Emerald Scott


We stood in the roadside brush, watched as they squeezed big
trailers up King's Creek. Old Linda asked: When do they film?
How long do they stay? We were surprised when a young woman
in city horn-rimmed glasses leaned out a truck window and politely
replied: We film at night. We'll be here three nights, ladies --

I didn't see movie stars but I found the caterer straightaway. She
saw what it was -- a baby on my hip, a hard look on my face.
Come back after the shoot, around four, she whispered --

There was meat loaf and gobs of mashed potatoes and styrofoam
containers full of chili and soup. Sandwiches: I took them
apart, zipped slices of ham and turkey and pastrami into plastic
baggies and carefully arranged them in the freezer for future meals.
Then I stayed up, feasted on the mayonnaise-soaked sourdough
rolls and tomatoes and onions that wouldn't keep anyway --

I even had a crush. Later someone told me it was the director
himself. He looked right at me once, I swear. I opened to his
kind eyes, to his human face that forgave me for standing around,
for my hunger, for the whole stupid thing. So my husband later
teased: You want to get with Hollywood boy, don't cha now --

The last night I was too tired, too embarrassed to stand
outside. I lay still on the couch, watched shadows of people
and equipment float by the plate-glass window. When the
babies' calls woke me it was light and they were gone. Left
only an extra bag of food on the old board porch --

Emerald Scott lives in Boulder Creek, a small town in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. Between caring for her children and working at a local school, she loves to read, write poetry, hunt, cook and explore the strange mountains in which she makes her home.

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