Straying From the Path Read online

  “Ah-ah-ah. Stop looking at the camera. Ignore it.”

  He scowled. “How am I supposed to concentrate with that damn lens staring at me?”

  “That’s the whole point. You just have to do what you’d normally do, even with the lens staring at you. I’m desensitizing you.”

  He got back to work, smirking. Eventually, he forgot the camera was there.

  The minute he had to work from a script, though, he was back to his self-conscious hyper-awareness.

  “Do you have some psychological fear of cameras?” she said to him finally.

  “It’s just that this is important. I don’t want to mess up.”

  She set the camera down. “This is like miniature golf. You have to ignore the distractions.”

  “You’ve seen how well I do with that.”

  “I think you’re thinking about it too hard.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Read the lines and pretend I’m not here.”

  He started in on another scowl, then turned it into a smirk, matched by a lascivious wink. “Couldn’t possibly do that, babe.”

  He reached for her, she pretended to resist, and they ended up on the floor together, which finished any more coaching she had planned for the day.

  That weekend, they were sprawled on Cass’s living room floor, eating popcorn and watching Casablanca on the old-fashioned flat screen.

  “What makes this great,” she said, blathering on again, “better than bluebox stuff, is that this is all about setting, and characters interacting with the setting. I mean, the title’s the name of the city. The story couldn’t have happened any other time or place, and these characters grow out of the time and place. The film manages to capture all this in a tiny little frame. It forces you to watch and you can’t escape.”

  “The problems of two people don’t amount to a hill of beans . . .”

  “Wasn’t this filmed at a studio? Not really Casablanca.”

  “But it was still a set. Setting. The actors were still there.”

  “You really love this movie, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” She didn’t need an interactive link to imagine she was right there with Rick and Ilsa and the rest, singing “La Marseillaise.” That it was black and white didn’t even matter.

  “You think we’ll ever be able to make a movie like that? Something so compelling it carries the audience right along and they don’t care if they can’t change the view?”

  “If anyone can, it’s Nathan.”

  “What about me?”

  “You know I’d follow those brown eyes anywhere. We just have to get them onto film.”

  “So what’s next?” He scrolled through the file list on her handheld for the next film. It took a while. She had hundreds of movies stored digitally.

  He paused, his brow furrowing. “You have a dozen saved interactive versions of Dark Waters?” He looked at her sideways.

  “It’s my favorite of yours.” She donned a vacant, nostalgic smile. “That scene in the broken-down rover’s a killer.”

  “Thanks, I think. I can’t help but wonder how the real thing measures up.”

  She pulled her knees up to her chin and watched him. He was in full-force casual mode, which never showed up in the tabloid photos: sweatpants, faded university t-shirt, barely combed hair. When he knew, or even suspected cameras were going to be around, he dressed up, not a hair out of place. Right now, she wanted to grab him and roll around on the floor with him. He was Nick—she hadn’t superimposed Patton Walsh on him in weeks.

  “You’re asking if I prefer the Nick May who played Patton Walsh, or the Nick May who’s in sweatpants in my living room.”

  He looked away; his smile was humorless.

  She ruffled his hair. “I haven’t watched that movie since we started dating. I know every line by heart, but I never know what you’re going to say, and that makes me smile. The rest of the world can have Patton Walsh. I’ll take the guy in the sweatpants.”

  He took hold of her hand, kissed it, and that ended another afternoon of coaching.

  Nathan gave them a week, then ran another screen test. He filmed in the alley behind the RealCity offices, with a full crew on hand to make it seem more like a real set. Cass came along to watch, and felt a buzz in the air at the sight of the camera on the dolly, the boom mike, the cables, the lights, the chairs. For a hundred years, Hollywood had been filled with sets that looked like this, before the blue screens, then the three-dimensional blueboxes took over. It wasn’t just a piece of history coming to life; it was a different medium being revived. Films done on location felt different, and she wondered if this hum of energy, the excitement that jumped from person to person with a glance or a word, was why.

