Page 1 of Velvet and Valor
1
JUNE
Iskid into the Takeoff Lounge about ten minutes after my 747 touches down in LAX, intent on purging the taste of the BC Film Festival in New Jersey out of my brain.
I know what you’re thinking. Most people go to the lounge at the start of the trip, not when they come back home. I swear I’m not a raging alcoholic. But I have time to kill and the lounge is as good a place as any to do it in.
I’m a producer-slash-partner for BenchMark Studios. You’ve never heard of us. BenchMark has no tentpole franchises, or huge stars under contract.
Our studio seeks out films that fly under the radar of the major players. Films that may not break box office records, but still garner plenty of awards buzz. Movies that inspire people, or crush their souls and break their hearts. Movies that matter.
As the Executive in charge of Acquisitions, it’s my job to go to places like the BC Film Festival. That’s where our type of project thrives, amongst people who believe that cinema can be more than just people in brightly colored outfits whaling on each other and destroying landmarks.
The Takeoff bars’ cool, air-conditioned artificial breeze hits my skin and elicits a sigh from me. After days of watching people who barely know how to take a lens cap off try to be the next Darren Arononfsky, I could use a drink.
This airport bar fits the bill. I duck inside through the ‘entrance’ though there’s not much separation from the rest of the airport. Poker machines line one wall, preying on the desperate or the addicted. The bartender looks exactly like I expect an airport bartender to look. Hopeful but realistic, aged out of his youth but not yet old.
He flashes me a smile when I approach. It’s the hair. My guy Guliano is a genius. He’s taken my semi-curly, fly away hair and turned it into wavy curtains of midnight.
“How can I serve you today?” he asks, leaning an elbow on the bar and giving me what he probably considers his best bedroom eyes.
“You can paint my house,” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “These contractors have lost their god-damn minds.”
He has the good grace to laugh and straighten up.
“Fair enough. What’s your drink? I make a mean amaretto sour.”
“Ooh,” I say, sucking in air through my teeth. “Tempting, but it’s more of a wine kind of day…”
I lean forward and peer at his name-tag.
“Bob. Bartender Bob, did you do that on purpose?”
“Maybe it’s a destiny thing,” he says with a shrug. “Like when the guy named Harry Shearer becomes a barber, I dunno. Bob is a good bartender name.”
I cock my head to the side.
“I’d compliment you on your insightful and surprisingly deep observation, if I weren’t afraid of you doing one of two things.”
He arches his brows. “What two things?”
“Try to hit on me, or worse, try to give me a script.”
He tilts his head back and laughs.
“Damn it. Yeah, well, since you’re already dreading it…yes, I do keep a script on me just in case the right person comes in through that entrance. Your briefcase is a dead giveaway that you are just the right person to give it to.”
He slaps a stack of paper on the counter, nodding at the movie reel briefcase I’ve been carrying since I started my first film production.
“I haven’t seen a paper script in ages,” I say, rifling through it. “You know, Bob, I’m sold. I’m going to give this a once over just for the novelty value.”
“That’s all I can ask, Ms. Mayweather,” he says.
I give him a look.
“You know me?” I ask.
“I follow your blog.”
