Don't Look Down

The pen was lying on the table.

An ordinary blue. Perfectly round—no ridges to stop it from rolling, which, as it turned out, it did.

Cal sat at a flimsy folding table beside the craft services setup, the kind with an uneven leg that always found the one unpredictable gap in the gravel. He was alone, save for a few crew members fussing over lighting equipment in the background and someone simulating a sonic boom by slamming the sliding door of the grip truck.

Behind him loomed what remained of the authentic farmhouse they were using for the shoot—a whitewashed gasp from an Andrew Wyeth painting but dipped in whimsy too, its wide porch sagging slightly at one end, like a face that cracked a sardonic smile so often in its youth, it stayed that way. Ah! So that cautionary tale from Memaw held water.

There was a weathered chicken coop off to the right, empty now but charming in a way that made location scouts earn a bonus production Tee. A red barn with a half-collapsed roof peeked out from beyond a thicket of sumac. The air smelled faintly of black coffee, alfalfa, and electrical cables frying in the sun. Yum.

Above Cal, a tall honey locust tree bowed in the morning breeze, occasionally dropping pale green seed pods onto his shoulders and into his lap, just for the heck of it.

He hadn’t touched the pen.

Hadn’t bumped the table.

But while he was watching the work day unfold like thirteen clowns unpacking themselves from a Prius the pen had moved.

Just a bit. Just enough to notice.

He narrowed his eyes; razor-sharp attention to the wannabe movement.

“Okay,” he said softly, “let’s try something.”

He leaned in and focused.

He didn’t say anything aloud—that felt like cheating—he thought it. Hard.

Move.

Roll to the right.

I command thee, oh thin blue line.

Nothing happened.

He furrowed his brows; never say die, and so just as he’d attempted to direct the family hatchback to roll off the snow now and not sometime this spring while mom hung onto her last nerve, he did a redux.

Still, nothing.

He sat back. “Well,” he muttered. “Takes one to know one.”

But now the question was, why had it rolled at all?

He adjusted the pen until it lay flat across the surface, perfectly horizontal. The edge of it pointed toward the old gravel drive, the other toward the sound guy’s mismatched sneakers.

Stillness.

Then—just as he was slipping into a geriatric-style mid-morning nap—it moved. A twitch. A lean.

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

"That’s it? That's all you got?"

He gave it a small push with his finger. Just a nudge. The pen rolled farther than expected—smooth, decisive, a man on a mission.

He caught it just before it dropped.

He looked under the table. Nothing odd or untoward, just his boots on the gravel. No hidden swells or burgeoning sink holes either.

He tore the call sheet, folded the paper with precision, a bona fide ‘note in a bottle’ moment and wedged it beneath the front left leg.

Pen down again.

Nothing.

He took the shim out.

This time, the pen sat still for a beat… and then rolled. Again.

He gave it another nudge.

It moved with the absolute certainty of two plus two equals fore-ever over the edge–

He caught it.

His heart pounded, was this an Isaac Newton moment?

One more nudge.

This time, he let it go.

The pen rolled, intending to stay in motion right over the edge of the table.

Falling...falling...

He reached out and caught it in midair—two fingers, gentle as breath.

And then, as if on cue, the memory needle dropped:

Help me, I think I’m falling in love again...

When I get that crazy feeling, I know I’m in trouble again...

It was an old Joni Mitchell ditty to dapple the day.

He smiled.

“Gravity is beautiful,” he said, softly.

Except of course when having its way with space shuttle debris, crashing the trash back to earth and onto a family barbecue banquet–obliterating steaks, corn cob, homemade pickles et al on impact–when that happened, gravity could be tragic.

Gravity without the aid of a parachute to soften the stop could be indiscriminate punishment.

So maybe not beautiful.

Maybe gravity was justice; a perpetual balancing act that was a mystery to mere mortals.

He liked that better.

And just as he nodded to himself, perusing the pen in hand with quiet satisfaction, he looked up.

Annah was standing there.

Dark blonde hair falling in easy waves to her shoulders, sunlight shining through the gold strands as if in spontaneous harmony with light itself. She wore a red-and-gray lumberjack shirt open over a white tank, jeans she could move in, boots caked with real mud. The kind of thing you wore on a farm, or the kind of thing you wore on set when pretending to work on a farm.

Annah Tripletree herself.

Ahn, standing pop eyed and staring; her expression a study in stupidification. Her jaw dropped open and stunned into a shock she didn’t bother to conceal.

No one had told her he was here yet.

Without a preamble, Cal asked, “mind if I keep this pen?”

"What? What are you doing here?"

Cal looked past her and nodded to where the director, Cassie O'Reilly stood with her battle tested good comrade and solid AD, Tom. Or Major Tom, as he was dubbed on previous shoots, Cal waved to him. He waved back.

"I'm surprised Cassie or Major Tom didn't tell--"

"--She told me Brian had a family emergency, and we got super lucky with a last minute replacement but how in the world can that be you?"

She followed his line of vision, nodded to command central, then back to him while muttering "stop being nice to them, you won't be here that long..."

