Make Believe comes to us from Kurt Fillmore. It has been [mistakenly] rejected by the following:

• The Sun Magazine
• The Atlantic
• The Boulevard Magazine

Kurt provided the following Bio:

I was born in the central valley of California in 1960. I spent my early youth moving between Fresno, Merced, and Dinuba. After that I did a hitch with the U.S. Navy, reaching Photographer’s Mate 3rd class (E-4), and getting an Honorable Discharge in 1985. Along the way, I was writing. Some short stories, but mostly Motion Picture Screenplays. I never did sell anything, but my skills improved. I bopped from job to job, moving to Sonoma County in Northern California and getting training in Electronics technology. I began work as a Technician testing and repairing board level circuits in 1996. Various economic down turns took their toll and I was again moving from job to job. I’ve been working as a Technical Manager for a family fun center, or arcade, since 2015. After the Screen Writer’s Guild Strike I gave up on my dream of selling a screenplay and moved back to writing stories. In 2025 I made my first sale. ‘Make Believe’ is my second. I will continue writing fiction in various genres, inventing characters and situations that I hope readers will enjoy.I am active on Bluesky – where I follow writers, artists, and filmmakers.

When I asked Kurt what he loves about this story, this was his response:

As to what I love about this story, I think I love the first person immediate way it’s put together. When I wrote it I knew I wanted a back and forth between the director and the producer. Didn’t really have a plan, just let things evolve naturally.

---

Make Believe, by Kurt Fillmore

Charlie’s got me cornered up on a scaffolding. We’re watching as carpenters tack wood moldings down a length of wall, shots from nail guns sounding all around. Behind Charlie a pair of muscular twins, both union painters, sweep hoses over the facade, spraying brown paint in a mist and breathing through their respirators.

            In a few weeks we’ll be filming the big bank robbery scene. I’m directing, from a script that Charlie, the producer, hired a writer to bang out. But Charlie’s been messing with the story, and I’m not happy.

            “Two people come out of a building,” he says.

            “Yeah, and?”

            Charlie toys with the flaked end of his cigar, well chewed, but never lit. “I’m getting to that. It’s raining, see?”

            “We’ll have to tent the cameras and bring in a crane,” I say, “spray rigs, hoses.”

            Charlie waves off my concerns. “It’s cheap, Maxie owes me.”

            About then I hear faint strains of music.

            My one, my only prayer, is that someday you’ll care.

            Charlie’s watch chimes “It’s Only Make Believe” every hour. On set he bunches up the sleeve of his suit and presses hard against his wrist at 8:59, then at 9:59, 10:59, and so on. I think his wife got him the watch, and some color blind, long-distance trucker turned fashion consultant talked him into that white suit with the wide, cream lapels.

            I nod and check my own watch. Just two o’clock.

            The craft truck, with treasures of iced bottled water, waits two stories below.

            And Charlie stands between me and the ladder.

            “The two people walk under a street lamp and we see it’s George and Annabell.”

            I groan and look off at the horizon. The edges of Charlie’s mouth move down; the tip of his cigar sags.

            “You don’t like her,” Charlie says, “I know.”

            “I like her fine, Charlie. It’s a bit role, and what little talent the gal’s got I can work with.”

            “A bit role? I’m talking about changing that. Putting more meat into it.”

            Yeah, he’s putting the meat in all right, I think to myself.

            I lift the screenplay, rolled into a pastel blue baton, and tap a clean spot on the scaffold’s railing.

            “The last rewrite you submitted cost us three days. The one before that almost a week.” I smack the rail again, putting a crease into the paper. “No more.”

            Charlie stands straighter, takes the cigar out of his mouth and smacks his lips.

            “The story’s not done. I’m still exploring options.”

            “You’re banging Annabell.”

            “So what if I am? She’s talented. More than you with your little Clio’s and your ‘People’s Choice’ pretending to be a feature film, music video shit.”

            In this business, scriptwriters get rewritten, temperamental stars get thrown out, and directors get replaced. ‘Creative Differences’ means that somebody somewhere didn’t want to play ball. You never hear of a Producer getting the sack — and I mean never.

            “I’ll have to see the pages,” I say. “I probably won’t like ’em.”

            “Like, don’t like, whatever, you just set it up and shoot it. That’s your job.”

            “You’re trying to inflate her role. For what, a little more sack time?”

            “Stick to pointing the camera around. Leave the details to me.”

