I present the following excerpt from my upcoming Kindle book, The Making of Indecent Betrayal: Two Versions.
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“I have some news that’ll knock your jock off,” Frank told me one morning as I wiped down the espresso machine. We were baristas at Coffee Clutch, the airport development district’s latest upscale coffeehouse. “I’m going to direct my first movie.”
“Really?” I said.
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t know you wanted to direct.”
“Neither did I, till a few weeks ago. I thought, why the hell not? I’ve always liked movies.”
“That doesn’t mean you know how to make one.”
“Anyone can make a movie if they really want to.”
“Whatever you say, Spielberg,” I said, placing an eighteen-ounce bag of Coffee Clutch Dark Decaf Ground Coffee, Special Yellow Ribbon Edition (an unspecified portion of sales going towards unspecified 9/11 charities), onto the shelving unit next to the machine.
“I’m serious,” Frank said. “I went to the city last week and bought some pretty advanced filmmaking equipment—uh, let’s see, two digital videocams, some tripods for the videocams, some digital recording gear, some special-effects software, a couple of spotlights, even one of those clapperboards that you clap down on when you wanna start shooting a scene? Yeah, I bought all that stuff. It cost a little over five grand.”
“Wow.”
“Told you I was serious about directing.”
“Where’d you get the money?”
“I maxed out my Discover card, the only card I had left. The only card I hadn’t already maxed out? The one I try to avoid using, ’cause it charges a million and a half percent interest each month? I’m that serious about directing. I’ve even written a screenplay, my first one ever.”
“What’s it called?”
“Indecent Betrayal. It’s an erotic thriller. I grew up watching erotic thrillers on cable. What can I say, I like boobies.”
“Right. So when do you plan to start filming?”
“This Saturday. At the mansion.”
“Do your parents know?”
“Uh-huh. I told them. They thought it was cute I wanted to direct, like they thought I was five years old and I had said”—high-pitched voice—“ ‘When I gwow up, I wanna be a fi-wuhman, or, or an astwonaut, or, or, or Chief Justice of the Supweme Court, yaaaay!’ ” Frank had clapped during that “yaaaay!” part but apparently not loud enough for our supervisor to hear in the backroom, or else she would have stepped out front and berated us. The two or three customers sitting in our coffeehouse (it was the mid-morning lull) apparently hadn’t heard, either.
“Anyways,” Frank continued, “my parents did permit me to film there, at the mansion, as long as I didn’t do any damage. Plus they’ll stay out of my way, ’cause I knew even before asking that they’ll be in Miami for the weekend on business. But they don’t know about the mature content I plan to film, so”—Frank lifted his finger to his lips—“Shhhhh.”
“Yeah.”
I put some Coffee Clutch Maximum Mocha Cake Pops into the display case.
“So I was wondering,” Frank said. “Would you like to help me out on Saturday?”
“Help you out?”
“With the cameras, the lights, all that technical stuff.”
“I don’t know a thing about movie-making.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem for you, Mac.”
“I guess not.”
“I’ll give you a copy of the screenplay beforehand, soon as I can get copies made.”
“Okay.”
“So you in?”
“I don’t know. How much you paying me?”
“Nothing. But I can give you five percent of the profits from DVD sales. I plan to make this a direct-to-video release.”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay, seven percent. That’s as high as I can go. Whaddaya say, Mac?’
I paused.
“Go fill the napkin holders,” I said.
Copyright © 2023 by David V. Matthews
December 2, 2023
DAVID V. MATTHEWS 