stress related incident.”
Dean looked over at Adam who was also smiling. Were they insane? Take a break from the inciting incident? The inciting incident was that darn red light on the camera. How could he take a break from the camera? “You hear this, right, Adam? You know that’s not possible. I can’t take a break from the inciting incident if the incident happens to be my job. I’m making a movie. I can’t exactly avoid the camera, can I?”
Adam cleared his throat. He dropped his head slightly; a sign that Dean wasn’t going to like what he had to say. After nearly twenty years as friends, they knew each other’s tells. “What?”
“I spoke to Ed.”
“And?”
“He says maybe you should take a break. He says they can afford to take a break for a month.”
“They can afford to take a break? For a month? Adam, this movie has a multi- multi-million-dollar budget with a tight schedule. How can they afford to take a break?”
“Ed said that he, uh, they took out an insurance policy on you.”
There was an exchange of glances between the doctor and Adam. She got the message and mumbled, “I’ll come back later.” Both of the men ignored her.
This was not good news. Movie companies took out insurance policies on everyone, but policies that covered breaks like this? Those policies they only took out on drug addicts and ancients, not on actors in the prime of their career. The flutters were back. “Of course they had an insurance policy, Adam. But what kind of policy allows for a four-week break? And what kind of director takes out that kind of policy? I’m not like a druggy or anything! Why would they feel the need for that big of a policy?”
“Well, you know, it’s quite an active film, Dean.”
“Active for the stunt guys, Adam! Not active for me! What are you not telling me here?”
The flutters escalated again as Dean realized that there was information that related directly to him that Adam knew and had been withholding. Adam told him everything, didn’t he? When all this had started, way back when they were nervous kids breaking into the Hollywood scene, they’d vowed that they wouldn’t be sucked in, that their relationship would be sacrosanct. They would always be completely honest with each other. They would be different.
Adam continued with more bombshells. “Well, it seems that they had some fear about your age. Apparently, the rumblings in the industry have been getting Ed all nervy. He wanted to make sure he had an out.”
“An out? An out for what? Firing me? Is that what you’re telling me, Adam? That after three films they are putting me out to pasture like an old stallion? This is ridiculous.”
Adam stood and started pacing around Dean’s half of the room. “Of course he’s not taking you off the film. I mean, not yet he’s not.”
“Not yet?” Dean looked around the room in a panic. Where were his clothes? He had to get back to the set. “Not yet? Where the heck are my clothes Adam? I need to get back there. There’s no reason to shut down production. I’m fine. I’ll prove to him that I’m fine.” For the first time in years, Dean felt the old familiar feeling of the terrifying enormity of an unknown future opening up before him. This job was his life. He didn’t know how to do anything else. All he’d ever wanted was a house and a job. A sense of security. He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and when he put them on the floor he felt as though it were trembling beneath him.
Adam was beside him quickly, his big hand resting on his forearm. “You can’t leave today, buddy. When you fell, you whacked your head pretty hard. The insurance company insists you stay overnight for observation. You could have a concussion.”
“Shit.”
“Listen, buddy. Don’t worry so much. I talked to Ed and he’s fine. We all care about you, and we all just want you to get better. Everyone on set was pretty shaken up. You should have seen the extras; they were blubbering like babies. Who knows why it happened, but maybe you need a break? Ed has agreed to say that you took a break for “personal reasons” so that the tabloids don’t catch on. The cast and crew are all under confidentiality anyway. I mean stuff will get out, but we can still spin it. You leave it to me, and I’ll come up with a story. We won’t let this threaten your career.”
“Threaten my career, Adam? What are you talking about? I had a panic attack, right? Those things must be pretty common. Surely no one is questioning my ability to get the job done!?”
Adam started pacing again. “Of course not, buddy, of course not.” He gave Dean some serious side-eye, and Dean felt a tiny spring of doubt in his chest. Was Adam in control of what was going on here? What else wasn’t he telling him? Doubt in Adam was a new feeling, and he didn’t like it. Adam was always his rock. “Just stay here overnight, and I will come and pick you up in the morning, okay? We’ll figure out what to do then. No need to call Ed, I have it all under control. You just concentrate on feeling better.”
