Chapter Text
You tried to see, in your mind’s eye, how you would look with the color drained from your face, your image seared onto the dark lengths of film. The false snow piled gently onto your shoulders and you turned your face towards the studio light, the better to catch the highlights in your eyes and, god willing, make a good enough impression on the audience to secure a career in pictures.
“Good, now look down at the letter, sigh, shiver, and go back into the house.” Mr. Keaton had a no nonsense manner of directing that put your nerves on edge, never knowing if you were doing well or if he was disappointed and frustrated with your performance. It was enough to give you whiplash, the way he turned on a dime between the silly, boyish character he played and the consummate professional he was when he stepped behind the camera.
You did as he directed, carefully moving through the steps, trying to encapsulate the feeling of wistfulness in a few silent movements and facial expressions.
“No. No no no, this just isn’t right.”
Your heart dropped as you turned back to look at him. He was only a few inches taller than you but the respect his name commanded was evident in his posture. The displeasure on his famous face was enough to make you fear for your whole career.
“You want me to try again? I can get it right this time I promise.”
His eyes flicked from the scenery to your face and softened. He smiled, a slight lifting of the corner of one side of his lips that would have been easy to miss if it weren't on the famously un-smiling face.
“Not you, honey. You were perfect.”
The relief you felt must have been plain on your face because he chuckled softly before returning to his stern consternation as he examined the scene.
“It’s this snow.” He stepped forward to stoop over and pick up a handful of the small specks of cotton. “It’s too heavy. Too fluffy. It doesn’t look like snow at all. People are going to wonder why this picture takes place inside an exploding textile mill.”
He looked around, the wheels in his head turning. His black eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly, he announced lunch break and you watched him shove his hands in his pockets and stalk off the set before returning to your cramped little dressing room.
It was only a little more than an hour later when there was a knock at the door. You opened it to a young boy, barely a teenager by the looks of him, wearing a cap and looking eager to be helpful.
“Mr. Keaton says to pack your things. He’s moving production up to Washington.”
“Washington the state?” You asked in disbelief.
The boy grinned. “Well he hasn’t suddenly decided to make a run for president, ma’am.”
“When?” you asked.
He shrugged. “Stage hands are already getting everything loaded into trucks. I guess as soon as possible.”
You told him you would get packed up right away and shut the door. Suddenly you were in a panic. You had only just been settling into the workday routine on the lot and now he was uprooting everything. Mechanically, you started piling your possessions into a case that you pulled out from under the settee.
Your mind rushed with unanswered questions. How long would you be gone? How would you pay for lodging? How would you even get up there without a car of your own?
Another knock came to the door and you clutched the sweater you were packing against your chest, as if bracing yourself against the impact of more upsetting news. “Yes?” You called.
The door opened and Mr Keaton’s face appeared. “Hey kid, you heard the news, right?”
“Yes, sir.” You said. “I’m getting my things together.”
He glanced around the small room, apparently taking in the mess. You felt your face flush.
“It occurs to me that you may not have a ride. A bunch of the extras and management are buying up a few train cars. You can go with them if you want. I’m covering expenses, of course.”
“Oh.” Relief flooded you. “That sounds fine. Thank you.”
“Or you can ride with me,” he added quickly, as if he had meant to say it earlier. “Feels a bit ungenerous for a leading lady to be packed in with the prop department. They’re fine fellas, of course. Don’t mean to imply that they aren’t. But well...anyway I just thought I’d offer.”
“Ride with you?”
He smiled, seeming to relax a bit as he folded his arms and leaned against the door frame. “Sure. I’ve got a new car and I’ve barely had the chance to break her in. A good long drive sounds marvelous to me. There’s plenty of room. We can even take the scenic route if you want.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir,”
“Is that a yes?” He asked.
You nodded, somewhat tongue-tied by the whole interaction.
“Perfect,” he said, grinning again. “Be ready by five, we’ll get a head start on the rest of them.” He slapped the doorframe by way of punctuation and as quickly as he had appeared he was gone, shutting the door behind him.
You were frozen for a moment, your heart pounding strangely at the thought of spending hours in a car with Mr. Keaton alone. It occurred to you that he might think that this would be a good time to teach you a thing or two about acting. He was always quite gentle with you on the set but you knew that your beginners mistakes must be irritating to him. He probably thought you needed all the coaching you could get.
You set your jaw and continued packing, determined to make a good impression on him along the journey.