What I Really Want to do is Direct Excerpt Pulling into the driveway of the rundown Victorian I call home, I find a motorcycle in my parking spot, surrounded by spare parts. Again. Cursing, I back into the street and leave the Jeep halfway up the block, risking the twenty-dollar ticket. It's 3:00a.m., but the lights are still on in the basement. I consider stopping to give Crusher a piece of my mind but decide against it and proceed up the stairs to my apartment. Better to leave it 'til morning when I can rouse him out of a deep slumber. I kick off my shoes and walk into the kitchen, gasping as my feet hit the cold puddle stretching out from the refrigerator. The Doobie Brothers are Rockin' down the Highway when I bang on the basement door. A massive form blocks the light as my landlord, a biker in his late forties, greets me. It's a cool night, but he's wearing a leather vest over a bare chest. All the better to showcase the tattoos, one of which stretches across his big belly, reading Ars longa, vita brevis. "What's up?" he asks. "I had to park on the street again." "Sorry, I got distracted." He strokes his long, grizzled beard absently. "I didn't expect you home so soon." "It's 3:00 a.m. And there's water all over my kitchen floor. You promised you'd get me a new fridge weeks ago. And I don't mean another crappy used one, either." "So what you're saying is, you're here as a tenant." "Of course I am here as a tenant. What do you expect at this time of the night?" "Jesus, you're cranky. Why don't we take Elvira out for a run to calm you down?" I'm quite certain that I will not find a ride behind Crusher on his big Harley at all calming, especially not at this hour. "What I want is a cold beer." "Why didn't you say so? Tough first day?" Nodding, I duck under his hairy armpit and fling myself onto his couch. Crusher retrieves a six-pack of Budweiser from his fridge, opens a can and hands it to me without offering me a glass. "I'm so tired I almost drove off the road." "That's what you get for working for the man." He cracks open another beer and downs it in a few gulps before crushing the can and tossing it across the room and into the recycling box. "The film business is hardly the establishment." Crusher is proud of the fact that he has never held down a "real" job, preferring to live humbly on his own terms. "What do you think?" he points toward an easel where-upon his latest project resides: a half-finished painting of a motorcycle on black velvet. Crusher's portraiture has quite a following at biker clubs throughout the city. "A Yamaha FZ1," I say. I've seen a lot of bikes come and go in the years I've lived here and I've learned a thing or two. "I believe I just saw her in my parking spot." "Had to fluff my model." Crusher walks into the kitchen and opens a can of soup to heat it in the microwave. "Speaking of fluffing, how's the cast?" "Zara's a bitch, Shawna's a lush, and Burk's an incompetent chauvinist pig who refuses to use marks. I'm doomed." "You told me Olivier O'Brien couldn't hit a mark to save his life and Seattle's as sharp as a tack." "Yeah, but I'm under more pressure on this movie. Hank is sort of auditioning me." "Auditioning you? For what?" "He said he'd consider me as cinematographer for a movie he's doing in Morocco. But more importantly, if I show him I have the chops, his new production company might take on The Lobby." Crusher pours the soup into two chipped bowls and lays a piece of Wonderbread beside each one. "Huh." "What's that supposed to mean?" "It means did he put it in writing?" "Not yet." "So he's got you busting your hump for nothing." "Not for nothing. If I impress him, he'll promote me." "But if you still don't know if he'll buy your script." "It's a great script. He's going to love it." "It's been rejected before." I throw my spoon on the table. "Could you be a little more negative?" "I'm just being realistic. Hank's not offering guarantees. And from what you've told me over the years, being promoted to cinematographer by a director you barely know is a pretty major break. Didn't Damon light a ton of rock videos before he got to shoot a film? "Hank knows my work. It's our fourth movie together. And FYI, lots of people land their first cinematography job on a feature film." I've heard of one, anyway. "I'm ready for it. In fact, my new motto is: Start Big and Stay Big." That's the beer talking. There was nothing about today's shoot to encourage such bravado. "If you're so ready, why hasn't Damon promoted you yet?" "He's waiting for the right opportunity." "But Hank's just going to hand it to you? What in it for him?" "An original screenplay that's going to make his company a lot of money. Plus the satisfaction of giving and up-and-comer a break." Crusher smirks. "So few successful directors spend time mentoring. Hank's my hero." "I can handle Hank." "He's counting on it." "Shut up. He knows I did a great job on Seattle. I just have to show him that I'm ready to take it to the next level." "Or take it to the bedroom." I rise, Wonderbread uneaten, and stalk indignantly to the door. "This is about my untapped talent. You'll see, big guy." "It's about Hank's unbridled libido, and you'll see, little girl." © Yvonne Collins & Sandy Rideout