            I swear under my breath and duck under the railing, ever mindful of physics and the pavement below. I shimmy along the outside of the scaffold to the ladder and climb down, half tempted to toss the script.

            I hit bottom and march to the craft truck.

            Later that evening our little group has a banquet table at Morten’s. Charlie sits next to Annabell, who’s all thin giggles and heavy sighs. I’m across from Dan Arbrist, the money man from the studio.

            “Mike, the footage we’re getting looks great,” Dan says.

            Charlie leans in, “didn’t I tell you? The kid’s a natural.”

            Annabell nips at her lower lip, gives a shoulder-hunching grin of joy. She clings to Charlie’s arm.

            George Deveroe and Tischa Berringer sit to my right; the male buddies of our heist picture. George toys with a silver dessert spoon, moving a thin sludge of chocolate around the bottom of a serving dish. He smiles when he catches me watching.

            The last man at the table is Achmehem bin Taschem. He’s putting up two thirds of the production money. The studio, via Dan, is putting up the rest. Charlie’s the hub. He purchased the story rights from a second-rate crime novelist eager to push paperback sales.

            “There have been many delays,” Taschem says.

            “A few things,” Charlie says. “It’s in the budget allowance. Speaking of which, I’ve got a scene to add where George and Annabell come out of the Depository building.”

            Dan and Taschem stare at Charlie.

            “We need it, hand of God,” Charlie says, raising his own. “Annabell’s the wedge that comes between George and Tischa. We’ve got to show the moment they connect.”

            Charlie grabs his cigar, waves it at me. “And if Junior here would pick up the pace, it won’t cost us any extra time.”

            Now Dan and Taschem stare at me.

            “I’m right on schedule,” I say. “This is my first feature. I don’t need any delays; I want everything to go smoothly.”

            Taschem nods. “Of course.”

            Tischa pulls a cigarette from a thin, black metal case. He taps the filter hard against the metal, then stops. “Shit, we can’t smoke in here, can we?”

            “Let’s go out on the terrace,” Dan suggests.

            So out we go.

            The heat has mellowed with a soft breeze coming up from the coast. The seven of us make a rough oval; talking shop about the movie and upcoming scenes.

            Taschem opens his briefcase and lifts out a box of cigars.

            “A gesture, for everyone.” He scoops up several cigars, cuts the ends with a bronze finger tool, and hands them out.

            “To our success on this venture,” Taschem says.

            Annabell cups her cigar. “Thank you.”

            George accepts his, but Tischa declines with a wave of his smoking cigarette.

            “Are these Cuban?” Charlie asks. Taschem nods. Charlie throws the worn stub of his previous chew toy off the balcony, bites down on the new one.

            “Tischa, lend me your lighter,” I say.

            Tischa flips the lid open, spinning the striker and igniting it in one smooth, even motion. He hands it over.

            I raise the flame to the end of my cigar, but don’t light it.

            “Actually Charlie,” I say, “you’re the man tonight; the reason we’re doing this picture.”

            I lean towards him, enjoying his scowl as I raise the lighter.

            Charlie glances from face to face, smooths his suit jacket with a free hand. “That’s, well, to say”

            Taschem closes his eyes and purses his lips, waves his thick fingers beneath his own nose. “These cigars are the finest available to man. I’m sure you will enjoy their rare qualities. I relish them.”

            Annabell’s arm is looped around Charlie’s. He’s stuck and he knows it.

            “Charlie?” I ask. I grin, and light his cigar.

            Charlie sucks and the flame pulls towards the end. The tobacco smolders, lines of combustion run along the edges of the leaves. Charlie draws in again, and the end starts to glow. Another puff and smoke billows around the corners of Charlie’s mouth.

            I draw the lighter back and bring the flame to my own cigar. It’s good, though rather pungent. I lean towards George, Dan, then Taschem, lighting each in turn.

            “Charlie, are you okay?” Annabell asks.

            A flush of red shows at the hollow of Charlie’s neck. He draws away from Annabell’s grip, touches the tip of his nose with a finger. “Sweetie, I’m just…”

            He coughs and a drip of something green flips over his lower lip.

            “Excuse me,” Charlie says.

            He runs, coughing repeatedly, and drops to grab the rim of a potted palm. He pukes, and up comes seventy-five dollars’ worth of beef, rice pilaf, and Dewar’s Gold Label.

            Annabell darts towards him, legs swishing left and right, but Charlie’s already up and running to the rest room.

            Taschem tugs the sleeve of Dan’s suit. “Is he all right?”

