The Hanging Export

“This is like Bush v. Gore all over again. No, it’s worse. This is worse than the 2000 election.” Da Boss was panicked. We were all panicked (we = me, myself, Da Boss, and our editing machines) when we couldn’t locate the source of a catastrophic export failure leaving us unable to make rough work mixes of the entire movie. First it kept hanging at 13 minutes and six seconds, and we fixed that by removing a Morph cut (fuckin’ morph cut). The next export go to 19 minutes 56 seconds, but there was no morph cut there. Or maybe there was—I don’t know, we stayed up too late last night trying to figure out what was wrong. “There’s no such thing as staying up too late to work on the movie, Monica.” Da Boss was being snippy with me. Now. At this time? I spur-clawed him and told him to come back when the problem was solved. “And when would that be?” You’ll see.

People really don’t like to be told “you’ll see.” Especially filmmakers. This isn’t my first experience with a director or a cinematographer or even another editor. I’ve taken jobs under my own name and under pseudonyms, and it’s never made the difference to me whether or not I’m credited, just as long as I’m paid. What more could a hen ask for? Women, of course, are known for their relative numbers in the field of film editing, at least compared to the thin ranks in the rest of the departments even today. We know Greta Gerwig. And Celine Song. Eliza Hittman, Betsey Brown, Alice Rohrwacher. We exist. I mean they exist, I’m not a director. I’m just a hen looking for someone to spar with.

Bennington asked about visiting, said he’d bring Rooster along as a surprise. “Well are you going to surprise him when he sees he’s on a train to Baltimore?” Bennington told me he planned to knock out my husband with chloroform and bring him down here from Massachusetts. I told him never to touch Rooster and never to say such horrible things ever again. I miss my family, but I don’t that Bennington Quibbits. Hmm. Maybe Rooster will come down and live with me here someday. Da Boss says he has plenty of projects lined up for me to work on. Why not live with Rooster in Baltimore?

“I could get you a place. What do you need? A shack? I can get you a fence. You’ll need a fence. Roosters and hens aren’t really respected around here.” I asked Da Boss about bunkers and if any were available. “I’ve been looking myself,” he said. And he shook his head no. Okay, well, what about your place? It’s certainly big enough for one human being and two birds. “No, absolutely not,” he said, “I’m not a ‘pet person.’”

We’re still not on speaking terms but I have been working on the movie. While Da Boss recovers from his marathon spur-clawing (I AM NOT A PET I AM HEN HEAR ME BAWK), I’m working on fixing the fucking export of our movie. There’s no time wasted here, except by, who else?, Da Boss. I can’t believe he called me a “pet.”

—Follow Monica Quibbits on Twitter: @MonicaQuibbits