Comedy of Erinn (7 page)

Erinn looked fleetingly at Marla, who was pretending to put the oxygen mask over her head without messing up her hair. Marla smiled hugely at Jude, who smiled back. The grease on his lower lip shone in the cabin light.

“I think you can give her enough undivided attention for both of us,” Erinn said, as she returned stubbornly to her book.

Erinn snuck a peek out the window as the plane soared over the Pacific Ocean. She loved taking off from Los Angeles International Airport. North, south, east, or west—wherever you were going, the jet flew straight out over the water before heading in any specific direction.

Her thoughts were interrupted by Jude's voice.

“I love flying over the water,” he said. “It's like . . . you're given a clean slate . . . ya know?”

E
rinn held her carry-on tightly to her chest and concentrated on her breathing as the Apple Pie production crew clustered around the luggage carousel. She had made sure that her camera came through the flight all right and then turned her attention to her teammates. They grabbed and sorted the gear as if the bags were stuffed with marshmallows instead of thousands of dollars' worth of production equipment . . . and that was the price tag
without
the cameras!

“Don't worry,” Carlos said. “The gear is fine. We pack the shit out of this crap before we leave town.”

Erinn blinked. Somewhere in that sentence was reassurance, she sensed.

As the motley crew made their way to the rental car pickup station, Erinn wondered how people who spoke of “packing the shit out of crap” could possibly be expected to turn out a cohesive narrative. And yet, here they were. Once inside the rental-car van, they rumbled along toward Hertz, the team members seamlessly split off into pairs. She was apparently with Jude. When the driver called “Hertz Gold,” Gilroi and Carlos stood up.

“That's us.”

They looked at Jude.

“You riding with us?” Carlos asked.

“Did you sign up for Hertz Gold?” Jude asked Erinn.

“I didn't know there was such a thing as Hertz Gold,” Erinn said, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Her teammates stared at her in disbelief.

Averting her eyes, she caught the eyes of the driver, who look equally mystified. How could one live in the twenty-first century—their looks seemed to say—and never have heard of Hertz Gold?

She grasped for something to say that might redeem her, but nothing came to mind. Jude turned to the other men.

“That's cool,” he said. “We'll see you at the hotel.”

The men unloaded their gear, and the van doors shut. “Why didn't you sign up for Hertz Gold, dude?” he asked. “Gilroi and Carlos kick your ass as a producer, you know that?”

“Why didn't
you
sign up for it if you care that much?”

“You're the producer . . . it's your job.”

“Anything that you don't want to do is the producer's job.”

“That's right,” Jude said. “That's the natural order of things.”

The van lurched to a stop, the doors swung open, and Jude and Erinn got out. She knew that it was the producer's job to keep track of all the gear, and she had heard that it was also the producer's job to carry all the gear. Erinn hoisted all the camera gear onto her shoulders and was about to reach for her own bag when Jude intercepted it.

“Let me help you with that,” he said.

Erinn held tightly on to her load.

“It's my job. I've got it,” she said.

“Humor me,” he said, as he effortlessly took the two heaviest bags off her shoulder and started toward the Hertz kiosk. While they were in line, Jude got a phone call on his cell.

“Aw, shit. OK, thanks,” he said into the phone. “Well, we'll see what we can do from this end. . . . Don't be so sure . . . I think she's up to it.”

He winked at Erinn.

“What?” she asked.

“That was Carlos. They weren't able to get a free upgrade,” he said. “Now we have to see if we can get one . . . we meaning you, Ms. Producer. It's a little contest we have. No pressure, though.”

Erinn felt herself getting hot. No pressure indeed. She hadn't rented a car in years, let alone negotiated an upgrade. But she knew that this was a test—a test she had to pass. Erinn stepped forward, steeling herself. She was
BATTLEready!

She and Jude handed over their licenses, and Erinn checked off the necessary, mystifying boxes regarding insurance. She noted that the car assigned to them was a Ford Focus.

“A Focus, you say?” Erinn began, having no idea what a Ford Focus was, but since it was considered a compact, she figured she was fairly safe in assuming the car was small. “That sounds a bit small for all this gear, wouldn't you say?”

