Tomorrow's Memory

"The room is unfamiliar.  I don’t know how I got here.”   He ran his hand along the fireplace mantel, his fingers brushing over framed photographs.  He tilted his head, brow furrowed in thought.  “I remember….remember….”  He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration, pressing a closed fist to his forehead.   He turned toward the group of people clustered behind the lights and cameras surrounding the sound stage.  “I’m sorry, can we do it again?”

Even though the lighting of the scene was muted, Henry still had to squint to see past the mounted lights.  His eyesight had been steadily declining the past several years, a fact he was loath to admit.  He wasn’t encouraged by what he saw now.  The young director, still relatively new to the business, was clearly fighting back mounting frustration, a fight he was losing miserably.  Henry was frustrated too, but for very different reasons.  “The dialog feels clunky.  Like it was written by someone where English is their second or even third language.”  The director’s face reddened, and Henry knew he landed a blow.

It was no secret that there was animosity between the two of them.  Neither wanted to work with the other; both were contractually obligated to.  They were three weeks into an eight week shoot.  Eight long, torturous weeks.

After several tense seconds the director stood and faced the crew behind him.  “Lunch everyone!  We’ll resume at two o’clock!”  He strode towards Henry.  “Practice your lines.”  His voice was low, menacing.  “Stop wasting everyone’s time.”  He glanced down and sneered.  “Try it, old man.  Please.”

Henry glanced down, saw his hands curled into fists.  Reluctantly they loosened.  The young director grunted.  “I figured as much.”  Henry watched as he strutted away, his expression never changing.  He stood there for several moments, staring towards the exit at the far end of the building.  He started forward, moving slowly towards the exit, and what laid beyond.    

The building that housed the soundstage was cavernous and cool.  The world on the other side of the exit was anything but.  The dry August heat bore down on him, forcing the breath from his chest.  He lowered his head, squeezing his eyes tight from the intense glare, a thousand spotlights pointed directly at him.  His hand fumbled in his pocket, pulling free the Ray-bans that had become a necessary part of his wardrobe this past year.  He slid them over his eyes, slowly opening them as they adjusted to the muted light.

Barely thirty seconds out, and sweat was already tickling his face, staining his collar.  It didn’t help that he was in a full three-piece suit, a heavy dark brown thing that eagerly absorbed the midday heat.  He walked as quickly as he could towards his trailer, which really wasn’t that quickly at all.  When he finally pulled himself into the relative coolness of his trailer, his face was flushed red, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.  His scalp, long since divorced from hair of any sort, was tingling with the promise of a sunburn.

He removed the suit jacket, draping it over the arm of the couch.  He shuffled to the far end of the trailer, which felt further than it actually was, and switched the fan from low speed to high.  Turning back, he pulled a bottle of peach tea from the fridge, flicked on the radio, then flopped into his oversized chair, sinking into the faux leather.  The soothing rhythms of jazz filled the small trailer.  He closed his eyes and sighed mightily as the tension drained from his body.  He sat that way for several minutes until his racing heart slowed to a more sedate pace.

When he felt somewhat normal, he opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling.  He thought of the movie he was currently filming.  Tomorrow’s Memory.  The story itself was actually pretty decent, the concept is what intrigued him enough to sign on to the film.  In the hands of a master, it would have been beautiful, an easy oscar contender.  Instead it will probably end up on some obscure cable network, or streaming service.  Not exactly how he wanted to end his acting career.

He lowered his gaze, turned it towards the lone framed photo in the trailer.  The frame was plain, ordinary, it’s centerpiece anything but.  His face softened into a smile, as it had done so many times these past forty-seven years.  His finger traced over the curve of the face in the photograph.  His dear, sweet Georgina.  How he longed to feel her touch, hear her voice.

There was a knock at the door, light but enough to rattle the frame.  The door opened, letting in a brief blast of heat before being closed again.  His assistant Jared stood in the entryway, two paper lunch bags cradled against his chest.    “Ooo, nice and cool in here.”   He placed the two bags on the small dining table.  “You eating over there or here today, sir?”

Henry grunted as he pushed himself from the comfort of the chair.  “You don’t have to call me sir, you know.  In fact, I prefer that you don’t.”

