Comedy of Erinn (8 page)

“It's freezing out here. You go on in,” Erinn said. “I'll watch the bags.”

“Nah. I'll wait with you,” he said. “We're a team, remember?”

Erinn bit her lip. She was overcome by this offhand remark. It had been a long time since she'd moved through life as part of a “team” . . . if you didn't count her sister—which she didn't. Or her cat—which she did, but under penalty of death would not admit.

The valet, with a cart piled high with gear and luggage, followed Erinn and Jude into the lobby. The producers of
BATTLEready!
were in charge of finding and confirming lodgings in each city. Erinn, as the newest producer, had been appointed producer-in-charge of Philadelphia. Given their budget, finding a great hotel had taken some work. Carlos had once booked the rooms for a shoot in Philadelphia, and he suggested the Holiday Inn by the convention center. The rooms were cookie-cutter, but the building was newly renovated, there was a gym on the premises, and the Inn was attached to a shopping center. If you bargained hard, said Carlos, the management would throw in a microwave and mini refrigerator. Erinn listened politely, but she knew old cities like Philadelphia had too many fantastic historic hotels to get stuck in a “chain.”

After painstaking research, Erinn had chosen Nortown House, a historic landmark that looked well appointed but also had all the modern conveniences a production crew might need—high-speed Internet access, FedEx delivery and pickup, and continental breakfast. The hotel also served afternoon tea, but Erinn knew that wouldn't be a selling point for the people with whom she was traveling. Still, it appealed to her, and maybe she could gently issue in a calm afternoon or two. As she looked around, she was relieved to see that the hotel lobby was even more impressive than she had hoped. She knew that Gilroi and Carlos were probably already checked in, and she imagined their satisfaction at Erinn's selection.

Jude let out a groan as the warm air hit them.

“Gak! It's boiling in here,” he said, shedding coat, gloves, and scarf.

“Don't complain. You're going to be spending days on end in a log cabin at Valley Forge, don't forget.”

Jude followed her to the check-in desk. Erinn got out her freshly minted company credit card and handed it to the woman behind the desk, who wore a discreet name tag. It said merely
Susan
. Erinn was relieved to see that. She was not a big fan of informational name tags, such as
SUSAN
in large letters and
Mexico City
in smaller letters underneath. Apparently, some advertising agency or customer service survey deemed it important to add the clerk's city of origin as a way of—what? Bonding? But if you weren't from Mexico City, which most people weren't, what difference could this possibly make to anyone?

If informational name tags annoyed her, she positively detested the sprightly
Hi, my name is Susan. Use your words,
Erinn would think every time she glanced at one of those cheerful placards.

“Hello, Ms. Wolf. Welcome to the Nortown House Hotel,” Susan said. “I have you on the second floor, as you requested.”

Erinn had not specifically asked for the second floor, merely a lower floor—she hated elevators—but she let that go.

“Facing east?” asked Erinn.

The management-course smile on the young clerk froze into place.

“East?”

“Yes, east,” said Erinn. “When I called, I specifically asked for a room with a sunrise view.”

“Excuse me,” Jude said.

Jude bumped Erinn to the side. She was ready to take umbrage with his knight-in-shining-armor routine. It was one thing to wait with her and the luggage, but this was quite another. She was the producer! She could handle this herself!

“I can see this is going to take some time to get straightened out,” Jude said to the clerk. “So if you can just tell me where my room is . . . my name is Jude Raphael . . . you can get back to the eastern-facing room in a minute.”

Erinn kept her face composed. She'd made bigger miscalculations in her life. She thought about Massimo, and how he would never barge in front of woman for any reason. Jude suddenly turned from his transaction and looked at her incredulously.

“There's no gym here,” he said.

“That's correct,” Erinn replied.

“You booked us into a hotel with no
gym
?”

“This hotel is a historic landmark, Jude,” Erinn said. “You have to give up some of the less important things for atmosphere.”

“Is that so? Well, Ms. Producer, you haven't been on any of these twelve-hour-a-day shoots before, so I'll ignore your snarcastic attitude. But a gym is a necessity, not a luxury. You'll see.”

Erinn watched Jude as he went up the staircase two steps at a time. Clearly, the man could skip a few days at the gym to no ill effect. He was obviously a fanatic.

And what did he mean, she had a “snarcastic” attitude? This was some urban hybrid of “snarky” and “sarcastic” that was supposed to send her reeling. If she hadn't been so annoyed, she might have even admired the compound.

Erinn stepped up to the desk, ready to resume her battle for the eastern-facing room. Susan smiled at her brightly. Erinn was always suspicious of bright smiles under these sorts of circumstances. They usually meant “Hi, I'm not going to be in the least bit helpful.” Erinn decided to be firm.