Then Annah stopped herself, shook her head to clear the reverb of the proverbial cartoon frying pan that was Cal Monroe bonking on her noggin and countered with a direct assault: “I wanna talk with you.”

Cal tilted his head up slightly, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Oh yeah? Talk, is it?”

The way he said ‘talk’ rattled her. It pissed her off and made her want to smack him.

She clenched her fists, trying to keep her composure.

“Ooh, is that it, Ahn? You gonna’ smack me right out of the gate?”

He smiled fully now, his perfect white teeth gleaming. She could see why he was once an A-lister. It only infuriated her more.

How could he read her like a first grade primer? She was…complex, she was an actress with awards, accolades and…everything. She tilted her chin up, allowing him to take in the long lines of her neck, the curve of her shoulder. She crossed her arms, resisting the urge to toss her head and wave her dark blonde mane. They needed to set the Legos straight on this board containing battleship Armageddon.

“We need to talk. Now. Before contracts are signed.”

“I signed this morning,” Cal said, his voice a nondescript flatline. “About... oh... fifteen minutes ago. You missed the launch, there were balloons, no cupcakes though–seems I've fallen to the B team…may have been confetti...but that was probably seed dander from the tree.”

And here he took a beat and looked up to the low-hanging branch overhead.

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. Guaranteed.”

“You didn’t—”

“Look, I absolutely know when I’m scribbling my name and when I’m not. I did have some schooling. I remember practicing. I got it done in... um, three years, I think…if the arithmetic bit took hold. This mean three?”

And here he held up three fingers, his expression earnest and eager-to-please.

Annah stared at the fingers, her anger simmering just below the surface. Cal slowly lowered his hand, sensing the tension of approaching a bridge too far.

“Cal...” She softened, her heart aching. “Cal, you can’t have signed.”

He sighed dramatically. “Sweet dove, as I might have mentioned in the aforementioned prose, I did sign, I promise you, I did. I even have a memento and hopefully a perk. You still haven’t answered my question, seeing you're in tight with the director and producers, do I get to keep this pen? I’ve gotten attached.”

He pointed at the blue pen resting on the tabletop—a quiet witness at the moment, quite humble, meek and all in on: “wee the observer.”

“You?” Annah was shocked. “Attached to something? Is there quick-sticking epoxy on it or something?” Then she shook her head as if to get back on track and tried again. “But...but Cal… this is a low-budget indie festival-bound bonanza... it... it has to be below your asking price.”

“Art flick…” Cal looked heaven’s way and sighed, “indie project with magical realism leanings, guaranteeing a full blown gorilla gonzo style shooting; creeping into back streets without a city permit–how could I resist? I’ll get to break out my black leather jacket.”

He checked her expression to test the temp, then went for the top. “And with the amazing Annah no less... no one even says your last name anymore, you notice that, dove? Like, just say 'Annah,' take a deep breath to fill the ‘space’ with sweet dreams and we all know who it is.” He added with a slow slide, “I certainly do.”

Her hand shot out before she could stop it. Her hand was moving through the space between them as if in slow-time stop-motion—they both saw it move frame by frame as did the nearby tree, the farmhouse, and mid-size bottle of seltzer water atop the folding table, stable now, due to a well-placed folded call sheet—and Cal let it come. He could have ducked, he could have caught her arm, but he didn’t. Instead, he let her slap him.

Craaack.

The sound echoed through the open lot. People stopped and stared at the two actors in the driveway beside the craft service table.

Annah and Cal continued to lock eyes, the tension between them crackling. After a moment, Cal lifted his script from the table and pretended to scan the lines, looking for the scene they had been 'running,' as cool as cool could be.

The crew members relaxed, understanding this was going to be the way—actors running a scene. They turned to each other, exchanging impressed looks.

“Wow,” someone muttered. The relief was palpable. The project wasn’t a bomb. This was good. This was very good.

Annah watched Cal, her thoughts a tangled mess. This is bad, Annah thought. This is very bad.

Looking into his eyes, she understood his modus operandi all right—he’d baited her. He'd wanted her to hit him because he couldn’t hit himself.

She needed to slow down, to sit down. Reading the room, Cal hooked the chair next to him with his foot and pulled it out for her. She sat down, bowed her head, and after a moment, leaned in to say quietly, “This can’t happen again.”

“You’re telling me that?” Cal replied, raising an eyebrow.

She looked up into his eyes, her voice softening, “this can’t happen again.”

For a moment, Cal simply looked at her, and then: “Dove. The earth doesn’t revolve around our drama, the world turns and leaves the past behind. Even now, it’s already old news. But I'll tell you what. One hit. I owed it, I paid it—I hope we're square, I do, I hope the books are balanced and we can get to work, OK?”

Cal relaxed back into the cheap plastic chair, that dang orange chair, all business; he was seven years older since last they spoke and still looked...great. Plus. She knew he meant it. As far as he was concerned, they were square.

Long pause. She looked at the gravel in the driveway of the farmhouse and then to the old chicken coop, empty now… but full of atmosphere. Just what the art director and Cassie wanted. They were to begin filming at the golden hour: a tender moment to open the door between their characters. Erin and James.

