I Saw You Behind The Camera

*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.

“Nice necklace,” Natalie exclaimed before her delicate fingers gripped onto your clapboard charm, she noticed its back was completely rusted, “where did you get it?” She politely added.

“It was a gift.” You uttered before making a pause that felt like an eternity. You knew it was your turn to say something, but you simply did not. Perhaps you felt insecure because it was your second day penetrating into the innocuous cinema industry—the word cinema is a stretch for a production that wrapped to a lost media archive.

Natalie simply walked away while you stood immobile for another eternity. That autumn morning you picked her up at her house—after you realised that besides being a Production Assistant, she was also an aspiring Actress, you thought she could teach you something, after all, she was young, eager and although her nose reminded you of an eagle’s, it could have been bigger. Right after you called her—announcing your arrival—inside the parked car you noticed a horrendous smell after drinking from your thermos—that of a dirty, wet rag—and, naturally, thought that your thermos was not cleaned properly. You sniffed it but found no stink. You saw Natalie closing the door of her house, only seconds before discovering that your clothes were the source of the stink—they reeked of humidity.

You instantly remembered that the whole outfit was taken out of the laundry machine that same morning. You had woken up at 4 AM—despite the filming location being a ten-minute drive, but since you volunteered to give Natalie a ride, and since she lived almost an hour away—ten minutes became ninety. Agitated, because you could not find the right sports clothes—the first day on set you dressed formally and the Producer gave you a shovel and a rag. Furious, you drifted towards the laundry machine to find that some asshole family member had washed all the colour clothes but died halfway through or a thunder vanished it from this world or more probably went to sleep. Finally, you fed a soaking Pulp Fiction T-shirt and colour-matching shorts to the dryer, and hopped into a quick shower.

“What TV series have you seen?” You asked Natalie.

“Um… The Crown, have you seen it?” She parried.

“No… Have you seen Barry?” You attempted.

“No… Is it any good?” She tried.

“Just the first two seasons…” You surrendered because your mind could not stop thinking about the smell. You obviously had the windows completely opened but Natalie kept sliding hers up, whenever she looked at her phone you slid hers up—very smoothly.

This explains very properly why you stood in silence after she complimented your mother’s present.

“Smells kinda funny in here… Or is it just me?” The Script Supervisor uttered after sitting beside you.

“Just you…” You mumbled—dead inside.

Although befriending Natalia was not an option anymore—since you shattered your confidence by smelling like an old mop—you finally embraced for a long day reeking of humidity.

You saw the—homosexual—Director giving away T-shirts with the short-film’s sloppy name—The Closet—you asked him for one.

“Yes! Of course, we will give you one, baby. Tomorrow! Because today we have no more left.”

Three hours of picking up trash later, you sat down—hesitantly—next to an isolated Actor—Don Ruperto, a middle-aged, overweight man dressed as a surgeon—who instantly recognised you from another production.

“I swear I have seen your face before…” The fat actor nodded with bulging eyes.

“Are you sure it was me?” You asked, rifling through all your memory files.

“I saw you behind the camera, literally…” Don Ruperto gave you the look one would shoot at a ghost.

“Really?” You said lamely.

“Have you ever been to a production at Sebastian?”

You had once infiltrated into another production—at Sebastian—with the help of your uncle Hadi. It was very improbable Don Ruperto had see you since you only got as close to the art director when he went outside to smoke crack.

“I am going for the Stanislavski Technique,” Don Ruperto admitted.

“Me? I am more of a democrat, to be honest.” I added smartly.

“The Stanislavski Technique demands you to use your imagination… If I am drinking a glass of water in my scene,” he said, already acting the fictional scene, “I feel the glass in my hand, I draw it closer to my mouth, and then I feel the liquid washing down my throat, its density, its temperature, everything.”

“Wow, that is really rich, you must be a great actor… What is your favourite movie, Don Ruperto?”

“The Jason Bourne franchise. Did you know the director manipulates your brain during the fight scenes? Pause the movie in any action sequence and look for weird objects that should not be there…” Don Ruperto assured.

