Home at last!

You'd think I don't even live here anymore. The past days have been so hectic I don't know where to begin.

Well, first off with a bit of good news: on Saturday, I managed, for the first time in ages, to actually write more of FG. My little baby of a fiction is still alive and kicking, if not often.

But since Saturday evening (well, night, actually ―how else can I write but by losing a few hours of sleep?), time has either entered a warp of its own, or I've merely been so busy that TIME ITSELF has deemed me too screwed up to bother with acting normally around me.

In the past few days, friends, my life has been nothing but a disorganized schedule of events that are all, in some way, related to the same bloody film project.

You'd think I'd have updated before today. I would. But when you know you have class at eight in the morning and Slim just dropped you off and it's one in the morning, you kinda need to set your priorities straight.

Here's a quick summary of my week:

On Monday, Slim gave me a lift home, saw my Halloween costume, met my parents for the first time since the sixth grade, and we played Snowpeak Ruins in Twilight Princess for the Wii. He then left to go meet up with his girlfriend.

Monday evening, I receive a furious mail from Slim that basically goes like this: "THOSE BASTARDS!!!! I TOLD THEM WE'D DO THE EDITING AT MY PLACE, NOW THEY WANT IT DONE AT SCHOOL!!! THOSE BASTARDS!!! THERE'S NO WAY I CAN EDIT WITH THOSE SHITTY COMPUTERS!"

And I start to fume. Dom and Gen, by now, were really starting to kill all our options for a decent editing. Furious as well, I reply with a few choice words that I will not repeat here.

I spend the whole night raging against Dom, the asshole, for being such a stubborn control freak, and against people who don't know how things work, and I make a long list of arguments to convince him and his girlfriend that if we didn't edit the film on Slim's computer ―which is, by rights, Slim's decision― the movie would suck.

Slim, I noticed the next morning, seemed to have done the same, if the circles under his eyes were any indication.

Tuesday morning, we stumble into class. Dom and Gen aren't there. No surprise. Mac joins us in the back of the class. Strangely, we are at peace with our producers' idiocy.

I say to Slim, "Our arguments for editing at your place: 1. It's more efficient, technically. 2. It's more practical for you. 3. It's your job, therefore we should all accomodate you, not our petty wants. And 4. It'll prevent Dom from entering the account while we're not there to tamper with your work, which is exactly what he's planning and you know it."

Slim says, "I'd rather have your help than his. At least you know how Premiere Pro works."

"Are we supposed to re-shoot the lake scene today?" Mac asks, suddenly. We turn to him.

"Yeah." "Yes."

"Oh. Because it's raining like Satan himself has made the angels weep."

"Charming."

"Fuck! What are we going to do??"

At this moment, Dom and Gen enter the classroom. Gen comes next to me and says, "We have a problem."

I refrain from telling her, 'Yes, you.' Instead I go for, "What is it?"

"It's raining. A lot. And the river level is high. We can't film the shot today, but we only have the equipment until tomorrow at noon. It's not enough."

"Oookay. Then we'll rent it one more day and hope it doesn't rain tomorrow."

"Yeah, but..."

"One other tidbit of news," I add, "we're doing the editing at Slim's place, un point, c'est tout."

Gen's dismay melts into a semi-glare. Coldly, she asks, "And how is that?"

Calmly, I say, "Because that's just how it is. There's no other way we can do a good job."

" 'We'?" She echoes. "Since when are you getting involved with this? It's Dom and Slim's job."

"Actually," Slim intervenes suddenly, "if you'll look at the sheets we were handed at the start of the session, it's the editor's job and the sound-recorder's job. Me and CM. Dom's role is just to look over from time to time and tell us if we're on the right track."

"But Dom has to do something in it too."

"Then he'll come to my place, like everyone else."

"It's not right."

"If it's a control issue," Slim says, coldly, "Then it's not a valuable argument. I want one straight reason for which we should use the cegep's crappy PCs as opposed to my computer."

Gen and Dom opened their mouths, then closed them again, like gaping fish. Mac snickered. Before they could gather their wits, I rattled off all our infallible arguments.