“I feel fine Adam. You know I feel fine. I have no idea what that was about, but I can assure you it’s not going to happen again. Just get me back to work.”
“Will do, buddy, will do.” Adam was backing out of the room, reaching for his cellphone when Dean remembered something. “Hey, where’s Isabella? She was right there when I passed out. Why isn’t she here? Is she okay?”
Adam stopped and rubbed his hand across his face. For the first time since his strident arrival Dean noticed his color, a kind of ashy grey with pink splotches. The guy was worried about him. He was a good friend.
“I don’t keep tabs on your girlfriend, buddy. I’m assuming she was pretty freaked out. She’s probably waiting at your place.”
Adam walked out, and Dean sat in the stillness of the empty room, only the sound of his neighbor’s snores to break the lonely silence. The rows of cards and piles of flowers mocked him. He turned to his empty bedside table. It was sad. No cards, no flowers, ...no friends, not even a girlfriend to keep him company. It was clear that everything was temporary, even maybe his career. Except Adam, the only thing in his life that had stuck around and given him back as much as he had put in was this crazy job of making movies. He had no intention of letting that go… because if not that, then what?
He would stay the night in this stupid hospital, and then he would grab Adam and go and see Ed. There was no way they were closing this picture down.
5
Hazel
Hazel staggered down the street manhandling her bags and the worthless portfolio case. She had wandered a distance from the Blackwell and Crawley office and now found herself in a part of the city she didn’t recognize. Making a left onto a downtown street she had never been on before, and probably shouldn’t be on right now, she found herself in front of a glass door that had been blacked out from within, obstructing the view to the interior There was a hand-lettered sign above the grimy door to inform her that this particular establishment was called “Liquor Street.” She didn’t know if it was a bar or a liquor store, but either way, she needed a drink.
She heaved her left shoulder into the door, and it swung open to reveal a cave-like room; pale yellow light from colored bulbs hung on bare wires from a low, oppressive ceiling, and there was a stale smell of smoke and sweat. As was normal for Florida, the air-conditioning was blasting. The walls and ceiling of the place seemed to be moving closer to her as she headed toward the long bar against the wall. A robustly built woman with orange, frizzy hair and bright red lipstick was leaning against the shelf behind her. Her ample bottom was inching dangerously close to the rows of liquor on display, and Hazel had an image of the first bottle toppling and the rest of the row going down like dominos. The lady was staring at a TV above the end of the bar and didn’t even seem to register her presence. There were only two other people at the bar; probably fewer drinkers than usual for this downtown
neighborhood, it being only 11:37 am. Hazel had never been drinking at 11:37 am. In fact, Hazel rarely drank at all, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
She perched on the edge of a grubby bar stool and cleared her throat, “Um… can I have a Cosmopolitan, please?”
One of the two day drinkers at the end of the bar, a bearded guy in a black leather biker jacket and a neck tattoo, snorted.
The frizzy-haired woman didn’t move or take her eyes off the TV but shouted, “Wrong bar, honey. We don’t make fancy stuff here. You wanna shot of something? Or a beer?”
Well, she wasn’t ordering a beer. She hadn’t just spent $500 she couldn’t afford for a gym membership to go and ruin it all with a beer. But a shot? What did one take shots of? She racked her brain back to her college days of seven years ago and came up with nothing. She was just about to ask for a recommendation when a name popped into her head.
“Jägermeister!”
Very slowly, like that girl in that horrible Exorcist movie, Frizzy Hair turned her head and gave Hazel a once-over, her eyebrows raised. “You want a Jägermeister, honey? You sure?” The guy at the end of the bar snorted again, but she couldn’t tell if it was with approval or disgust. Either way, she didn’t care. She needed some alcohol in her body right now.
“Yes. Thank you!”
