Reel, p.5
Reel, page 5
And then he turns and walks away.
5
CANON
“You were especially pleasant tonight,” Monk says when we climb into the Uber that met us at the corner.
“I was, wasn’t I?” I settle back into the seat and close my eyes. “Thank you for noticing.”
“You were on your phone the whole time.” His voice holds little sting because he knows I don’t respond to that guilt shit, especially not when it comes to being social.
“I was convincing Mallory to fly out to New York as soon as possible. Lots of protests and texting back and forth.”
“Your casting director? Why does she need to come to New York?”
“I want her to see some auditions out here.” I open my eyes and grin crookedly. “I found my Dessi.”
“What?” Monk’s brows shoot up. “When? Who?”
“Tonight.” I hesitate, watching his face for a reaction. “Your friend Neevah.”
Flabbergasted.
“The fuck?” he says after a moment of his mouth hanging open. “Neevah Saint?”
“Yeah. The one we watched perform. The one we had dinner with.”
“First of all, we did not have dinner. I had dinner with them folks. You were the same antisocial bastard you usually are, and they still were all up your ass.”
“They’re actors. I’m a director. They want work, so the forecast is always partly fawning with a high chance of kiss-ass.”
“Second of all, you barely looked at Neevah, much less spoke to her. When did you decide she’s Dessi Blue?”
“Pretty much as soon as she stepped onstage.”
“It’s the way she looks? That’s why you want to cast her?” Censure, though unspoken, lurks in his voice.
“Get the fuck outta here. You know me better than that. You think I find the story of a lifetime, put my whole ass career on the line to tell it, take almost a year to fund it, then search for the right actor for six months only to cast a girl because she has a great ass?”
“Oh, so you did notice her ass.”
And every other part of her, but that’s not pertinent.
Her ass. Her tits.
Her flawless coppery skin. A face so expressive it’s like a blank canvas she paints every emotion across in vivid color, in broad strokes. Big brown eyes that in one moment offer everything and in the next seem to hoard a thousand secrets. A man would ransom his soul for those eyes, for those secrets.
Each of her physical features is remarkable.
And completely irrelevant.
If all it took was a pretty girl, I could have cast this part six months ago. Dessi Blue requires more than a pretty face.
I want that light Neevah lets out when she sings. I want that conviction behind every word she spoke onstage. I want that little volcano of a woman to erupt on my set. I want everything she has to give because I knew immediately she was one of those who gives everything. And I’m the man to get it out of her. The right director (me). The right story (mine). And she’ll be touted as a rare talent. It didn’t take me all night to know that. I knew it right away.
And it’s never happened to me before. Not like this.
“Her ass won’t tell my story,” I respond after a few seconds. “The studio wasted all that money and time looking for Dessi the last six months and I found her making her Broadway debut. Randomly.”
“Not sure they’ll agree. What did Mallory think?”
“Let’s just say she’s skeptical. She’s never heard of Neevah, so of course she’s got reservations.”
“You mean that Galaxy won’t trust a budget that big on an actress no one knows on the strength of . . . what? Your gut?”
“Don’t underestimate this gut.” I pat my stomach and wink. “It knows. And, yeah. The studio will give some pushback.”
“Forget the studio. You won’t get it past Evan.”
He has a point. Evan won’t be feeling this, trusting the project of a lifetime to an unknown with little to no movie experience.
“You let me worry about Evan. Once he sees her, he’ll agree with me. That’s why I want Mallory to come out here immediately. Catch Neevah onstage this week before that other chick returns from vacation or whatever. Then get a screen test with her as soon as she’s back to doing standby. I don’t want to throw too much at her when she’s got this Broadway thing going on.”
“This Broadway thing is her dream. Were you not listening?”
“Were you? Performing is her dream. That’s what I heard. So you telling me I offer her the starring role in a Black biopic with a monster budget and me directing, and she turns it down to play backup on Broadway? Shiiiiiiit.”
“Do you know you’re a narcissist?”
“Of course. Narcissism comes with the territory. You aren’t the dude who believes he should get millions of dollars to tell a damn story if you aren’t just a little bit of a narcissist.”
“The only thing that saves you from being a complete asshole is your mama raised you right.”
That she did.
Whenever I’m smelling myself, as Mama used to say, her voice in my ear is the dose of humility that reins me in. She tethers me to my past. She prepared me for my future. Everything, anything good in me, Remy Holt put there. Thanks to my first documentary, everyone knows it.
I took all that footage Mama captured, all her sunsets and soliloquies, and bundled them into The Magic Hour, my first professional documentary. It took the grand jury and directing prizes at Sundance. I sailed through that awards season with her as the wind at my back every time I accepted a new, unexpected honor. It was her indomitable spirit that inspired audiences all over the world. Her fierce commitment to art even when her body betrayed her. It was her sage advice lit by the golden hour setting the world on fire that year.
I only wish she’d lived to see it.
“So Mallory is coming,” I say, needing to shift this conversation from something I’m emotional about. Over the years, I’ve become an expert compartmentalizer. This life requires almost unsustainable, singular focus. My therapist earns his keep.
