He moves into my vision with that sad, slack-jawed, Droopy McCool look in his eye. He smiles at me like a three year old who went potty like a big boy or a dog that killed yet another gopher and deposited it all self congratulatory on my back porch.
He gets up and moves away, laughingly high fiving the other guys.
The camera guy yawns.
The director snorts another line.
Darla comes in over my left shoulder with a towel and bag of ice. One for the mess and one for the swelling. She’s a chubby girl, not a performer, just some sister or cousin or failed film school reject looking for a foot into the bigs. She reassures me, “You’re doing so good…Only thirty more.”
She can’t look me in the eye.
I stretch my legs. Extend my back a little.
I motion to the next guy.
“I’m your biggest fan.” His breath smells like whiskey.
He makes the bed rock. I stare at the ceiling, his shoulder blurs my vision every other second.