            “I hope so.” Dan frowns, then glances my way, the whites of his eyes giving an angry flash.

            I puff my cigar. “The delays we’ve had so far, have been story-related.”

            Taschem nods.

            “Assuming no more story changes, we should stay on schedule.”

            “Very good. We add the Depository scene, and then we are done.”

            “Right,” I say, “after that, no more story changes.”

            Almost a month later and we’re on the studio back lot, getting pelted by man-made rain.

            “And – Cut!”

            The first assistant repeats my command and the camera eases to a halt. I give a thumbs up, adjust my poncho, and step away from the dolly.

            We’ve been on night shoots now for over a week. George and Tischa have played out their friendship across steel cables, along the edges of buildings, and down service access ways into bank vaults.

            “Let’s wrap,” I shout.

            “Thank God,” George says. He disengages from Annabell, steps over the chrome track and walks around to the monitor. “Can I see the playback?”

            “Sure.”

            I tap the Operator on the shoulder and he speaks into his headset mike. A moment later the LCD flat panel comes to life; and there they are, George and Annabell, walking through a backlit cascade of rain. George pulls the monitor closer, extending the rod and swivel.

            Annabell glances around, nibbles her lower lip again. Sorry kid, Charlie’s been laying low.

            George shifts the monitor to the side and waves Annabell over. She crosses the rails carefully and ducks under the camera tent. We watch the scene play out and Annabell breaks into a huge grin when she and George kiss.

            “Nicely done,” I say. “Good job George, Anne.”

            Maxie, Charlie’s brother-in-law, steps up beside me. His poncho rustles as he looks around my arm at the monitor. He nods. “Nice. Kill the rain then?”

            “Sure Max, kill the rain.”

            Max sweeps two fingers past his temple in salute. He raises a walkie-talkie, thumbs the switch, and gives an order. The rain stops and clear blackness tumbles down behind it. Maxie wanders off to see about hoses and other matters.

            Everybody removes their rain gear. The grips start tearing down stands and unhooking cables. The Operator and Focus Puller unbolt the camera from the dolly jib, then place it carefully into its aluminum crated foam.

            The First Assistant hands me a clip board with tomorrow’s schedule. “Good one Mike,” she says. “Print ’em all?”

            “Last three,” I say. Then to George and Annabell, “Call’s at six.”

            Annabell shivers as she tugs the soaked coat free from her shoulders. “How many more nights on the schedule?”

            I check. “Just two, we’re zooming right along.”

            “Now,” George says.

            I smile. “Yeah. Now.”

            All the details get tidied up and I walk away from the facades, down the pavement and along the back lot buildings towards my car. I hear water trickling from somewhere; maybe a drain. As I walk the sound gets louder, the syllables more distinct.

            I look up to the tops of the buildings. Girders and braces form triangles, shoring up what appear to be coarsely grained bricks of Brownstone buildings. An eight inch hose snakes below the truss, black against silver, held up by loops of rope.

            There is still the sound of water.

            I groan, then shift my shoulders, moving around a frigid drip that’s run down my neck. I look up and spot a stream of water escaping from the hose and arcing over like a crystal geyser into my convertible.

            My car is full of water. The body has squashed down over the tires and now rests almost on the rims. Ripples lick over the surface; dart between the headrests. A flotilla of baby ducks could paddle back to front, plunge down, and feed over the floor boards.

            Then I hear music, faint but getting closer:

My hopes, my dreams come true, my one and only you.

            Charlie and Maxie come around the corner, Charlie’s arm wrapped over Maxie’s shoulders.

            “The rain was beautiful, just beautiful,” Charlie says. “We might get an Oscar for cinematography.”

            They both stop at the sight of my convertible. Maxie laughs then cuts it short with a hand fastened to his mouth.

            “My god Mike, I’m so sorry,” Maxie says. “I thought I was losing water pressure somewhere.”

            Charlie chews a new cigar. He looks down at the sheets of water pouring over the door of my car, splashing across the pavement, and puddling at his feet. He smirks at me, lips curling up around those neon white, capped teeth.

            “I hope those Clios are water proof,” Charlie chuckles.

            “I’ll shut it off at the mains. Right now,” Maxie says.

            He and Charlie walk away, but it seems to me that they’re not hurrying much.

            I grip the door handle, and open it, letting loose the inevitable flood.

            A week later and I’m standing in a Marigold orange vestibule at Casa Charlie. Someone’s hung a neon painting of the Madonna on black velvet in the alcove on the right.