“I know it's an unusual request, but I get up early and I like to rise with the sun,” she said. “I do my best work then. It's important.”

“I understand!” Susan said, furrowing her brow and looking at her computer screen. “Well, it looks like your co-workers chose most of the lower floors, but I can give you an eastern-facing room on the sixth floor, or I have one western facing room on the second floor. Which would you like?”

Erinn let out a sigh. Why did it always go like this? She had asked for an eastern-facing room on a lower floor, and now the hotel was trying to convince her they would be doing her a favor by honoring
one
of the requests.

“All right, I'll take the sixth floor,” Erinn said.

In her peripheral vision, she saw the bellhop grabbing the camera equipment. She wheeled on him.

“That's all right,” she said, taking the heaviest bag from him. “This is very delicate equipment.... I'll carry it myself.”

“It's six floors and you have four very heavy bags, ma'am.”

“I realize that,” Erinn said, knowing full well where this conversation was headed. “I'll just take the cart into the elevator and I promise I will return it to the lobby immediately—with a tip.”

“That's just it, ma'am. There is no elevator.”

Erinn felt as if she had suddenly grown roots and was anchored to the spot. She had booked a hotel with no elevator for two production teams, each one hauling almost seventy pounds of equipment. She caught Susan's eye. No wonder all her co-workers chose the lower levels! Erinn shook herself from her spot and handed the heavy bag back to the bellhop. The two of them divvied up the bags and started the long, hard climb to the sixth floor. After the third floor, Erinn stopped to catch her breath. She flattened herself against the wall when she saw Carlos in the hallway. He didn't notice her, but he had stopped and was attempting some back and shoulder exercises.

If her teammates didn't need a gym when they got here . . . they'd certainly need one by the time they left.

Finally, Erinn and the bellhop stumbled into her room. She fished a twenty-dollar bill out of her bag. Her per diem really didn't allow for such extravagances, but Erinn felt it was her duty to make it up to all the staff, who were now going to be hauling equipment around for the next several weeks. Erinn remembered from her traveling days that word of a huge tip would get around. Well, at least in India. Philadelphia was still a wild card. The sweating bellhop took the tip, gasped out a “Thank you,” and staggered from the room.

E
rinn looked around. Well, even with no gym or elevator, the hotel made good on décor. Through sheer force of will, she had negotiated mini-suites for every member of the crew (something she hoped they'd remember when condemning her for the hotel's shortcomings). Erinn was surprised to see that the colonial feel of the exterior and lobby didn't extend to room décor. The suite was tastefully appointed in sleek, modern furniture and bright colors. Erinn felt sure that she would be completely comfortable in the place for the next three weeks . . . that is, if she could continue to get the equipment up and down the stairs. She spotted her precious east-facing window. The shades were drawn, and it would be dark outside anyway, but she went to the window and drew back the curtain. It took a while for Erinn's eyes to adjust to the darkness outside. And then she realized she was looking at a brick wall. If she stretched all the way out, she could almost touch it. She was in a sixth-floor walk-up with a ton of equipment . . . and there would be no sunrises.

Unpacking took close to an hour. She got her clothes out of the suitcase and into the chest of drawers and closet in ten minutes, and spent the rest of the time setting up her command post. In her mind's eye, her desk faced the eastern morning light, where she would drink coffee and set up the day's schedule . . . but clearly, she was not going to glean any inspiration from the brick wall out her window. On the bright side, the suite was amazingly light and airy, so Erinn set up the dining room with a computer, printer, history and tour books. She staged the camera equipment, batteries, chargers, and lights on the desk.

Surveying the rooms, she felt she was
BATTLEready!
She went into the bathroom and started the tub. Erinn had been dreaming of a long, hot soak in the tub since she'd gotten off the plane. The water rushing into the bathtub was loud, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of the room phone ringing. She came out of the bathroom, but couldn't locate the phone. It had been on the desk, but she had deemed it superfluous and stashed it out of the way. Now she couldn't find the damn thing. She jumped facedown on the mattress and hung over the edge of the bed, looking underneath. Many dust bunnies, no phone. With the blood rushing to her head, the pressure pulsing behind her eyes, she groped wildly under the bed. The phone stopped ringing. Erinn lay back on the mattress, trying to let the blood settle back in her body.

Her cell phone rang. Thankfully, it was in her pocket. Without opening her eyes, she answered it.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Gilroi said. “I rang your room. But I didn't get an answer. It just went dead.”

“What went dead?”

“The phone.”

“A phone can't go dead,” Erinn said. “It's not a living, breathing thing. It merely stopped ringing.”

“Erinn, you know that expression, ‘Never apologize, never explain'?”

