Beyond The Journey

Busy Earnin

                                                                                     

Chapter 1

"Busy Earnin'"

Having signed a contract, agreeing to its terms and citing my involvement—"yes" to the project, this one as well as past—here I was, rooted in the unfamiliar yet familiar world that I so loved. The irony was if I'd just passed or said "no," my life would be entirely different. I feel I don't belong here, and not surprisingly, many would agree, but what do I do about it? Lay low? Play the game? No way am I going to fucking play that game. No, I move forward. Be who I want and with whom I want.

"And . . . action!"

I took off on a dead run, jumping over roots and ducking under branches in the pouring rain. The costume I wore was a bit heavy and slowed me down some, especially when I tried to hurdle a stump and the pettiskirt got caught between my legs. After getting over it, I skidded to a stop by slamming into a tree. "Ouch!" That was going to leave a bruise on my shoulder, but I refused to pay it any attention and risk breaking character, so instead I whirled around and raised my sword in a defensive manner. Two seconds later I turned to my left and ducked into the cave, hitting my mark as intended. I breathed a sigh of relief when the AD yelled, "Cut!"

Who said working in the English countryside would be quaint and enduring? I stepped out of the sludge and muck, careful not to let my feet slip and risk sliding face first into it like the last time. No matter how many times someone says, "Don't actually make contact with it," or "Be careful," I seem to do the opposite and inevitably injure myself. Earlier it was my ankle. I tripped over a root hidden in a mud puddle and landed face first into it. I managed to get up without slipping a second time, but skidded a little and tweaked my back.

Angus walked towards me and reached for my hand. "Great work, Kat."

I brushed myself off, but there was no way to determine what was new dirt and what was intentional, rubbed-on grime essential to my current costume.

"Cool," I said, while making a point to look down. I didn't want him to see that I was in pain for fear he'd call it a day and set us behind schedule. Angus took the hint and squeezed my shoulder as he turned back to the crew.

Head up, do not show weakness. You can finish the day, I thought, as I maneuvered through the unstable mountainside, back towards an offset break area. Fatigue had set in. I cleared my throat and rolled my neck side to side for a stretch. Only a few more hours to go. I could make it. The last thing I needed was to trip. I was already wet and chilled to the bone. Three weeks of shooting outside in the elements was beginning to show not just on the outside, but on the inside of my body as well. I pulled a hamstring, sprained my wrist, and was bruised on nearly every inch of skin I had. My muscles ached to the bone, and I craved a deep tissue massage and a good night's sleep.

"I hope you plan on taking care of your very crusty, nasty self today," Drew chided me. Cleanliness! It was a good thing I didn't mind being a little dirty because the level of grit and grime that covered my body was nothing compared to the ecosystem that lived under my fingernails. I'd spent the better part of my time mucking up my hands to appear rough and calloused enough to portray someone on the run. Dirt decorated my face and ground into my eyebrows. And my hair . . . my hair was thick with debris and caked mud that I wasn't allowed to wash off every day. My hair no longer had movement and flow. It was stuck to my head in pieces that sort of lay against my shoulders like it needed help being held up.

"Girl, you stink," he added with fire. And last, but not least, I smelled horrible even to myself. I felt sorry for anyone downwind from me, unless that someone was Drew. It was good for him to get a whiff now and then of what real work smelled like.