I didn’t say no.
But then, a week later, he changed his mind, said how it hadn’t been fair of him to place such weight on me.
I didn’t tell him how many pages of notes I’d already written on my computer. I didn’t tell him that I’d started writing the thing. It didn’t matter. I had eyes: I was able to see that I’d somehow proven unworthy of the trust that had been invested in me.
I’m sorry, I wanted and didn’t want to tell him.
I’m sorry, I said.
Don’t need to be sorry, he lied.
But that was true! I didn’t need to be sorry. He hadn’t read a word of my script. I’d hardly even seen him that week. How on earth, I wanted to know, could I have possibly failed him?
Looking back, I think this was probably the point when things started going awry.
Zane didn’t know what he wanted for his film. Maybe I didn’t know either, a hundred percent. But I knew more than Zane.
Instead, I was given the job of designing the set, choosing the costumes.
Why don’t you just put me in a Goddamned apron so I can make you dinner too?
I want to say Zane looked surprised when I said this. Surprised, and a little abashed. But if so, those feelings were crushed beneath the satisfaction within his features, which suddenly struck me as looking doughy, malformed.
Why don’t you go ahead and have me clean your fucking toilets?
Sure, he laughed. Whatever you want.
He swung his puffy grin toward Kyle, who was hiding behind his Nikon.
Fuck you too, I said, and left.
I left, but I knew we’d be working together on the film. Why not, basically? It was Zane’s thing. I had nothing invested here. I was just bored, killing time, you know, until my life started happening.
Lamps are lamps, I said to the well-manicured couple, but this lamp is better than all the others.
They didn’t buy it. They left with another lamp, something tacky and asymmetrical.
They were the last people in the store, and I was happy to see them go.
That night, after they left, we didn’t close down the store like we usually did. Kyle cleared a spot on the second floor — the escalator peeking in the background — and I put the set together.
Then I put Kyle in a hoodie and some jeans. Zane took an eight ball, pocked but shining, out of the front of his bag.
We filmed for what seemed like hours. I was tired, getting bored, but we kept on filming: Kyle takes the ball out of his pocket; Kyle puts the ball back into his pocket; Kyle lets the ball roll along the tiled floor; the ball accidentally falls out of his pocket and Kyle says, Oh! or Shit!
This is it? I felt like asking Zane. This is your dialogue? Your script?
But I could see Zane’s position. Before, we’d been waiting with hands in our pockets. From now on, we would wait more actively.
If genius struck, the lights would be on, the camera would be rolling.
Even though we were there deep into morning, we still didn’t meet the cleaning crew, but the next day, the floors were waxed, the carpets didn’t have any debris in them, and our mirrors perfectly reflected truth.
One day, for a day, winter broke. I was out in the skyway above 7th Street. Exhaust-blackened mounds of plowed snow melted into the street, which was flashing in sunlight. I left early, walked home, felt things that had come out of storage — old things that felt new. It was that day, maybe, when I realized we were done. Done before even half-starting.
We had six hours of footage, which Kyle edited down to eight minutes and thirty-some seconds. Despite the complete absence of intention or plan, he did something. He made something of this.
After hours, we finally saw it on a screen that normally played a looping blue commercial for a new cologne. I was stunned. Kyle seemed to have crafted a space which our pictures had perfectly filled.
Zane hated it.
The lighting: bad. The acting: bad. The set: bad. The sound: a crime. This didn’t bear any resemblance, he said, to what we’d decided the film would be.
Was anything ever decided? I asked. And if anything was, you decided it, not us.
It was my vision, not yours.
Look, said Kyle. It’s a good film.
It’s eight fucking minutes.
Can’t you see, though? It’s totally perfect.
Can I say something? said Zane. Fuck you. All right? Fuck you both. It’s shit. You made it shit.
This too, I guess, was something we’d decided together: the film was history. There would be no more talk of a film.
And sometimes at work, I thought of the film, ran through what I remembered — because I was bored, and because it was lovely.
Over the next couple weeks, Zane got bounced around. He was taken off closing shift because Books didn’t generate enough money. The store decided to close down the whole section, and Zane was offered a position in Toddler’s Furniture. But then the manager of Toddler’s Furniture found him too abrasive and unkempt so he was moved to Kitchen Appliances and Hardware. Rather than close down the store, they had him open it. They also cut his hours in half.
Because he needed the money, they offered to let him get rid of the excess Books inventory. By “get rid of,” they meant Zane could box up the books and move them to a warehouse across town.
Zane stopped talking to us. Like everything else with Zane, we didn’t have a choice.
Even though Kyle and I still closed, it wasn’t the same. We didn’t go out after work.
One night, though, as I was leaving, Kyle said, Adele. I’d forgotten how my name could sound amidst that layered silence.
We hadn’t seen Zane in weeks. He was as mystical as the cleaning crew.
I was leaving for law school in days.
I’d thought about dropping an eight ball next to Zane’s car, but I never passed that way. I thought he’d like the symbolism.
That night, I kissed Kyle. He was wearing a brown woolen suit. Its stripes, I recall, were blue-grey.
kitty’s mystical circus (from Kate Bernheimer)
Every morning, Kitty’s father comes into her room and opens her curtains just enough to let in a single ray of sun. “Good morning, Kitty!” he says. Every morning it is the same.
“Good morning, Daddy!” she answers. Her voice is still drowsy and heavy, but her eyes are vibrant.
Kitty’s father waits for her cue — a cracked smile — to fully open her pink, linen curtains. Then, he lifts her out of bed, and together, they stand at the window to look for the moon. Some mornings, the moon is still visible against the pale morning sky.
“Moon” was Kitty’s first word. It had come out more as two words — “moo” and “one” — but Kitty’s father knew exactly what she meant.
Then, he lets Kitty pick out her clothes for the day and carries her downstairs to have cereal and strawberries.
This morning, like every morning, Kitty’s father comes into her room and opens her curtains to let her greet the day. “Good morning, Kitty!” he says.
“Good morning, Daddy!” she squeals.
This morning, Kitty had woken up extra early. She’d wanted to surprise her daddy, but then she fell back asleep and dreamt of the different kinds of fruit the moon could grow.
Kitty’s father lifts her out of bed and carries her to the open window. Together, they see the moon sitting in the pale, pink morning sky, but something about it is different.
“Does the moon look a little brighter to you today, Daddy?” Kitty asks.
“Yes, it does, Kitty,” he answers.
They pause at the window. They gaze at the moon in the pink sky. Then, slowly, as Kitty and her daddy aren’t the type of people to hurry here and hurry there, they make their way downstairs to have breakfast. Today, Kitty’s father prepares pancakes, which are Kitty’s favorite. They have their pancakes along with their staples: tea with milk, orange juice, and strawberries. There is nothing peculiar about this morning. It is a regular morning. Kitty always tries to surprise her daddy, and he is always doing nice things for her, like preparing her favorite foods.