“When’s she flying in?” Monk asks, linking his hands behind his head.
“Her daughter has a recital tomorrow, but goes to stay with Mallory’s ex this weekend. So she’ll come then and can still catch Neevah before she goes back to being understudy.”
It’s criminal, that woman being anyone’s backup, but that’s okay. I’ll fix it.
“You want me to let Neevah know you guys are coming?”
“Hell no. Imma find the darkest corner of the theater to hide in. I don’t want her to know we’re there. Why do you think I ignored her all night?”
“We covered this already. You’re an asshole.”
“That, too, but mostly I didn’t want her to know I noticed her. She would have started auditioning. She would have started acting again. I wanted to see her being.”
“Neevah is fantastic. I don’t think you’re wrong about what she could do with the role. I’m just surprised that since this movie is already a huge financial and commercial risk, you would, on the strength of a single performance, not even on film, cast her in the biggest movie you’ve ever directed.”
“That’s why I want Mallory’s feedback. And I haven’t cast her yet.”
Through the car window, the velvet blanket of the city’s skyline is stitched with lights and stars, and its vastness seems to reflect all the possibilities I felt after seeing Neevah onstage tonight.
“But I want her.”
6
NEEVAH
“Crap.” With my legs flung over the side of the couch, I frown. “I just got an alert that my phone has a virus from adult sites I visited.”
“So Pornhub gave your phone an STD?” Takira pauses in chopping onions for the soup she’s making. “You had unprotected surfing and now your phone has herpes?”
“Shut it. Does incognito mode mean nothing?”
“Long as it’s been since you had that Vitamin D, no wonder you’re banging your phone every day. You were bound to get infected.”
“Could you stop being gross about my sex life?”
“What sex life?” Takira starts chopping again. “Social services will be by soon to pay your vagina a wellness visit.”
I hurl a pillow across the room at her, missing on purpose.
“I’m here to check on Neevah’s pussy,” Takira says in her professional voice. “The neighbors are concerned. There’s been no sign of activity for months. We’re making sure the cat still purrs.”
“I hate you,” I grit out, but the struggle not to laugh is real.
“You won’t hate meh when you taste this lunch, gyal,” she says, easily slipping into her Trinidadian accent. “Diz iz meh grandma’s famous corn soup.”
“It does smell good.” I walk over to stand by her at the counter. A short walk since our apartment has the square footage of a Porta Potty.
“And vegan.” She proffers her knife. “Put them little hands to use. You on peppers.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I slide my phone into the pocket of my lounge pants. “On it.”
It’s my day off. My last show as the lead was last night and when I return to the theater tomorrow, Elise will be the star again. I don’t begrudge her that. She’s a great singer. Outstanding actress. It just felt good to stand in the spotlight for a week. It’s okay. My time will come. I just gotta keep grinding and pay my dues.
I’m slicing red peppers when the phone in my pocket buzzes. It’s a number I don’t recognize, but it could be a callback for something. Ya never know.
“Hello.” I trap the phone between my ear and shoulder and keep cutting.
“Neevah?” a vaguely familiar, shiver-inducing voice says on the other line. “It’s Canon Holt.”
I drop the knife.
Dammit.
This man should not call me when I’m holding a knife. I could lose a finger.
“Uh, hey?” My curiosity and general state of shock lilt the words.
“I hope it’s okay that I called. Monk gave me your number.”
“Uh-huh.” I send a slightly panicked look to Takira and mouth Canon Holt. Her eyes saucer and she catches a squeal with one hand. “I mean, sure. It’s fine that you called. That he gave you this number. Wright. Monk, I mean. Yes.”
Am I Kanye’s Twitter account right now? I’m barely coherent. Good Lord.
I should sit down. I walk back to the couch and lower to the cushions carefully, waiting to understand what this is about. I mean, we did have a moment on the sidewalk, right? Is he still in town? Is he asking me out? What will I wear? I have to wash my hair and shave my legs. I need a Brazilian!
Oh. My. God.
I can’t go on a date with Canon Holt with a furry pussy. What if we . . . my brain explodes at the thought of sex with that huge man. He would break me.
It would be fantastic.
“There’s a small part in my next movie I’d like you to audition for.”
I believe the Thalamus is the part of your brain responsible for erotic stimuli. It fizzles when I realize Canon is not indeed looking to mate, but then all the other rational parts of my brain combust because he wants me to audition.
Calm your tits. Be normal. Act like this happens all the time to thespians like you.
“Oh really?” I drawl, sounding like fucking Bette Davis. “Sorry. Wow. That’s great. What’s the movie?”
“It hasn’t been announced.”
That’s what he told Janie at dinner. So top secret. I’m intrigued.
Who am I kidding? I’m panting.
“My casting agent, Mallory Perkins, is in town. Can I put her in touch with your agent? They can discuss all the details.”
“Sure. Yeah. That sounds great.”
It’s quiet on the phone for a few electric seconds.
“So . . . can you give me your agent’s info to pass on to Mallory?”
“Yes! Of course. Is this your cell?”
