He hears their feet on the pavement. Collectively they add up to the sound of one horse at a gallop. His vision is altered, sideways, as his lies on the ground, greasy-window blurred from the rising heat. Asphalt’s skillet-hot on his cheek.
“Did you see him hit that?” Kenny exclaims. He’s just some kid who likes movies, but when the whole crew is a dozen, you get an assistant director credit by hanging around the director.
Then things get red. Blood draining into his eyes. The camera hit him – or he hit it – smack in the forehead. Damn jerry-rigged boom out a carwindow on this jokingly-funded film.
“Doesn’t look good,” Peter tells Kenny.
The cut doesn’t hurt, more itchy than anything. He hopes this doesn’t affect his face. What will stitches do to the continuity of the film?
Peter looks worried. “God, how are we going to pay for that?”
It occurs to him, shit, they probably aren’t insured. And he sure isn’t. Back in the day, on his series, the network took care of anything. This rinky-dink film doesn’t even cater. But it’s a step. Back into the spotlight. Script is good. It should be a Travolta moment. His Pulp Fiction. This little accident, the cut, will make a nice anecdote for Letterman.
“It is bad…” Kenny sullenly.
“It’s broken.” Peter.
“Nah. Just a cut,” he tells them, then wipes the blood to find the pair huddled, backs to him, around the camera.