            “Mike, I’m so glad you could make it,” Mrs. Charlie says. “Did you get your car fixed up?”

            “Yes Ma’am, it’s in the shop.”

            “Call me Helen,” says Mrs. Charlie. She’s ten years younger than Charlie, and her arm flesh wobbles a bit beneath several layers of white silk. She toys with a chunk of Tiffany that hangs around her neck.

            “I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

            “Nothing that a three picture deal won’t fix,” I say.

            She laughs. “Come in and join everybody.” She steps towards the living room, then frowns back, eyes narrowed. “Yes?”

            I point to the Madonna. “One of yours?”

            “God no. Charlie won’t let me take that hideous thing down. I’m tempted to throw a drape over it whenever we entertain.”

            I chuckle and follow her.

            She gives me the short tour, and along the way I get introduced to society mavens, a few film critics, and one member of the Motion Picture Ratings Board who also attends Mrs. Charlie’s church. The house is open to the gentle night air. Festive lights fill the expansive drawing room, illuminating various groups as they move from the open bar and Hors d’oeuvres table to the Tiki torches outlining the backyard.

            Mrs. Charlie drops me off and goes to make sure the ice buckets are full. She never makes it, strutting away instead to answer the jangle of the doorbell.

            George, Tischa, and Annabell stand beside Charlie, along with another man I don’t know.

            “I’ve thought about it,” Charlie says, “and the only thing that makes sense, is that Annabell’s an FBI agent, undercover.”

            “Could be exciting,” the other man says.

            Dan the studio rep joins us, a tumbler of golden liquid over ice in his hand.

            “FBI?” Dan says.

            “You bet,” Charlie says. “If Annabell can get both guys falling in love with her, it throws their game off. And if she’s a fed, then George and Tischa are in huge danger. They could get arrested, they could get shot. It changes everything.”

            Dan sips his drink, “I thought we agreed no more changes.”

            “The story’s got to have what it needs,” Charlie says. He grins at Annabell and she wrinkles her nose like a pleased little ferret.

            “We already have a story, Charlie. You paid for it, remember?” I say.

            “That story was shit.”

            “But it’s the story we promised the studio,” I say.

            The other man’s face pales a bit. “You are gonna to make the release date? Right?”

            Ahh- another studio bean counter.

            Dan sighs. “Of course we’ll hit the date. Mike’s got thing’s moving pretty well.”

            “I don’t want any more story changes Dan,” I say. “I’ll be sweating in post just to get this thing cut the way it is now.”

            “Junior’s a little nervous is all,” Charlie says. “A woman brings in the female ticket sales, you know, the love story angle.”

            Dan’s eyebrows go up and he nods.

            “See?” Charlie says. “Drama. The kid doesn’t know how to make a good story yet, but I’ll teach ‘im.”

            I hold back any retort. After all — the producer never gets the sack.

            I spend the next hour fuming and drinking. A lady film critic pesters me about our project, asking for “just a few juicy bits, for my readers.”

            We’re standing in the backyard. The hot tub is silent. Cupped petals of frosted white plastic hold floating candles that drift across the larger body of the pool. Reflections from the Tiki torches bounce across ripples stirred up by the night winds.

            “Sorry,” I say, “the only thing juicy here is you.”

            She blushes on que then gives me her business card and pirouettes away. When I glance up from reading her phone number, she’s smiling over her shoulder at me.

            I smile back, then wander inside to freshen my vodka.

            “You should eat a little something Mike,” George says.

            I cap the bottle and glance at the tidbits on the next table. Nothing looks appealing.

            “How are the crab cakes?” I ask.

            “Not bad. Better than three shots on an empty stomach.”

            Annabell has been hovering about the food table. As much as I’ve been drinking, she’s been sneaking bites of cheese, sausages, and crackers. Now she’s grazing towards the spinach dip and pita platter.

            “I ate earlier.”

            “Don’t like party snacks?”

            “Not so much, no. What’s Annabell drinking?”

            George looks over. “White Zin, I think.”

            I nod, put my own glass down and uncork the bottle. I walk over.

            Annabell pokes half a pita chip into her mouth, then swallows quickly and tries to hide it. “Mike. Hi. How are you?”

            “I’m doing good Anne.” I raise the bottle and she smiles and holds out her glass.

            “I don’t know what year this is, but I like it,” she says.

            I fill her glass —

             — and slip my present into her handbag.

            “So tomorrow we shoot George and Tischa breaking into the vault,” I say.

