The Table

By Kelly Mahan Jaramillo, Aug. 25th, 2007

About four or five years ago, we were living in a funky old house in inner Venice, California. This was just on the cusp of the whole area getting poodled up, and Venice is where I grew up. Then Julia Roberts moved in and the whole neighborhood went to hell.

I Digress, as usual.

I came home one day, and the whites of Tomas’s eyes were showing. This just never happens, and as any self preservation animal would do, I walked carefully towards him, my hand casually yet firmly holding the (imaginary) Glock .45 in my jacket pocket.
“Hi Honey!” I gave him a kiss on the cheek. he rolled his eyes down at me.
“Hi-how-was-your-day-wait-you-have-to-hear-this”.
He was looking at the answering machine as if it were the enemy.

Well, it was. It was four in the afternoon, who dies during traffic hour? I just didn’t understand his panic rising to the surface. We can always erase the day, right?

“It’s a director, I think,” he said.  I was confused.  Generally , when a director calls, it is a good thing.

He pressed play.

It was a thick Irish brogue.

All we could discern after hitting the repeat button about 45 times what that he liked Tomas’s music, and a phone number.

Now we both had slaughter-eyes. 

We called the number. The message on the other end said,” I am not home. Come rob me.”

We looked at each other.

THIS sounded interesting.

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This entry was posted in Composing, directors, Film, Humor, Kelly Mahan Jaramillo, Music, The Table, writing and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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