  Cass found Nick leaning in a doorway, out of sight, while final preparations continued. He was rubbing sweaty hands on his jeans and looked pale.

  Cass’s heart sank. They’d worked so hard on this. They’d read scenes from dozens of scripts, watched dozens of classic films. He’d studied Brando, Hoffman, Washington, Damon. He’d been getting it.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” he said.

  She took his hand and leaned her forehead on his shoulder. “You can.”

  She didn’t understand why this was so hard for him. It was like he faced the psychological hurdle and simply refused to leap over it. She supposed it happened like that sometimes.

  Maybe there’d be a miracle.

  The production wasn’t just for Nick. Nathan was training his entire crew. Hollywood hadn’t seen a full-scale on-location shoot in thirty years, before a lot of these people were born. They’d probably never seen most of this equipment, except maybe in museums. The boom operator was practicing, moving the mike up, down, up, down. The cameraman yelled whenever it showed up in the shot.

  It was all part of the atmosphere. DeMille or Kubrick might walk by any minute.

  Cass stayed well in the back, out of everyone’s way, and leaned on the wall to watch.

  Nathan took Nick aside for a conference, probably telling him what to do, what the scene was about. Then came the magic. Cass held her breath, ready for it.

  “Quiet on the set!” Nathan called. The production assistant ran up with the slate. “Nick May outdoor screen test, take one.”

  Then, “Ready? And . . . Action!”

  Nick, who had moved some ways off, ran up the alley, toward the camera. He stopped, looked around for a split second, hesitating. Cass’s stomach flip-flopped. She doubted that was part of the scene he was supposed to be playing. He seemed to recall himself, which gave her hope. He just needed to warm up was all.

  He looked at the roof, put his hands to his mouth, preparing to shout—a scene perhaps meant to recall Marlon Brando.

  “Jenny!”

  It came out flat. Not that it was the most forceful name in the world, not like STELLA! or ADRIAN! But he conveyed no feeling. He invited no belief that he was desperate for anything. Not even the job.

  “Jenny!”

  It wasn’t acting, he wasn’t emoting. He was simply following directions.

  She closed her eyes. She’d failed as a coach as much as he had as an actor. She didn’t know what else she could have done. She was an accountant and didn’t know anything about acting, so it seemed. So Nick proved. She knew how hard he’d been trying, how much he wanted it. Maybe Nathan was right. He had his niche in bluebox, and that was that.

  They endured this for an hour and a half before Nathan finally announced, “Let’s break for lunch.”

  No one had moved much except for Nick, but the crew heaved a collective sigh of exhaustion.

  Nathan said, “Nick, would you come inside for a minute?”

  No one on the set said anything. It was like someone had died. Nick’s career, maybe? The tech people shuffled in place, fiddling with their equipment. Transmitting word of Nick’s failure to the gossip feeds?

  She waited until the door closed behind them before following them inside.<
br />
  They were at the other end of the service corridor, next to his office, when Nathan spotted her. Not that she was trying to sneak. Instead of shooing her away, though, he gestured her inside with a tilt of his head.

  All the tension that had been simmering on the set when she left followed her into the room, concentrated and unbearable. Nick glanced up at her entrance, set his jaw and appeared annoyed. After that, no one looked at each other.

  Finally, Nathan said, “This isn’t working.”

  Nick tightened his fists and begged. “I’m close to getting it right, Nathan. I can feel it. I’m this close—” He showed thumb and forefinger touching. “I just need a little more time.”

  It was a small comfort that at least Nick realized he wasn’t any good.

  Nathan shook his head. “There’s a thousand actors in this town with stage and camera experience who’d kill for a shot at this. It’s nothing personal, Nick. It just doesn’t make a whole lot of economic sense for me to spend time with you when I can pull someone off the street who’s ready to go now. I’m sorry.”

