PERILIOUS FOOTING

I watched him finish up the scene, more consumed by my own reactions than those that were being captured on film.  The gaffer to my left wiped his forehead and complained about the heat.  I didn’t even notice it.   The afternoon felt almost balmy compared to the heat raging in me.

My girlfriends back in London had warned me about him.  They said he was a hard drinker and a womanizer.  There was no evidence of either during these last weeks, although I did see him brushing off the advances of a peroxide blonde in low rider jeans.  Someone had casually mentioned that the blonde was his wife, but I didn’t believe it.  His actions were hardly that of a newlywed husband.

It didn’t matter, really, because outside of a few mumbled greetings, he hadn’t spoken to me.   Apparently that was typical of him.  I rarely saw him speak to the crew, and if he did, it was quietly done.  Aside from the script girl who was clearly infatuated with him, most of us steered away from him.

So, imagine my surprise when after the scene wrapped, he abruptly turned to stare at me.  I looked around, fully expecting to find a willowy beauty standing behind me.  Instead I found nothing, except for the wink he gave me when I realized my error. 

I ducked behind the first cameraman and regrouped.  Was it possible he was able to read my mind?  I had heard actors, or at least the good ones, were intuitive. Was he somehow attuned to the dirty wet thoughts spinning around my head?  I immediately dismissed the idea.  If it were true, then he would have been inundated with them.  I don’t think there was a woman on the set who wasn’t in love with him.

I felt a tug at my sleeve.  I turned around to find his craggy face inches away from mine.  “Why don’t yeh have a drink with meh after we wrap?”

He didn’t wait for my answer.  Instead he gave me a peck on the cheek and ambled away in those tight green trousers.

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