dedicated to tables with baby formula, diapers, clothes, and rows of chairs for the moms. Makeup people try to tend to the mothers, who are also in the spot.
I look at Ian and Ian looks at Pam and Pam is shaking her head slowly. “This will not end well,” she says.
Keita is smiling. “So many babies!”
Ian says, “This is gay man hell.”
And then we all happen to notice our director, the once-famous Flonz Kemp, the man in charge, the man with the vision, the man who is responsible for our Super Bowl spot, our chance for greatness, a man who is earning $25,000 a day for the next three days. He looks confused. This is not the look you hope to see on your director’s face on the first day.
Unfortunately, the client arrives early. Jan walks up to me and says, “I don’t understand what’s happening.”
• • •
We are scheduled to roll film at 8:30 A.M. Our first shot is slated to be the babies walking through the hallway to get to the auditorium to watch the Big Brother–like character. By ten-thirty we are still setting up, as the babies keep falling or walking in the wrong direction. Some boycotted the idea of walking altogether and simply sat, looking around. A decision was made to reduce the number of babies, which helped a great deal.
By late afternoon we get the shots of the babies toddling, though some of them are crawling, and we all agree, after a twenty-five-minute discussion among the group, that this is adorable and, as Flonz says, “exactly the reason I love working with babies. You never know what you’re going to get.” His smile is not met with other smiles.
Not surprisingly, the shoot ran late. The overages cost the agency tens of thousands of dollars. Ian and I are supposed to be in charge. Martin will hear about this. Moods soured. A dinner had been planned and we all agreed that perhaps it would be best to postpone until the following evening. Everyone wants to go to their rooms, order room service, and hope to find Tommy Boy on Pay-Per-View.
Throughout the day I looked to Pam each time her iPhone buzzed. Is it my father, who never traveled to Europe or China during his life but managed to visit both shortly after his death? Have the gods of logistics—these movers of cargo and packages, toilet paper and salmon, legal documents and illegal drugs, and, occasionally, the remains of a World War II veteran from Boston—finally rerouted him the 7,254 miles from HKG to LAX, deep within the cargo hold, ashes class, 30,000 feet above sea level, one last time?
Each time Pam looks over, shakes her head.
• • •
My cold is getting worse and I stand in a hot shower for a long time. I can’t seem to get warm. L.A. is unusually cold, even for January. The news says something about strange winds from the North Pacific. The heat in my room doesn’t seem to be working, so I put on both bathrobes hanging in the bathroom, thinking I might be able to sweat out my illness. I’ve ordered a bowl of spaghetti from room service. I’ve also opened a half-bottle of red wine and a $15 can of peanuts, which I’m confident the finance department will reject. I’m lying in bed clicking through the channels on TV.
Ian calls.
I say, “I’m wearing two robes.”
Ian says, “Paulie just called me. Phoebe quit.”
The Mighty Ducks are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs on TV. A commercial comes on and it’s Snugglies’ main competitor. A guy with long hair plays guitar and sings a song called “Do the Potty Dance.” Toddlers dance. The man sings. “Let’s all wear our big-kid pants.” I feel jealous. Why didn’t we come up with that? I hate it but admire the thinking.
I say, “When?”
“This afternoon, late. She gave two weeks’ notice. Have you talked to her recently?”
The next spot is for soda, done by our agency. I press mute and watch with the sound off. The cool instantly dissipates and the spot without sound looks absurd.
Ian says, “Fin.”
“Yeah.”
“Have you talked with her?”
“No. I left her a couple of messages.”
Ian says, “You should call her.”
I’m not hungry and I regret ordering the $25 bowl of pasta. For a moment I think about taking a red-eye home to New York. I flip the channel and watch as a man puts petroleum jelly on his nose, dips his nose into a bowl of cotton balls, and then