There are worse places to meet someone than an indie film screening in the back of a former auto body shop. Places like a court-ordered anger management class. Or the DMV.
But this one came close.
I didn’t know his name when I sat down. I only knew he was the guy pacing outside with a Marlboro in one hand and a roll of Super 8 film in the other, muttering something about “the death of narrative.”
Inside, his short film played to a scattered crowd of about nine. It was black-and-white, had no dialogue, and featured a man screaming underwater for five minutes. At the end, the credits rolled to the sound of a tea kettle and a loop of Nixon’s resignation speech.
I was the only person who stayed for the Q&A. Out of loyalty to weirdness. Or boredom.
He sat on a stool in front of me, squinting into the dark.
“So,” he said. “Any questions, Officer?”
He’d noticed the badge clipped to my belt. Most people do, eventually. Especially the ones who try to act like they’re too cool to care about badges.
“Why was the guy underwater?” I asked. “Because he couldn’t afford therapy.” “And Nixon?” “Felt like the right kind of voice for shame.”
That was our first conversation. The second happened over pancakes at 1:00 a.m. in a diner that smelled like despair and bleach. He asked if I liked sad movies. I said no, but I liked sad people.
He laughed, and I could tell it was rare.
His name is Jack. Jack with no last name, like he was born half-formed and never bothered to finish. He writes screenplays that go nowhere and shoots scenes in alleyways at golden hour with stolen lighting equipment. He once made a film using only mannequins and dubbed voices. I told him it was brilliant. I lied. But I admired the commitment.
He said I have “main character restraint” — a face that could either save a life or file a restraining order. He likes that I don’t smile unless I mean it. I like that he doesn’t ask me to.
When I told him I worked in law enforcement, he didn’t flinch. Just said, “Bet you see the worst of people before breakfast.”
I said, “Sometimes lunch.”
We’ve been together for about a year now. We sleep in shifts and argue about which era of Godard was the most pretentious. He makes breakfast for dinner. I carry a gun to movie night. It works.
I’m not sure if he believes in love. But he believes in me, and that’s enough.
One night, while editing a scene, he turned to me and asked, “Can I base a character on you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Just don’t make me noble.”
“Too late,” he smirked. “You’re the moral compass.”
“Then your script’s doomed.”
He kissed me like I was the end of a good sentence. And I let him.
