Read Online If Only in My Dreams by Wendy Markham - Free Book Online
Authors: Wendy Markham
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bins—from Christmas decorations to clothing topenny candy—is either an incredibly realistic reproduction, or in terrific condition for being at least sixty-five years old.
Just last week, this was an Internet cafe. She checked her e-mail on a computer right over in that corner, now occupied by a display table holding a pile of bright blue boxes and a sign that reads PARAMOUNT STAR-LITES .
“Are we shooting interior scenes here?” she asks, wondering why anyone would bother to go to these lengths if they’re not—and she could have sworn they aren’t.
About to lift her suitcase and move it away from the door, he looks up and frowns as though he doesn’t comprehend.
He must not speak English
, she realizes in the split second before she recalls that he did, indeed, speak English when he greeted her.
“Shooting?” he asks blankly without a trace of an accent.
“I thought this place was just for exterior shots,” she clarifies, and is met with an even more puzzled expression.
Oh. Maybe he’s a little slow, like Eddie, the bag boy at Gristedes near her apartment. That would explain, too, why he was knocking on the window and waving at her as though she’s a long-lost friend. He probably knocks and waves at everybody.
“Never mind,” she says sympathetically. Marlene, the casting assistant, must have hired him for his looks. He can’t possibly have a speaking part.
“Say, what’s in this thing?” he asks, grunting as he moves her suitcase. “Rocks?”
“I thought sandbags,” she tells him, surprised that he manages to sound so… well, fluent. “But Lisa said it’s just vintage clothes.”
“Vintage?”
“You know Lisa. She lives her art, and she wants the cast to live it, too.” She glances out the window as a huge black vintage automobile rumbles by, a horizontal evergreen tied to the roof. Very charming, very realistic. “I’ve got to keep an eye out for the crew and find out what happened to my scene.”
He seems as though he’s about to ask a question, but thinks better of it. Instead, he asks, “Can I help you find something?”
“Definitely. Denton would be a great place to start.”
“Denton?” he echoes, then nods as though a lightbulb went on. “Oh! Right this way.”
He ushers her past a display of ladies’ hats and retro cosmetics to a row of shelves. Gesturing toward a small stack of pastel clothing of some sort, he asks, “What size?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sizes three and up come with a roll collar now. See?” He lifts a folded garment and unfurls it to reveal a child’s one-piece footed pajama with a trapdoor in back.
Clara just stares.
“Too big?” he asks. “Or too small?”
“What are you doing?”
He looks taken aback. “Showing you the Dr. Denton’s. You asked for them, didn’t you?”
She can’t help but laugh. Uneasily. And notice that he speaks with the distinct vintage speech pattern she’s been working to learn. He must have a speaking part; maybe they even share the same voice coach. But this bit actor manages to make the dialect sound far more natural than she’s been able to manage so far.
“No, I meant… I was looking for
Denton.”
“What’s that?”
What’s
that, he asks. Not
Who’s
that.
Not that
Who’s that
would be any more acceptable a question under the circumstances. He should know.
Unless…
Unless she’s mistaken about this guy being part of the cast.
Because anybody remotely involved with the movie would know who Denton is. In fact, anybody with the slightest knowledge of pop culture for the past three decades would know who Denton is. When it comes to Hollywood directors, he’s like Woody, or Spike, or Ang. No last name needed.
Right. So maybe this guy is just some freak who wandered onto the set.
Or maybe…
“Am I being punked?” she asks, looking around for a camera crew and a bunch of practical-joker colleagues.
“Pardon?” Again, he looks utterly clueless.
Okay, so he’s just some random
Just last week, this was an Internet cafe. She checked her e-mail on a computer right over in that corner, now occupied by a display table holding a pile of bright blue boxes and a sign that reads PARAMOUNT STAR-LITES .
“Are we shooting interior scenes here?” she asks, wondering why anyone would bother to go to these lengths if they’re not—and she could have sworn they aren’t.
About to lift her suitcase and move it away from the door, he looks up and frowns as though he doesn’t comprehend.
He must not speak English
, she realizes in the split second before she recalls that he did, indeed, speak English when he greeted her.
“Shooting?” he asks blankly without a trace of an accent.
“I thought this place was just for exterior shots,” she clarifies, and is met with an even more puzzled expression.
Oh. Maybe he’s a little slow, like Eddie, the bag boy at Gristedes near her apartment. That would explain, too, why he was knocking on the window and waving at her as though she’s a long-lost friend. He probably knocks and waves at everybody.
“Never mind,” she says sympathetically. Marlene, the casting assistant, must have hired him for his looks. He can’t possibly have a speaking part.
“Say, what’s in this thing?” he asks, grunting as he moves her suitcase. “Rocks?”
“I thought sandbags,” she tells him, surprised that he manages to sound so… well, fluent. “But Lisa said it’s just vintage clothes.”
“Vintage?”
“You know Lisa. She lives her art, and she wants the cast to live it, too.” She glances out the window as a huge black vintage automobile rumbles by, a horizontal evergreen tied to the roof. Very charming, very realistic. “I’ve got to keep an eye out for the crew and find out what happened to my scene.”
He seems as though he’s about to ask a question, but thinks better of it. Instead, he asks, “Can I help you find something?”
“Definitely. Denton would be a great place to start.”
“Denton?” he echoes, then nods as though a lightbulb went on. “Oh! Right this way.”
He ushers her past a display of ladies’ hats and retro cosmetics to a row of shelves. Gesturing toward a small stack of pastel clothing of some sort, he asks, “What size?”
“Excuse me?”
“Sizes three and up come with a roll collar now. See?” He lifts a folded garment and unfurls it to reveal a child’s one-piece footed pajama with a trapdoor in back.
Clara just stares.
“Too big?” he asks. “Or too small?”
“What are you doing?”
He looks taken aback. “Showing you the Dr. Denton’s. You asked for them, didn’t you?”
She can’t help but laugh. Uneasily. And notice that he speaks with the distinct vintage speech pattern she’s been working to learn. He must have a speaking part; maybe they even share the same voice coach. But this bit actor manages to make the dialect sound far more natural than she’s been able to manage so far.
“No, I meant… I was looking for
Denton.”
“What’s that?”
What’s
that, he asks. Not
Who’s
that.
Not that
Who’s that
would be any more acceptable a question under the circumstances. He should know.
Unless…
Unless she’s mistaken about this guy being part of the cast.
Because anybody remotely involved with the movie would know who Denton is. In fact, anybody with the slightest knowledge of pop culture for the past three decades would know who Denton is. When it comes to Hollywood directors, he’s like Woody, or Spike, or Ang. No last name needed.
Right. So maybe this guy is just some freak who wandered onto the set.
Or maybe…
“Am I being punked?” she asks, looking around for a camera crew and a bunch of practical-joker colleagues.
“Pardon?” Again, he looks utterly clueless.
Okay, so he’s just some random
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