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The final week was a whirlwind of the most impactful scenes to finish. J.K., who looked exhausted, said, "If Damien can get back up from a car accident, we can practically do anything."
I smiled. "When I did the car accident scene, I thought my character was crazy."
J.K. put his plastic coffee cup on the table. "You would do the same thing too."
I nodded. "Ready to be a dick?"
He nodded, and we went inside the practice room and got settled into our marks.
Damien did not say a word, fully trusting us both with the characters. "Action."
J.K. went up to the front. "Alright, gang. Whiplash. A little undertempo, Neiman, do your best."
I began playing loosely.
"We got Buddy Rich here."
I smiled, and he put his hand into a fist. "A little trouble there. Pick it up at 17."
"Not quite my tempo."
My heart raced a bit.
"5, 6, and…" He made a cutoff gesture as I played.
"Not quite my tempo. It's all good. 5, 6, 7 and—" He made the same gesture and stopped.
"Dragging."
I played Whiplash, actually feeling dejected.
"Great," Damien said. He approached J.K. and gave him a folded metal chair.
I didn't say a word, staying in the pocket.
"Actually throw it at him, we don't have the budget," Damien said. "Okay. Everybody. Go ahead, J.K."
Fletcher grabbed the chair and flung it over my head. I ducked out of instinct, and the chair was actually less than a foot over my head.
Fletcher took a breath. "Why do you suppose I hurled a chair over your head, Neiman?"
My mouth was dry. "The tempo."
"Were you rushing or were you dragging?"
"I don't know. I don't know."
Fletcher lunged into my face. Everything else around me went black except his face.
"Start counting."
"5, 6, 7—"
"In four, dammit!" He yelled into my right ear.
"1, 2, 3, 4."
He slapped me across the face with each count, and I looked toward the director's chair for a split second for my safety. Anyone to help me.
"Rushing or dragging?"
I said, "I don't know."
He slapped me again and asked, "Are you rushing or dragging?"
"Rushing."
"So you do know the difference."
His voice was clearer. "If you deliberately try to sabotage my band, I will fuck you like a pig."
I began to cry, and the tears fell onto the Whiplash sheet music.
He yelled, "Are you a rusher or a dragger? Or are you gonna be on my time?"
"I'm gonna be on your time." I didn't know if the mic could hear me.
Fletcher grabbed the sheet music and pointed to the top left. "What does that say?"
"Quarter note 215."
"Count me a 215."
"1, 2, 3, 4. 1, 2, 3, 4."
"Jesus fucking Christ. I did not know they allowed retards into Shaffer. Can you even read music?"
He pointed to the sheet. "What's that?"
"An eighth note."
"Sight-read measure 101."
I mumbled the tempo out loud.
"Are you in an a cappella group? Play the goddamn kit."
My heart was pounding harder than ever. But I felt more sadness than anything, as if my parents had died.
I began to play.
"Now answer my question. Were you rushing or were you dragging?"
He yelled, "Answer!"
"Rushing."
I looked straight toward the drums and pictured the instrument as if it were my acting performance. I imagined the movie coming out and everyone thinking my performance was worthless and terrible, that I'd win a Razzie for it.
A single tear went across my face.
Fletcher looked disgusted. "Are you one of those single-teared people? Do I look like a double fucking rainbow to you? You must be upset. Are you upset?"
"No."
"So you don't give a shit about any of this?"
My voice got a bit louder. "I do give a shit about this."
"Are you upset? Yes or fucking no?"
I nodded my head.
"Yes. You are upset. Say it."
I whispered to him, "I am upset."
"Say it so the whole band could hear you."
"I am upset."
"Louder."
"I am upset."
He yelled, "Louder."
I matched his tone. "I'm upset."
"You are a worthless, friendless piece of shit whose mommy left daddy when she realized he wasn't Eugene O'Neill. Now who's weeping and slobbering over my drum set."
I wiped the tears with my hand and felt like I was back at that home with Malcolm. I forgot who I was—let alone that there were cameras—and just wanted this to be over with.
Fletcher continued, "So for the final father-fucking time, say it louder."
My voice was dry, and I strained my vocal cords. "I am upset!"
"Carl."
We exchanged seats, and Carl replaced me.
"Start practicing harder, Neiman. Whiplash. Bar 125, big-boy tempo."
The band played, and Damien held up his hand to signal them to stop. Eventually, the room became quiet, and I saw the whole set for the first time since the scene started. My hands were sweaty, and I looked up toward the ceiling.
The band members went one by one to eat some lunch. The actor who played Carl patted my back and left. Some of them glanced my way, but my body still needed to realize it wasn't in any danger.
J.K. approached. "Sorry for all that."