"Look, we know that you want to make it into a good movie," I say, "but Dom did all the camera work, leaving Mac without a job during the shoots. It's out of the question that we let him take over the editing too. It's time for the second half of this team to show what we're made of. This is Slim's job primarily; it's only natural that we accomodate him."

For the next forty-five minutes, it was an argument between the two factions, one of them being 'common sense' and the other being 'need for control'.

But since Slim and I have more practice in calm logic and rationale, as well as the sort of natural confidence that we draw from one another's support, we brought them around to our way of thinking. It was a sort of tacit victory, one that we didn't brag about, but the look we exchanged once Dom and Gen walked off in frustrated defeat was eloquent and comforted.

As soon as we'd picked up the equipment, Slim gave Mac and I a lift back to his place. We were to locate the good takes and upload them in the afternoon, as well as record me in the car trunk ―since the first version distorted and sounded terrible― and a few other sounds.

We walked into his door at 1:00 (after dropping by Subway for sandwiches), and by six o'clock, we still hadn't finished noting the timecodes, which are essential for video capture. I was so tired of watching and judging our takes that I wanted to break something; Mac was exhausted and was nearly dozing on the camera stand, while Slim was, indeed, sleeping on his bed, his breath low and regular.

Suddenly, I let out a tired sigh, which woke him. He blinked and propped himself up across from me. Mumbling, he asked, "Are we done yet?"

"No. There's still the sound timecodes, and we don't have the lake re-shoots," I grumbled, handing him two pages of tiny numbers. "But before we move on, I should call mom to tell her this will take longer than I expected."

Mac, falling backwards on Slim's second bed (Slim has two twin beds in his room, and they're not even stuck together; it's weird but kind of cool too), groans, "Why didn't Gen and Dom let us take the timecodes down while we were filming?"

Slim and I exchange glances. Then, boredly, Slim comments, "What else is new? Anyway, what's your plan?"

Before I can reply, Mac says, "Look, guys, I need to get back home, because I have to finish my Photography project for tomorrow."

Slim purses his lips, then, after a little while, says, "Okay. We'll take you there." He turns to me. "While we're out, I'd like to buy the last things for my costume and a new DV cable from BestBuy."

"And food," I say, a little plaintively.

He snorts. "Nah, you can starve."

We drove Mac back to his house, then went around a few choice stores, including BestBuy (for the cable), Sears (for my schedule) and Wal-Mart (for fabric).

On the way back, Slim, between H.I.M. songs and head-trashing bouts, said, contemplatively, "You know that we've been bitching about Dom and Gen's attitude and right now―"

"They're bitching about us because―"

"Yeah. The editing at my place." He shot me a broad smirk. "But guess what?"

I roll my eyes. "You don't give a damn?"

"Exactly. This is our business." He sings a few lyrics to HIM's The Sacrament, then comments, "Hey, wanna be teammates at next session's Integration Project?"

I glance at him. "Sure."

He nods and smirks. "Great. And have you heard of the contest called Fait Ça Court (Make It Short)? I think we should participate at some point."

I jump up and down in my seat. "Yes! We totally should!"

He says, "I think we have what it takes. Plus, if we take in PB and Gabie, it'll be the best short film ever made by students in our area, for sure."

"Shotgun the screenplay."

"Shotgun producing or editing."

"Or both," I remind him. "You'd be good at either. I just have one requirement."

"The movie needs to be positive?"

"Wha― Hey, yeah, how did you guess?"

He shoots me a flat look. "You seem the cheerful type, CM, and dark emo films are so popular and overdone it's obvious you'd try something different."

"Wow," I tease him, "You seem to have really pegged me down."

He snorts. "Shut up. I'm not the one who knows my face so perfectly that she can make a perfect caricature of it. I know you want me."

Sudden silence. Then I say, "Um, dude, no offence, but would you mind moving your ego a bit? It's blocking the view."

He laughs. "Your insults suck. Everything you say sucks. Heck, everything that relates to you sucks."