Frizzy walked over and deposited the shot in front of her. She sniffed carefully and recoiled instantly. Ah yes, Jägermeister. She remembered it now.
“Get that down ya, honey. You look like you need it. The next one’s on the house.”
This was fine. She could do this. As long as she didn’t breathe in, she wouldn’t even taste it, right? Holding her breath and trying to resist pinching her nose, she tossed the shot down her throat. Frizzy kept her eyebrows raised as Hazel swallowed, coughed, and her taste memory pulled up an image of herself - throwing up, in a bush, outside a friend’s party. The taste and smell of licorice enveloped her like a swamp creature trying to drag her down into the mud. Now she remembered why she knew the name. She had made sure to remember it so she would never forget that she should never drink it again. Bile rushed up her throat. She hated Jägermeister!
“Not your thing, huh?” Frizzy asked, giving her an amused, but not unsympathetic, grin. “I’ll get you a shot of vodka on the house, how’s that? Might go down a little easier.”
“That would be amazing,” Hazel said, feeling a pleasant little buzz start to take over her brain. “I got fired today.” Frizzy turned her back and pulled a bottle down from the rows on the back wall. Hazel kept speaking. “I mean, I guess I wasn’t really fired because, you know, I didn’t technically work there. But I was going to work there. I was going to be a partner. But I think it’s all wrecked now. And I don’t have any money.”
Frizzy turned back and handed her the shot glass. “You know that thing about bartenders being like therapists?” Hazel nodded and looked at Frizzy gratefully. This woman looked like a genius. It was so great to have someone to talk to. Maybe she could help her figure it all out. “Well, that’s just on TV, honey. We ain’t. Sorry you got fired and don’t have money, but as long as you have money to drink, you can drink right here with us. Therapy not included.”
“But I don’t even watch TV,” Hazel said just as her phone vibrated in her pocket. She threw down the vodka shot, the liquid burning her throat quite nicely, thank you, and pulled out her phone. Indigo. Great. Just what she needed.
“Hello, Mother,” She said as she motioned to Frizzy for another vodka. She always craved alcohol when she talked to Indigo.
“Oh, sweetheart, what is it with you and this “mother” stuff? You used to call me Mama, you know?”
“When I was four, Mother. I’m twenty-nine.”
“It sounds weird, sweetie. Where are you? Are you at work?”
“No. I’m not at work. I may never be at work again. Is that why you called? To see how it went?”
“How what went?”
“The pitch? For the most important project of my life? I told you about it yesterday?” She didn’t know why she would expect Indigo to remember. Indigo rarely asked questions about her job. She had such distaste for her oldest daughter “working for the man,” as she put it. Indigo wasn’t listening right now, in fact. It sounded like she was ordering a coffee at the Dunkin Donuts drive-through window. Her disdain for corporations and “empty-souled, capitalistic, greedy franchises” didn’t extend to Dunkin Donuts. They had the best coffee. “Anyway, Mother, you’ll be happy to know that I didn’t get it. I’m officially out of work.”
Her mother gave a whoop. “Well that’s great!”
Where the heck was that other shot? She stared down the bar at Frizzy who had been distracted by the TV again. “No, it’s not great, Mother. It means that I have no income until September, at least, which means you won’t have rent money for the next two and a half months.”
“Oh, I don’t need rent money, sweetheart. I gave up my lease.”
“Why did you give up your lease?” It was a rhetorical question. Indigo did what Indigo did. There was rarely any rhyme or reason to her journey through life. ‘I’m like a butterfly’ she often told Hazel, ‘light and free enough to just blow where the wind takes me and look gorgeous while I’m doing it!’
“Because, Sweetie, we’re going to Italy.”
“Mmmm hmmm,” Hazel said, and threw back the shot that had just appeared in front of her, slid down the bar from Frizzy like in some cowboy movie.