            “Silly boys. They’re hogging all the glory.”

            I smile. “The story is about two guys robbing a bank.”

            “Charlie says he’s going to schedule some reshoots.”

            Something in my face puts her on the defensive. She squirms, knowing that she’s given away some secret.

            “Charlie said he wants to focus more on me, on what my character is going through.”

            I clear my throat. “Okay,” I say. “If that’s what Charlie wants.”

            “Really? You’re all right with that?”

            I shrug. “Come the day, we’ll shoot the scenes and see what happens.”

            Annabell hugs me, and I nearly drop the wine bottle. I glance around, but nobody notices my shock. She steps back, “I’m gonna have to rethink you, Mike.”

            “Rethink?” I say.

            “You surprise me,” she says, then scrapes white cream cheese and green spinach onto a cracker.

            I cock my head and grin. “Sometimes I surprise myself.”

            Later I find Charlie presiding over Dan and the studio bean counter. Dan’s eyes droop, his chin follows, and then he jerks his head upright.

            “Not boring you, am I?” Charlie asks.

            “It’s getting late,” Dan says. “I should go.”

            “You should have Mike drive you,” Charlie says.

            The other man grins. “Someone with some sobriety should drive,” he says, and Charlie laughs.

            “I’ve got to be going as well,” I say. “Charlie? When were you going to tell these gentlemen about the reshoots?”

            Charlie chokes a bit, glances from face to face. Dan is suddenly alert.

            “That was just, something I was toying with,” Charlie says.

            “Annabell seemed fairly keen on it.”

            The other man squints his eyes at Dan. “Missing the release date kills the deal.” He looks at Charlie. “The picture’s already booked. We’ve scheduled advertising, junkets, merchandising plugs. We can’t miss the date.”

            “We won’t miss the date,” Charlie says. “Mike’s just got to quit using those fancy camera setups. They take too much time.”

            Dan’s jaw flexes. “I think I’m with Mike on this one, Charlie. No more story changes, and reshoots are out of the question.”

            “It’s not a reshoot per se,” Charlie says. “Just a few pick-ups. To focus on Annabell’s FBI thing.”

            “No,” Dan says. “I can call Taschem to confirm if you want, but I know what he’ll say.”

            Charlie goes rigid, then runs his hand over his jaw, behind his ear, and into his hair. He relaxes himself.

            “Okay. Like I said, I was just toying with the idea.”

            “Fine,” Dan says. He turns and walks towards the front door, not saying goodbye.

            The other man follows.

            Charlie glares at me as soon as soon as we’re alone. He takes the cigar out of his mouth. “You think you’re smart, huh? You think you can beat me?”

            “I don’t want to beat you Charlie,” I say. “I just want to finish the picture. On time. The way it was written.”

            Charlie starts to say something but Annabell and Mrs. Charlie walk up, tittering over some girl talk.

            “Good night, Charlie,” Annabell says. “Thanks for the lovely time.”

            “You should stick around,” Charlie says, “things are just getting interesting.” He gives me a scalding look.

            “Early call you know. This film’s very important to me.”

            “You’ll have to get used to all this attention,” Mrs. Charlie says. “Once you’re a big star I’ll expect you at all my get-together’s.”

            Annabell grins and hunches her shoulders. “Okay. Sure.”

            Mrs. Charlie gives her a peck on the cheek.

            And then we all hear the music, loud and clear; My only prayer will be, someday you’ll care for me.

            Annabell digs a watch out of her handbag. Her face flushes and she gasps, as if fighting for a breath.

            “Honey,” Annabell says to Charlie, “you must have left it the last time we …” and she stops, unable to finish. She gives frightened glances at Charlie, then to me, and finally to Mrs. Charlie.

            Mrs. Charlie’s eyes go wet. Her lips push tightly together and the corners of her mouth pull down hard.

            My stomach clenches and a spasm starts in a muscle towards the back of my thigh. I don’t feel clever anymore. I feel like shit.

            “Helen, please,” Charlie says.

            Mrs. Charlie bolts for somewhere else, her waving hands leading the way. Charlie goes after her, leaving Annabell reaching for his back. Annabell whirls on me, spots my guilt, and throws the watch at my face.

            I spend a rough night, waking up several times with the sheets tangled around my legs; body coated in sweat. At about four, I throw myself into the shower, drag on whatever clothes I find in the closet, and drive my loaner to the studio.

            I wander around the bank vault set, downing my second cup of hot coffee, my mood improving.

