Film School (19 page)

Everyone in the auditorium spills outside to compare notes. A handful of undergraduate girls are crying. My 507 classmates gather in a clump and I join them. They want to know my grade. I reluctantly show it—I don't want to gloat, but it does feel mighty good. A serious-minded classmate who did a stunning stop-animation film, a guy who already had an MBA, also got an A. The others got Bs or Cs, and there were a lot of Cs in our group. Some of those who got the grade are angry; one woman wipes away tears. One guy wants to confront Casper.

I look at my classmates, and the very informal polling of grades doesn't surprise me. I know some people hardly put any time into the paper. I put in a lot of hours. The USC School of Cinematic Arts has an annex in the basement of the massive Doheny Library, and I had a pretty good idea of which ones were putting in some serious time working on their papers.

My last class of the semester is a Friday, with Ross Brown showing the film THE THIRD MAN. Our class wants to throw a party, and we ask Ross if there is anything wrong with celebrating over pizza and beer. He thinks it's a great idea. So we bring in a case of beer and watch Orson Welles in black and white and eat pizza. I drink only one beer, simply because I am so tired that if I have any more I know I will fall asleep. I have my Friday-afternoon slog through traffic to get home to Camarillo. Attendance in class is sparse. It isn't that much of a party. And then the semester is done.

O
ver the summer, Julie and I packed our furniture, left our rental house, and moved to Minnesota. Julie has a job that pays twice as much as she made in California. I'm going to commute to USC from Minnesota. Now I am going to spend seven days a week in California while going to grad school. I'll fly back home once or twice a semester. It's a plan held together by duct tape and crossed fingers. We're not broke anymore, but money is still extremely tight. Julie's mom will be living with her, helping with the kids.

That next fall, I fly into Los Angeles International Airport at 10
A.M.

When I arrive in Los Angeles, I feel a knot in my stomach.

I've got my orientation for 508. I go to the same meeting room where we gathered for 507, but this time I know many people. Everyone is partnered up. Only one person is not there: my partner.

I sit through the orientation with a red face, the seat next to me empty. It was bad enough to have to be shunned during the 508 partner dance, and now I find the woman who publically begged for a partner is missing. I call her cell. She doesn't answer. I hide my frustration and worry and calmly explain to an instructor named Pablo that everything should be fine. It's a serious breach of protocol not to show up on the first day of class. Pablo is not happy.

A few hours later, I get a call from my partner. She sounds breezy, and explains she was running late and didn't bother to come to orientation. “It's not that important, you know,” she says. My knot grows larger.

The next day, my partner shows up on campus. We meet with a directing instructor and go over our 508 film ideas. My partner is going to shoot first. She explains she wants to shoot a film with dancing zombies. I make certain I hear her correctly.
Dancing zombies?

Along with angry dad films and breakup films, zombie films are a staple of USC student film subjects. It's easy, I suppose. Get some actors. Put some whiteface on them, make their mouths drool blood, and have them shuffle. Bingo, instant zombie. Such films strike me as not funny and not clever. What worked for NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD has gotten very stale.

She explains she wants to create a dancing zombie movie to dispel, she explains, “the negative connotations of zombies.”

I want to put my head in my hands when I hear this.

That day we also go to our first class. We're given the schedule for 508. We are expected to work seven days a week for every week except Thanksgiving. We shoot every weekend, on Saturdays and Sundays. We have class every day of the week.

That night I sit beside the pool at USC and listen to the swimmers splash their laps. My family is now two thousand miles away.

I decide to quit.

I can't take four months of 508 in Los Angeles with my tardy partner, with a film about dancing zombies, with a group of people I just don't feel close to. I love so many aspects of film school—the instruction, the creativity, the freedom—but the good does not outweigh the bad. I'm spending way too much money. I'm too far from my family. I don't want to be with my partner for four months.

I meet with Pablo, a friendly, bearded professor who reminds me of the actor Richard Dreyfuss. He's head of the 508 program, and when I explain to him I want to quit, he simply looks at me and sighs. I'm sure he deals with this often. I then tell him I'm not going to quit until I can find my partner a new partner.

