We arrived at the theater around two. The book store next door was filled with customers and we had an abrasive experimental short film to screen and sound check while also checking Da Boss’ electronic equipment for a solo live performance. Everything was supposed to be handled in order, certain switches and buttons and knobs turned in a certain order, all necessary to prevent a blowout. Without the technical assistance of my husband Rooster and his “cousin” Bennington, I was lost. I can handle Adobe Premiere Pro. I can handle, to some extent, ProTools—but need assistance. Yesterday I realized that I could never screen and soundcheck a film and live electronic music performance on my own. I couldn’t perform a soundcheck or even be present because my ears simply can’t handle it.
I hate to admit it. It makes me feel weak. I ask, Why God? We used to be friends. He invited me to His pool parties (Heaven is not a place on Earth, but the portal is near Harper’s Ferry), let me babysit Da Baby Jesus when he was Young (because I am Old), and later enlisted my services in the fight against Satan. These battles remain ongoing with no end in sight. I’ve never asked anything of the Lord but a white suit and the charisma of a giraffe and a movie star combined, yet now he abandons me. Why? What have I done to be victim to your forsaken love, Lord? I can’t handle an essential aspect of my job as a film editor. I can’t watch my work in public. I physically can’t do it. I don’t need help, I need to be talked off of the stepladder.
We’d prepared a rough mix especially for the screening. It wasn’t any kind of high-pressure situation, just Da Boss, me, and the screening’s organizer. It was a friendly group whom Da Boss felt comfortable sharing works in progress with, and I went along. I understood, and still do; but I couldn’t stay. I could watch, but couldn’t stand the sound coming out of those twin demons of sonic rage. Where they heard music and “dissonance,” I only heard the eternal screams of the damned, and further torment piped in from other dimensions inaudible to the human ear, but unfortunately clear as a full moon to any hen, hawk, or bird in the vicinity of a vengeful spirit; for it is He who has granted domain to all of the evildoers and witches of East, West, North, and Southwick, and it is His wish that we all battle it out for the glory and eminence of Heaven. He can be very frustrating sometimes, even stubborn. Why, God?
I left the screening room near tears—I’ll admit it—but Da Boss took me aside, in a mild panic thinking I was finally going to die on him, but no, it’s my body, but maybe, maybe, it’s my age, no—I couldn’t, I won’t think like that. Da Boss tried to hide how sad he was the rest of the day, knowing his partner was disabled. He likely felt sorry me, even pity, and I also find it likely that he kept thinking about me and my pain for the rest of the day, afternoon, evening, week, and the next month and a half. It’s more important, after all, than whatever he’s got going on.
Except now, because what he’s got going on is what I’ve got going on: “Time Waits for No One,” the segment we were screen and sound-checking. I waited outside while the short played for two people, including Da Boss. He emerged from the theater 25 minutes later. “Sounds great, Monica!” And I felt fine again. Then he wrote me four pages of single-spaced notes and additions to be made and now I’m pissed at him again and everything’s back to normal.
—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits