Page 2 of Velvet and Valor
“You do? I thought it was just a bunch of bots and people who want me to read scripts…oh, and you just handed me a script.” I wink at him. “Got it. I do have one condition for keeping this script and checking it out later: You serve me the best wine you have available. That sound like a good deal to you?”
“Sounds like a better deal than I deserve,” he says. “What kind of wine? I have some Jonata from 2016, will that do?”
“Maybe. It doesn’t taste like pencil lead does it?”
His eyes widen.
“It does, in fact. You know your wines. Maybe you’d prefer some 2018 Colgin red?”
“No pencil lead?”
“No pencil lead, a little bit of annis, but you hardly notice because the roaster alder gets to your palate first.”
“Sounds great, I’ll have that, thanks,” I reply.
I settle in with my wine and check the time. Damn, the ride I arranged still isn’t here. Why did my flight have to come inearly? When does that ever happen? Not when you need it to, I’ll tell you that much.
I check with the ride service to see if I can get an earlier pickup. Their app assures me that a new driver will add me to their queue soon. But I spend a long time staring at the screen, waiting for that to happen. It’s like the world’s most boring video game.
I could try another ride service, or a taxi, but I’ll probably have to pay a cancellation fee. I already feel bad about my expense account, given that we’re a small studio. I guess I’ll have to tough it out and be patient. Sooner or later they’ll get me a car.
“Hey,” Bartender Bob says, drawing me out of my reverie. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you seem kind of glum.”
“I suppose I am feeling melancholy,” I reply, toasting him with the remains of my wine glass. He refills it without being asked.
“I hope I wasn’t too forward with the script, it’s gotta be annoying having people shove them in your face all day. ”
“No, it’s not you, Bartender Bob,” I reply. “You’ve been great. Five-star review coming your way. It’s this festival I just went to. It was a total dud.”
“Uh huh,” he says, smiling and pretending like he doesn't know all this already.
“Anyway, there was this biopic on Langston Hughes that was a perfect blend of reenactment and documentary.”
“Who’s Langston Hughes?”
“Someone who you should really know,” I reply. “He was an African American poet who rose to prominence in the mid 20th century. Right now, the market is screaming for a project like that. People think that Martin Luther King and Lincoln died of assassin’s bullets. The truth is, they were overexposed to death.”
I smile at my morbid joke as I motion for a refill on the wine.
I had the film’s director/writer/producer, Willis, ready to jump on board with our studio. That is, until one of the bigwigs from Universal schmoozed his way over and promised Willis the moon.
The glamorous life of a studio big wig. Only my studio’s smaller than a postage stamp. We really could have used that film. It would have been a real feather in our cap.
Bartender Bob comes over and refills my wine glass. He gives me a glance in the process and I know a question is forthcoming.
“If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get into the film business in the first place?”
“The old-fashioned way,” I reply, picking up my glass by the delicate stem.
“You earned it?” he asks.
“No, I bought my way in.” I toast him as he laughs. “My grandparents left me a small inheritance. Not enough to get into real estate, and certainly not enough to retire on, but enough to invest in a small independent film a friend of a friend was working on. One thing kind of led to another.”
“Your grandparents? I’m surprised the inheritance didn’t go to your parents.”
I sigh. “They weren’t exactly around.” I take another extra large sip of the wine. Bob wanders away. Perfect timing too, I don’t like talking about my parents.
My phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, and I almost stuff it back in my purse. But it might be the ride service calling to confirm, and maybe I can get them to show up a little earlier.