  Nick paced a small circle, looking away, turning back like he wanted to say something, but no words revealed themselves. Cass had never seen him like this, tension running through his whole body, a frustrated snarl twisting his features, his arms clenched like he wanted to break something. He never even looked like this around paparazzi. Even Patton Walsh never looked like this.

  Nick closed his eyes and took a deep breath, calming himself. When he was finally ready to speak, his voice didn’t shake. Much.

  “I’ve never failed at anything. My career’s one long string of lucky breaks, I know that and I’m grateful for it, don’t think I’m not. But here, I thought if I actually worked for something, it might . . . I don’t know. Mean something.”

  Cass’s turn to speak. Her voice caught, making her sound even softer than usual. Not that anything she could say would help.

  “I’m sorry. I tried everything I could think of, and I don’t know what else to do because the skills are there, you know what to do, it just—” She gestured vaguely. “—isn’t happening. I don’t know what to say.”

  Angrily, he brushed her words aside. “Oh come on, Cass. This isn’t your fault. It’s not like I’m some interactive fantasy you can change at will, push a button and turn me into Humphrey Bogart, or . . . or Patton Walsh. You’re not the actor, I am. It was up to me and I blew it. You don’t have anything to do with this.”

  Then, something happened. His expression went slack for a moment, a light dawning, a realization overcoming him. He narrowed his gaze, which dropped for a moment. The room had fallen dead still while Cass and Nathan let Nick think.

  After the space of several heartbeats, he glared at Cass. “Did you guys set me up? At the party, you coming onto me—”

  She’d come on to him? Was that how it had happened? If she’d had her link on at the time she could have played it back, but no, the scene was lost to memory now.

  “Did Nathan put you up this? I can just hear it. ‘Yeah, we get Nick May on board and investment capital will come pouring in. Cass, you’re on it. Soften him up a little.’ ”

  She stared at him, amazed. Didn’t he know her well enough to know how incapable she was of such . . . conniving? She couldn’t even flirt, much less seduce anyone for commercial gain. “Nick, that’s just a little ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Come on, think about it. Everyone in the business knew that it didn’t matter how much of an artistic hotshot Nathan was, without a name actor he wouldn’t get a cent of funding. So you threw a big party to see who showed up, sent your little minions out to bait the hook. Must have been a big shock to find out I didn’t have any talent.”

  Cass had never thought of herself as bait and was almost flattered.

  Nathan smirked. “Sounds like a movie plot to me.”

  The actor gave a bitter huff of a laugh and turned away. “I should have known. I should have known the minute you guys took me seriously.”

  Cass dared a step toward him. “Nick, calm down, you’re pulling this out of thin air—”

  By now, he’d worked himself up to shouting. “Christ, Cass. For the first time I’m thinking, here’s someone who doesn’t care what I do for a living, who doesn’t care about the fame, who I can be around without any pressure—and it was all fake.”

  “No!” she said, her voice gone thin and high-pitched. Her eyes went wide. “No, Nick, I—” I love you. She hadn’t said those words to him yet. She choked on them now. Swallowed. Tried it again. “Nick, I can’t stand not being with you. There was never any conspiracy, I met you totally by accident, and I—I love you.”

  The anger sputtered a moment. He stared, unable to retort immediately. But suspicion still darkened his features. “I’m booted off the film. You don’t have to pretend anymore. And you—” He pointed at Nathan. “—you can just take your cameras and—” Rather than finish the thought, he let out a growl, made a dismissive toss with his hand, and stalked out of the room.

  Her eyes were burning. She would not cry. She wouldn’t. Wiping tears away, she wondered why she wasn’t running after Nick, and realized her legs wouldn’t move.

  “If he could emote like that on camera . . . ” Nathan muttered. “I’m sorry, Cass. I’m sure he’ll cool down in a little while.”

  Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday . . .

  She wasn’t going to wait that long.

  Nick owned a bungalow in one of the nicer parts of the Los Feliz area. It was a cozy bachelor pad, not at all gigantic and pretentious like he might have had. Except for the security gate.

