She was the kind of suburban matron who not only had to have her children do everything, but always had to know everything herself. “Sorry I’m a little late,” she apologized, but it didn’t sound like she was sorry. “There’s a lot of confusion in your driveway. How did the lesson go?” she asked brightly.
Jennifer tore her eyes off the crane and looked up at her mother. “She told me I had to get kissed better. Like, maybe with tongues.”
Mrs. Miller opened her eyes wide and turned to Sylvie. Great, Sylvie thought. She shook her head. “No, Jennifer, I did not say that. I didn’t give specifics,” Sylvie reassured Mrs. Miller. “We were talking about tempo, actually.” She raised her brows and lowered her voice. “I’d also suggest you monitor her television.” Jennifer’s mother, pacified, took her daughter by the arm and left.
Sylvie walked out into her yard. People were all over. Phil was yelling at a guy with a video camera. She felt as if it were some kind of foreign film and she was in it. “What is all this?” she asked her brother.
“We’re shooting today’s commercial here.”
“Here? In my yard? ”
“Yeah. I rerouted the crew. We’d been scheduled to shoot one on the lot, but this is better. Now we’re just waiting for Bob to get ready.” Phil laughed and looked over toward the garage, where Sylvie was surprised to see her husband having his hair combed by a woman. “He’s becoming the Harrison Ford of car ads,” Phil smirked. He looked back at her. “It’s a hell of a thing to do to a Z2,” he told her. “But Pop thinks it’s a stroke of luck that you couldn’t control yourself. Women drivers.” Phil shook his head again.
Then Bob approached. Sylvie just looked up at him and his professionally combed hair. He smiled back sheepishly. “Hey, Bob, you—” Phil began but, klutzy as always, he tripped over a cable, then looked around to see who he could blame it on. Of course, Sylvie saw, he noticed the only woman on the crew, a pretty woman with freckles and auburn hair. “Hey! Red! Is this the way you hope to get a good-looking guy?” he shouted. “Try taking out a personal ad.” Sylvie cringed. Phil peered at Bob. “Makeup! We need makeup.” The woman Phil had just dissed picked up her makeup box and moved toward them.
“Well, I’m sure she’ll do a great job now,” Bob said to Phil, smiling again at Sylvie. She said nothing, just moved away as Bob was prepped and fussed over.
“Okay, okay, listen up. A star is born,” Phil yelled to the crew.
My brother is an ass, Sylvie thought. She watched as Phil hunkered down to talk to Bob. “You know what we need here. The usual bullshit. Sincerity until it hurts.” Phil paused in his directorial overdrive. He’d obviously seen what Sylvie just had—Rosalie’s face popping up over the fence. “Get that head down out of the shot or we’re going back to court!” he shouted.
Rosalie disappeared. Poor Rosalie. She’d always been loud and insensitive, but no woman deserved Phil. Sylvie looked back at Bob, who’d been powdered down and was now being led to his mark. Phil handed him the script. Bob was used to doing all this, but he looked nervous. Sylvie watched him. Somehow, he looked different. It wasn’t just the makeup. She approached him.
“Sylvie, I know that you—” Bob began.
From behind, Phil interrupted. “Got your lines down?” he asked.
Bob gestured toward the script. “I don’t think it’s—”
Phil, the half-pint Quentin Tarantino, was in his glory. When they were shooting a commercial, he got himself confused with an auteur . “Come on. No temperament,” he said to Bob. “And people: let’s get this the first time or die,” he called out. Sylvie saw one of the crew members roll his eyes. She blushed for her brother. Meanwhile, Bob turned to the camera.
Was this, then, all the attention she got after doing something as crazed, as outrageous, as dunking her car like a
Jennifer tore her eyes off the crane and looked up at her mother. “She told me I had to get kissed better. Like, maybe with tongues.”
Mrs. Miller opened her eyes wide and turned to Sylvie. Great, Sylvie thought. She shook her head. “No, Jennifer, I did not say that. I didn’t give specifics,” Sylvie reassured Mrs. Miller. “We were talking about tempo, actually.” She raised her brows and lowered her voice. “I’d also suggest you monitor her television.” Jennifer’s mother, pacified, took her daughter by the arm and left.
Sylvie walked out into her yard. People were all over. Phil was yelling at a guy with a video camera. She felt as if it were some kind of foreign film and she was in it. “What is all this?” she asked her brother.
“We’re shooting today’s commercial here.”
“Here? In my yard? ”
“Yeah. I rerouted the crew. We’d been scheduled to shoot one on the lot, but this is better. Now we’re just waiting for Bob to get ready.” Phil laughed and looked over toward the garage, where Sylvie was surprised to see her husband having his hair combed by a woman. “He’s becoming the Harrison Ford of car ads,” Phil smirked. He looked back at her. “It’s a hell of a thing to do to a Z2,” he told her. “But Pop thinks it’s a stroke of luck that you couldn’t control yourself. Women drivers.” Phil shook his head again.
Then Bob approached. Sylvie just looked up at him and his professionally combed hair. He smiled back sheepishly. “Hey, Bob, you—” Phil began but, klutzy as always, he tripped over a cable, then looked around to see who he could blame it on. Of course, Sylvie saw, he noticed the only woman on the crew, a pretty woman with freckles and auburn hair. “Hey! Red! Is this the way you hope to get a good-looking guy?” he shouted. “Try taking out a personal ad.” Sylvie cringed. Phil peered at Bob. “Makeup! We need makeup.” The woman Phil had just dissed picked up her makeup box and moved toward them.
“Well, I’m sure she’ll do a great job now,” Bob said to Phil, smiling again at Sylvie. She said nothing, just moved away as Bob was prepped and fussed over.
“Okay, okay, listen up. A star is born,” Phil yelled to the crew.
My brother is an ass, Sylvie thought. She watched as Phil hunkered down to talk to Bob. “You know what we need here. The usual bullshit. Sincerity until it hurts.” Phil paused in his directorial overdrive. He’d obviously seen what Sylvie just had—Rosalie’s face popping up over the fence. “Get that head down out of the shot or we’re going back to court!” he shouted.
Rosalie disappeared. Poor Rosalie. She’d always been loud and insensitive, but no woman deserved Phil. Sylvie looked back at Bob, who’d been powdered down and was now being led to his mark. Phil handed him the script. Bob was used to doing all this, but he looked nervous. Sylvie watched him. Somehow, he looked different. It wasn’t just the makeup. She approached him.
“Sylvie, I know that you—” Bob began.
From behind, Phil interrupted. “Got your lines down?” he asked.
Bob gestured toward the script. “I don’t think it’s—”
Phil, the half-pint Quentin Tarantino, was in his glory. When they were shooting a commercial, he got himself confused with an auteur . “Come on. No temperament,” he said to Bob. “And people: let’s get this the first time or die,” he called out. Sylvie saw one of the crew members roll his eyes. She blushed for her brother. Meanwhile, Bob turned to the camera.
Was this, then, all the attention she got after doing something as crazed, as outrageous, as dunking her car like a
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