Memphis Movie by Corey Mesler

was a sort of silence. He could hear music. He thought it was the Doors.
    â€œHey, Eric,” Camel said.
    â€œHey, Camel. Am I disturbing you?”
    â€œNo, no, man, I’m in the bathroom.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Eric said. He hated disgusting images. They played havoc with his personal well-being. They played hell with his visual dictionary, the library he kept in his head of useful, meaningful images, from which his movies came. Also, he didn’t trust his body and hated imagining anyone else’s personal eructation and necessaries.
    â€œNo, I’m not, you know, number twoing or anything. At least I don’t think I am. I am—”
    Again that soft-edged silence.
    â€œI sit in here to write. That is, I used to. So, I thought if I was gonna write again, I should try it in here. It’s quite a happy space, you know? The colors are nice, the chrome of the pipes, the smell of recently used soap.”
    â€œListen, Camel, if this is too much for you—”
    â€œ Movie Man ,” Camel said with a sense of urgency. It brought Eric up short. He prepared himself for something from left of left field.
    â€œI’ve written you some damn good dialogue.”
    â€œCamel, that’s wonderful.”
    â€œCan you gimme a few hours? I’m thinking I can write all night here and have something near to what you’re looking for.”
    This was so unexpected Eric didn’t know what to say. Camel lucid was the Camel of old, creative, energetic, amusing. Eric’s gratitude made him feel blubbery, blurry at the edges.
    â€œCamel, you’re a prize. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
    â€œOk, Craig.”
    Eric called Mimsy Borogoves. She whispered whispery endearments. He invited her to the 7 a.m. shoot at the Pyramid and she said that she would be there.
    He talked to Rica Sash, who assured him that he had a visual style that Eric was going to love. “Yes,” he said, “I can work with your photographer’s images.”
    Eric took a call from Ike Bana and one from Suze Everingham. Both only wanted assurances that the movie would begin shooting tomorrow. Not having ever worked with either actor before, Eric was a little on edge. He felt challenged somehow by Ike’s aggressive manner. Did he have to assert so early that he was in charge?
    Suze Everingham, however, sounded warm and friendly. She was about to break big this year, with two already acclaimed independent films being released just about simultaneously. There was already Oscar buzz about her. Eric only knew that she was as sexy as a flame. She was bicycling, Eric knew, shooting a movie with Miranda July simultaneously with his.
    Suze Everingham had a funny/sexy persona on screen, a blonde Sarah Silverman, with that same kind of killer body. Eric was anxious to work with her and the part Sandy had written her was key, a real plum role. “This part,” Sandy had said, “this is our Independent Spirit Award for Supporting Actress.”
    Eric had no call from Dan Yumont so he checked in with his wayward star.
    The phone rang a dozen times. The rings sounded tired.
    â€œGo,” Dan said when he picked up.
    â€œHey, Dan. Just wanted to make sure you had everything you needed. You need a wake-up call, a limo in the morning?”
    â€œEric!” Dan howled. He sounded coked to the gills. Maybe evenbeyond the gills. “Man, I’ll be there. I’m gonna walk, Buddy. Shit, the Peabody is in the Pyramid’s backyard.”
    Eric didn’t like the sound of this. It was walkable, of course, but he didn’t think it was safe to have his star on the street. Maybe at 7 a.m. it would be ok.
    â€œOk,” Eric said. “You did check into your room, then?”
    â€œNot yet, my man. I am about to. I might need to crash early.”
    â€œOk. Um, where are you? Do you need someone to come get you?”
    Dan Yumont didn’t rightly know where he was.