Page 14 - Finding Tulsa - Preview

6 Jim Provenzano

“So, are we gonna do this thing?” He taps the table.
“Huh? Oh, your script.”
It’s not like I’m auditioning his work. I know Barry’s work like the
back of his butt, which I would describe as velvet marble, one of the only
non-hairy areas of his body. Barry wants to form a union, in spite of all I
did to him, his last script, the one you’re going to see happen, from ego
wars to Lucite awards.
This time, it’s different. The game isn’t, Do You Want Me? It’s, Do You
Want to Storm the Castle with Me Again?
I smile, give him an open look. I like to stare deep into people’s eyes.
It makes them think I’m being truly honest. I even fool myself. “This is
gonna be a lot of green screen, a lot of CGI.”
“You can do that.”
“It’s really great and I’m like ninety-nine and nine-tenths percent sure,
but I gotta go home for a while, you know, with the parent’s house, and
the thing at the college—”
“The retirement party for that director?”
“Yeah. Also, I gotta rip down the paneling in the basement and resur-
face the walls. Apparently, it’s rotting like the House of Usher. Might even
have to dig trenches along the outside.”
“Quelle butch.”
“So, lemme think about this.”
Listen to me. Used to be, I’d jump at anything. Used to be I was beg-
ging Barry for a project. He carried me through post-production like no
other, picking up all the slips, making it work. Had we made the shift
from passion to professionalism? Would we once again share the charge of
creation with the intimacy as near-partners? Would a new film with him
just be one big long date?
It’s late October 1999. He’s already tried to recruit me to be part of
his desert New Year’s Eve Millennium hegira, which sounds cool; camp-
ing, food, hiking, the perfect anti-party. But under it, I’d be sharing a tent
with Lance, expected to, comfortable enough to bring him, but I wonder
if Barry’s deciding to escape the city because he knows something we don’t.
We lived through the riots. We even have tapes, which we don’t replay.
Even if the romance —if you can call the occasional trailer quickie or
a late night on-location tumble as a romance— is over, I’ll be able to work
with him. I was really just playing with him, because of course I needed
the gig. Despite the Ace Award, the only offers that came have been for-
gettable; travel documentaries, industrials, a few commercials. I’d rather
hustle on Santa Monica than sign on to the torpid scripts I’d been given to