Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel (21 page)

Marjorie dropped her arms to her sides. “
Wow.
Don’t mince words for my sake.”

Gus motioned her over to his side of the desk. She wove around, then stood awkwardly beside him, careful to keep her distance. At this proximity, she couldn’t help but notice that Lydia and Kate were right: His arms were kind of incredible. She cursed the girls for pointing that out and tried to focus on what he was saying.

“You can’t see from there.” Gus motioned Marjorie closer, so close, in fact, that she could smell peppermint gum on his breath. He pulled up the second of her spreadsheets and scrolled down. “See the titles marked ‘Experimental Video’ and ‘Social Commentary’?”

“Yes. I made the spreadsheets, remember?” It was hard to snap effectively within a foot of him. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she eyeing the tanned back of his neck, wondering if Lydia and Kate had noticed that too?

“I need reports on those. You can watch in the conference room.”

Marjorie backed toward the door, tripping over a stack of DVDs and toppling them. “Shit.” She bent to pick them up.

“Don’t worry about it.” He gestured her toward the door. “Just start.”

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she said, hurrying out.

“Hey, Train Wreck?”

She turned before she could stop herself from responding. “What?”

“Why are you wearing a wool hat? It’s the middle of summer.”

“Unbelievable.” She glared at him, returning to her icy nook.

24

Marjorie spent the afternoon and evening watching what seemed like the most god-awful films ever made. (But then she had not attended the feelings-themed, Cymbalta-sponsored Seattle high school festival the previous week, where teen angst met two hundred days of nonstop rain and digital video cameras. Parents actually fled the auditorium.)

Nevertheless, Marjorie’s afternoon was not without agony. Watching and synopsizing largely unedited experimental films was almost as torturous than having to create spreadsheets in the tundra. Though she applauded the filmmakers’ initiative, even the better films were too offbeat for distribution.

Just after 10:00
P.M
., she pulled off her hat, sweater, scarf, and leg warmers (yup,
leg warmers
) and left the conference room. How strange to bundle up indoors and strip down to go outside. She knocked; Gus looked up from his TV screen, pressing Pause.

“You look different.” He eyed her, standing in his doorway in short shorts and a thin tank top.

“I took off my snowsuit.”

He swallowed hard, then coughed. “No. I mean, you look bleary-eyed.”

“I finished those films and sent you descriptions. Nothing good yet.”

“Ah. That explains the exhaustion. Sorry. I meant to order us dinner.”

“No problem. Do you need me to stay and watch more?”

“Nah.” Gus looked around his office at nothing in particular. “I’ll leave soon too. We should both get some rest. Especially you. You look awful.”

“Gee, thanks. Can you repeat that at least one more time?”

“Tomorrow may be a late night, assuming these summaries are okay. I’ll pay you overtime, don’t worry.” He raised a hand in good-bye, already absorbed in the document she had sent. “See you tomorrow.”

Marjorie returned to the conference room, shut down the computer, and organized her pens. She was starting to feel ownership over this subarctic enclave. As she reached the exit, she heard a booming laugh from inside Gus’s office. And she smiled, despite herself.

EXPERIMENTAL VIDEO Short Films

Descriptions by Marjorie Plum

1. ELECTRIC KOOL-AID & ALL THAT JAZZ

In b&w. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room. A door opens. A door shuts. The shadow of a fan plays on a white wall in a dim, cavernous room for 22 more minutes. Why, God? Why???! [27 minutes]

2. A BAD NIGHT

A 24-year-old filmmaker playing a hard-living 64-year-old (read: stuffed midriff, sprayed gray hair) saddles up to a bar and orders a drink from an underage bartender with a very real Road Runner tattoo on his arm. The drinker has had a rough day, but don’t get too excited because we never find out why. This is a silent film, after all. The only text: “This is the worst night of my life, a very bad night.” And then “May I please have a Budweiser. I don’t like Coors.” Superbowl ad? [19 minutes]