“I don't want to burn any bridges here,” I tell him, “and I certainly don't want to leave my partner high and dry.” Pablo sighs again and gives me the name of a woman whose partner bailed out on her. I call the woman and my partner and ask them to meet at Pablo's office. Later, they both show up, unaware of what is going on. I meet them and say, “You're going to be partners for this semester. I'm quitting.”

Pablo looks satisfied—a potential logistical mess was averted. I thank them all, shake Pablo's hand, and fly back to Minnesota.

I have spent $17,000, made five little films, started a feature script, and I feel a tremendous amount of relief and sadness. I remained enrolled in my screenwriting class, and the instructor is gracious enough to let me complete the semester-long class from two thousand miles away. Still, there is no mistaking what I am doing: I am walking away from the best film school in the world.

I am driving down a
freeway in Minneapolis on a gorgeous spring day with Sophia, who is now four years old. It's just after noon, and we're heading home to get some lunch after her morning at preschool.

Since I quit USC, life has stabilized. Julie has been in great health, and she took a new job at the best pediatric hospital in Minnesota. We have nice neighbors. Lara and Maria walk to the nearby elementary school. I take Sophia to preschool several times a week. I'm splitting my time between being a housedad again and working on
GeezerJock,
which has risen from the dead. A new financial backer put some money into the machine, and our monthly circulation is approaching sixty thousand. We're still not making a profit, however, and there's only so much a person can write about sweaty old people before running out of ideas.

Today, Sophia is chatting away, telling me about a boy who was hogging the swings at outdoor playtime when a car coming toward me in the northbound lanes skids sideways and flips into the air.

Pieces of metal and plastic and glass go flying. The car cartwheels along the freeway toward us. The cartwheeling car settles on its roof in a puff of smoke. It has skidded into the concrete dividing wall separating the northbound and southbound lanes. I stomp on my brakes and pull quickly over to the right. I'm directly across from the smoldering car.

I turn to Sophia: “I'm going to help. Do
not
get out of your seat. Do you understand?”

She nods her head solemnly.
Yes.
She is strapped into her car seat.

I dash across the three southbound lanes and jump the low concrete dividing wall. The car is a mess. It's an older Chevrolet Cavalier coupe. Smoke and steam pour out of the engine.

I go to the passenger-side window and get down on my knees, expecting the worst. There is a small gap between the roof and the doorsill. I wince as I peer in.

There is one person in the car and, amazingly, she is alive. She is a tiny Vietnamese woman, about sixty. She is suspended upside down in her seat belt, still behind the steering wheel. She is crying softly.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

No answer. Just constant sobbing.

A big-bellied black guy in coveralls and steel-toed boots arrives at the scene. He is breathing hard. Lots of people are watching from the sidelines, but he and I are the only ones next to the car.

“She looks okay. I wanna turn the ignition off,” I say to him. “I think I can get through this window.”

“I'll hold your legs,” he answers. “If you need to get out in a hurry, I'll get you out.”

I get down on my belly. The driver is still weeping. I wiggle into the overturned car through the broken passenger-side window.

“Hey, there. My name is Steve. I'm going to be turning off your car, okay?”

The woman keeps sobbing.

I search for the ignition. Being in a crushed upside-down car is disorienting. Finally, I find the keys and turn off the ignition. I take a closer look at the sobbing driver. One leg is clearly broken—it makes an impossible kink below the knee—but she isn't bleeding from her head or torso. All the safety gear worked.

I don't smell any gasoline. I take her hand. It's tiny. “You're going to be okay, okay? I can get you out of here in about one second flat if we need to. Okay?”

I'm talking to reassure myself as much as her. Her seat belt release is a few inches away from my head, and with me and Steel-Toed Boots jacked up on adrenaline, removing her in a hurry won't be a problem. I'm struck by something ironic: when I do military presses, my weightlifting pals and I call them the “pushing-up-the-roof-of-the-collapsed-car presses.” Now I'm in that collapsed car. But I'm not doing any pushing. Just talking.