“Of course I do . . . Edwin Milton Royle.”

“What?”

“Edwin Milton Royle wrote that in nineteen sixteen in his novel
Peace and Quiet
.”

“Uh . . . really? 'Cause I think you might be wrong.”

Erinn tried to stifle a giggle. She might be
wrong
?

“Oh really?” she asked.

“Yeah . . . because John Wayne said it in the nineteen forty-nine film
She Wore a Yellow Ribbon
.”

Erinn had forgotten that Gilroi's point of reference was either the movie theater or Broadway theater.

“Well, whoever said it, what about it?” Erinn asked.

“Maybe you should practice the ‘never explain' part.”

Erinn sat up.

“What can I do for you, Gilroi?”

“Oh, well, I was wondering if you ordered oxygen tanks for those of us you so thoughtfully stored on the upper floors of this
relic
.”

“You're only on the third floor!”

“There's no elevator! What were you thinking?”

Erinn was silent. Never explain? Fine.

After a moment, Gilroi said, “Hello? Hey, Erinn . . . are you there?”

“Yes . . . I was just following your advice. Royle's full quote, in case John Wayne didn't use it in its entirety, is ‘Never apologize, never explain. Get it over with and let them howl.' I'm letting you howl.”

Gilroi laughed.“Darling, you are so adorable,” Gilroi said. “Listen, I didn't actually call to bust your chops. The producers are all getting together in about an hour to go over our strategy for this shoot. There's a cool Irish pub around the corner called the Black Sheep. We're meeting in the lobby in a half hour.
Ciao
.”

“Sì. Lo vedrò fra mezz'ora,”
Erinn said instinctively.

Gilroi laughed and hung up. Erinn raced back to the bathroom and shut off the tap—catching it just before the tub overflowed. She stared at her reflection in the water. Unfortunately, she looked as tired and as irritated as she felt.

 

After her bath, Erinn felt a little better and traipsed down the six flights of steps to find Carlos prowling the lobby. She guessed that the charms of a historic landmark hotel probably didn't thrill the young producer.

“Hey, Erinn,” he said with a brilliant smile.

On second thought, perhaps she was wrong.

“Hello, Carlos.”

“This hotel blows.”

OK, so she was right the first time.

“No gym, no—” Carlos said.

“—elevators, no bar, no swimming pool.”

“Exactly. This place is a pain.”

“Well,” she said. “It's been said, ‘Pain is inevitable; suffering is optional.' ”

“Whatever.”

Gilroi glided down the stairs to join them. He was ready to hit the cold streets in a camel's hair coat and brown cashmere scarf.

“I love this hotel, Erinn,” Gilroi said, pulling on his gloves. “I felt like Scarlett O'Hara coming down those stairs. And here you are, Carlos, my Rhett Butler, waiting for me.”

“Bite me,” Carlos said. He turned to Erinn. “He does this everywhere we go. I've been Ricky to his Lucy, Romeo to his Juliet, Stanley to his Stella. He never stops.”

“Well, I can dream, can't I?” asked Gilroi.

The two men laughed comfortably. Erinn was reminded again of how times had changed. She realized that keeping herself cloistered all these years had been to her detriment in many ways. Good things were happening all around her and she hadn't been aware. It was wonderful for her to witness a gay man and a straight man completely comfortable with each other. Of course, thinking back to her first meeting with Jude at the guesthouse, this loosening of prejudice also made way for labels like
gay
and
retard
to effortlessly join the lexicon, which Erinn found disgraceful. Well, this was a producers-only meeting. Jude wasn't here, and she wouldn't think about it.
I'll think about it tomorrow,
Erinn quoted Scarlett O'Hara to herself. She was sure she'd be matching Gilroi quote for quote in the days ahead, and she smiled. She loved a challenge.

Gilroi held the door for Erinn and ushered them all out into the snapping wind. Erinn breathed in the cold East Coast night air. Memories of New York, and of being young and happy, tried to flood her, but she was an old hand at shoring up those emotional levees. She forced herself to concentrate on the two producers walking slightly ahead of her. Carlos did a double take every time a pretty woman walked by. Gilroi turned back to Erinn, smiling.

“He always acts like he just got out of prison.”

Erinn knew it would be to her advantage if she could loosen up and join the fun.
OK
, she thought,
here goes!

“As if . . .” she said.

The two men stopped and looked at her. Gilroi arched his eyebrow.

“As if . . . ?”

Erinn hoped the smile she had plastered on her face was coming off as jovial, but her teeth felt frozen in their collision with the evening air.

“He always acts
as if
he just got out of prison.”

Gilroi's eyebrow collapsed and he and Carlos looked at each other. Erinn realized that this probably wasn't the right approach, but unlike writing, you couldn't just delete a comment and start over.