3. SURREALISM & THE MELTING CLOCK

A young film student wants to be Fellini. Sadly, he is not. [32 minutes (I will never get back)]

SOCIAL COMMENTARY Short Films

1. TWITTER BUG

To the tune of a jitterbug, sepia-filtered screen shots of Twitter feeds, Pinterest boards, Facebook pages, Instagram photos, Tumblr accounts, Linkedin connections, and even Friendster and MySpace profiles, proving that old people (aka the film festival judges) still fall for it when twenty-somethings drop the term “social media.” [11 minutes]

2. MAN ON THE TOWN

Man sees girl in park. Man stalks girl. Man buys weird large fake flower for girl, perhaps like a clown? I start to think Man is special needs. Man follows girl home. Girl goes inside. Girl’s boyfriend comes over. We realize that girl does not know Man exists. Man goes home and discontinues his Match.com profile. We pan to Man’s wall. It is (gasp!) plastered with pictures of girl. He goes to sleep wearing a T-shirt with her picture on it and masturbating. Then I die of boredom. Why not disgust, you ask? Hard to say. [38 painful minutes]

3. PASS THE BUCK

We’ve all seen this in other incarnations. It’s the pass-the-dollar movie, questioning currency’s inherent value. At a gas station store in “Nebraska” (actually off I-95 in NJ), a man buys cigarettes with a crumpled dollar. Then a NYC “career woman” on a business trip gets it as change for Certs. She takes the bill to the Museum of Natural History. It goes on from there, making its way to fake Africa (Brighton Beach, maybe?), where the dollar buys a pen of chickens for a happy Kenyan family. No irony included. [22 minutes]

25

That night, to Marjorie’s chagrin, Fred was out again, but she’d left a note on the kitchen counter:

My Dearest Marjorie Morningblatt!

I haven’t seen you in eons! Don’t we live together or something? Save Thursday. That’s the real party night anyway. We’re going to get crazy at the club (couch) with bottle service (box wine), farm-to-table haute cuisine (takeout & stolen tomatoes), and foreign films (something terrible with Katherine Heigl).

I’m expecting some good stories about your stalker/lover. Prepare accordingly.

Love, Moonlight, & Twinkletoes ’til then! xoFredericka

Marjorie smiled. Fred was out of her mind in the best way.

She managed a half-civil phone conversation with her mother, watched an episode of MTV’s
Awkward,
remembered how awful being fifteen could feel, then packed a bag—she’d stay at Mac’s after tomorrow’s film marathon. Then she went to sleep.

At the office the next day, the reception desk was unmanned. Apparently, Gus hadn’t gotten desperate enough to rally the college troops. Marjorie poured herself a cup of coffee and threw her lunch in the fridge. She hadn’t gone grocery shopping, and the sandwiches were getting progressively sadder. Today’s special was almond butter and marmalade on stale olive bread, an innately bad combination. She walked down the hall and swung the conference room door open, ready to settle in.

Marjorie froze in the entrance. All her supplies were gone: her office laptop, her organized pens, the scissor—
her
scissor! Had she mistaken Gus’s laughter at her summaries the night before for approval when it was mockery? Was she about to get fired?

As Marjorie stared at her disassembled workstation, PTSD from years of Brianne’s abuse reared its head. Her surprise turned to anger; her hands balled into fists. She would lecture Gus on disrespect, citing his arrogance and the misery that no doubt awaited him when he died alone!

Startled by a tap on her shoulder, she whipped around and almost smashed into the scoundrel himself. He ducked, protecting the Java the Hutt cup in his hand.

“Whoa! I was about to give you this coffee, but maybe you’ve had enough caffeine this morning.”

Flushed—from humiliation or fury?—Marjorie glared. She cursed how relaxed and golden tan he looked in his thin blue button-down, untucked, over jeans. In place of an articulate insult, she managed a petulant, “Where’s my stuff?”

