Monday–Tuesday
Back home after dinner, I called my father, who was cranky. Then Luke, my boyfriend, who wasn’t. After that I called Susan, my closest friend. My daily check-ins complete, I climbed into bed and was soon immersed in a novel about time travel when my cell chirped. A text from Mac, my director and cameraman.
“Call at 6 a.m. Have to light the whole booth.”
I wondered for the umpteenth time if I was getting too old for early morning shoots. We were producing a video for Delcroft Aviation, one of the largest aircraft manufacturers in the world, with huge civilian and military contracts. Headquartered in the Loop, they’d been around for years but had recently updated their corporate communications strategy. Now they wanted to appear “engaged with and interested in” their publics. In the age of Facebook, Twitter, and about a hundred other social media networks, I wondered how much a consultant had been paid to come up with such an obvious strategy. I didn’t mind too much, though; the consultant recommended a video about the company, and Delcroft asked me for an RFP. We would feature only Delcroft’s consumer aviation side. We were to have nothing to do with their military aircraft, bombers, and drones, which probably accounted for a hefty chunk, if not most, of the corporation’s profits.
The video I proposed would be released in “chapters,” like a book. A new “chapter” would appear on their website, Facebook, and YouTube once a week over several months. Delcroft would also sponsor a contest in which regular folks could win tickets to the destination of their choice, no strings attached.
Delcroft liked the idea, and we were now shooting one of our final setups, an aviation trade show at McCormick Place, where Delcroft was a major exhibitor.
Mac, prudent as always, was on top of everything.
“I’ll bring coffee,” I texted back.
The sun winked off the frozen surface of Lake Michigan the next morning as I drove south to McCormick Place. During one of the most brutal Chicago winters in decades, the smudge of purple clouds tinged with pink and gold hinted that the fury of winter might—just might—have peaked. I parked in the overpriced lot, bought half a dozen cups of overpriced coffee, and carried them into the massive exhibit hall.
The crew was setting up lights and shades, and Mac was behind the camera framing shots. MacArthur J. Kendall III owns a production studio in Northbrook. He started out shooting sweet sixteens, bar mitzvahs, and weddings but parlayed that into corporate videos. We’ve worked together for nearly twenty years, from the days of two-inch video, to one-inch, three-quarter, and now digital.
Mac’s name, salt-and-pepper hair, button-down shirts, and penny loafers scream WASP, but the nasty scar running down his left cheek saves him from total Episcopalian infamy. He tells people he was attacked by a Mexican drug lord and made me swear never to reveal it was from a car accident.
I went up to him. “What do you need me to do?”
“You have the shot list?”
I nodded and pulled it out of the canvas bag that doubles as my purse. We went over it. He gestured to the main area of the Delcroft booth, which featured a large projection screen with the company logo on both sides, and about twenty chairs arranged theater-style.
“What time’s the first presentation?”
Teresa Basso Gold, our client contact, had told us to be prepared for a series of short remarks by Delcroft executives touting the company’s latest innovations.
I checked my watch. Barely six thirty. “The doors don’t open until nine, and Teresa said not to expect anyone until ten. But you can get some establishing shots, if you want.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Mac said and strolled over to confer with the crew.