My morning meditation often resembles sleeping, and I was deep in The Zone when the phone rang, shattering the fragile peace. By the time I emerged, there was a message from Island Irv, wondering why I wasn't at Luna Cafe.
When I arrived, Lily was waiting at the counter, radiating boredom. "Where's the Islander?" I asked. She shrugged, grabbed a mug, and asked a silent question with one raised eyebrow. I nodded: the usual."
"I wouldn’t know what old men do with their time," she finally said, pushing my latte along the polished wood countertop. "They never do anything sensible."
She placed my latte on the counter. "He’s probably feeding ducks at the riverwalk. That’s what a lot of old men do. At night, they watch television, and during the day, they feed the ducks.”
I could have simply said thanks and walked away, but Lily's a good egg, and I wanted to get her out of her negative mood. But she spoke before I could think of something sufficiently witty.
"How was your drive?" she asked. "Any traffic?"
"None to speak of," I said. "It's been a pretty good morning, so far. I haven’t run over anyone, and my car managed to avoid the curbs. How's your morning?”
“About the same.”
I suddenly thought of the perfect remark to make my exit: "Lily, I'm on my way to Carolina Beach to document the filming of RJ Decker. It’s based on a Carl Hiassen novel—it’ll be like the Coen Brothers come to Carolina Beach."
"Oh, that will be fun," she said. "I wish I could go with you."
"Maybe next time," I said, and I waved a finger in response to her bon voyage. Once behind the wheel of Wind Horse, I took a breath and punched the starter button.
"Maybe I should come with you," Amy said, materialising in the passenger seat of my car. "Skinny runt like you shouldn't be sneaking around a secure film set all by yourself."
"I appreciate your offer," I told her, "but riding shotgun isn't part of your job description."
"Don't think I got much of a job description," Amy countered. "Seems to me I do whatever's got to be done, and right now I've got nothing else to do except sweep the floor."
Her talk of sweeping floors made no sense for a figment of my imagination. I considered rebutting her remarks, but that never works with her, so I gave it a miss.
"Amy, this is photo documentary work," I heard myself say. You don't know anything about that."
"I know other kinds of stuff," she replied, "and besides, I don't think you know very much about documentary work, either."
I was too offended to make an immediate reply.
"Don't get me wrong," she continued, "I'm a firm believer in denial. I mean, why deal with unpleasantness today when you might get hit by a bus tomorrow? But you, Genome, you can't rely on denial alone."
"What are you rambling about now, if anything?"
"It's because you're visually challenged," Amy said.
"You're wrong there, sister. I'm a visionary! If I were visually challenged, would I have created the Artist's Journey podcast?"
"Genome," she sighed. "When I say visually challenged, I mean ugly. When are you going to get that nose fixed?"
I stared out the windshield toward the riverfront six blocks away, wondering if driving into the Cape Fear River would help me feel better.
"Stop!" I said with perhaps a little too much topspin. "We'll both pretend we know something about documentaries."
"Now you're talking," Amy said. "I'm fired up. It's going to be hilarious watching you screw this up again. Talk about entertainment!"
"Yeah, well, let's just focus on getting some usable video. I've got to have a victory today, even a small one; my reputation is getting thrashed by all the failures we've had lately."
"See, that’s the problem with you,” Amy said. “You’re a glass-half-empty person. One of my outstanding qualities is my positive personality. You’ve got to learn to think ahead, like you should have gotten t-shirts printed with Fire Marshall on the back. That'll get you in anywhere.”
"Oh, right," I said in a stinging way, "that's a great idea, and I know one place it will definitely get you, and in a hurry."
"Oh that’s nothing to what I’m capable of, Baby," Amy said, warming to the topic. "Wait till you see me at Carolina Beach being an assistant video documentarian. I'm going to kick butt in that department."
She talks tough, but the truth is, she and I are both pretty wimpy when it comes to actual butt kicking.
"Right," I said as I started the engine. "Let's go pretend to know something about video documentaries."
“Well, you can’t go on site like that,” Amy said. “You’ve got to lose those shoes," Amy insisted. "Never gonna get away with infiltrating the film set with your head and wearing those shoes."
My blood pressure was rising again. "What do you mean by that crack? Ms. Wonder once compared my head to the dome of St. Mary's."
"Isn't she sweet?" said Amy.
And from that point on, the day went steadily downhill. It wasn't as bad as it could have been. It wasn't as bad as it's been in the past. But it wasn't good.
“No disrespect,” Amy said to me when the filming wrapped up and we were back in the car, “but you’ve done better.”
She was right, again. I once drove my mom's Toyota Avalon to Starbucks and got hit by someone who ran a stoplight as I crossed Fayetteville Street. The Avalon got t-boned, knocked into the next lane of traffic, headed in the opposite direction it should have been going. Hard to top that.
On odd days of the month, Amy wakes up wanting to work with me rather than boss me around. I only want to work with her on even days of the month. So, as we left Carolina Beach, the only documented thing was the utter failure of a documentary, but hey, at least I didn't run over anybody, and Wind Horse mostly avoided the curbs.
That counts as a victory in my thinking, and it’s a definite improvement on the great Avalon incident. Not getting t-boned is something to be grateful for. Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll go have a lie-down for some deep meditation.
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