On Saturday, Wilson had shown up late to the Hart Building on Senate Row, and they’d almost missed the McCaffrey interview. He’d said his flight got delayed, but the truth was, he’d stopped at a few bars along the way.
To save money, he and Wilson shared hotel rooms. Because of that, Saraub had gotten to know Wilson a lot better than he’d have liked. His old-man stink after eating Chinese food was deadly. Worse, he smoked a joint every night to fall asleep. For the most part, Saraub kept his mouth shut and his eye on the prize. So long as the movie progressed, Wilson could order a team of smack-shooting trannie hookers dressed like clowns if he wanted. But last night, while he’d been trying to sleep, Wilson lit up. The sweet smell had itched his throat until it swelled, and he’d had a hard time breathing. With the movie spinning toward oblivion, and Audrey on his mind, he’d snapped. “Open a window while you smoke that, or I swear to God I’ll knock your teeth in,” he’d yelled into the dark room. Then added, “And thanks for asking me all those times, if I minded. Because I do. I mind.” Then he’d rolled over and pretended to sleep.
Old-man legs poking through crusty boxers and yellowed undershirt, skinny Wilson had stumbled in the dark toward the window and tried to open it. But they’d been on a high floor, so of course, it stayed locked. After looking at the joint for a second or two, he snuffed it, threw on some clothes, left the room, and didn’t come back until the morning. Saraub tried to sleep, but couldn’t. In the grand scheme of things, he’d overreacted a little. No big deal. Problem was, he hadn’t been exaggerating. If Wilson hadn’t stubbed that joint, Saraub really might have gotten up and knocked him bloody. That was a little scary.
In the quiet of the empty room, he’d curled his hands into fists and punched the mattress, all the while wondering if Audrey had been right to be frightened of him, which had only made him punch the mattress harder.
“Come on, you’re a big guy. You know that,” Wilson now said by way of apology.
“Sure,” Saraub answered. Another plane in front of them lifted off. Its wings teetered from side to side, and for a moment it looked like it might flip. Instead, it caught its balance and soared. He marveled. How did they manage?
The silence stretched, and Saraub decided to make peace for the sake of tomorrow’s final Manhattan shoot. Sure, there probably wasn’t much reason to keep going, but he might as well finish what he’d started. “Sorry I snapped at you last night. Where did you go, anyway?” Saraub asked.
“Do you really care?” Wilson snapped back.
“Of course.”
“No. I don’t think you do,” Wilson answered.
Saraub looked at the back of the seat. They’d inched closer to the runway and were now third in line. Lightning streaked across the sky and made everything bright, and then dark again. Rain poured in translucent sheets across the glass. He knew he was supposed to apologize. After that, Wilson’s ego would be soothed and the shoot could resume. They’d finish the last interview and call it a day. That was how they’d always worked together. Wilson handed him bullshit, and he ate it all up for the good of the film. But this ring in his pocket was cutting his thigh, and after what he’d been through with Audrey, and now Maginot Lines, he was done with giving people what they wanted. “You’re right. I don’t give a shit,” he said.
The air turned to shards of glass, cutting and tense. Wilson’s eyes burned holes of rage into the seat ahead of him.
“Fuck you,” Wilson said.
Saraub crossed his legs, opened his mouth, closed his mouth. Rain pelted the circular window. Seeking a diversion, he opened his laptop and played the latest D.C. footage. Squinted at the screen and tried to make his vision small, so he didn’t have to look at Wilson.
The interview had turned out pretty well, though McCaffrey, the senior senator of West Virginia, sweated a lot, which never looked good on film. Saraub rolled the clip about twenty minutes in. Blue-eyed McCaffrey was wet as a noodle. “The problem,” the senator said, “is that regulating these companies starts to look like choosing flowers over bread.”
“But bread is a flower,” Saraub answered from behind the camera. “A grain. I just saw it in