Christopher Hacker - The Morels

But even this fairly straightforward cutting-room task became, in the atmosphere of this place, an occasion for conflict. The editor wanted to do away with the cutaway footage, which he said was overexposed and blended poorly with the much-darker footage in the cab of the pickup, and instead intercut the earlier takes as shot in the living room with the later car-mounted stuff, which made for a rather edgy and stylized edit, one that Sri Lanka argued did not fit with the aesthetic.

“I don’t get it,” the editor said. “You keep saying to get creative with this thing, and here I get creative and you object.”

“Explain it to the man,” Sri Lanka said. I echoed back what Sri Lanka had already said, that while it worked on its own, it needed to blend with the other scenes.

Though Sri Lanka hadn’t given me any explicit order to fire our editor today, the subject hung heavy over me — each look he gave I took for a signal. It was clear that I had two choices here: go through with the firing or offer my resignation.

So when Sri Lanka excused himself to go to the deli for a late-afternoon soda, whether he meant it to be or not, I used the moment to do what I had to do. After I was sure we were alone, I said, “He wants me to fire you.”

We were facing each other, but I was looking down, rolling one of the brushed-steel coasters along the glass coffee table like a wheel.

“Fine by me,” he said. “I’ve been figuring on a way out here for a while.”

“For what we’re paying you, I’m sure it can’t be worth your time.”

“It’d be one thing if I really cared about this project — not that I have anything against your guy, but this thing already feels dated, and it’s not even finished!” He laughed. “Besides, he’s impossible to please. You see how he is. He has no idea what he wants. Is this for festivals or late-night cable? He wants the prestige of the one but the instant market of the other. I’ve seen it a dozen times with these first-time directors. They start out intending to make some groundbreaking piece of cinema, but now that the bills have come due, the money gone, they don’t have the courage to follow it through. It’s a shame — the script is good.”

Why did this hurt my feelings? He was just saying what I’d been thinking — plain truths — but it offended me to hear him say it. I let the coaster roll to the edge of the table and drop to the floor. “The script is the script,” I said. “The movie is the movie.”

“You should just start over.”

“That’s a helpful suggestion.” I got up. “I’ll be sure to pass it along.”

“Listen,” he said, but didn’t get to finish the thought because just then the power cut out. The blinking AV rack went dark, along with the three monitors. A new silence replaced the drone and whir of equipment-cooling fans. Suddenly traffic noise could be heard, the creaking of footsteps above us. The editor left the room and went to the front door.

I followed.

There were already several residents out, feeling their way along the walls, asking one another what was going on. It had been hot for days, unbearably so, with warnings from the city for people to ease up on their AC usage, but if my mother and this editor were any indication, the warnings had gone unheeded. The movie theater kept its cavernous spaces just a little warmer than bone chilling. Two years later, this same situation would have provoked a wild-eyed panic among the residents of this city, an assumption that we were once again under attack — but back then we made no such assumption. A citywide crisis like this was a time of fun, of mischief, and had a way of making that border we must erect for the sake of sanity in a city of nine million seem porous, somehow, allowing for a deep and satisfying sense of connectedness — an occasion to feel grateful for the human beings around you.

So in spite of our conversation just moments earlier, we were suddenly giddy. A crowd gathered by the red emergency light of the open stairwell. A slow line shuffled past, down the steps, clinging tight to the banister. Echoes rang up from below, traveling word-of-mouth reports from street level. In the hallway, the neighborly sharing of a cell phone, good-natured lamenting about melting ice cream and raw meat. “I’m supposed to have people over,” a woman said. “My husband’s on his way right now with people from work.” The rose glint of eye whites and teeth. Voices in the stairwell, the heavy chunk of a door opening and closing and with it the arrival of more residents, Sri Lanka among them. He found us.

“I heard it’s all of the city,” he said.

Another new arrival said, “On the radio they say it’s into Connecticut, New Jersey too, though a guy I just talked to said some blocks in Queens still have power.”

“There’s a grill up on the roof.”

“Why are people so fixated on spoiled food? Just keep your fridge closed, and it’ll be fine for at least forty-eight hours.”

While we were talking, a discussion had taken place between the woman with the imminent cocktail party and those with raw meat. A coalition was formed, a larger shindig. We were invited to join, to empty our freezers and meet up on the roof. I declined.

“Oh, come on,” Sri Lanka said. “Don’t tell me you’re going to the theater today. Projectors and popcorn machines run on electricity.”

“Unless they’re using alien technology.” From out of the darkness, Arthur’s son appeared, orange gun in hand. “Which most people think isn’t real.”

Sri Lanka said, “Most people are idiots and can’t believe the truth that’s right in front of their eyes.”

The boy said, “In a book I’m reading it says that Thomas Edison was an alien, which would mean that everything is alien technology. The lightbulb, the telephone, the compact-disc player. It’s not really a book-book — it’s more like a comic book.”

“What’s your name, little man?”

“I’m Will, even though I shouldn’t be telling you my name.”

“Is it a secret?”

“It isn’t a secret, it’s just you never know. That’s what Tyler’s mom says. You never know. But she needs to worry less about other people’s influence on Tyler and more about her own.”

Adjusting to the dimness, I saw that the hostess of the imminent cocktail party was Arthur’s wife, Penelope — at the moment handing Will several sloshing ziplock bags of marinated meat. She was short, not much taller than her son, with chopped black hair and a small upturned nose, through one nostril a silver loop that glinted orange. She had cherubic cheeks and full red lips. She was wearing jeans and a black tank top that exposed a sleeve of tattoos the length of her arm. “Hold them by the tops,” she said, “like this. Give me the gun, thank you very much. Here’s the flashlight. Go ahead. I’ll meet you up there.”

Sri Lanka and I helped the editor empty his fridge of its beer and frozen dinners, and we felt our way back down the hall. On our way up to the roof, Sri Lanka riffed on the submarine, red-lit stairwell — its creative possibilities as an opening location for a low-budget short. “That’s what we need to shake things up,” he was saying to us. “Get back to basics. Just the three of us and a camcorder. Forget all that other crap. Cut it in camera.” He was squinting, framing with his fingers as we made our way upstairs.

The editor and I arched eyebrows at each other. A playful eye roll. A grin.

(How can I describe that feeling, jogging up the stairs after this wordless exchange — that welling up inside? It doesn’t come too often as I am a natural wallflower, closing off the petals of myself to people instinctively, a tendency that has become more pronounced the older I get. But as a child the feeling came to me quite often: the simple desire to be someone’s friend — and the simple hope that this someone felt the same way, too.)