I looked toward him with a genuine smile, as if the man I had been terrified of—who dressed all in black and who I thought was a devil—was simply an illusion or a nightmare.
I smiled back. "I never did a scene like that."
Damien approached. "Wow. That was something."
"I thought J.K. was going to kill me."
Damien and the crew laughed.
I continued, "Was your high school band teacher Hitler? I thought I was gonna pass out."
Damien said, "Fletcher is more of a drill sergeant than a music teacher."
J.K. nodded his head. "He's preparing his troops for war."
Damien ran his fingers through his long hair. "Don't worry, Ryan. We got a lighter scene for the next one."
I held up my hands. "Thank God."
After lunch, we left the practice room and drove over to a small pizzeria Damien had rented for the afternoon. It was narrow, with a counter running along one wall, a glass display case filled with cheap pizza, and only two small tables squeezed together.
I asked, "How much did this cost you?"
He smiled. "Y'all only have an hour."
Melissa Benoist, who played Nicole, walked inside the pizzeria. She wore a denim jacket and had a messy ponytail.
She said hello to everyone in the crew and approached me. "So I heard you got yelled at for like 10 minutes."
"Yep. Nothing new."
We both sat down at one of the two-person tables.
"Benoist? I forgot to ask, do you speak French?"
She shook her head. "Nope. Not a word."
I nodded, and Damien came over to the table and said in French, "Ryan, you're obsessed with trying to speak French. But good, keep that energy."
I laughed, and Melissa looked toward the pizza on the plastic plate. "We get to eat all of this after?"
"Yep. I have enough budget for that."
Damien continued, "You two know the feeling of a first date. There's a lot of pauses and it's awkward. I mean, maybe not for you, Ryan—"
I nodded. "The conversations are very simple and every two minutes the topic changes and there's a silence in between for a few seconds until someone else starts another topic."
Melissa smiled and looked toward Damien. "You wrote a great script."
"So you two know the gist of it. I won't say another word."
He went behind the ARRI Alexa camera as it squeezed into the corner of the pizzeria. The radio played inside the place, and the extras began moving around to create some ambience.
"Go right ahead."
Nicole put a tissue over her mouth. "This is a nice place." There were two half-eaten slices of pepperoni in front of her.
I said, "Yeah, I come here a lot."
I continued, "They have good music, so I—it's not just the food. This is Jackie Hill, 'When I Wake', July 17th, 1938, Bob Ellis on drums."
"Are you trying to impress me?"
"No. Sorry. I didn't mean they have like ten songs they loop through. They're always playing the same thing."
"And you know the dates to all ten?"
"Yeah."
Nicole smiled, and there was a moment of silence. I fidgeted with my hands inside my jeans pockets.
She said, "You know every time I saw you in the theater you always had your eyes pointed to the floor."
"Really?"
She continued, "Like you were fascinated by the soda stains on the carpet."
"My dad tells me I have a problem making eye contact."
She looked into my eyes. "My parents like to criticize me too. When I was growing up my mom told me my chin was too big and that that's why guys wouldn't like me. 'Cause my dad had cursed me with a big chin."
"What?"
"Yeah, it's look—" She turned her head up and pointed. "It's Jay Leno."
I laughed and felt some calm. The scene from before faded from my memory as I enjoyed her company.
Nicole said, "She keeps asking me if I have a boyfriend yet, and then blames it on the chin."
I shook my head. "She sounds insane."
"She wanted to be an actress when she was my age."
"And you? What do you do?"
"Other than serving you popcorn?"
"What do you want to do with your life?"
She looked confused. "I go to Fordham. I'm not sure…"
"What's your major?"
"I don't have one yet."
"Well why did you come here?"
She said, "I just came here for a general education."
"Right, but you picked Fordham for a reason. Why Fordham?"
She stopped smiling. "I applied to a bunch of schools, Fordham let me in. Why'd you pick Shaffer?"
"It's the best music school in the country."
Nicole shrugged. "Well, Fordham was Fordham."
She paused, and there was a long silence. "I don't love it there, to be honest."
"No?"
She looked down. "I mean—the people there—I don't think they like me. I'm from Arizona and—I don't know, I think they see it in me."
I thought about Shaffer too. "I don't like the people at Shaffer either. But I think it just takes time. Things change, you know."
"I know."
She looked straight toward me, and there was some fragility in her voice. "I feel homesick sometimes. You know? I hate how people in college pretend they never feel homesick. Or maybe I'm literally the only one, but…I don't think so."
I looked back toward her. "I know exactly how you feel."
I put my hands up. "I still go to the movies with my dad."
She shifted her legs, and her knees touched mine. "I like this song."
"Yeah. This part is great. Here."
She gave a full smile, and neither of us moved our knees. Just as the song ended,
Damien said, "Perfect."
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