“No, seriously. You and I are going to Italy. I would invite your sister too, but I’m not exactly sure where she is.” Hazel’s sister, Sylvie, was about as flighty as their mother. She had taken off on a backpacking trip to Europe about six months ago. Hazel had sent her emergency funds twice, but neither Hazel nor Indigo had much of an idea what she was doing. She had promised that she would be back in September to attend Community College (at Hazel’s insistence), but for right now, the travel bug had bitten her badly.
“Mother. I have $900 in the bank. We aren’t going to St. Augustine, let alone Italy.”
“I’m paying,” Indigo squealed. She got loud when she got excited. “You’ll never believe what’s happened. Your father’s… great uncle Giuseppe passed away and left me his house and his bank account. It’s not a lot, , but it’s enough to get us over there and enough to renovate the house. The lawyer said that it needed quite a lot of work but that it was livable. I figured if we did it ourselves, then sold it, I could give you half, to pay you back some of the money you’ve lent me over the years.”
Even without the fuzzy head, Hazel couldn’t do the math it would require to calculate how much money she had “lent” her mother over the years. Starting with the few dollars in her piggy bank from her paper route when she was only twelve. ‘Just for a pint of milk, sweetie. I’m out now, but I’ll put it right back in your piggy next week.’
“Mother. Stop. You need to explain more. Who is Giuseppe? And our last name is Blakemore. Dad wasn’t Italian.”
“Of course your father wasn’t Italian. I would never marry an Italian. Why would I want a husband who is more attractive than me? I mean, if there is a guaranteed method of putting a dent in your self-esteem, then ‘marrying up’ is the way. Wait. You aren’t dating someone more attractive than you, are you? Is that what you are trying to tell me?”
Hazel looked frantically around for another shot, but Frizzy was nowhere to be seen.
“I’m not trying to tell you anything, Mother. You called me, remember? With a crazy story about some guy… Giovani, was it? leaving you his house? Who is Giovani?
She heard Indigo sigh in frustration and felt a flash of annoyance. Indigo was frustrated with her? “Oh, I don’t know, sweetie, what does it matter? He’s some distant relative. Your dad’s dad’s cousin’s brother-in-law I think.
Hazel had listened to her mother’s stories long enough to know exactly when she was lying, or ‘embellishing for your enjoyment’ as Indigo would call it
. “You just made that up, didn’t you, Mother?”
“Well, yes, I made that part up but not the part about it being our house now!”
“Which part did you make up then?”
“I can’t remember.”
Where the heck was that vodka? Hazel thought.
Indigo kept talking. “But it doesn’t matter. The house is ours. And now you just got fired. It’s like fate! Kismet wanted you to come with me, sweetie. The universe is sending you a message.”
“I didn’t get fired, Mother.”
Frizzy appeared in front of her, like a visiting angel and deposited another shot in front of her. She looked at Hazel in confusion, “I thought you just told me you got fired?” she said. Hazel gave her the death glare. “What?” Frizzy matched Hazel’s glare. “I brought you another shot!” Hazel dropped the glare and downed the shot.
“Who’s that talking, sweetie?” Indigo inquired curiously. “What kind of shot? You don’t drink liquor!”
Hazel felt a sudden and almost irresistible urge to sit down on the sticky, grey floor of this bar and never get up again. She would close her eyes, curl up under a stool and sleep herself into oblivion, far away from the Samuels, and Frizzy Hairs, and Indigos of this world. She would spend the rest of her life right here in her own little, protected cocoon.
She slammed the shot glass on the counter and wiped a sweaty hand across her face, hard. No doubt her face was now covered in smeared mascara. “Mother, I’m not going to Italy. I have lots of very important work to do here if I plan on paying my own rent next month, let alone yours.”
“I told you, sweetie, I don’t need rent, I just…”
Hazel hung up swiftly and dropped her phone. Her stomach was a roiling sea, churning up the half-digested Snickers bar she had eaten for breakfast that morning. Probably not the best choice, but she’d been in a hurry. As she raced toward the back of the bar, she spotted a door with a ladies sign on it and charged through. It took about as long for the Snickers to come up as it had to go down, which was not long at all.
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