Death of a Blue Movie Star

And what it is, I want to do a film about it.”
    “You?”
    “A documentary.”
    When she was in her characteristic slouch Rune came to Larry’s second button down. Now she stood up and rose almost to his collar. “I came here to learn how to make films. It’s been eleven months and all I do is get coffee and pick up equipment and coil cables on the set and drop off film and walk Bob’s mangy dog.”
    “I thought you liked him.”
    “He’s a wonderful dog. That’s not the point.”
    He looked at his Rolex. “They’re waiting for me.”
    “Let me do it, Larry. I’ll give you a producing credit.”
    “Bloody generous of you. And what do you know about documentaries?”
    She forced her small mouth into a smile that impersonated admiration. “I’ve been watching you for almost a year.”
    “Balls. All you got is balls. You got no film technique.”
    “Two outa three,” Rune said.
    “Look, luv, not to make myself into a flamin’ genius but I got fifty, sixty resumes sitting in me desk right now. And most of them’re dying for the privilege of getting me fuckin’ laundry.”
    “I’ll pay for the film myself.”
    “All right. Forget the laundry. I got a roomful of people need caffeine.” He put a crumpled five in her hand. “
Please
get some coffee.”
    “Can I use a camera after work?”
    Another glance at the watch. “Fuck. All right. But no camera. The Betacam.”
    “Aw, Larry,
video?
”
    “Video’s the wave of the future, luv. You buy your own friggin’ tape. And I’m checking the Arris and the Bolexes every night. If one’s missing, even for a half hour, you’re fired. And you do the work on your own time. That’s the best you’re getting.”
    She smiled sweetly. “Would you like some biscuits with your tea, mate?”
    As she turned to leave Larry called, “Hey, luv, one thing … This bombing, whatever ‘appened, the news’ll do the story up right.”
    Rune nodded, seeing that intensity she recognized in his eyes when he was on a set shooting or kicking around ideas with Bob or the cinematographer. She paid attention. He continued. “Use the bombing like a ’ook.”
    “A hook?”
    “You want to make a good documentary, do a film that’s about the bombing but not about the bombing.”
    “It sounds like Zen.”
    “Fucking Zen, right.” He twisted his mouth. “And three sugars for me tea. Last time you bleedin’ forgot.”

     
    Rune was paying for the tea and coffee when she remembered Stu. She was surprised she hadn’t thought about him before this. And so she paid the deli guy two bucks of her own money, which is the way she looked at Larry’s change, to have somebody deliver the cartons to L&R.
    Then she stepped outside and trudged toward the subway.
    A low-rider, a fifteen-year-old beige sedan, churned past her. The horn sang and from the shadows of the front seat came a cryptic solicitation, lost in the ship’s diesel bubbling of the engine. The car accelerated away.
    God, it was hot. Halfway to the subway stop, she bought a paper cone of shaved ice from a Latino street vendor. Rune shook her head when he pointed to the squirt bottles of syrup, smiled at his perplexed expression, and rubbed the ice over her forehead, then dropped a handful down the front of her T-shirts. He got a kick out of it and she left him with a thoughtful look on his face, maybe considering a new market for his goods.
    Painful hot.
    Mean hot.
    The ice melted before she got to the subway stop and the moisture had evaporated before the train arrived.
    The A train swept along under the streets back up to Midtown. Somewhere above her was the smoking ruin of the Velvet Venus Theater. Rune stared out the window intently. Did anyone live down here in the subway system? She wondered. Maybe there were whole tribes of homeless people, families, who’d made a home in the abandoned tunnels. They’d be a great subject for a documentary too.
Life Below the Streets
.
    This started her thinking about the hook for her film.
    About the bombing but not about the bombing
.
    And then it occurred to her. The film should be about a single person. Someone the bombing had affected. She thought about movies she liked—they were never about issues or about ideas in the abstract. They were about people. What happened to them. But who should she pick? A patron in the theater who’d been injured? No, no one would volunteer to help her out. Who’d want to admit he’d been hurt in a porn theater. How ’bout