Every Waking Moment by Chris Fabry Read Free Book Online Page B

wouldn’t even return the purse she left behind the bar.”
    “I told you, I’m going to pay.”
    “With what?”
    “Garrity’s family writes a check this week for sure. That will buy us more time.”
    Jonah thought a minute. “Devin, we’ve known each other a long time.” He waited. “Agreed?”
    “Yeah, we can agree on that.”
    “And I’ve been as committed to this as you. I’ve shot video of old people who can do nothing but drool and I haven’t complained. . . . Okay, I’ve complained a little.”
    “Agreed.”
    “But I’ve been here every day. Well, almost every day. And I’ve worked my tail off.”
    “You’ve worked hard but you still have quite a tail.”
    “But there comes a point when you have to make a decision. When you have to see the truth.”
    “Which is?”
    “Maybe it’s not working. We could shoot this documentary another ten years and we wouldn’t find what you’re looking for. Even when we get a gig, like with Garrity or the weddings, they don’t pay.”
    “The wedding paid.”
    “They gave us cake and the check bounced.”
    “It will work; trust me. Stop whining!”
    “I’m not whining. This is the truth. Garrity was an anomaly. He was one in a million. Most of the people we’ve shot have been so stiff you couldn’t tell if rigor had set in. They couldn’t remember most of their lives and couldn’t communicate what they did remember. That one woman was so nervous   —”
    Devin waved him off. “Her daughter told me she had a weak bladder.”
    “Weak? That’s like saying Niagara Falls gets a little fast at the edge.”
    “I should have warned you.”
    “You should have bought me a raincoat. And galoshes.”
    “Jonah, this is part of the process. It’s paying our dues. Remember when I told you we had to pay our dues?”
    “I’m fine paying dues. I can work long hours for no pay. I can keep going without a steady check. For a while. I can set up a shoot and get the audio and sequence the music. But I don’t think we’re getting anywhere. You’re a great visionary   —you have ideas and you can see what is coming together on-screen   —but old people are sometimes scared of you.”
    “We’ve gotten some great footage.”
    “That’s meandering toward pointless.”
    “It’ll come together. And maybe we’ll hire somebody softer, more inviting, to do the interviews.”
    “Devin, we don’t have money for rent. How do we hire another employee? Maybe we’ve reached the peak, you know?”
    Devin leaned forward, his elbows on his empty month-at-a-glance calendar, his finger and thumb slightly apart. “We’re this close to something big. I can feel it. Something with the shoot that changes everything. We can’t give up. The people at Garrity’s funeral, if they ask who did that, the phone will ring off the hook and we won’t have time to tie our shoelaces. Then we’ll finish the documentary and win an Academy Award.”
    Jonah stared blankly.
    “Fine. Go unplug your stuff and leave.” Devin stood and put out a hand. “No hard feelings. I’ll get somebody else.”
    “I don’t want you to get somebody else. Devin, I’m not your enemy.”
    He pointed a finger at Jonah. “Every time you talk about quitting, you’re my enemy.”
    “This is the first time I’ve said anything.”
    “Then every time you entertain the idea of quitting, you’re going against me.”
    “So now you’re doing the Minority Report thing? You can get inside my head?”
    “My friend is my coworker who believes in what we’re doing. Somebody who buys the vision and runs with it, even when it gets tough. Have a little faith.”
    Jonah unfolded a chair that was leaning against the wall by the bookcase. It was left over from the pizza restaurant and had flour stains on the seat. He sat and the rivets whined.
    “My dad said something to me a long time ago,” Jonah said. “He said life is like a pretty girl who smiles at you and asks youto come to her house. It feels