poster up against the wet paint as he was told. “Okay, fuck it up some,” said Gogo, and Benjy flung droplets of red paint across it. “One more time. Yeah, there you go. Art for the artists,” Gogo said.
“We’re ready,” the tech guy with the skunk-shave hairdo announced. He’d been shifting the floodlights around and checking his meter, and now everything was as he wanted.
“Let me tell you how we’re going to do this.” Gogo took a black handkerchief from an inner jacket pocket and wiped the sparkles of sweat from his cheeks, even though the fan’s air was fluttering his bolo. “We’re going to get you placed, and then I’m going to gab with you for about a minute in front of this wall,” and here he indicated the red-spattered poster and the bullet holes. “Then we’ll move you back there,” a nod toward Old Glory against the shiny burn, “and gab for about two more minutes. That’s your spot, three minutes. You really get more than that, ’cause remember, we’re showing the video in between the backdrop changes. George, how about introducing me around real quick, huh?”
“Hey…can I ask something?” Nomad spoke up, before any introductions could be started. He didn’t wait to be invited. The heat, a solid prickly thing, was making sweat itch the back of his neck and trickle down his sides. Gogo stared at Nomad blankly, as he put his handkerchief away. “I’m not getting what this place has to do with our video.”
“I’ll tell you, then.” Gogo didn’t miss a beat. His tone was flat and his eyes were still blank, as if he were conserving all his energy for the interview. “I watched your video, okay? Very technically well done. Who shot it for you?”
“Some film students at UT,” George answered.
“The actors were students?”
“Yeah, but we hired local actors too.” It was amazing how quickly a video project could eat up two thousand dollars, if you really wanted it to look pro: the costumes, the props, the smoke pots and blank ammo, the special effects and the editing work. In the end, as they were running out of cash, George sold an old reel-to-reel tapedeck he had in a closet, Nomad tapped the account that held the money he earned as a house-painter, Mike ditched an axe on eBay, Berke gave an afternoon of drum lessons to teenage wannabees at the Oakclaire Drive YMCA for twenty bucks, Ariel played for change several days running on the UT campus, and Terry donated from his gig giving piano lessons at the Episcopal Student Center on 27th Street.
“And it was shot where?” Gogo asked, still staring at Nomad. “Looked like some kind of abandoned building, about as fucked up as this one.”
“An apartment complex,” Nomad said, getting the point. “Turned into a crackhouse. A few days away from the wrecking-ball.”
“There you go, huh? I wanted the interviews to have the same kind of backdrop as the video. Wanted it to be edgy. See, I even found you some bullet holes, so you should be grateful. They’ll look good in the shot, won’t they, Hector?”
“Yeah, muy bueno ,”said Hector.
“Okay, then. Christ, I’m melting. Introductions, Georgie. Who does what?”
George did a quick job of the intros, because it was obvious Gogo wanted to get to business. That was fine for everyone else, because they were all sweating and miserable in this mean little room. Then Gogo said, “Ready,” the two techs got their camcorders, switched on the cam lights and checked the volume settings on the microphones. The generator’s low drone in the other room wasn’t loud enough to kill anything in here, and Nomad figured it helped the vibe.
“Okay, everybody move against this wall. Watch the paint…what’s your name again?”
“Ariel.”
“Wet paint, Ariel. Scruffy, move to your left about a foot. We want the poster to show.” Mike obeyed without comment. “How’s it look?” This question was aimed at the techs, who were peering through their rubber-rimmed
“We’re ready,” the tech guy with the skunk-shave hairdo announced. He’d been shifting the floodlights around and checking his meter, and now everything was as he wanted.
“Let me tell you how we’re going to do this.” Gogo took a black handkerchief from an inner jacket pocket and wiped the sparkles of sweat from his cheeks, even though the fan’s air was fluttering his bolo. “We’re going to get you placed, and then I’m going to gab with you for about a minute in front of this wall,” and here he indicated the red-spattered poster and the bullet holes. “Then we’ll move you back there,” a nod toward Old Glory against the shiny burn, “and gab for about two more minutes. That’s your spot, three minutes. You really get more than that, ’cause remember, we’re showing the video in between the backdrop changes. George, how about introducing me around real quick, huh?”
“Hey…can I ask something?” Nomad spoke up, before any introductions could be started. He didn’t wait to be invited. The heat, a solid prickly thing, was making sweat itch the back of his neck and trickle down his sides. Gogo stared at Nomad blankly, as he put his handkerchief away. “I’m not getting what this place has to do with our video.”
“I’ll tell you, then.” Gogo didn’t miss a beat. His tone was flat and his eyes were still blank, as if he were conserving all his energy for the interview. “I watched your video, okay? Very technically well done. Who shot it for you?”
“Some film students at UT,” George answered.
“The actors were students?”
“Yeah, but we hired local actors too.” It was amazing how quickly a video project could eat up two thousand dollars, if you really wanted it to look pro: the costumes, the props, the smoke pots and blank ammo, the special effects and the editing work. In the end, as they were running out of cash, George sold an old reel-to-reel tapedeck he had in a closet, Nomad tapped the account that held the money he earned as a house-painter, Mike ditched an axe on eBay, Berke gave an afternoon of drum lessons to teenage wannabees at the Oakclaire Drive YMCA for twenty bucks, Ariel played for change several days running on the UT campus, and Terry donated from his gig giving piano lessons at the Episcopal Student Center on 27th Street.
“And it was shot where?” Gogo asked, still staring at Nomad. “Looked like some kind of abandoned building, about as fucked up as this one.”
“An apartment complex,” Nomad said, getting the point. “Turned into a crackhouse. A few days away from the wrecking-ball.”
“There you go, huh? I wanted the interviews to have the same kind of backdrop as the video. Wanted it to be edgy. See, I even found you some bullet holes, so you should be grateful. They’ll look good in the shot, won’t they, Hector?”
“Yeah, muy bueno ,”said Hector.
“Okay, then. Christ, I’m melting. Introductions, Georgie. Who does what?”
George did a quick job of the intros, because it was obvious Gogo wanted to get to business. That was fine for everyone else, because they were all sweating and miserable in this mean little room. Then Gogo said, “Ready,” the two techs got their camcorders, switched on the cam lights and checked the volume settings on the microphones. The generator’s low drone in the other room wasn’t loud enough to kill anything in here, and Nomad figured it helped the vibe.
“Okay, everybody move against this wall. Watch the paint…what’s your name again?”
“Ariel.”
“Wet paint, Ariel. Scruffy, move to your left about a foot. We want the poster to show.” Mike obeyed without comment. “How’s it look?” This question was aimed at the techs, who were peering through their rubber-rimmed
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