            I stroll behind the riveted steel plates. On this side they’re just plywood sheets, braced with one by six boards held by screws. Thirty feet overhead are the catwalks where Electricians hang lights. Farther up, the roof girders are streaked with rust. Pink fiberglass spills out from torn plastic hung between the beams; reality is dirtier than illusion.

            Turn the corner and I’m back in a two story, maximum security bank with motion sensors, cameras, upper balconies, and security terminals to unlock the gleaming, chrome-plated vaults.

            But it’s not real. It’s just kids playing ‘make a fort’ with empty cardboard boxes.

            Mrs. Charlie’s face comes back to me and my stomach clenches again. I only met her the one time, but I know she’s real. Annabell’s real. Even Charlie, poor pathetic Charlie, is real.

            I sigh and drop my chin to my chest, then walk up the stairway grating to the upper balcony. Pretty soon the rest of the crew starts to arrive.

            “Do you know what you did?” Charlie says. His voice, full of gravel and venom, carries across the set. Several grips working below set up C-Stands and lights. Electricians lace cables across the floor. Nobody approaches us to ask about the first shot of the day.

            “Helen was screaming at me. Screaming.” Charlie raises his arm, pulls back his sleeve, and waves his watch in my face.

            “I showed her I still had my watch; God damn it. It took all night to try and convince her it was just a mistake.”

            I sigh, then look at Charlie’s face.

            “So. Now what?” I say.

            “Now what? You’re fired is what,” Charlie says. “You’re so fired. You’re fired back to some ad agency making ice cream commercials.”

            “Charlie,” I say, “you win.”

            “Oh, I win?”

            “Yeah, you win. Anything you want, I’ll do.”

            “Oh, now you’ll do what I tell you?” Charlie says. “Like you suddenly got smart and realized who’s in charge around here.”

            “Like I got smart and decided what’s important.”

            Charlie looks me up and down like he can’t figure out why I’ve changed my mind. The end of his cigar waves in the air as he thinks.

            “If you have to get somebody new,” I say, “it’ll just take them more time to finish up.”

            Then Charlie bristles and dismisses me with a wave of both hands. “Forget it, you’re fired. You march your ass off MY set. I’ll finish this bitch myself if I have to, but you ain’t here. Not anymore.”

            I glance around the upper balcony, from the lights above to the set floor below.

            It had been a nice ride.

            I shuffle past Charlie towards the stairs. “Try not to ruin the picture, Charlie. It was a pretty good little story.”

            “Piss off. You wouldn’t know a story if it landed on you like a bird droppings,” Charlie says. He turns away from me and heads around the balcony.

            “Charlie, stop!” I shout.

            He flips me off over his shoulder and keeps walking.

            I sprint towards him. “Charlie!”

            The crew all look at us but nobody can prevent it.

            Charlie steps past the secure, braced area of the balcony and onto the fake section.

            The balcony splits and balsa gives way, crumbling as Charlie’s bulk plunges through. He gives a surprised shout that separates him from his cigar. There’s a flash of white suit, and Charlie’s gone.

            Crew members race across the floor and I see my Second Assistant already on the walkie talkie, calling for paramedics. A Grip pulls back a wall panel, and one of the camera guys helps. Nobody gives a damn about union restrictions in an emergency.

            I creep towards the hole in the balcony and peer down to where Charlie lays, his right leg bent out from his body at an unnatural angle.

            Then we hear the music:

But it’s onnnnnlllly make – beeeelieve.

            We can’t help ourselves. Everybody on the crew checks their watches. It’s a seven a.m. call.

The ambulance finally arrives and they get Charlie hoisted onto a gurney. At the hospital, they take good care of him. The arm break is bad, but manageable. The leg’s worse, but a metal pin and a cast take care of that.

Afterward, we don’t see much of Charlie. He spends the rest of the production at home in bed, his leg in a sling, watched over by the ever-dutiful, and ever-possessive, Mrs. Charlie.

Filming moves forward and something shifts.

We shoot the remaining scenes as written, no delays, no rewrites.

Post goes great; the music and sound effects come together like we’d planned it that way all along.

At the first screening, everyone claps. Some of the crew even cheer. Once the film gets released it brings in solid box office numbers. A weight lifts off my shoulders I didn’t even know I was carrying.

I’m offered another project, and for once, I don’t hesitate. Even the lady film critic calls back.

George and Tischa split off for solo roles, each with nice salaries.

            And Annabell?

She got nominated for Best Supporting Actress.

            I guess she really was talented all along.