Free Call Me by Gillian Jones

heroin addiction, she’s doing it to keep a roof over her and her daughter’s heads. It’s mind blowing when you go behind the scenes; everyone really does have a story. And we shouldn’t judge so harshly.”
    He raises his hands in mock surrender. “Easy man, I didn’t mean any offence, I was playing. Besides, I know how it is, trust me.”
    He’s right, he does know. His sister, Chelsea, used to work at a pretty lucrative phone sex line while paying her way through medical school. Growing up just the two of them, she didn’t have much choice when not wanting to accrue a shit ton of student loans once medical school was done. Chels was determined to find a job that would leave her debt free. In the end, she became some super hoity-toity phone sex operator and succeeded in paying her own way. Having worked in the sex industry, she’s been helping a lot with this project of mine whenever I need. So, I know he isn’t as judgmental a dick as he sounded.
    “Sorry. I know you didn’t mean it in a negative way. I’m overthinking it. The end of filming is getting closer, and then I start the submission process. What the hell am I thinking about, entering such a huge competition?”
    “Stop. You’re an incredible filmmaker, and this piece is important. You’re shedding light on the realities of the sex trades. Opening people’s eyes to the diseases that infiltrate the lives of these women: Hep C, HIV/AIDS. Women, who—for whatever reason—feel they have no choice. Women who often deal with a manipulative pimp, or some other asshole that steals from them and beats the shit out of them. I bet by the time I see the final version, I’ll be praying the digital age allows some of these women to find a safer way to do business, if they must. You have every right to enter that competition, you need to enter, and I’m proud of you, Ace. I’m happy you’re finally pursuing your dream. It’s about time.”
    I nod my head. “Thanks, that means a lot,” I smile, lifting my coffee mug. “Cheers. Whoever would have thought I’d be entering a film in TIFF, though?”
    Mercer smiles and raises his mug before taking a sip. “Me. Cheers, man.”
    Ever since I was a kid, I loved filming versions of what I later came to learn were documentaries. I’d film myself in the backyard explaining the life of a bumblebee along with its importance as a living thing that needed respect. Everywhere I went, I’d record images or scenes and do voice-overs explaining the “slice of life”, and the reality of what was being seen on the film. My parents were still pretty young when they passed away, so it wasn’t like they had a ton of money to leave my grandparents to help raise me. I had to get a job as soon as I was of age, and I worked a string of odd jobs, saving every dime to buy equipment and chase my dream of attending film school. My grandfather, also my biggest supporter, worked like a dog and bled his life savings to help send me from Kingston, where we lived, out west to Simon Fraser University where I studied for four years, then to Western in London, Ontario, where I got my master’s and my doctorate. I’d always been in love with the power of documentary films, and in the end I wrote my thesis on the importance of not letting the genre die, and how a more narrative approach was needed to help their sustainability with new generations. My paper was so well-received it was featured in three academic film journals. Now, here I am, years later, almost finished creating my first full-length documentary, one I plan on entering in the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF).
    My film, Sex for Sale, showcases how the digital age is forcing the sex industry to reevaluate and update itself to keep up with the times, and takes a closer look at how said changes are impacting business, the internet, anthropology and life in general. It questions whether the digital age is making it easier for human trafficking to occur, and for