  That afternoon, Cass stood at the gate’s A.I. box and begged. Nick had changed the codes. She couldn’t get in.

  “The resident is currently unavailable. Please depart the premises or the authorities will be contacted.”

  “I know he’s in there,” she said to the A.I. guard program’s speaker. “If he won’t talk to me, at least let me leave a message. Come on, it’s me! You have my voice print on file!”

  “Voice print unrecognized. Please depart the premises—”

  “Goddamnit, Nick! Talk to me!”

  “If you do not depart in ten seconds—”

  Wrong tack. She leaned on the brick wall by the steel gate and took a deep breath.

  She tried again. “Hi. I’m an accountant from RealCity Productions, and I have a file upload for Nick May. It’s his severance check.” Money: the only thing in Hollywood that talked.

  The guard program clicked ominously for a moment. Then, “File upload approved. Proceed.”

  She uploaded the file, along with a voice message. “Nick, I wasn’t kidding about what I said. You said it yourself, I’m not an actor.” She couldn’t think of anything else that didn’t sound trite, so she ended the message.

  Back to the wall, she sat on the sidewalk and hoped.

  She didn’t know how long she planned on waiting. She’d told herself fifteen minutes. Any longer, the A.I. program would notice and call the cops. Then she realized that someone calling the cops was about what it would take to get her to leave. The paparazzi were going to have a field day with this.

  Two minutes had passed when the gate opened.

  Nick leaned out, standing half on his property and half on the sidewalk, hanging onto the bars of the gate. He went barefoot, wore sweatpants and a t-shirt, and his brown hair was ruffled, like he’d been crashed out on the sofa. He looked like a million bucks.

  “Hi,” she said, staring up at him.

  “Hi.” He scraped a toe on the concrete, and she just kept staring.

  “You could have just emailed it.”

  “I wanted to talk to you. I’m sorry the movie didn’t work out. I wish it had.”

  He made a boyish shrug. “It’s okay. I’ve got a contract on the table for a sequel to Lunar Wake. That’s the story we’re going to put out, that the production schedules conflict so I had to quit Nathan’s film. That happens a
ll the time. Career saved.”

  “Good,” Cass said. It wasn’t what she wanted to say, but everything else that occurred to her started with please don’t leave me, please please please! There had to be a more dignified way to beg.

  He looked up into the heat haze of the afternoon sky. “It’s not your fault that it didn’t work out. Working in Hollywood, living like I do, I forget sometimes that life isn’t a fairy tale where all the endings are happy. The real world isn’t like that.”

  In the real world, movie stars didn’t date accountants. Cass swallowed a lump in her throat. “We’re not going to have a happy ending?”

  “I wasn’t talking about us.” He slid down to the sidewalk next to her and leaned against the wall. “I lost my temper. I’m an ass. I’m sorry.”

  She wasn’t going to argue.

  “You meant it, what you said back there.”

  She nodded. Her tears had started falling. It’d be hours before she got them to stop. He offered his hand. He wasn’t going to take hold of hers; he was letting her choose.

  She put her hand in his and squeezed.

  “So, I’m just a bluebox actor and you’re just an accountant. We’ve learned our lesson and we shouldn’t try to be anything we aren’t.”

  She snuggled against him and leaned her head on his shoulder. “I don’t know. We just haven’t found the right glamorous artsy job yet. You know when Nathan said this sounded like a movie plot? I was thinking, maybe we should try writing it down.”

  “Write a screenplay—you and me?”

  “Sure. How many movies have we watched and thought, I could do better than that? I mean, you turn down how many scripts a year? You must see some pretty bad ones.”

  “I’ve made some pretty bad ones.”

  “So we know what not to do, right? Couldn’t hurt to try.”

  Her eyes felt round and puppyish. He grinned back at her and kissed her forehead, humoring her.

  “All right, but we have to give it a happy ending. Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds riding into the sunset.”