She drew in a deep breath and observed, “We’re shooting the first love scene late this afternoon.”

“Won’t be a problem.”

“Uh huh.”

Pause, and then he asked, “you wanna do a read through, feel through the beats?”

She thought, and then smiled wry and dry. “As you so astutely informed me... you learned to read and write at the tender age of two—”

“Well… ten, actually. I wanted to give my classmates a head start.”

“Sporting..." Annah raised one brow and continued, “well, seeing you can read, I’m assuming you’ll follow the script and be ‘Johnny on the spot’ and spout the scene like the sprout you are.”

“Oooh, nice alliteration.”

“Well, you know me.”

He made an answering expression that seemed to suggest: maybe yes, maybe no.

She ignored it and with that Annah stood, brushed the fallen tree debris from her jeans, and began walking toward where Cassie O’Reilly, indie director extraordinaire, was speaking with her AD, mapping out the shooting schedule for the day and upcoming weeks.

He watched her walk, that liquid flowing walk, like a river moving. Maybe... maybe.

He picked up the blue pen, and noticed now there was a…chartreuse green stripe ghosting the edge. “Huh,” he said, and then put it inside the pocket of his denim jacket.

*

They were on their marks in 4 hours and 25 minutes.

Mic’d and blocked. Sun descending to its mid-afternoon arc. A light breeze off the orchard. The garden buzzed with quiet industry—camera crew shifting tripods, a sound tech checking his levels, Cassie O’Reilly shading her eyes with a clipboard and squinting through the haze of dust kicked up by the dolly track.

Cal was in worn jeans and a soft henley, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Annah was barefoot in the turned soil, wearing a faded T-shirt that clung in the heat, her hair pulled up with two bobby pins that would later slide loose.

The camera rolled.

Scene 14B. Exterior. Garden. Late afternoon.

In the story, her character—Erin—had just confessed something quietly magical about her childhood. James, his character, says nothing in response. Instead, he joins her in the rows, sunflowers on one side, tomatoes on the other. No dialogue. Just weeding.

Just we two and thee: the land.

And light too, illuminating all and sundry with the secret source called life on earth.

Annah was already crouched between the tomato vines, her knees dusty, her palm pressing into the loam. Cal entered the frame with an easy slowness, as directed. He knelt beside her. Waited.

She glanced at him. Then looked back down at the soil.

“You can’t just snap it off,” she said quietly, in character. “You have to get to the root. Otherwise it comes back worse.”

He nodded. Reached for the base of a weed near her hand.

“Here,” she whispered. She placed her fingers over his and guided him to the spot. “Here. Pinch there and pull straight up.”

Together, their hands moved. The weed resisted, then yielded with a soft, ripping sound.

He held it aloft. Victory. She took it gently from him.

“Good, but don’t leave it close by,” she said. “If the root touches soil, it’ll find its way back in. You have to throw it far.”

He did.

She smiled. "Well hello Sandie Koufax."

That was off-script, here was another:

"What are you 85?" James/Cal asked.

"With all the time traveling you make me do? Yeah, just about." Erin/Annah confirms.

She handed him another weed attempting to choke the life out of her tender tomato plants. He took it without looking.

Their hands touched again. His thumb brushed her knuckle and didn't let go, he held her hand until he had her full attention.

The next part wasn’t blocked.

He leaned in, it was now or never.

The kiss was slow. Careful. Open-mouthed. A tender touch with a tell-tale tremble.

She felt it.

He kissed her with his open heart, as a second chance not expecting a third. He kissed her like an apology and an invitation tangled together. She felt her whole face flush—energy flowing from the point of contact to warm the winter world of her nether regions and 'Hello Antarctica, said Rolf Amundsen.'

Her body answered before her mind dared a warning flare. She kissed him back. Her hand slipped to his jaw. Her breath a sweet breeze.

He pulls away to look into her eyes.

"Dove..." he breathes his undercover name for her outer self as Erin.

Then—

“Cut!”

Cassie’s voice sliced the moment.

“Beautiful. Gorgeous. Let’s check the gate. If it’s clean, we’ll move on. Great work, you two.”

Applause from someone behind the monitor. The sound guy gave a thumbs up.

Annah stood, a little dazed and confused, as if suddenly waking up in a strange place and needed more than a moment to get her bearings. She turned, hands shaking slightly, and with practiced fingers, unhooked the mic from under her shirt. Covered it with her palm. Walked past the crew, out of the soft perimeter of the scene, toward the edge of the barn.

Cal followed. Not close. Just near enough that she could feel it.

She stopped beneath the shade of the apple tree, her back to the camera, jaw tight.

He stopped too.

She didn’t turn.

“Why did you do that?” she asked.

He didn’t pretend not to understand. Didn’t blink.

He waited until she turned to look at him, straight on, and then he spoke the truth:

“I didn’t have a choice.”

She steps close, he can feel the heat flowing from her body to his, she leans forward and says soft and low. "It's in the script."

Cal Monroe nods.