Jared smiled.  “All due respect, but I do.  Orders from my mother.”

“I won’t tell her.”

“No, but my face will, if she questions me.  And she will.  She has.  Lies and secrets don’t stand a chance with her.”

Henry nodded.  “I’ve found that it’s usually  best not to upset one’s mother.  Sir is an acceptable moniker.”  He sat down at the small table, gesturing towards the paper bags.  “Does it matter which one?”

“Nope.”  Jared sat across from him.  “They’re both the same: ham and swiss, fruit cup, and a bag of chips.”

“Dining at its finest.”  They ate in relative silence, the radio still softly playing jazz.  Henry could almost imagine he was seated at a small New Orleans diner.  A wave of nostalgia swept over him with an intensity he wasn’t expecting.  He drew in a shaky breath.

“I heard this morning didn’t go smoothly.” Jared sipped from his bottled water.  “Forgetting lines.  That’s not like you.”

Henry considered this.  “I’m afraid it might be.”

Jared shook his head.  “Only if you want it to be.  Look, I know he’s a dick, but he’s not worth ruining your reputation.  Or your legacy.  He’s directed before, sure, but this is his first studio film.  He’s like a kid who was given a Porsche but never taught how to drive it.”

“I suppose I'm the Porsche.”

Jared shook his head.  “No.  You’re the mentor everyone needs.  The golden standard to strive for.”

Henry stretched out and grasped Jared’s hand.  “My friend, you’re in the wrong business.  With all that bullshit you just spewed you should be working on a farm.”  They both laughed, and Henry gave his hand a squeeze.  “But I do thank you.  Now get out of here, I need to go over my lines some more.”

Jared cleared the table and stood, taking the garbage with him.  As he opened the door Henry called out.  “Tell your mother she did good by you.”    Jared gave a brief nod and left.

Henry spent the next half hour going over his lines again and again.  When it was time to head back, Henry dropped the script onto the couch, grabbed the suit jacket, reached for the door, and paused.  He thought of the scene, what it represented.  He thought he knew why it didn’t work for him earlier, what he needed to make it work now.  He opened the door a minute later, the heat just as oppressive as earlier.

The walk back to the soundstage wasn’t as bad, but it was still plenty unpleasant.  He made his way to the set, the suit jacket still clutched in his hand.  The crew was still slowly trickling in as he stepped on the set.  He slowly put the suit jacket on as he stepped up to the fireplace.  The prop photographs sat on the mantle.  Reaching inside his suit jacket, Henry gently pulled out the photo of Georgina.  He placed it in the center of the prop photos, spacing them out a bit more.  He couldn’t do the scene earlier because it was incomplete, it was missing something.  Inspiration, motivation.

Not long after, everything was set, and he stood waiting.  “Action!”

Henry walked slowly across the set, the uncertainty and confusion filling his face.  He stopped at the fireplace.  He spoke softly, almost fearfully.  “The room is unfamiliar.  I don’t know how I got here.”  He ran his hand along the fireplace mantel, his fingers brushing over framed photographs.  His hand lingered on the center photograph, the smiling face, the enduring love.  He tilted his head, brow furrowed in thought.  “I remember….a summer breeze, light as a kiss, warm as a hug.”  He brought his hand to his cheek as tears welled in his eyes.  “The scent of lavender…”  He began to cry.

“Cut.”  Softly, almost reverently.   “Let’s move on to the next scene, people.”

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Henry put Georgina’s picture back in his suit jacket and left the stage.  He thought the scene went well, clunky dialog notwithstanding. He thought of Georgina, and the life they had together.  It was a good one, better than he probably deserved.  He thought of his career, and the near certainty that this would be his last film.  He felt a sadness at that thought, but also a relief.  He thought of Jared, and his attempt at a motivational speech.  He was young, he would get better at it over time.

He thought of Tomorrow’s Memory, and what had originally attracted him to the project in the first place.  Ultimately, everyone becomes tomorrow’s memory, the trick is making sure it’s a good memory.  Henry felt his career would be considered a good memory.  His life with Georgina, that was a great memory, one he would cherish for all his tomorrows.