Page 2 of Before Now

“Easily distracted,” I tell him.

He snorts, letting me pass him into the hallway. “Right.”

“I thought they would be finished by now.”

“There was a sound issue after the opening band. They only have one song left.”

We stop at an open dressing room with sparse furniture and photos hung all over the walls.

“Christian’s finishing up a call.” He glances at the yellow velvet couch set alongside the far wall. “You want to hang here for a bit or chance being swarmed by the band when they come offstage?”

“Here,” I answer fast. “I mean, this is fine.”

The guard ushers me inside and leans in to grab the knob. “Stay here so I don’t have to track you down. Cool?”

My eyes close at the same time as the door, and I let out a long breath. I collapse onto the center cushion and pull one of the throw pillows into my lap. Then I stare at a water spot on the ceiling, questioning whether Heath is completely out of his mind for sending me alone or only partially.

Originally, the director-turned-film-studies professor was supposed to be leading the charge on the documentary. Heath Erickson used to work on everything from music videos to indie horror flicks, and even though he “gave it up” for a house in the suburbs, he still can’t say no when a label calls.

My job as his TA quickly shifted from grading freshmen’s silent films to tagging along for music video shoots. He fired me at the end of the semester, only to rehire me as an intern for the next one, and then again for a summer program. The man found ways to keep me as his assistant without costing him a dime until I finished my degree last year.

Now he cuts me checks himself. The pay is shit, and he knows it. He also knows he could quit paying me altogether and I’d still show up every time. It’s about the connections and experience, not the almost nonexistent cash flow.

For money, I waitress and freelance as a videographer for an event planner on weekends. It affords the rent on my tiny apartment in Tribeca. Nothing glamorous, but if I need to drop everything for a last second flight or reshoots, at least I’m not giving up much. Unlike Heath, leaving behind a wife and two kids—with a third on the way.

That woman has put up with a lot of his shit over the years. Red eyes across the country, missed birthdays and anniversaries, models throwing themselves at him, hoping for their big break. She finally hit her limit this time. Not that I blame her. She’s nearly six months pregnant, and her husband announced he was signing on to tour the country with a rock band for the next four. He’s lucky she onlythreatenedto throw him out.

So, even though the record execs begged my bossto direct a documentary to release alongside Of Men and Wolves’ next album, it’s me on a yellow velvet couch with clammy palms. Feeling like I haven’t spent the past few years meeting managers and herding musicians around a set.

Sitting becomes too much, so I walk around, searching the frames on the walls for a picture or signatures of artists or performers I recognize. I half-smile, seeing a few, and as I’m reaching for one to get a better look, a pair of voices stop outside the room. A few seconds later, the door flies open. The guy stops short when he sees me. His eyes travel down and pause on my legs.

“Well, fuck, I wasn’t expectingthosewhen I walked in.” He starts striding toward me in his black silk dress shirt, unbuttoned one more than necessary at the top. “Please tell me you dress like this every day, because we need those legs on tour.”

I let out an unimpressed, “Excuse me?”

The guard’s standing outside with his back against the wall, and he turns enough so that the side of his face appears in the doorway. “Fucking professional, Christian. She’ll slap you with a harassment lawsuit before even meeting the band.”

Christian. The band’s manager. I’ve seen pictures of him, though in person he has a younger face, his dirty blond hair longer. He has half of it pulled back, and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Despite still scanning me over, he stops a respectable distance away. “My humblest apologies,” he says, a smug grin appearing as his eyes finally make it to my face and stay there. “I thought I was meeting a dude with a goatee until about five minutes ago.”

He has far more tension in his voice toward the end, but the annoyance is warranted if they only told him now that I was taking over the project. They signed off on me directing two weeks ago after Heath offered to consult from the safety of suburbia.

“Remi Sinner.” I slide my palm into his waiting one, but he more strokes the back of my hand with his thumb than shakes it. “The band sounded great,” I add, pulling my hand away.

“They always do.” Christian studies me for a beat before he claps. “So…” He pauses and holds his arms out to the sides. “Impress me, baby. Tell me how this is all going to go down.”

The second he brings up filming, a portion of the nerves dissolve. I reach in my bag for my phone to show him what I shot and edited together last week for a visual.

“The label’s vision was very on with the current documentaries a lot of musicians have been filming and releasing on streaming services. A camera crew follows the band around, and they give prompted confessionals. Nothing wrong with it, but I propose going in a different direction.”

I hit play on the video of the kids at the skate park and hold my phone out for Christian. He slips it out of my fingers, flipping the screen. A few seconds with nothing but the sounds from the speakers pass as he watches, and I can’t read his reaction.

“We’ll shoot with handheld cams,” I explain to him, “including from the band’s points of view when we can. It will be candid and raw—them showing a genuine depiction of their journey. Honestly, the overproduced, safe, and scripted side of singers and artists has been done to death. People want something real. They’re losing interest in the commercialized bullshit constantly shoved down their throats.”

“Amen,” the guard says from the hallway.

“Hand cams and unfiltered,” Christian mutters. He glances up, squinting, and then checks the video again. “This is how you’re gonna make my guys look like they’re worth the money the label’s pouring into this?”

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