Carlos suddenly yanked open a door and disappeared inside. They had arrived at the Black Sheep. Gilroi shook his head in disgust.

“Don't mind Carlos's lack of manners,” he said. “He ain't no Jeeves.”

As Gilroi opened the door for Erinn, Carlos popped his head out.

“What's with you guys? Come in! It's freezing!”

“We're coming, Prince Charming, we're coming,” Gilroi said.

Erinn was happy to find herself back in a uniquely East Coast bar. Lots of old brick and gleaming wood. The bar was packed, and Erinn wondered how on earth they where going to be able to conduct a business meeting above the dim.

“I'll get the first round!” Carlos shouted. “Please-Don't-Call-Me-Tin-Lizzy, what'll you have?”

Erinn bristled at the nickname, but there was obviously no getting around it with these kids. One thing she took to heart while researching
BATTLEready!
was “Choose your battles,” so she just smiled and ordered.

“I'll have a Blackthorn,” she said.

Carlos bent down, putting his lips to her ear as if she were a child.

“Can't hear you,” he said.

“A Blackthorn!”

“What is that?”

“It's a hard cider. This is a pub. They'll have it.”

“OK, Miss Continental Divide. Gilroi, what'll you have?”

Gilroi ordered a glass of Sterling cabernet, and Carlos set off for the bar, muscling his way through the crowd.

“ ‘Miss Continental Divide'? What does that mean?” Erinn asked.

Gilroi shrugged.

“I think he meant . . . you're so continental ordering a cider. His grasp of sarcasm is kind of iffy.”

Erinn took a deep breath. Gilroi had made a droll comment about sarcasm! She beamed at her companion. Here was someone with whom she could carry on an intelligent conversation, someone who would understand her. She felt as if she were stranded in the middle of the ocean and had been thrown a life raft. They watched Carlos making his way back to them with their drinks. Even in the loud bar, Erinn could hear Gilroi suck in his breath.

“Carlos doesn't wear underwear,” Gilroi said. “You have to love that in a traveling companion.”

Erinn nodded mutely. OK, intelligent conversation might be spotty. But it was a start.

Carlos put their drinks down and they all settled in to go over the next few weeks' schedule. Carlos and Gilroi pulled out Black-Berrys—the calendars glowed in the dark. Erinn pulled out a lime-green Filofax, a gift from Massimo. The two men stared at it for an instant, and then got back to business.

“OK,” Carlos said, “tomorrow we all shoot together, right?”

Erinn and Gilroi nodded in agreement. Erinn hated to admit it, but she was relieved when she found out they would all start shooting together. She was incredibly nervous about the prospect of handling the camera, Jude, and keeping track of the schedule all on her own. Cary had driven home the point that overtime was not to be tolerated.

“The directors don't care about overtime,” she said. “It's the producer's job to keep the production moving.”

Since the director was in charge of how much they shot, Erinn wasn't exactly sure how she was supposed to keep any director—but especially Jude, who seemed to march to his own drummer—on track. But now she could watch these two old pros at work and by the time she was out in Valley Forge with Jude, she'd have a better idea.

They had a full day planned. They would meet Lamont Langley, the actor who was to play George Washington, in front of Independence Hall practically at dawn to give him his costume and lay out the day's shooting. Because the crew was shooting a documentary, and the action would be covered by a voice-over, there was no dialogue, so once the actor was in costume, they could commence shooting right away.

“Good thing Lamont doesn't have to learn any lines,” said Gilroi, looking at Erinn. “He drinks big-time.” Erinn didn't mention that she knew Lamont from her Broadway days. Lamont drank then, too, but somehow, when they were young, it just seemed theatrical, whereas now it sounded sad. While he never acted in her play
The Family of Mann
, they certainly ran in the same circles and were both considered (if Erinn did say so herself) highly desired company. Now no one knew her, and Lamont was reduced to non-speaking roles in a castoff HBO powdered wig. She couldn't wait to see Lamont. It would be good to see a familiar face. They could compare notes—Erinn was sure he was as surprised as she was to find himself in this brave new world.

Carlos was laying out their shooting schedule. He kept stressing they needed to stay flexible. Erinn couldn't understand the concept . . . how could you keep a production moving if you didn't adhere to a timetable? Cary's admonishment that the producer was in charge of keeping the company out of overtime played in her head. Maybe while they were shooting on the Delaware River and Carlos was in charge,
maybe
the crew would be flexible. Maybe when they were in bucolic Chadds Ford, when Gilroi was running the show,
maybe
the crew would be flexible. But in Valley Forge? No way. If ever there was a time for inflexibility, it seemed to Erinn that fieldwork on a production was it.