That sounds so intrusive. I shouldn’t have this famous director’s number, especially not when I was just thinking he would break me if we were to ever copulate. He should file a restraining order. Immediately. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“Yeah. This is my cell,” he says. “You can share the contact here and I’ll send it to Mallory. That work?”
“That works, sure.”
“Sounds good. Bye.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He’s gone almost as quickly as he called. I flop onto the couch and stare at the ceiling, waiting for my particles to settle back to normal.
Takira rushes from the kitchen to hover over me. “What’d he say?”
“He wants me to audition for a part.”
“Ayyyyyeeee!” Takira jumps onto the other end of the couch and pumps her legs. “This is amazing.”
It is amazing and not something I ever could have seen coming. At least once a day every day since I met Canon, I’ve thought about him. His intense, infrequent stare. That magnetic pull. His indifferent brand of charisma. The surprising words of encouragement he shared before he left. I have deliberately not talked about him, but my thoughts? I have less discipline where they’re concerned. I thought more about the undeniable attraction I felt, not an opportunity. I didn’t dare imagine this.
I shoot a text to my agent telling her to expect a call from Mallory Perkins, Canon Holt’s casting agent. Of course, she calls right away with a dozen questions I have no answers for. I nearly forget I need to text her info to him.
Me: Hey! Great talking to you. Here’s my agent’s contact.
Canon: Thanks.
That’s it? Thanks? Guess we’re not at emojis yet. I get it.
“Ewwww!” I screech and sit up straight. “I just sent a text to Canon Holt from my porny phone.”
Takira cackles and kicks me lightly. “You probably gave his phone crabs.”
“Heifer,” I laugh and lie back, wearing a wide smile. It’s surreal. I’d filed that night away as that one time I met Canon Holt and he called me exceptional. Even though I’ve thought about it often over the last week, I accepted that I’d probably never see him again. It was something cool that happened with someone I admire and respect, but that was the end.
What if it was just the beginning?
7
NEEVAH
Of course, the elevator isn’t working.
I punch the darkened button seven more times just to make sure the universe is indeed conspiring against me. As if this day has not found every way possible to make that clear.
I woke to a petulant day with pouting clouds downcast in a moody sky, so I brought my umbrella just in case.
My period came early.
Like three days early. Probably triggered by the stress of this oncoming audition. Yes, oncoming, not upcoming, because it feels like a train barreling toward me for a collision.
So . . . I have cramps.
I chipped a tooth eating a bagel.
Who chips a tooth eating a bagel? Now, in my defense, that bagel was tough. Fortunately it was a back tooth. It and my dentist will have to wait until this audition is behind me.
Then the subway stalled. Only for a few minutes, but between the chipped tooth, the stalled subway and now the out-of-order elevator, I’m running late.
“This place would be on the fifth floor,” I mutter, flapping my arms a little so I don’t sweat too badly. At least I’m dressed comfortably. The casting agent said come wearing little to no makeup and street clothes. My ballet flats have gotten a workout today, schlepping through Manhattan to get to this old building with its broken elevator.
I release a long, relieved breath when I reach the fifth-floor landing. A door opens to a studio with a long table and three chairs. Autumn sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A camera rests on a tripod in the middle of the room. A gray-streaked brunette, maybe in her late forties, turns from contemplating the street below to smile at me.
“Neevah?” she asks, walking forward and extending her hand to shake.
“Yes, hi. Ms. Perkins?”
“Call me Mallory, please.” She gestures toward the table. “Would you like to put your things down? If you had to walk up five flights of stairs like I did, you must be out of breath.” She looks me up and down and grins wryly. “Though it looks like you’re in better shape than I am.”
I drop my bag and umbrella on the table and wait for instructions. She didn’t send sides in advance and didn’t ask me to prepare anything, so I assume this is a cold read. I also assume Canon won’t be coming.
“Is it, um, just us?” I ask.
“Yeah, just me today.” She turns the camera on. “Canon generally doesn’t do these.”
“Of course,” I rush to say, not wanting her to think I expect special attention from him.
“He prefers to see auditions on tape.”
She takes one of the seats behind the table and slides a script toward me. Maybe this is the film Canon kept saying hasn’t been announced.
It’s well-worn and malleable in my hands. How many girls have stood in front of Mallory Perkins, heart in their throats, like I am right now? Clueless and hopeful, uncertain. How many girls got a surprise text from Canon Holt, and felt flattered that the great director had handpicked her, only to show up and discover he’ll watch them on tape later? Then they never hear from him again because whatever he thought he saw actually wasn’t there.
“Find page seventeen in the script,” Mallory says, jotting a few words on a legal pad. “You can read the part of Dessi and I’ll read Tilda. Let’s start with the—”
“Sorry I’m late.”
My head swivels to the door, and I nearly swallow my tongue when Canon strides into the room. He looks scrumptious in an army jacket worn over another hoodie, this one with USC emblazoned across the front. I refuse to be distracted by this, and immediately imagine him wearing an Oscar Meyer Wiener costume. They say envision your audience naked, but the last thing I should do is imagine Canon naked.