I still smell no gasoline. Given that I'm a guy who doesn't like being in small elevators, the fact that I'm not claustrophobic in this small space proves adrenaline is powerful stuff. I tell the driver I am going to leave her in her seat belt until rescue crews arrive. I don't want to unfasten her belt and have her fall to the roof on her head.

The lady doesn't answer. She just keeps whimpering, sobbing in little tiny breaths. She must be in shock.

I call out to Steel-Toed Boots: “I'm going to stay in here for a little bit.”

I start chatting to the driver again. “Wow, that was sure a pretty amazing accident. You're going to do great. You look in great shape.”

Without a risk of fire, I think it best to wait. “Do you understand English?” She doesn't answer. I give her the same optimistic pitter-patter I use on the sidelines of a soccer fields when I coach kids.
Oh, yeah, you're looking good. Doing awesome. Really, you're gonna do fine.

I have no idea if she understands me. The thought passes my mind that maybe she's weirded out by this strange man who keeps yammering on and doesn't do anything. After a few minutes of more chattering, I finally hear sirens. “Hey, they're almost here,” I tell her. “They'll get you out and you'll be home in no time.” More gentle moaning from her.

Suddenly, I remember:
Sophia!

I feel my heart jump into my throat. I yell to Steel-Toed Boots that I want to come out. With him pulling, I wiggle out in a jiffy. The police have to inch their way through gridlocked traffic to get to the accident scene, but they are close. Suddenly, I don't care about some groaning woman suspended in her Cavalier. I stand up and look across the freeway to my Suburban.

There, framed in the back window, is Sophia, her little moon-shaped face looking out with very big eyes. I realize if she unclasps herself from her car seat and opens the door she will almost certainly be hit by a car. I have been out of sight for long minutes. She couldn't see anything that was happening behind the concrete median barrier. She can hardly see the overturned car.

My heart, which felt so calm in the overturned Cavalier, suddenly feels like it is going through my chest. I put my hands up and motion to Sophia:
stay
put!
I vault the concrete wall and run to the truck through the southbound traffic. I get to our Suburban. As soon as the door is shut, I turn to Sophia. “You did a great job, honey. A great job. You were such a good listener.” I can hardly catch my breath.

Sophia asks where I have been for such a long time. She couldn't see me, and I had never left her in the car alone before. I tell her I was helping a woman hurt in the car accident. She is satisfied with the answer. I ask her if she was scared being alone.
A little
, she says. She is very quiet.

Ten minutes later we pull into our driveway. My hands are shaking. I notice I have blood on my forearms and elbows from glass cuts. The cuts don't hurt, but I feel awful. My head aches. I can't believe I had left Sophia alone in a vehicle on the shoulder of a busy freeway so I could run toward an accident scene. What kind of a knuckleheaded moron am I?

Yes, Sophia is extremely well behaved, and she does a terrific job of following instructions. But still . . . what if she had gotten out of the car? What if some distracted driver had plowed into our parked Suburban? What if I had been blown up by the smoldering Cavalier? She would have been stranded in a truck parked on the shoulder of a busy highway. Eventually, she would have succumbed to curiosity or fear. And then . . . ?

With a sick feeling in my stomach, I realize I had let my desire for action overshadow my primary responsibility, which is to get my four-year-old home safely from preschool. In ten short minutes, I have exposed a genetic failure in myself. I had done the equivalent of leaving my offspring unprotected in a cave while I charged out of the entrance with a club in my hairy paw, like some Neanderthalic idiot.

Julie never would have done such a thing. A hired nanny probably never would have done such a thing. But I did, and I did it because I am hardwired to seek out more challenges than simply playing Candy Land and washing endless numbers of tiny dresses and listening to stories about a boy who was hogging swings at playtime. And writing touching stories about elderly athletes.

A few nights later, I am complaining to Julie about a young film director I had read about.