"I'm sitting in your car. You suck as much as me, asshole."

"Ouch, gee-tee-eff-o, bitch."

And so on. You know how it goes.

We entered his home again, and I said, "Look, it's already dark out. I really can't focus. I need to ingest something edible."

"We have leftover noodles," he said. "But first I need to go pee."

"Thanks for the declaration. Will you need any help with that?"

"With peeing? No, I can hold myself just fine, thanks."

"I meant, about the noodles."

"Oh. No. Just wait a sec."

The noodles, by the way, were awesome. We spent a good hour just talking in his darkened home about old teachers, long-past parties, trips and vacations, our families, the death of our older relatives, philosophing about God, and generally talking about all sorts of things. It was very pleasant, and often accompanied by hilarious pantomimes.

Eventually, his mother came in from work and I said hi, then complimented her on the food. She reminds me of my mom, especially since we started joking around immediately afterwards and teasing Slim, her very own son.

Her: "Slim tells me you've done a great caricature of your teammates."
Me: "Yeah, I did my best."
Her: "And you depicted him with long hair." She tisks. "He keeps saying he'd look good with long hair. Couldn't you have shortened it?"
Me: *glancing at Slim, who is calling his girlfriend because it's almost eight and she left him plenty of messages already* "Well, honestly his hair isn't that long."
Her: "Oh, no, no, it's terribly long. Slim, while you're dialling your girlfriend's number, why don't you also bother with taking a haircut appointment?"
Me: "Yeah, Slim, shouldn't you listen to your mother?"

At this, Slim looks up and replies, "I like my hair. It's not that long."

Her: "Oh, dear, he only answers to you, now. Tell him he also needs to schedule a dental appointment."
Me: "Slim, you should schedule a dental appointment."
Her: "And clean up his room."
Me: "And clean up your room. On this I concur, it's a mess."
Her: "I knew I wasn't the only one!"
Slim: "My room is clean, and yes, I know, Mom, I'll schedule it tomorrow."
Her: "Gah."
Me: "No time like the present, Slim."
Slim: "Shut up, it's ringing on the line. Don't talk to me."
Her: "Tell your girlfriend hi from me!"
Me: "Yeah, me too. Tell her I said hi."
Slim: "Be quiet!"

While he explains our situation to his girlfriend, I pick up the membership card he took at BestBuy. It's accompanied by a little information pamphlet that I begin to read. Eventually Slim hangs up and sits back down in front of me.

Slim: "Eille, arrête de lire mes affaires." ("Hey, quit reading my stuff.")
Me: "Devine quoi." ("Guess what.")
Slim: "Quoi?" ("What?")
Me: "Tu dépenses quatre cent dollars chez BestBuy et tu obtiens 400 points!" ("You spend four hundred dollars at BestBuy and you get 400 points!")
Slim: "Me semble. J'achète pas pour vingt dollars par an. Ça sert à rien." ("Figures. I don't even spend twenty dollars a year. It's useless.")
Me: "Oui mais les quatre cent points peuvent être échangés pour une carte-cadeau de... mon dieu." (Yes but the four hundred points can be exchanged for a gift-card of... my god.")
Slim: "Quoi?" ("What?")
Me: "The staggering amount of... fiiive dollars!" (said in English, this time)

Slim blinked once, twice, and suddenly we both burst into hysterical laughter.

Eventually it was decided that we should get around to recording my screams if we didn't want it to be around midnight, like last time. We weren't sure that the neighbours would appreciate my screaming and banging at such a time.

But of course, I managed to film the part where Slim tried out his own car trunk.

He's tall (6'2"), so he took a lot more space than I, and I must say that I rarely laughed as hard as when he turned his head to me and asked, "Hey, maybe I should try some yoga in here!" And then proceeded with a few yoga positions that were very poorly executed for lack of space. I was already bent in two with laughter, and he was chuckling hysterically, when suddenly he says, quoting our self-evaluation booklets from the relaxation class, "Choice of practice area? I think I'll put a zero." And we started laughing even more.

