For those 8.5 minutes. . .

Memphis has a new roommate, and John Archer has signed on to work my film.

“Really? . . .I mean. . .Really?”
“Yeah, Faith. Everything’s suddenly spun.”

Now, I credit myself with a great deal of sang-froid. Every situation, I find, has at least one solution which I can employ to great effect. But the door opened, and instead of Ms. Memphis Belle there’s Ms. Diane Court. . .well. . .my brain shut down for a moment. Here’s the basic progression of what went down in there:

First, I had to figure out that this wasn’t Belle or her [apparently departed] roomie. Then, the mind had to realize that, yes, I do recognize this woman, and. . .wait, Jesse Quick? No, but they do look astonishingly alike. Oh, wait, I know who this is! It’s Diane Court; she did a whole bunch of School of Theatre shows I actually liked, and didn’t she go to London with—wait, what the hell is she doing here? And, more importantly, did I get the right apartment?—

Out of this mess nothing emerges. I don’t think my mouth even opens before Jessica Stein, my stalwart and much more together companion, sweeps in to save the day. It’s always good to have another theatre major around when confronted with one unaware, as they speak the same language.

Jessica is laughing as we turn the corner away. She finds it hilariously awkward; I’m just trying to figure out how my life got so damn small. It may well collapse into a singularity.

RING RING RING goes John Archer’s cell phone somewhere on campus. We’re on the fifth volley of phone tag and he might actually pick up this time—

“Jimmy! What’s happenin’, brothaman?”
“Archer! I need a producer, and Irish and I both decided that you’re the best man out there, so what I need to know from you right now is do you want to get in on the feature—”
“Yes! Oh, thank God; I’m tired of being asked to crew on ponderous short films. Can we do this in 35mm? What about lights? I can get in some 1ks from. . .”

And just like that, the film is shifted into high gear. Eight minutes and thirty seconds prior, I was ready to throw in the towel and head to the apartment to watch Andy Warhol films. In less time than it takes to walk from my place to campus, my life had shifted immensely.

So what’s behind door number two?