Free Playing Along by Rory Samantha Green Page B

above them. George is wishing he had indeed spoken up. He could have said, “No, Pedro, not okay. Let’s film casinos full of middle America and us on a stage in the background; like the bad band at a bar mitzvah. Bad band. Okay?” That would have been poetic irony. Oh, and as an afterthought, he could have suggested a set-up with Fanny, because all arrows were pointing towards them being a match made in heaven, where surely they could persuade old, dead Sebastian to complete the threesome?
    But he had been too hung-over to be assertive. Plus he wants to trust Gabe. He needs to trust Gabe, who now sprints over to the boys and says excitedly, “I’ve just seen this shot on the monitor. It’s the ticket, boys. It looks magnificent. Really.”
    George is unconvinced. The set is swarming with a multitude of people, doing a multitude of seemingly extremely important jobs.
    “Have they finished lighting this shot—can we move now?” asks George, who is having a spontaneous memory of being five years old on holiday in Cornwall, while Polly buried his entire body beneath the sand, forcing him to swallow a massive mouthful until he nearly choked to death. He vividly recalls hearing his mother say, “Look how sweet, Lawrence, the children are playing.”
    “I’ll check,” says Gabe and runs off again.
    “There’s something wrong with this picture,” says Mark. “That Myerson chap has three assistants and there’s only one of him. There’s four of us and we have—Gabe.”
    “I’ll gladly take one of his, mate,” says Duncan, “I’ve had my eye on the short one with the big—”
    “Box of pills?” interrupts George.
    “Is it lunch yet?” adds Simon.
    “Anyway, I thought Anna was your assistant, or is it the other way around?” says Duncan sarcastically.
    “Give it a rest, Dunc,” says Mark.
    “We said, didn’t we—when we first started out—we said we’d keep it real.” George stands up, feeling aggravated. “There’s enough people who are essential when we tour without having to hire an entourage just for the hell of it.”
    “Well, this is real enough for me,” says Simon. “I have sand in every crevice imaginable and no sandwich on the horizon. I’m ready to be a diva. People!” he yells, shaking the dust from his mop of red hair, as make-up and wardrobe rush to his side.
    George declines help from an eager wardrobe assistant trying to brush off his suit and does so himself. He heads straight for the craft service table sheltered under a canopy, offering a selection of cut up vegetables, cheese and oversized biscuits. A young guy, no more than eighteen years old, is manning the table. He looks slightly flustered as George approaches.
    “Uh, hi. George, um, wow. I think, you know, in your trailer, they’ve got special food for you.”
    “No, this is great. Carrots, I love carrots.” George grabs a handful. “So
you
know
my
name, what’s yours?”
    “Eliot, my name’s Eliot and damn, you know, I am such a big fan,” Eliot fumbles awkwardly with a stack of plastic cups, almost knocking them all over. “Not cool,” he mutters under his breath.
    “No, honestly, that’s really nice to hear, Eliot. You play anything yourself?”
    “Yeah, I do. I, you know, write some lyrics and play guitar and my friends and I we’ve started a band.”
    “Excellent. Called?”
    “Extra Utensils.”
    “I like it. Who are your influences?”
    Eliot looks embarrassed, “Besides you? Wow, like, Bon Iver, The Shins, Bright Eyes.”
    “Impressive selection. You have anything recorded?”
    “Yeah, we have some stuff, like on my computer.”
    “Eliot, listen to me. How old are you?”
    “Eighteen.”
    “I thought so. You’ve got a lot more misery to suffer through. It carves an edge—you’ll need it. See that guy with the afro and the glasses over there,” George points to Gabe, who is circling a palm tree on his phone. “I want you to take him some celery and some cheese sticks or something,