As we drive to the set, in pure darkness, stopping at the Starbucks drive thru, Kristi talks incessantly.
"I'm actually trying to work on my plan for today's scenes."
"I just want to know more about you," Kristi says, way too perky for six in the morning.
How do you say no?
She would tell me a story about her mom, then ask me about mine.
"I don't really know her that well."
"How can you not know your mom."
"She was pretty hands off."
"What does that mean?"
"I just remember saying, 'I love you very much' to my mom, and she didn't say anything back—she ignored me. She wouldn't respond to anything nice I said. If I said, 'Fuck your mother,' she'd have some calm reply—totally respectful. But if she did something nice for me and I said, 'Thank you'—nothing. She was specifically ignoring everything nice I said, as if to prove—to someone, I guess me—that I was of no value to her. She was the caregiver—I had nothing to offer. And she would never hug, not even as a child. The only way she would touch me was with a high five—and usually an air high five. The only way she would let me touch her was on her shoulder—and she didn't even like that. I could feel her cringe every time she did it."
I looked at the teamster.
"Jesus, I'm sorry, I should be telling this to my therapist."
"No, it's ok. We're bonding."
And Kristi sipped her latte.
I looked out the window and just thought and thought. Some union employee with no discernible skills was listening to me tell my life story to a 20 year old with perky tits who probably knew more about directing a movie than I did. The only difference between me and her is that she didn't know it. She didn't know her power. And I realized, watching homeless people sleep on benches made of indestructible recycled plastic, that that was a big part of growing up: when you're young, you have power, you just don't know how much you have. And the older you get, if you do it right, you realize you're the most powerful being in the world.
On set, between takes:
"Most people in this life are just fucking around—"
"And that's ok."
"No. It would be ok if their fucking around didn't get in other people's way. I want to yell at people sometimes, shake them by the fucking head and say: I'M TRYING TO DO SOMETHING HERE. CAN'T YOU SEE THAT? Like, I'm making movies—I'm directing films. I'm not sitting in the back room like my mom watching Fox News 24 hours a day while she's eighty-five. I guess if that's what you want to do with the last few years of your life, get mad at stuff you have no control over—"
"Stuff that's not even true."
"Right! Faux News, you're right—it isn't even true. What did they find, that like 80% of what they said was straight-out lies?"
"Yeah, something like that."
"Ugh. But she's not hurting anyone. Except for passing along the hate. And you know what?—That counts. That counts as getting in other people's way. I mean you and me, we're making a fucking movie. This is hard work. Who else do you know who dedicates years of their life to a single project? People do it, but not many. And the ones that do, you've heard their names. Then you get a guy like Shelly Kind—he's a fucking producer—what is that? I know you've seen these previews where it's like, 'From the Producer of Paranormal Activity 10.' And I see that shit and I know it works. I imagine all these people all over America and all over the world and they're like, shit, I loved the fuck out of Paranormal Activity (even though they're film idiots and they don't even know what it means to be scared in a movie theater—they've never seen Alien, you know what I'm saying?) and they're like, 'Wow, this new movie is from the producer of some other movie I liked..I'm guaranteed to like all movies produced by this same asshole who has about as much to do with the quality of 'his' movies as I do with making sure the astronauts on Mir have enough oxygen!"
"Are they doing a Paranormal Activity 11?"
"They'll do a fuckin' Paranormal Activity 100 as long as people keep raising teenagers who don't know what a fucking scary movie is. Seriously, I don't know—I have no inside information on that franchise. Anyway my point is—"
"Also there is no more Mir."
"Anyway, my point is..there's no more Mir? As of when?"
"As of like fifteen or twenty years ago. They de-orbited it."
"What the fuck does that mean, they de-orbited it? It doesn't matter. My point is that you and I are trying to make something. And on set sometimes I just want to scream, 'You motherfuckers. If you're not here because you love this script then get the fuck out of my face because that's what it takes. Love. Not a thing less.' Nothing less than love will get you from the farm in Oklahoma to Hollywood and then from your shitty student films to real films. Unless of course you're Dorothy, then all you need is a hurricane and some ruby slippers."
"It's a tornado, but I know what you mean."
"What did I say? They don't have hurricanes in Kansas?"
"No." (laughs)
"Ahh, fuck. Thanks for listening, Kristi."
"Anytime, boss."
"Call me boss one more time and you'll be looking for a new one."
"Ok, Miss Lauren."
"We're friendly, ok, because you have half a brain. I have half a brain too—that wasn't an insult. But you're not just my assistant."
"But I am your assistant."
"But you're not just my assistant. You're gonna move up. I'm gonna see to that, ok? This is the last film you're gonna be my assistant for, then you're getting a promotion. I'm serious. Think about what you want to do and, together, we're gonna make that happen."
"Ok, boss."
"You fucking animal. You animal. You know what I need?"
"What?"
"A fucking mocha."
"Ok, I'll be right back boss."
"Haha. Glad you're enjoying yourself. We only have 7,000 more mochas to go before this motherfucker wraps."