Later Shelly Kind wanted to see me in his office.
"We have a problem," he says.
I light a Kamel, leaning against his giant windows.
"If there's one thing I've learned about producers," I say, "it's that you always have some kind of a problem, even when everything on a production is going just fine."
"We have a money problem."
"Oh, yeah, and that's the other thing I've learned: all you guys care about is the money. If you want return on investment, why don't you play the stock market."
Shelly is quiet.
"What exactly is the problem?"
"You're out of money."
"Again? Man, we're almost done. I need another week and we're in post."
"You don't have money for another week."
"Holy shit, man, I already popped in every penny I have. I'm living with my assistant. I was homeless a while for this movie. What more do you want?"
"You were homeless?"
"Yeah but it was a learning experience, so no pity, please."
"You are an amazing woman, Lauren."
I roll my eyes.
"What are you going to do? Shut us down? After everything this studio has put into my film? That doesn't seem like a smart move."
"I need you to put up more capital."
"You gotta be shitting me, man. What is this, fund your own movie week? I got nothing, man. We're almost there. Just spot me the remainder and I'll deliver you the movie of the fucking decade. I'm telling you, we're frying bacon over there. Bacon in a pan."
"Lauren, I'm sorry, but we're too overextended on you."
"What are my options."
"You can give up your fee."
I lower my cigarette.
"You're serious."
Shelly doesn't blink.
"Don't be offended if I call you a dirtbag. You took my points. I'm making nothing on the back end. Now you want to take my rate. So I end up with nothing. You end up with a damn good movie—and you know it is. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck."
I drag my cigarette and put it out in one of the rocks glasses on his bar.
"Is this how it's done?"
"Sometimes," Shelly says. "It's not my fault you're over budget."
"You know this fucker is going to make you rich—richer than you are. What if I had kids? What if I wanted to leave them something? Would you treat me different then? You're just part of the 1%, huh? You told me once you cared as much about movies as I do. Well, directors make movies. Have you ever directed a movie? Do you think you could do that? Don't you need people like me to make you rich? And doesn't it make sense to not screw up the ass people who are making you rich? Right? The calf that lays the golden egg or whatever—"
"The goose."
"Whatever. Fuck it. I'm going to show you something. You ever had a director who went homeless putting almost a million dollars into a movie before? I'm doubting it. And you know what?"
"What, Lauren."
"You are not going to stop me. If I have to give blowjobs to the colorist, I'm going to make my movie. Women have been doing it throughout history, and I'm not ashamed to join the fucking ranks of women getting screwed over by assholes like you: stingy, evil motherfuckers who wouldn't go out on a limb for me while I'm expected to go out on a limb for you. You take zero risk. This is going to destroy my life and you're going to be untouched, with your picture windows and corner office and you'll make movie after movie and live happily ever after while I'm going to end up back in Portland working as a barista and this'll be the only movie I ever make. I hope you're fucking happy and that's all I have to say to you. I'm due on set. Know why? 'Cause I'm a filmmaker. Which is more than I can say for your fat ass."
I go for his door.
"Lauren."
I stop.
"The work you're doing is amazing. If I live to be 90 and I'm still doing this job I'll probably never come across someone like you."
"Cut the crap, Shelly. If you live to be infinity you'll never come across anyone like me. Ever. Now shake my hand."
"Why."
"Because this is the last time I'll speak to you. And since you'll never meet anyone like me again, I'm giving you the chance to shake my hand."
He reaches out but I pull back.
"Fuck you. Don't even touch me or I'll sue you for that being your actual face, and your actual brain, you little package of ass."
I reach out to him again.
"Shake my fucking hand. Shake it. There. Now that's goodbye."
But I had hope, that day, walking to my car in the Warner Bros parking lot. California eternally sunny, a burrito truck parked in the gravel by the street, a friendly wave, and I felt I had shed a part of me that I didn't need anymore. I drove straight to the dog park and hiked up the hill (basically the hill where the Hollywood sign is) and from the top I saw smog and giant Apple advertisements painted huge on the sides of buildings like wallpaper.
There's a bench at the top of that hill, and I used to like to sit on that bench and think of how far my movie had come, count off the days done and the days to come, and the smaller that last number got, the more excited I got.
And sit after sit after sit, hike after hike, I worked my calves until the number of days we had shot my film was in the hundreds, and the number of days remaining was in the tens.
And I felt proud. Proud that I had grown—done something I had never done before, even if it wasn't perfect. And proud that even though I had yelled at people, and even though I had fired some people, that the ratio of relationships I had built to relationships I had trashed was large.