“What gives?”

“In one fight a clay jar pops in and then disappears before you can even grasp it!” He said, blatantly confident.

“Seriously?” You queried amused.

“That is what they do! Search the video on WeBan. That’s the trick for a successful action sequence!”

“A clay jar popping in and out of nowhere?”

“It could be anything from a can of compressed air, a football, a PC’s components, or a chair! If you took those things out it would not look as epic because you would be able to read the choreography,”

You noticed he seemed to know a lot about the human mind, and when you asked him, Don Ruperto replied he works at a psychiatric ward.

“I see all sorts of mentally ill people, I have seen the personified death with my own eyes, to be honest.”

“How come?”

“I was aiding a patient who would not stop declaring farewell to everyone in the clinic, he was really old, and I tried to lift his spirits, but he insisted this was his last day, then, he closed his eyes, and uttered goodbye, and his heartbeat monitor emitted a loud continuous beep… He had decided to die that day.”

Lunchtime came, and despite you taking notes of all of Don Ruperto’s teachings, you were still distressed about your smelly odour. While eating—free—chicken with pasta, you fantasised that your uncle Hadi would snuck out of the set to go to a nearby store, so you did. Still carrying your given field radio and earpiece, you bought a shitty T-shirt that said “Awesome” and a spray deodorant to bathe yourself with.

When you came back, you saw Natalie smoking outside with the obese dude who—obviously—was the Data Manager.

“As an actress, I can give you booty and tits, but like, what’s the purpose?” You heard her say, before noticing and approaching you. “The producer gave us early release,”

“Why?”

“He said that I am a slacker and that he saw you—in the hypermarket two blocks away—buying another outfit because yours smelt like an old mop.” She puffed her cigarette.

Your jaw clenched.

“Would you give me a ride back home, please?” Natalie inquired.

“OK. But let me say goodbye to Don Ruperto.”

“Ruperto? The crazy one?”

“What do you mean crazy?”

“Yeah, he is the producer’s brother. And the producer told me—while in University—that Ruperto is a patient inside a psych ward.” She exhaled cancerous fumes near your face.

“You got that wrong. He just works there.”

“Who told you so?”

“Himself.”

“Do you think he tells everybody that he is crazy?”

“I would… He is really intelligent, you know that? He gave me many acting tips.”

“But he this is his first role, and he’s only an extra…”

“He has done some great research about the Jason Bourne movies… Did you know the director visually manipulates you with jars of clay?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Never mind… Just let me say goodbye to him.”

“OK.” Natalie flicked the cigarette butt.

You approached the room where the action was happening—getting overly close to people so everyone knew you did not smell bad and it was probably another person. But unfortunately, Don Ruperto was nowhere to be found. You asked the producer but shivered when he replied something that left you pale.

“What do you mean? I talked to him, only minutes ago.” You sweated.

“No… I have not seen Ruperto in years.”

“You did not list him as an extra?”

“No.”

“But, I chatted,” Your jaw stammered. “I saw him behind the,” you looked to the sofa where you were seated and saw the tripod with the Still Photographer’s camera, “I saw him behind that camera…”

“Nah! I am fucking with you. He went to take a shit.”

A toilet flushed and Don Ruperto emerged, you gave him an affectuous hug and announced your departure.

“Wait. Before you go, follow my InsTaboo page Ruperto Warrior, but search for one with a background photo with black letters or a yellow profile picture with a bird upside down.”

The night unfolded nicely as you went to the theatre to presence Natalie’s acting—overly talented—she did great as a horny MILF. You absolutely loved the play Spring Awakening by Frank Wedekind. At last you waited, after the function only to meet Natalie and invite her to hang up next week, to which the actress replied that she would love to but was going away forever, the girl would be living in South Korea by the weekend. All your efforts were butchered, and anger took the better part of you, but when you saw the entire Jason Bourne franchise, and there was no trace of a single clay jar… You really lost your mind.

Special thanks to Axl Red for helping me posing in this blog’s picture.