Read Online Memphis Movie by Corey Mesler - Free Book Online Page B

judgment.”
    â€œUm, ok. When should we get together?”
    â€œLater. I’ll call you later this afternoon.”
    â€œPeople to do, things to see, right?”
    â€œYes, later—”
    â€œOk, Buddy, I’ll—”
    Eric hung up.
    â€œI have someplace to be,” Sandy said.
    â€œSomeplace,” Eric repeated, stupidly.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOk, I’ll drop you.”
    â€œJust drop me at Huey’s,” Sandy said.
    â€œHuey’s. Yeah, you know, it’s almost lunch time. I could use a burger.”
    Sandy looked at him with every single year of their being together knit into her brow.
    â€œRight,” Eric said.
    After she kissed his cheek on Madison Avenue and he had driven away, Eric felt like he couldn’t make this movie. Not here in Memphis, not ever. It was all coming apart, he thought, though really it hadn’t had a chance to come together.
    He stopped at a Piggly Wiggly parking lot to check his calls.
    There weren’t as many as he had expected. The cast were probably happy about the day off, the crew probably pissed that they had to work. No further call from Dan.
    No call from Hope Davis. Hope doesn’t spring eternal. It doesn’t spring at all.
    There was, however, a call from Mimsy Borogoves. Eric got a particular buzz dialing her number, a schoolboy buzz.
    â€œHi, Mimsy, this is Eric Warberg.”
    â€œSo formal. I can see it’s you, you see. It says so on my phone. And I chose to answer it unlike you who only call back later.”
    Was she ragging him or flirting? Eric never knew. Eric never knew.
    â€œI was in a meeting,” Eric said. Jesus, what a Hollywood answer.
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWith a writer.”
    â€œUh-huh. I thought your wife wrote all your scripts.”
    â€œShe’s not my wife. No, what I mean is, no, she does write all my scripts but there is always input from other writers. That’s just the process. Do you know Camel Eros?”
    â€œCamel Jeremy Eros?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œNo good? We’re barking up the wrong dog?”
    â€œNo. I don’t know. Camel. I haven’t seen him in forever.”
    â€œOh, so you know him.”
    â€œWell, who knows Camel? He was a friend of my father’s. They went to jail together. This was, oh, I don’t know, the garbage strike—was that 1968?”
    â€œYes, I think that’s right.”
    â€œCamel, huh.”
    â€œSo, what for you call me, Mimsy Borogoves?”
    â€œWanna get some lunch?”
    â€œI do. I really do.”
    â€œHuey’s?” she asked.
    â€œUm, no. Let’s—I don’t know—let’s go someplace far away from Huey’s.”
    â€œOk, Mr. Mystery. Do you know how to get to Gus’s? Best fried chicken in the world.”
    When they were seated in the large room at a small square table Eric couldn’t help but think that Mimsy Borogoves was even prettier than he remembered. She was white like spirit matter, pale as ghost orbs, the backscatter in a photograph. She was positively lucent.
    â€œWhat’s good here?” Eric asked.
    â€œGet the chicken.”
    They laughed a mutual laugh, one of those that makes a bond, a warmth transmitted. He wanted to put his hand on her hand, which rested next to her water glass. The light through the water glass lit her hand, making it resemble fine marble, or glazed pottery.
    He put his hand on her hand.
    â€œTell me things,” he said.
    Mimsy Borogoves looked long into his face. She was deciding something but Eric could only guess what.
    â€œIt’s true, isn’t it, the Hollywood stereotype? The director who beds women left and right because every female has illusions about being in the movies. That’s you, isn’t it? That’s who you’ve become.”
    â€œIs that why you wanted to get together? To castigate me for my profligate ways without even knowing what