Gus didn’t register her upset. He nodded toward the hall. “I moved you to Michael’s office. Can’t have you freezing your ass off all day. Plus, you looked ridiculous in that wool hat.” She peered at him, uncomprehending. He held out the coffee; she took it. “I got you a soy latte. No idea what you like, but that’s what they do best and I figured it was safe in case you can’t do milk.”

The thoughtful gesture only confused her more. Marjorie stood for a stupid beat, staring at the drink like she’d never seen one before. Gus pried the cup of crappy office coffee from her other hand and tossed it in the trash. He beckoned her to follow. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

He’d transferred Michael’s belongings to a cardboard box in the corner. In their place sat Marjorie’s work computer and office supplies (the scissor!), plus a packet of highlighters gathered in a red Moroccan-style cup. A thermostat pronounced the room a very temperate seventy-two degrees. Recovering herself, Marjorie ran a finger along the penholder’s etched glass. “This is really pretty.”

“Yeah. It’s just a festival giveaway, but it seemed girly and … well, you’re a girl, so…”

“I am a girl. That is correct.” Marjorie turned toward Gus, touched and humbled. “Thank you for moving me. It was … considerate.” She gave his forearm a friendly squeeze, but he jumped like she was radioactive. Then, embarrassed, he shuffled his feet, peering down at his sneakers like an overgrown child. He looked up at her, parted his lips to speak, then shook his head and closed his mouth tightly.

“Okay. Time to work. I e-mailed you which films to cover. Don’t summarize them all—just the ones you like or think are commercial.”

Marjorie grinned. “Does that mean you trust me?”

“Let’s not overstate it. I’m desperate, remember? But your work last night wasn’t horrible.”

“Wow.” She pressed a hand to her chest in mock swoon. “An
almost
compliment from the great Gus Rinehart.”

“You know my last name.”

“Yes. Because I’m not a moron. Remember?”

“So you keep claiming, Train Wreck.” With that, Gus crossed to his office and shut the door. Marjorie set down her coffee and settled into Michael’s ergonomic chair, sighing happily.

She mucked through many films: long, short, Technicolor, black and white, pretentious, goofy—almost all were poor matches for G & G. She wrote only a couple summaries, but something about Gus’s trust in her made the process feel more satisfying.

1. EAR WAX

A man walks into a doctor’s office (no, this is not a borscht belt joke) to get his ears professionally cleaned. The wax gets sucked through mad-scientist’s-lab-style glass tubing and into a beaker (gnarly). The man leaves, thrilled with his new supersonic hearing. But outside, the traffic and ambient noise is too loud. He can’t focus. At his office, he overhears people’s deep dark secrets and coworkers saying terrible things about him. Finally, he can’t take it anymore. He runs back to the doctor and demands his wax back. Alas, says the nurse, it cannot be retrieved. The doctor is an amateur artist; the wax is now part of a sculpture of his dachshund. THE END. Good for Science Channel? Discovery? Comedy Central? [13 minutes]

2. CALL 9/11

I’m skeptical about 9/11 movies because they’re automatically emotional, good filmmaking or not. (Plus, no one wants to hear other people’s 9/11 stories—it’s like sharing dreams.) BUT, this is from the perspective of a child. Overwrought, but also kind of good. The main character, a 2nd grader, finds out what happened at school. While the teacher explains, he draws a picture of the towers and then erases it. The image comes back; it disappears. He goes home and watches his mother watching TV from the doorway of his living room; the camera work reflects his confusion. [7 minutes]

After a film about U.S. reliance on foreign oil through the lens of cartoon hip-hop lab rats, Marjorie needed a break; she was hearing squeaky rodent voices in her head. Plus, it was lunchtime. She set the computer to sleep and rose, cringing at her atrophied muscles.

In the kitchen, she pulled her sandwich from its baggy and stared at it ominously before going to take a bite.

“What is that?” Gus’s voice boomed from the doorway.

“My lunch.”

“No. It’s not.” He took the thing from her hand and threw it in the garbage.

“Hey! You can’t keep doing that to me!”

“That’s disgusting. And you need fuel to keep working.”

“Who are you? My middle school health teacher?”