Christopher Hacker
The Morels
For Joanna, and for Mom: Every writer should be so lucky.
1. ARTHOUSE
THE EDITOR I WAS TO fire worked out of his one bedroom in Herald Square. He’d been the lowest bidder on our project by far, his single stipulation that we meet him no more than once a week and he be allowed the other six to work undisturbed, a stipulation we’d had to accept — he was the only editor we could afford — until an old classmate of the director’s volunteered to cut the film for free. The director told me about it that morning over eggs and coffee at the Galaxy Diner. The inconvenience of starting over, he explained, would be minor compared with the inconvenience of filing for Chapter 11.
It was 1999. The last Checker cab in the city had just been retired. All over, people were stockpiling canned peas, just in case. I was seven years out of college, lived at home with my mother, worked for free by day, and by night swept stray popcorn and condom wrappers from the back rows of the arthouse on Houston.
One always got the sense upon entering the editor’s apartment that he was being caught unawares. He answered the door in thick glasses, pillowcase imprint on his cheek. He had a bachelor’s tendency toward strewn clothing and empty beer bottles. It was clear he slept in the living room: gathering the bedding from the sofa like a doghoused husband, he’d make a spot for us while he went about his morning ablutions — and we, waiting with our coffee and script notes, were privy to each splash and fart and groan — emerging with Coke bottles shed for bloodshot contacts, ready, as he put it, for business. The bedroom was where the “baby” slept. The windows went magically dim whenever the sun appeared, giving the place with its blinking lights the cool phosphorescence of a command center. A rack of industrial-strength video recorders stood in a corner. Three monitors displayed the frozen grimaces of our actors, time-code numbers in letterboxed margins. The room was decked out in charcoal acoustic tiling, and against the far wall was an opulent leather couch — to impress the clients, he’d said on our first meeting as we sat smoothing our hands across it. Glass coffee table. Brushed-steel coasters. The editor came in and took up the cockpit chair in front of the monitors. The director opened his binder, and they set to work.
It was a white-trash retelling of Hamlet. A young man returns to his trailer park from a stint at reform school to find his junkyard-king father murdered and his widowed mother shacked up with his uncle, the tractor salesman. The dialogue was funny and hillbilly absurd and conjured a vivid world that by sheer force of will seemed already to exist. The writer-director was a recent NYU grad from Sri Lanka. His father, a Sinhalese tobacco magnate, was reputedly the third-richest man in South Asia. The movie we were making was his graduation present.
Editing seemed mostly about fixing the many blunders of production: underexposed footage lightened, boom mics cropped, flubbed lines trimmed. The problem of the day involved a Winnebago crash, which appeared in these monitors about as perilous as the backcountry amblings of a retiree couple. Something to do with poor camera placement. The editor tried speeding up the footage. I normally enjoyed our weekly sessions here. The couch was like the backseat of a chauffeured Bentley; I took careless pleasure being the passenger on this three-hour journey, allowing the two of them up front to bicker over outframes and cutaways. But today was a carsick three hours. Their bickering, usually playful, had turned ugly. “Decreasing the frame rate won’t work,” the director said.
“It looks better.”
“It looks slapstick.”
“Well, I can’t cut what I don’t have.”
“The word you’re looking for is talent.”
This was my cue. “Let’s take a break,” I suggested. “Get some lunch, talk things over.”
I should have been straightforward. I should have sat him down before he’d even gone into the bathroom to put in his contacts. But I had never fired anyone. How was this supposed to go? While we waited at the fourteenth-floor elevators, arms folded, mingling with our brass reflections, I tried to think of a good segue. And speaking of awkward silences. The panel indicated that the left bank was stopped on three and the right bank was on its way down, pausing at each and every floor along the way. Some homeschooled brat, probably, pressing all the buttons before jumping off.
There was an open door at the end of the hall. Someone was walking back and forth inside an apartment. A brass luggage cart was parked outside, hung with fresh dry cleaning. At a certain point the person (I could see now that it was a man) took the clothes off the hanger and disappeared back inside, then came back out and wheeled the cart in our direction. “Sorry,” he said. “I’d use the service elevator, but the gentleman with the key doesn’t work on weekdays.”
He thumbed the DOWN button — already lit — then turned to puzzle me over for a moment before testing out my name, like a question. He reached out and gave me his hand, which was firm and damp, and I shook it, trying not to let it show that I had absolutely no idea who he was.
This is a problem, one I’ve had as long as I can remember, and often gets me into trouble. In eighth-grade shop class I lost the tip of my left index finger to the jigsaw, and it was only as I was leaving that the teacher discovered the stains coming through my front pocket and the tissue soaked in blood. At precisely the moments I should be calling for assistance (I’m sorry, how do I know you?), I freeze up and am forced to fake my way through. He said his name, but I didn’t catch it. I nodded. “Been a while.”
“Fourteen years,” he said. I asked him what he was up to, only half listening to his answer because I was suddenly aware that I had not introduced my colleagues. He said something about being out in the wilds of Queens since I’d seen him last and that he was now a husband and, if I could believe it — he could hardly believe it himself sometimes — a father. Fourteen years? I tried counting backward. Certainly it put him out of college range. High school?
He was a head taller than me, at least, and I’m not short. He wasn’t handsome: eyes sunken, ears jutting out like pouted lips, brows joined. The backs of his hands were covered with hair. He was a hairy man. I could see this in the rash on his neck; it was skin that needed frequent shaving. The only place hair was not persisting, it seemed, was along his receding hairline. It was a face that hadn’t reached its ideal age yet, I thought, like seeing a grandparent in an old Super 8 and finding the familiar face strange in its youth, improbable. And like someone a generation or two older, he had a gravity about him. He was tall without managing to stoop. Though his nose was large, it gave his face dignity. He had on chinos and a windbreaker, loafers with white socks. It was the outfit of someone who was stumped by words like phat and fo’ shizzle and who, if you took him out to a bar, would complain the music was too loud, and couldn’t we just go someplace where we could all sit down? None of this, to say the least, rang a bell.
I turned to Sri Lanka and the editor now, but they had been done with this conversation before it began, striking up their argument again as if this man standing before me were invisible; and indeed to them he was. The movie business is an exclusive club, and to us insiders the rest of you are pitiable wastes of our time. If you were to say that we’re all just arrogant pricks, that you hate the movies and wouldn’t want anything to do with the business of it, what we hear is: I’m jealous. Just observe the way we move into your quiet neighborhood with our cube trucks and honey-wagons, like the Holy Roman Army, even the lowliest of us with our headsets barking orders at you to cross the street: Don’t you see we’re filming here?