Tuesday
The shoot went smoothly, but there were lots of talking heads, and not many cutaways or B-roll. A lot of video folks don’t mind. In fact, jump cuts of people talking, with no cover footage or transitions linking their remarks, are common in our “instant video” society. But I guess I’m a purist.
We did have plenty of video from the manufacturing facilities we’d been to, as well as interiors of the new planes they’d just introduced. Teresa had already sent me some file footage that would help us show the history of the company. Now I suggested she let us fly on one of their new planes to the Bahamas for B-roll; the light would be so much better. After all, it was February in Chicago. She rolled her eyes.
“Well…” I backed off. “There’s always Miami…”
She laughed.
I sighed.
A man eyed us as he brushed by and smiled, as if we’d all just shared a joke. He sat in one of the chairs, presumably waiting for the next speaker. He was probably somewhere in his thirties, with piercing eyes, longish black hair, and a slender build. He seemed to be part Asian, part Caucasian, and he reminded me of Keanu Reeves in a pinstriped suit.
Teresa and I exchanged glances. She smiled. “Nice.”
I checked her left hand. No wedding ring.
“He’s all yours,” I said. “I’m off the market.”
“Can’t do it,” she said. “You know what they say about where you eat…”
“Pity.” The guy was sexy in an understated but undeniable way.
“You said it.”
I liked Teresa.
Producing, when you have a great director like Mac, is easy. I didn’t have much to worry about except the script and how we’d edit the footage in post. I drifted around the booth, studying the models of wide-bodied jets. They were three feet in diameter and remarkably accurate, down to the upholstery on the tiny seats. I decided to ask for one of the models once the trade show was over. My boyfriend, Luke, is a pilot. He’d love it. I could picture it on the mantel above the fireplace in his office. Although maybe it should be suspended from the ceiling. I was mulling it over when I was interrupted by Keanu Reeves.
“Pardon me.” He smiled politely. “I couldn’t help noticing…” He motioned to the crew. “Are you with them?”
I nodded.
“What are you filming?”
“It’s a promotional video for Delcroft,” I said.
“Promotional?” He tilted his head as if he didn’t know what that meant.
Now that we were standing together, I saw that his eyes weren’t dark like his hair. In fact, they were sea blue and fringed with dark lashes. Striking.
“We’re showing the softer side of Delcroft,” I said, stealing the old Sears ad line.
His expression remained blank. He didn’t get it. I cleared my throat and stuck out my hand. “Ellie Foreman.”
He looked me over. I have long, wavy black hair, which, thanks to my hairdresser, will never contain a strand of gray, and blue-gray eyes, and I can still fit into a size eight, although they keep liberally interpreting the measurements. Still, it didn’t appear he was interested in my feminine attributes, which was what I’d figured when he approached.
We shook hands. “I’m Gregory Parks,” he said. “Do you work for Delcroft?”
“No. I’m a freelance producer. Delcroft hired me to make this video. Actually, a series of videos,” I added.
“Oh.” He didn’t seem to know what to make of that.
“I used to be in broadcast news.” I still feel compelled to tell people that. As if to assure them that while I might be a flak now, I was once a respectable member of the fourth estate. Then again, given the deplorable state of TV news today, it might not have been such a wise decision.
His brow furrowed into a puzzled expression, which was cut short by the trill of his cell. He picked up, and a tender look came over him. He spoke softly in what sounded like Chinese, smiled, then disconnected and pocketed the cell.
His smile brightened, his eyebrows arched, and he looked more interested. I wondered if he’d been talking to a woman. Maybe his girlfriend or wife. I looked for a ring but didn’t see one.
Suddenly he was all business again. “What division of Delcroft is making this—this video?”
“Public information.” I wondered why he was asking. “What about you?” I asked
“I’m a—a consultant.”
The consummate corporate catchall. It could mean anything from janitor to CEO. “That covers a lot of territory.”
“My company sent me to research new developments in aviation.”
“Oh. What company is that?”
“You wouldn’t know it.” He smiled, reached inside his jacket pocket, and pulled out a crush-proof box of Marlboros. I’d know the red-and-white logo anywhere. When I smoked, Marlboro was my brand, and the packaging hasn’t changed.
I frowned. “Those things can kill you, you know.” One of the things I’m most proud of is that I quit twenty years ago.
He colored and reached back into his jacket. “Sorry. I meant to give you this.” He withdrew a business card, handed it to me, and put the cigarette box back into his pocket. I dug into my bag and gave him one of mine in return.
I took a look at the card. Just his name, an email, and a phone number.
“And the company?” I asked again.
His color deepened. “Actually—uh—I’m doing some work with Delcroft.”
“Really.”
He nodded.
“Well, in that case, don’t let me keep you. Nice meeting you, Gregory.” I dropped his card into my bag and turned away. He’d been pumping me. Checking me out. But he clearly didn’t appreciate being pumped in return.
When we broke for lunch at a McCormick Place restaurant, I spotted Gregory again across the room. He waved as if we were best friends. I waved back.
“Who’s that?” Mac asked between bites of a supersized twelve-inch hot dog.
“I’m really not sure. At first I thought he was trying to pick me up.” I paused. “But he wasn’t. He was pumping me about Delcroft. But then he said he worked with them.”
Mac raised his eyebrows.
“Weird dude.” I said.
The rest of the day was a blur of presentations, close-ups of the model planes, and cutaways. By the time we were finished, it was after six.
“Shall I upload the footage to you?” Mac asked.
Now that everything’s digital, I no longer need to spend long hours in a dark room hunched over a machine with an editor. I can screen and tag shots on my desktop, then email Mac what I want. Still, I miss the intimacy of the editing room. That’s where the magic happens, and if you’re lucky enough to have an editor like Hank Chenowsky, who works for Mac, it doesn’t feel like work, even when I walk out of a darkened room hours later like a cranky owl blinking in the sunshine.
“You know what? I think I’ll come over tomorrow morning and screen it with Hank. Let him know, okay?”
“Good deal,” Mac said. “Bring doughnuts.”