As she gestured toward the luggage, Erinn caught a quick view of Gilroi and Carlos heading into the kiosk. They were here to see if she could get an upgrade, no doubt. Her knees started to shake. She could already feel the humiliation if she fell short. Erinn's three fellow crew members looked at her impassively.
You must not fail,
she told herself. Her fortitude wavered as she returned her gaze to the extremely bored clerk, who merely shrugged. Erinn redoubled her efforts. She was getting annoyed.

“May I speak to the manager, please?”

The clerk shrugged dismissively and called for “Dennis” over the intercom. The fact that Dennis was standing right next to him didn't seem to matter. Neither the clerk nor Dennis seemed to find anything the least bit weird that the clerk could have just as easily tapped Dennis on the shoulder. Erinn turned back and exchanged some superior eye contact with her co-workers. At least
they
seemed to get the joke. Erinn felt an odd need to close this deal. She knew she could really win some points with these guys if she came through . . . especially since the old pros had failed.

“May I help you?” asked Dennis.

“Well, I don't know, Dennis,” Erinn said, trying to come up with an instant strategy. “I don't know if you can help me or not.”

The Apple Pie team feigned assorted casual postures, but Erinn knew they were all ears. Carlos had even removed his earbuds.

“What seems to be the problem?” Dennis asked.

“Well, Dennis,” Erinn said, “I'll tell you what the problem is. My company will only pay for us to get a compact car. All our gear is not going to fit into a compact car. Which means, we're going to have to leave our equipment in the backseat, exposed for anyone to see. Now, I know Philadelphia is not New York. I know Philadelphia is a wonderful, safe, secure city. But it is a city, Dennis. And bad things happen in cities. Things can get stolen in cities. And I am just wondering if you think it's in the best interests of Hertz, Dennis, for you to risk very expensive camera equipment being stolen from one of your cars, when you could easily avoid the risk by giving us an upgrade.”

“You have insurance. We'll take the risk.”

“Really, Dennis? Are you sure that's wise? We're from a television show . . . and my team over there . . . they see a story in everything.”

Dennis scowled at the men in their ratty clothes. He turned to the clerk.

“Give her an SUV—with dark windows,” he said, looking back at Gilroi and Carlos.

“I suppose they need an upgrade, too?”

“Oh, no,” Erinn said. “They are Hertz Gold members. They'll be fine.... They'll be just fine.”

“Oh! Snap!” Carlos said. “We've been p'wned!”

While she had no idea what Carlos was saying, Erinn understood by Jude's laughter that she had been wildly successful—on many levels—in her first task as a producer.

Jude loaded up the cargo and luggage into a new bright-red Ford Explorer while Erinn punched the hotel's address into the GPS. A horn sounded and she looked up to see Gilroi and Carlos drive by in their Ford Focus. Carlos was at the wheel and he yelled good-natured obscenities. Gilroi's head was attached to his BlackBerry, but he did look up long enough to give a distracted wave. Erinn wondered if there was a protocol for who drives . . . producer or director? Since the producer seemed to do everything, did that mean the producer always drove? Or that the director got his choice?

Jude suddenly plopped down in the passenger seat, pulling gloves on over his extremely frozen-looking fingers. Erinn remembered frozen fingers from her New York days and smiled fondly at the memory of thinking your digits were going to fall off on the sidewalk at any minute.

“How do people live here?” Jude asked, teeth chattering.

Erinn took a deep intake of breath, but before she could say anything, Jude held up a gloved hand.

“Let's just go,” he said. “I forgot who I was talking to.”

“To whom you were talking,” Erinn said.

Jude looked at her.

“To whom you were talking,” Erinn repeated. “You ended that sentence with a preposition . . . you know,
to, with, at
. . .”

“Kill me,” Jude said almost to himself, resting his head on the frosted window.

“Oh, don't be so hard on yourself,” Erinn said, secretly delighted that this young man would care so deeply about a grammatical error. “Here's a little anecdote that will help you remember. . . .”

Jude wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck. Erinn waited for him to stop fidgeting—all her people skills were coming back to her!—and she began her story.

