Empire of Light (38 page)

Blackness.

As the days go on, I get over Edgerton.

I finally go giddy on life, especially after musing over the recent incidents of mine. Shit. How could you not become enlightened with how precious life is. Just being born is like hitting the Mega Lotto. Surviving a plane crash is like hitting the Mega twice. Being born, surviving a plane crash and expirencing the Brownie camera journey, well that’s just insanely great. But Europe, the crash everything, seems like a distant dream. But Dani is my link, an element of my subconscious that I emotionally latched onto and wrenched into the conscious world.

She enters the room with a Giant Eagle grocery bag. She reaches deep into it and pulls out my yellow coat! It’s just as clean, bright and ugly as the day I left for Europe. She drapes it over me, atop my boring hospital sheets.

“Your mother asked me to bring this to you. Why? I don’t know,” she says with a sly grin.

“You really hate it, huh?”

“No. I love this thing,” Dani says, beaming as she rubs her hand across the smooth polyester like the damn thing is chinchilla.

I place my hand over hers.

Dani kicks off her shoes, crawls into my bed and snuggles under my arm. God, she’s so wonderfully small; she could fit in my shirt pocket just above my heart. She rests her head on my chest and shushes me when I try to talk. She wants to spend a couple of minutes actually listening to my heart push blood through my body.

“
È forte.” It’s strong.

Damn. Of course now the pain begins. Jerk plane crash injuries, always cropping up at the most inconvenient times. Lucky for me, the doctor gave me dominion over m’ morphine elixir. I pick up the controller and mash the button and thrust a billion cc’s of joy into my veins, obliging my pain nerves to calm the hell down.

As Dani lies quietly with her eyes closed, I reach into the pocket of the yellow jacket and find the contraband my little girl unwittingly smuggled into the hospital. I carefully unzip the front right pocket and there it is, exactly were I asked my mom to stash it away.

It’s a modest peace of jewelry, once owned by my maternal grandmother.

Family lore has it that my grandfather paid for the ring by working a second job, night security for a mom and pop jewelry store back in his hometown.

“
Amore
…” Dani says breathlessly as she lays eyes upon the humble ring, made of silver and diamond chips.

“The way I see it, you only really have two choices here,” I say to Dani. “You can either marry me, willingly, or you can spend the rest of your life handcuffed to a water pipe in my parents’ basement. Either way, you‘re not going anywhere.”

“Well, in that case, I think I’ll chose the former. Maybe we’ll have a couple hours, every now and then, to play with the handcuffs, too,” she says with a mischievous smile.

“Will you marry me?”

“
Certo, Amore. Ti amo. Sempre
.”

I slide the ring onto her finger.

We kiss.

The morphine kicks in.

Between the chemical and the emotional high, my head begins to swim in fancy.

I imagine capturing a stream of light from the tableside lamp and forcing it up though the bottom of the diamond. Once inside, the photons ricochet and tap dance upon the thousands of facets, like the Nicholas Brothers in a screaming silver screen finale. The individual bits of light radiate from the diamond in a pulsating crescendo, illuminating the room in a shimmering rain of light particles.

“
Amore
, I prefer kissing in the dark,” Dani says as she turns off the light.

The room dims to an unimaginable level of darkness.

Am I blacking out?

The pain, the bed and the walls melt away, and I feel Dani and me being transported to the edge of the unknown universe where neither energy nor time has yet to spoil the beautiful emptiness of space.

It’s the sweet spot of existence where light has yet to touch it.

If you want us, we’ll be huddled in blackness, waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

Good luck with that.

Epilogue 
The Abby Singer

THE LAST SHOT OF 
the day is called “The Martini Shot.”

The second-to-last shot of the day is called “The Abby Singer Shot.”

The Abby Singer was named after this Assistant Director who would always announce with confidence, “Last shot of the day!” Of course, he’d always then sneak in one more set-up, to the consternation of his crew. I talk of this bullshit because we currently just finished the Abby Singer shot on the last day of my production, on my first film as a director.

It’s a film that was funded by the good people who plunged my black ass into the depths of Lake Erie from a staggering 30,000 feet in the air. It’s not exactly comforting to realize that it took the catastrophic failure of an aircraft to finally put me behind the camera. Let’s all pray that my next work is not nearly as costly.

Edgerton stands at the edge of my set, reveling in the fact that everybody, including the grips and gaffers, are wearing shirts and ties by my mandate.

“Why are you squinting?” I ask Edge, his eyes narrowed to a slit as he scans the set.

“When I squint, I swear I’m standing on a set on the old MGM lot back in 1966.”

“Because of the neckties,” I say proudly.

“No, because of these damn giant dinosaur lamps. Goodnight, Irene. Tisse, it’s the 21st century. You have something against HMI technology?”

“We’re on a budget, Edge.”

“Well, at least you rented a generator.” He turns and takes in the set. “The colors are extraordinary. It reminds me of
An American In Paris
. The part John Alton filmed,” he says faintly.

Shit. That’s high praise from anybody, let alone Edgerton.

“Well, Collin is the photographer. I just—”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Tisse,” he interrupts.

He’s right. The guy rarely gives props. Just say
thanks
and shut the hell up.

“Thanks.”

I’m tempted to tell him about my trip, but gotta wait for the right time. Maybe over drinks at Musso & Franks after my film is released.

Screw that.

“I gotta ask. What the hell was all this about? Why did you accept me into AFI? Why did you give me that camera? Of all the people, what made you give me something so special?”

“Jason, have you even bothered to visit the orphanage?” he asks, annoyed.