At any rate, it was half past midnight when we were finally done recording all the sounds we wanted. I was exhausted but a little euphoric, and Slim did me a great favour by driving me back home.

And then, as I stepped out of the car, he said, "Hey, wait. I'll come and pick you up at 10 tomorrow morning, okay?"

I furrow a brow, but say, "Sure, okay." He probably wanted my help with the editing programs.

Wednesday morning comes around. I'm alone at home eating toast in a zombie-like state, when the doorbell rings. I open it, and Slim, with dark circles under his eyes, is standing there.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi," I say, between bites. "Gimme a sec', I'll finish my toast. Come in."

"Okay." He steps in, looking a little asleep.

I ask, "Do you want something to eat?"

He shakes his head. "Not yet. I just woke up."

I give him a once-over. And burst out laughing. Under his jacket, he's still just wearing pyjama pants.

"What?" He asks.

"Nothing," I chuckle. "It's nothing."

His house is deserted when we enter once again. Absently I comment, "I think I've spent more time at your place in the past two days than in mine."

"Poor you," he flatly says.

"... Slim?"

"What?"

"Go get dressed."

"Oh. Yeah." He vanishes for a moment. I set up my homework and start it. He returns, fully dressed, and says, "Excuse me, I need to nourish myself."

"Okay."

"And there's my morning ritual."

"Should I dread this?"

Rather than replying, he inserts a Friends DVD into the player across his huge living room (his house is massive), and returns to the kitchen table, where I'm sitting.

"Want a waffle?" He asks.

"No, thank you."

He grunts and goes to prepare himself a large breakfast of waffles and maple syrup. I can't focus on my homework while the Friends episode is playing. I giggle at a few jokes, but Slim, downing his gigantic waffle in a few bites, doesn't really react.

Eventually, we just sit at the table in silence, and I stop working to ask, "Hey, Slim?"

"Yeah?"

"... What, exactly, am I doing here?"

He meets my gaze with a perplexed look. "... Didn't we have something to do?"

I rack my brain to remember. Finally, I say, "Um... no."

He blinks sleepily. I blink confusedly. He blinks again.

Finally, he sums up the confusion with a simple, "Fuck."

All of a sudden, the phone rings. He grabs it and asks, "Yeah?"

It's Dom. Whee.

After a short conversation, Slim hangs up and picks up his empty plate, saying, "The lake re-shoot is at two, we have to bring the equipment."

I nod, and the phone rings as Slim is about to put it back on its cradle. Rolling his eyes, he asks, "Yeah?"

It's Mac.

Slim, half-smiling, nods and says, "Yeah, sure, we'll pick you up. What? Yeah... No, we won't have to go get CM. Huh? No. No, she's here." There's a silence, and suddenly he says, "No, you asshole, she didn't stay the night. I have a girlfriend. Look, if you want a ride, be ready when we come knocking."

He hangs up and shoots me a weird look, like, 'Why the hell do these people always insinuate we have something?'

I shrug and grin. Honestly, Slim, you always talk about your girlfriend and the fights you have, but we only play-fight and we can easily guess what the other is thinking at any given time from just the body language and a glance.

Not to mention you escort me at all hours of the day and night, sometimes without reason, just because you're bored.

I really wonder why people think we're an item, moron.

Rather than say the unspeakable, I ask, "So, how do the shots look so far?"

He says, "They look and sound pretty good. I'm partial to a few of them, so it's cool. We should have fun on the editing." He hesitates a moment, looking in the direction of his basement, then says, "... gah, no."

"What, 'no'?"

He says, a little sheepishly, and admits, "It's just, I feel like playing drums. But 'no', since it's no fun for you, you'll just be watching."

I laugh. "What makes you think I don't like watching you play drums?"

He says, "Well, most people don't like watching my turned back while I hit at a few toms."

I purse my lips and stand. "Well, I have a theory."

"What?"

"It should never be boring to watch people living their passions. I learn a lot from watching others. It might be useful for writing. You never know."

He raises a brow, and after a pause, asks, "Do you always have writing in mind or something?"

