While I was delivering my speech at my brother’s wedding, I kind of wondered why the cameraman was getting closer and closer to me. I almost thought when I finished, he was going to say, “Wait, can we do it one more time in a medium shot?” I was a little tipsy and too caught up in the moment to question why the camera lens then followed me to my seat at the table and captured me digging in to my sea bass. Shouldn’t he be filming my brother and his wife?
And when the DJ played Rob Base and Easy Rock’s, “It Takes Two,” and I could be found quick as lightning on the dance floor doing wild slides more spastic than MC Hammer, there was that bright camera light on me.
Even though I was already drunk, I kept returning to my table to see who else’s champagne I could steal, just out of habit. I stopped myself when I saw my cousin looking at me. “Great speech, girl. But, you’ve got some mascara under your eyes.”
I thanked her and ran off to the fancy shmancy bathroom. I looked in the mirror and realized I felt a little dizzy. I fixed my raccoon eyes and almost startled myself when I walked out of the door to find the videographer standing there.
“Hi,” he says to me, glass of vodka swirling around the rocks.
“Hi there,” I return.
“I’m gonna cut to the chase. I want to make a film with you.”
“Oh that’s funny. Because I wanted to make a TV-show about my life with my parents.”
“Let’s do it.”
I think he must be joking. “What, me?”
“You have a lot of presence.”
I get shy and try to change the subject.
“Where are you from, the Ukraine or some shit?”
“Russia. I live in Brooklyn. Brighton Beach. You’ve heard of it?”
“Yes, I have.”
He seems to be impressed with this. With a sparkle in his eye, he says, “How bout you? Where do you live?”
“I live with my parents. Like I already told you. On Long Island. But I go into the city a lot.”
“Come here,” he says and takes me by the hand to the end of the hallway and down a narrower one where no one is.
He looks at me. This is weird. So, I speak. “What’s your name?”
“That’s very Russian,” I say.
And he kisses me. Not bad. But, very awkward.
“Listen, B-Money. You should probably get back and get some shots of the cake or the guests using Facebook on their phone or something.”
“I never wanted to make wedding videos. I am a filmmaker. I am serious.”
“Yeah, I thought I was a filmmaker until I became a waitress.”
“What do you mean?”
“Who cares? I’m unemployed now.”
“We are going to film you. And your real parents, can they act?”
“NO fucking way. They don’t know about my blog and they can’t know. We’ll get actors.”
“We are going to make this art – like Truffaut.”
I’m thinking he’s saying “True-False.”
“No, no, no. Truffaut!” He insists we can shoot this. I am suddenly excited.
He plants another kiss on me, says some more things about the True-False noir style we are going to employ, and it will be bigger than “Law and Order.”
So, my friends…since HBO is fast asleep on my real life Emmy-winning drama, Boris and I are going to take matters into our own hands. Web series in the making. Truffaut style. He’s got his own camera, and I’ve got my own stories.