January 6th, 2008

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I’m sitting in the back of a simple Argentine cafeteria. It’s filled with smoke and the ceiling fans are spinning so slowly I assume they are merely an aesthetic choice. A small TV in the far corner of the room has been playing soccer as long as I’ve been here – which is hours.

The rest of the crew is off supposedly shooting a Dell commercial for the Superbowl but I’ll have to take their word for it. I’ve been stuck in this diner too long to be sure. I’d go try and find them but a client’s purse was stolen earlier today and Josh – the editor I’m with – is extremely neurotic and paranoid and has therefore deemed that I must stay with our gear. When everyone first left I was working and they were shooting just outside. Now I’m not sure where they are nor when they’ll be back. All I know is that I cannot leave and I’m done working. I have no reason to be here.

Truth be told I’ve ventured out twice for fresh air – but not for too long. My only solace is that the sun must go down and nothing in the script takes place at night. But even then… will they remember me? Is it possible that I’d be left in this forsaken eatery all night?

A phone’s ringing. I looked up and saw that the red-haired girl at the bar answered it. She’s covering her mouth while she whispers into the receiver and looking at me curiously. She doesn’t realize that one, I’m listening to Talking Heads studio outtakes and can’t hear a thing and two, I don’t know Spanish and certainly cannot read lips. She’s off the phone now and has gone into the kitchen.

Were they talking about me? It seems likely since she’s returned and is approaching me.

She came over and said something in Spanish but became flustered when I couldn’t understand. Apparently she doesn’t know English so I guess we’re even. Now she’s back on the phone and arguing with someone and using her hands a lot to signify what I think means what am I supposed to do. She occasionally glances at me and I’m starting to get nervous but I’ve decided that the crew will come back for me and that I will wait here no matter what.


The sun has definitely gone down now and a few sweaty men are finishing their dinners. The red-haired girl is wiping down the empty tables, still eyeing me every now and then. I’ve decided that perhaps no one is coming back for me and tried to call production but can’t quite figure out the series of area codes needed to make a phone call in Buenos Aires. No one has called me.

I think my only choice is to pack up the gear, somehow turn US dollars into pesos, and find a cab back to my hotel – whose address I do not know.

I’d like to watch a movie on your wall if I ever make it home.