I found pizza under a couch. Not a pizza box. No box to be found. Not a single slice, but instead eight slices, composing a whole pizza of what I can only assume was pepperoni pizza, all perfectly arranged under the couch. Like it was being delivered to hungry mice whose ordering reach far exceeds their grasp. Or a bunch of morons with the munchies. Fifty/fifty.
I had been tempted, only briefly, to leave the pizza out as a reminder to my frat brothers to clean up after themselves. But, given the bags of filth I trucked out to the dumpster, this cause was lost. I tossed the pizza in with the condom wrappers, used dental floss, and random crusty Kleenex that so recently littered our floors.
You might think that I would be unhappy, cleaning up after a couple dozen very well connected douchebags. And, on a normal night, you would be right. But this was not a normal night. This was a night in which the mere fact of my association with Alpha Nu Alpha Lambda resulted in me getting the kind of blow job reserved for men with excessive body hair, giant cigars, and private armies. A night in which one of the hottest women I had ever seen allowed me to not only cover a tile in ethnic bingo (Row: BJ, Column: Asian. Bingo!) but also had me paint her face like a drunken Jackson Pollack.
So while I may be the lowest man on a very mungy totem pole, I was also a man who had had my pole waxed. I was in a post orgasm glow, and oscillated between absolute disbelief that I might ever be so lucky, and a profound fear that the best thing that might ever happen to me had already happened.
It was deep into one of these swings into self doubt, and deep into a pile of what I could only assume were once out dishes, that the doorbell rang.
It may seem crazy to you that I did not run to the door. It may seem crazy to you that I did not even leave the dishes behind. But, to be clear, you are three hundred words into chapter two. I assumed I was living in the boring epilogue of chapter one.
So I did not walk to the door. And I did not run. Instead I picked up the next sorry excuse for a plate and started scrubbing.
The doorbell rang again. With feeling. And then again. Eventually I realized that whomever was pushing it was actually tapping out a beat. A lively bossa nova thing. And they were not going anywhere.
No night is perfect. I put the dish down, dried off my hands, and walked to the door. The persistent beat made my feet want to run, but I kept them under control.
I stood in front of the door, took a deep breath, and opened it.
"Welcome to Alpha Nu, how can I help you?"
It was dark outside. But she was very blonde. The kind of blonde that happens when you have hair bleach and a wandering mind. The hair framed a lovely face, ghostly pale. And now I was staring. She smiled, a thousand watt thing.
"You can help me by getting out of my way."
"What?"
"'How can you help me?'" She said. "You just asked. Then you got stupid."
"Right. No. Come in. I'm Cam." I moved out of the way
She pushed past me, pulling a giant roller bag.
"I'm Mary. But everyone calls me Daisy."
"Why is that?"
She hit me with the smile again. "Because I tell them to."
She put the bag down, then spun around like a Julie Andrews on a German mountain. This caused her slightly modest sundress to become much less modest, and gave me a lovely view of a pair of runner's legs. And I was staring again.
"This will have to do. It's funny, because the place looks so classy outside. All bricks and ivy. Then you come in and it looks like someone threw up on the floor." She said.
"Someone does throw up on the floor. Every day. His name is Ted. He calls it clearing his throat."
Daisy looked at me with an expression that I could not place. Something between amused and irritated.
"Let the artist work, dear." She said. "And that is not the visual I want in my head."
She stalked around the room, framing parts with her fingers.
"I want sultry. I want dark. I want something that oozes passion and hunger and need." She said.
"It's a dump. A dump with couches that are so nasty they make crunching sounds when you sit on them." I said.
"It needs lighting. It needs ambiance. It needs to be perfect."
"Perfect for what?" I asked.
"This!" She said. Then she handed me a piece of paper. I scanned it.
"Is this a shot list?"
"Of course. You can't direct without one."
"And everything on this-" I waved the sheet. "Is going to happen here?"
"Of course."
"Who is playing willing young co-ed?" I asked.
"Me. I am the star of all my works."
"And who is playing the hard and ready young stud?"
"Well Cam, I was going to audition the boys," She said. And then that smile almost knocked me down. "but you're the only one here. So... are you up for it?"
I started pulling off my pants.
She put a hand on my chest.
"Hold up cowboy. You've seen the shot list. Not until scene 3. Now help me set up."
You might think a roller bag would only hold a small amount of film equipment. You would be wrong. You might think that setting up lights, area mikes, a camera, and a bunch of shit that I do not have names for would be difficult with an erection. You would be right. But, given the proper motivation, all work can be rewarding.