I laugh. He has no idea. "Yes. Most definitely. My thoughts are always worded, they could be written on my brain."

He smirks. "Hm. I hear drum beats everywhere... Alright then, come on."

Watching the back of drummer, friends, is a real lesson in anatomy. Slim's tall, square shouldered, but has a narrow frame overall.

I just don't think I totally appreciated how muscled my friend has been all this time. He keeps it hidden under t-shirts and vests all this time. It's hypnotic, watching the shoulder blades sliding under his tank top, veins moving and the elbows bending and the biceps bunching. They're not the kind of round, evenly trained gym muscles. It's all the more interesting.

Don't get me wrong. I was also keeping time in my mind of each drum beat, and eventually, he removed his protective headphones, and I removed mine, and, slyly, he asked, "What time was that?"

"Seven eighths," I replied, smugly.

"Not bad. Listen to this."

I think one day I'll have to tell Slim that the only reason I know anything about music is because he talks about it non-stop.

I must brag, however, about the fact that I know as much about computers as he does. Hah!

To make a long story short, by the time two o'clock rolled around, we were, with Mac, on the lakeside, getting bored. As per usual, Dom was late, so we fooled around in the kiddy park, then went to investigate an old, boarded-up house (protected by an alarm; we didn't dare enter).

I had glanced at Slim on the drive over and inquired, "Shouldn't we have lunch first?" To which he'd replied, "What? No." And I'd just rolled my eyes and known that we'd regret it later.

The lake re-shoot took five hours, but the takes were our best yet, so it was worth it. Then again, when Slim leaned towards me and said, "Hey, you know when you asked about lunch?"

"Yeah?"
"And I said it wouldn't be necessary?"
"Yeah."
"That was really stupid of me."

I laugh. "I know, Slim." Cue his grumbling stomach.

A little later on, as Slim was taking a few set pictures ―for reference― and he hid himself in the long grass, Dom leaned towards me and asked, nodding in Slim's direction, though all we could see was his head and camera, "Hey, where'd you get that guy anyway?"

I shrugged. "Found him under my porch a while back and took pity on him. Asked my parents if I could keep him."

We went to McDonalds for supper. I hadn't had Mickey D's since, like, grade eight. It was interesting, especially when a little kid started jumping up and down excitedly next to Slim and I, and Slim said, his face unchanging, "Are we allowed to feed the animals?"

It was really hard to keep a straight face in front of the kid's parents. We'll leave it at that.

After we split up with Dom and Mac, I followed Slim back to his place again, and re-introduced myself to his elder sister, whom I hadn't seen since grade nine when she left our high school. We started uploading the lake shots and recorded more nonsense for our personal making-of. So far, I've got a fifteen minute reel of nothing but Slim and I play-arguing, on tape.

For the second night in a row, Slim brought me back home around one in the morning.

Thursday, I nearly came in late to school because the city bus decided it just would never come. If it hadn't been for my aunt and her sports-mom driving, I'd have been late.

Let's just say that when I came home yesterday evening, I didn't exactly rush out to go clubbing.

Today was a quiet day, a little crazy (as always), but still interesting. My English teacher is still being stubbornly annoying in his mannerisms and opinions.

I think the problem with cegep ―especially public francophone ones― is that all teachers feel compelled to share their political, cultural, social and whatever opinions openly, and disagree just as openly if you beg to differ. It's a little annoying, especially when you're one of those freaks who live on the fence because of circumstance (rich socialist, leftie, bilingual but partial to neither French nor English―which is a SERIOUS issue at times―, federalist in a world of separatists... you get my drift), you kind of get annoyed fast.

At any rate, my week has been so hectic that my free day tomorrow seems almost miraculous. I'm kind of taken short and I don't know what to do. I've been running on barely charged batteries all week. Somehow it seems unnatural to recharge fully.

Anyway, that's it for me tonight. I hope you'll all forgive me for my poor correspondence in the past weeks. I swear I do my best to keep writing and replying. For my terrible lack of courtesy, I apologize abjectly.

Love,
CM