|Thursday (always comes too late)
||[Jan. 19th, 2004|09:27 pm]
not yet day
It is well after dark by the time Orlando gets back to the hotel, bone-tired and aching, his expensive Russian headache having never really gone away. He spent the entire day gritting his teeth and hitting his marks, got both the scenes from the day before in the can and two more besides. |
In between takes he sips tea and munches crackers; at lunch he locks himself in his trailer and catches twenty minutes of desperately needed sleep. His hands are going to shake no matter what, either from lack of food or lack of sleep, so he goes with what he considers the lesser of two evils.
He feels unbelievably old and at the same time ridiculously young. Old because he hurts all over, deep down in every joint and muscle, because he feels like he's walked a thousand miles and back again, because he's so weary that he's practically drooling. But young, yeah, because he's got that flippy feeling in his chest, the one he remembers so well from when he was fifteen and this bird called Angie with enormous tits and a perky arse asked for his number and said she'd ring him after school.
It's half heart-attack and half-hard on, knowing that if he can just make the next nine hours go as fast as possible, then he'll have... something, maybe not all of everything, like, not entirely what he's... but it's...
He eyeballs the clock, it eyeballs him back. Yeah, nine hours, give or take. Viggo's still in bed, probably, won't get up until Henry hollers up the stairs something about there being laws in California requiring you to feed your children. Unless it's a school day. Orlando scrunches up his forehead, trying to remember whether or not Viggo said school was back in session. Bloody Americans, mucking up the terms.
But yeah, nine hours. Time enough for a long hot soak, a late supper, maybe nod off for a while in front of CNN Worldview. It's the only channel that's in English.
He can wait. He's waited before.