“I edit commercials every day. It’ll be cheaper just to let me see the thing to completion. I’ve got it all figured out,” Saraub said. In fact, he’d never edited a feature-length, and he’d never selected accompanying musical scores, either. But Maginot Lines was his baby, and what Bob didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. “It shouldn’t take more than six months in postproduction, and the legwork is almost done.”
A phone rang in the background from Bob’s end. Papers rustled. Saraub pictured a high-floored but depressingly sterile office in Studio City, and ten frenzied assistants with earphones attached to their heads, praying the new boss didn’t give them the axe. “Obviously, if progress stalls, we retain the right to bring in our own people,” Bob said.
Saraub frowned. Out the window, he could see holes all down the block, where luxury condominiums had lost investors midway through construction. Behind boarded planks, they were open sores of dirt. So this call was about ownership, and Sunshine planned to acquire controlling rights. But three years, no takers, and his bank account nearly drained, he was in no position to dicker. “Yea—yes. I hear that’s standard.”
“All right, then. This has been enlightening. I’ll need a list of all your interviews and their info for legal if we sign a deal, and I’ll get back to your agent in a few days.”
“Thanks, Bob. I apprec—” Saraub started, but by then, the phone was already dead.
He sat down at the kitchen table and, despite the throbbing in his head, grinned. For as long as he could remember, he’d wanted to make a feature. Every weekend the last three years, he’d conducted interviews. Every morning, he’d gotten up early and cut film or placed calls. Even Audrey had gotten into the act, sending out questionnaires from her office and using Vesuvius stamp machines to save on postage. Opposite their futon was the time line she’d made on poster board, itemizing his subjects. Each branch represented an interview, the date it was conducted, and its overall significance to the film. It was preternaturally neat, with perfectly straight lines like she’d used a giant typewriter. “So you remember what it is you’re doing,” she’d said with a smirk when she finished it, which had been kind of funny, and given his lack of organization, kind of true.
At first, the movie was supposed to be about the trend of multinational corporations, often subsidized by the World Bank, to privatize third-world natural resources like water, forest reserves, fossil fuels, and even air. But the more he learned, the more he’d realized that the story wasn’t abroad, but local. Privatization was happening in America, too, but because of this deep recession, people cared more about jobs and food than breathable air. No one wanted to blow the whistle on corporations that doubled the price of tap water, because at least they were cutting a profit and providing their employees with health care.
As it happened, Sunshine Studios’ parent company, Servitus, had invested heavily in New York water rights, as well as Appalachian coal, Arctic oil, and the verdant timberlands of the South. They were based in both Atlanta and Beijing, and so far, they’d drained the upstate Hudson Valley and were selling their spoils to Europe in the form of bottled water. Riverbanks and natural springs had dried up, and a few of the houses surrounding them had collapsed. Small farms couldn’t afford to irrigate because in its scarcity, the price of water had become too high.
When this recession ended, people would lift their heads to discover that America didn’t belong to America anymore. By then, it wouldn’t be worth much, anyway. West Virginia and Pennsylvania were already flooded from all the coal mining and the Alaskan pipeline had almost run dry. If you looked at this country from space, you’d see that it was filling with holes.
He knew it was cheesy. His married cousins, who’d been smart and joined the family rug business, now lived grown-up lives, complete with wives, kids, suburban McMansions, and Cuban cigars. They had things that, after toiling thirty-five more years in film, he’d probably still never be able to afford. But days like this, he saw through all that bullshit and remembered what mattered. He was trying to make the world a better place, and that made life worth living.
There was only one person who’d understand how he felt. His enthusiasm got the better of him, and he flipped open his phone and dialed Audrey’s number.