This morning I woke up in my own bed for the first time in four weeks and wondered,
"Was it all a dream?"

The day before had been hectic and stressful, with little time for goodbyes at the
end – a few hugs and handshakes and hollered farewells, but with John and Jesse
in a lunch-hour conference, no closure.  Who wants closure?  That would make it
seem like it was over.

A few days earlier I'd discovered John Geddes' dark secret: he was taking B-12 pills
for stress!  Anyone else in his situation – in Week Four of writing, producing,
directing and starring in a movie that requires him to run around barefoot in the
snow in his underwear, his head soaked in corn-syrup "blood" – would at least be
on heroin.

I'd had to shoot two scenes before lunch that day, about five pages of dialogue,
to get to the airport in time for my flight back to Atlanta.  The previous day's
blizzard had ended overnight so the roads were clear.

Both scenes involved driving an old pickup truck that didn't run that morning because
all the transmission fluid had leaked out.  After a run for more fluid by production
assistant Brian Cook, Jesse's younger brother, and some jiggering by director of
photography/mechanic John Lesavage, it would go the short distances we needed. 
Jesse's instructions - "Keep it in first, the brakes don't work" – weren't reassuring
to someone who hadn't driven on icy roads since before almost anyone in the crew
was born.

And the roads were icy.  The blizzard had followed the only two above-freezing days
I'd witnessed in Canada; 31 consecutive below-zero (Celsius) days had reportedly
set a local record.  But Friday the sun was out, making it difficult to match that
day's shots with those of the day before, when a planned car crash turned out not
to have been planned well enough.  After four attempts to get the Jetta to go up
a specially-built ramp and flip over, prop ninja Cody took the wheel and drove it
off the road into a ditch at high speed.

I hadn't been needed that day, although I was on standby in the afternoon in case
things had gone better than they did.  I had lunch with co-producer John Cowan,
one of the film's investors, who wanted to pump me for publicity ideas.  The best
advice I could give him was to ask the filmmakers what makes them want to see the
movies they want to see and where they hear about them.

"Scarce" is a movie they would want to see if they weren't making it, so whatever
motivates them will motivate a good chunk of the target audience.  The pages on
myspace.com and facebook.com are probably a good start, but how do you get people
to look at them?

Since I wasn't needed that afternoon Jake McNeil grabbed me for an interview for
his making-of video.  I had prepared a little bit of material, including a synopsis
of the story from my character's perspective: "It's the story of Ivan, a nice old
guy whose peaceful rural existence is disrupted by three vicious snowboarders, and
the things he's forced to do to survive."  Intercut that with shots of what Ivan
does to his snowboarder victims and it should be pretty funny.

DVD players on two floors of the farmhouse headquarters that also housed about half
the crew during the shoot are usually running, often showing cheesy horror movies
to stimulate a sense of, "If they can get distribution, we can!"  Early in the week
one of them was showing "The Departed," then just an Oscar nominee.  Listening again
to the brilliant four-letter dialogue, I wondered if "Scarce" would have more f.p.m.s
("fucks" per minute) than Scorsese's film.

Where was I?  Writing non-linearly always confuses me.  Oh, we wrapped my last scene
a few minutes past the scheduled lunch time; but the crew didn't grumble.  They
must have been glad to be getting rid of me.  I fixed a plate to eat on the road
and climbed for the last time into p.a. Travis Ainley's Toyota, which had carried
me to and from the set every day.  Travis starts film school in April and already
has a script he's promised to send me to critique.

We get to the airport in good time, so the Air Canada flight is almost an hour late
departing; but it makes up the time in the air and lands early in Atlanta.

I had decided to accept the Caribbean cruise I was offered, to put off my return
to reality for another week; so I have less than 15 hours at home before climbing
into the car to drive to Fort Lauderdale.  That night a radio station is playing
country oldies.  About 30 seconds into "You Needed Me" I break into a smile.

That's Anne Murray.  She's Canadian, eh?