The mention was so out of the blue, that it took me a second to realize that he was talking about the orphanage from his
American Cinematographer
story.

“No. Is that thing still around?” I ask surprised.

“Of course it is. As long as I draw breath it’ll never close either. Stop by there sometime. You’ll figure it out. I’m going to go check in with Collin.” He shakes my hand firmly. “Nice suit, Jason. Atta boy.”

I actually like sporting the occasional suit now and then. Edgerton is wearing off on me. Goddamn it.

“Oh, and here,” he says, handing me a canvas Trader Joe’s grocery bag. In it sits the Brownie camera, restored and looking almost as good as new.

“I checked it out for you. It’s all good, except for the chip on the face plate.”

“Sorry, Edge. I think I cracked it on the noggin’ of that poor Coast Guard diver.”

“Let that be a lesson to him. No good deed goes unpunished. Maybe next time he’ll mind his own damn business.”

“What? He saved my life.”

Edge ignores me and saunters over to talk to my cameraman, and hero, Collin Oak. I never thought I’d see the day that I’d be working with him, especially since he was so down on the film industry.

I have the
Details Of Montana
lobby card hanging on my wall.
Stay out of the business, kid.
This is not the same guy who wrote that wise-ass autograph.

Edge and Collin huddle over my bitchin’ digital Red camera (courtesy of the airline that dumped my ass into Lake Erie), talking in low tones, like a couple of cold war spies, conversing of secrets nobody gives a damn about anymore.

The last time I eavesdropped on these two, they almost soured me on the film business. I’ll take my chances, anyway. I inch my way into listening distance, hiding behind a faux wall flat.

“Say, ol’ man. It looks like we’ll soon have a new film of yours to screen at AFI. The first thing I’m going to do when I get back to campus is burn that goddamn
Details of Montana
print.”

“We’re a long way from
Montana
, Edge.”

“You bet, we are. I have to say that it is some solace knowing you’re around to watch over things here. Tisse has got all these kids from AFI riled up…This Bourgeois Pig
Cult of Light
business.”

“Do you know the difference between a cult and an established religion? One generation. He’s got ‘em wearin’
ties
, Edge. Say what you want, but this crew would lay down in traffic for that kid. And you want a shock? I would, too.”

Edgerton eyes his old friend with a bit of concern.

“Say, ol’ man. After you get this last one out of your system, maybe you should hang up the ol’ light meter. Hit the 19th hole. Call it a day.”

“Retire? Not on your life. Don’t you get it, Edge? I can see again.”

“
Jason!”
the Assistant Director suddenly yells, startling the hell out of me. I jump and bang my head against the flat.

Edge and Collin scramble around the wall to peep out the commotion.

They find me down on one knee, rubbing my fat stupid head.

The two old lions just stand there, smiling down on me.

“Anybody seen our director?” The AD continues to bellow as he wanders through the set looking for me. “Last shot of the day!” he says aping the late great, Abby Singer. In fact, the way this guy has been hustling extra shots into our days, he could be ol’ Abby reawakened.

“The Martini is up,” he continues. “Fire up those lights! Come now. Let’s get this in the can and wrap this up, ‘cause I need a drink.”

He turns the corner of the flat and finally finds me standing there.

“I need a drink,” he continues. “It really has been a helluva show, hasn’t it, Jason?”

“Yeah. You bet, Abby. One helluva show. Let’s fire ‘em up.”

The Jeweler’s Glass,
the Silver Necklace & the Box of Light

Written by Jason Tisse

THERE ONCE WAS A 
little girl who could no longer feel the warmth of family. It was a feeling that had been stolen from her, on a particularly blustery day in September, by a stranger and his cheap
Saturday Night Special
handgun.

The stranger had entered the mom and pop jewelry store with the intent of merely pilfering the day’s receipts and whatever jewels he could stuff into the deep pockets of his old camouflage jacket. The owner calmly treated the stickup as if it were a routine transaction, even managed to put on a smile, hoping to keep the situation peaceful and his family safe.

The stranger gripped a Raven Arms MP-25 semi-automatic pistol, a disgracefully flawed weapon. Even he was stunned when it fired unexpectedly, striking the owner above the temple.To his chagrin, the stranger now also had the grim task of eliminating witnesses. He clumsily fired multiple shots into the owner’s wife’s back until she stopped crawling towards the jeweler’s workbench.

He dashed from the store in a panic, pocketing a wretched 352 dollars and a handful of silver necklaces, which had hung from a wrought iron display near the exit.

What the stranger didn’t know was that the couple had a very bright five-year-old daughter named Lucia who had concealed herself in a very dark and well-hidden place. In fact, it was so good that it took a healthy ten minutes before a detective on the scene finally discovered Lucia hidden underneath that jeweler’s workbench, spellbound by her mother’s vacant stare. The detective couldn’t help but notice that the girl’s beautiful violet dress had been soiled with a fine dusting of gold flakes, remnants of her parents’ hard work.

Before the detective could whisk her up into his grasp, Lucia snatched up a tiny silver magnifying glass from the floor. It was her dad’s jeweler’s loupe, which had been ejected from his vest pocket upon the bullet’s impact.

The detective shielded the girl’s eyes as he swept her out of the crime scene, leaving a fine trail of gold dust in her wake.

Lucia stood at the front door of the state orphanage in the kind of daze that reminded her of a fractured nightmare which she could never fully recall the next morning, nor really wanted to. She clutched her bright indigo backpack close to her chest as if it had the power to ward off strangers and stay their weapons.