That enough?
Max wanted to be a filmmaker.
That’s how he ended up sitting in a beat-up Volvo with no heat, parked on Prospect Park West, filming strangers for an insurance company. The camera was small. The pay was hourly. The waiting was endless.
His subject was Louis.
Last name blacked out on the paperwork. Just a photo and an address.
Louis lived in Windsor Terrace, near the circle. He was overweight. He moved carefully, like every step required permission from his back. The file said the injury came from a slip in front of a bodega, Smiley’s. The same place Max got his coffee in the morning. The guys there were friendlier than the coffee was good.
Louis claimed the pain was ongoing.
Debilitating.
For weeks, Max watched him do very little.
Out the door.
Down the block.
Pharmacy.
Bench.
Home.
The footage was dull. Max tried to make it interesting. Zooms. Long holds. Pigeons. Meaning where there wasn’t any. He imagined it was a film. He imagined an audience discovering the beauty of the quotidian, declaring Max a genius.
The Volvo smelled. His feet went numb. He wondered when wanting to make movies had turned into this.
Then one morning, a truck pulled up. A piano came off the back. Louis stepped outside. Looked at the piano. Talked to the movers. Rolled up his sleeves. He bent. Lifted. Pushed.
Max filmed..When the paino , Louis stood still. One hand on the wall. Breathing.
Then he looked at the car. A pause.
He crossed the street. Max lowered the camera. “Insurance?” Louis said. Max nodded.Silence. “That enough?” Louis shifted. Winced. “I just wanted to play,” Louis said. “You sending it in?”
Max
“I don’t know.”
Louis walked away. Slowly. in the Volvo the camera stayed on.