“A freshman was crossing Harvard Yard with a map of the school in his hand. Lost, he stopped a professor and asked, ‘Excuse me, Professor, but do you know where the administration building is at?' The professor looked at the student and said, ‘Well, yes, young man, I do know, but I must remind you that here at Harvard, we never end our sentences with prepositions.' The student looked embarrassed and said, ‘I'll remember that, Professor. So, tell me, do you know where the administration building is at,
asshole
?' ”

Jude didn't move and Erinn thought he had fallen asleep. Slowly, he lifted his head off the window and stared at Erinn as if he'd never seen her before.

“That's hilarious, Erinn,” Jude said. “That's fucking hilarious.”

Erinn was waiting for him to tell her the story sucked, but he genuinely seemed pleased. It was a little unsettling that he didn't actually laugh at the joke, while pronouncing it hilarious, but perhaps that was professional courtesy.

“Let's get going,” Jude finally said. “Did you put in the address of the hotel?”

“Yes,” Erinn said as she started the engine. It appeared that she was going to do the driving.

“Great,” Jude said, peering at the GPS on the dashboard. “Where's the hotel at?”

Erinn froze. “Where's the hotel
at
?” Had he not even listened to her? There was a horrible silence as the two of them stared straight ahead. Erinn risked a quick look at Jude, who was looking back at her.

“Where's the hotel at—asshole!” they both said.

This wasn't quite the bonding Erinn was hoping for, but, she thought, baby steps. Baby steps and profanity.

The British-accented GPS relentlessly led the charge toward the Nortown House Hotel on 8th Street. The expressway was unusually clear, but once the SUV hit Center City, it was stop and go all the way through town.

“The hotel is between Walnut and Locust,” Erinn said, trying to make conversation when she suddenly realized she and Jude hadn't spoken for almost the entire ride into town. “All the east-west streets in Philadelphia are named after trees.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes. William Penn was the founding father of the city and he was a Quaker.”

“And . . . that has to do with naming all the streets after trees how?”

Erinn's brain quickly unscrambled Jude's sentence and decided that he must be interested, so she continued.

“He thought that naming the streets after people was immodest. He had the east-west streets named after trees and then numbered the north-south streets.”

“Huh,” Jude said, looking out the window.

“Of course, that was two hundred-odd years ago, so some of the street names have changed. Mulberry Street became Arch somewhere along the line.”

“I know Arch Street,” Jude said, turning to look at her. “Betsy Ross lived there.”

Erinn tried to hide her amazement that Jude knew this fact.

“We used to sing this song in grade school,” Jude continued, then burst into song. “Betsy Ross lived on Arch Street near Second . . .”

Erinn shook the cobwebs out of her brain. She knew this song as well.

“Her sewing was very, very fine. . . .” she sang.

“Arrgh . . . what's the next line?” asked Jude.

“General Washington went up to see her!” Erinn added mellifluously.

“To order a brand-new flag,” Jude sang in a surprisingly strong voice.

“Six white stripes and seven pretty red ones.”

“Thirteen white stars in a field of blue.”

“It was the first flag our country ever floated.”

“Three cheers for the red, white, and blue!” they sang together.

“I gotta tell you, Erinn, you are nothing like anyone I've ever gone out on the road with. Betsy Fucking Ross. Wow.”

“You know, some people dispute the claim that Betsy Ross actually sewed the first flag,” Erinn said.

When Jude didn't say anything, she felt perhaps she'd gone too far. She knew she had a habit of coming on like a know-it-all. She'd had the problem since she was a child, but in all these years of self-imposed isolation, she hadn't really thought about it. Now, all her insecurities were rearing their thorny little heads.

“I'll give you this, Err, you really know your shit.”

Erinn cringed at the “Err” nickname, but decided, under the circumstances, to let it go. She and Jude had just had an entirely civil conversation—and she'd actually taught him something without annoying him.

Erinn maneuvered the SUV onto 8th Street and pulled seamlessly up to the curb in front of the Nortown House Hotel. Valets attacked the car with gusto, pulling out bags and gear. Erinn had forgotten the speed at which Eastern people moved. Erinn noticed that Jude, hopping up and down from the cold, waited on the curb for her while she signed over the car. A well-trained professional, Jude never took his eyes off the camera equipment.