Every Waking Moment Read Online Free PDF Page A

these days.
    “Mr. Hillis, sorry to keep you waiting.”
    The man was short and stout, a little teapot. He held out ameaty hand and Devin shook it. Soft. A banker’s handshake. The nameplate on the desk said, Jeffrey Whitman, Vice President .
    “No problem. Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Whitman.”
    Devin could tell from the man’s face and averted eyes that things weren’t good. Whitman opened a folder, pulled out the paperwork, and pushed his glasses down. He spoke with a guttural rattle as if his nasal passages were blocked by marbles, and Devin wondered what it had been like on the playground when he was a child, what inhuman things the older kids did to him. The names they called him, the games they played without little Jeffrey.
    “I’ve reviewed the loan application and talked with our senior vice president.” He pushed his glasses back and looked up. “If documentaries are what you want to do, shouldn’t you be seeking funding from other sources?”
    Devin dug into his briefcase and handed the man a DVD in a white sleeve. “We’re doing that. But watch this. I just came from a funeral   —which is no reason to be excited, don’t get me wrong. Death is final; it’s dark and grim. But what I saw was a beautiful display of exactly what we’re trying to do.”
    Devin described the service and the reaction to the video. Whitman looked puzzled as Devin scooted to the edge of his chair and put his hand on the desk.
    “I’m a story collector. It’s my passion. Most baby boomers   —people in your age bracket   —don’t know their parents. They don’t value their stories. And a lot of them are being forced to decide if they’re going to connect with the previous generation or stay at a distance.”
    “How much were you paid for this video?” Jeffrey said.
    “The total bill, if memory serves me, is somewhere between   —”
    “Not how much do you charge   —how much have you been paid?”
    “Well, we haven’t been. Not yet. Out of deference to the family and their loss, I’m waiting for the death benefit.”
    “How long have you worked on that man’s story?”
    Devin thought about it. “I first shot video with Mr. Garrity a year ago. Maybe eighteen months.”
    “And this is your business model? Interviews? Story collecting for funerals?”
    “No. The goal is to make films. Art that people years from now will watch and cry over. I want you and your family to go to a theater and come away changed. That’s the goal. What I’m doing now is a beginning. This is how I’m going to pay for the documentary I’m making. Instead of getting a big grant, I’m working at it each day. Think of it this way: the people I’m interviewing are really investing in the future project, and the bank is just helping my business get off the ground.”
    “Why this retirement home? Why these people?” Whitman scratched his neck. “I know creative types like you. I have a brother who’s a writer. Great mind, but he doesn’t think in a linear way   —he’s all over the place. And financially, being all over the place is not good.”
    “I understand that.”
    “I’ve only seen one documentary in my life. It was about the guy who strung a wire from the South Tower to the North Tower and walked across it.”
    “ Man on Wire . Great film.”
    “Yeah. It was fascinating. So why aren’t you going after someone like that? Or an issue   —illegal immigration. Gun control. Anything but old people sitting in a nursing home. I’m not saying we’d fund it, but it would be more compelling.”
    “I’ve studied film all my life. I’ve told you about the awards from my student work.”
    “This is not about awards; this is about money.”
    “Understood, and I see your point. My goal is a feature film. I’ve invested in the equipment.”
    “Using money from your parents’ estate.”
    “Yes, and from my grandfather. That’s how I wound up at Desert Gardens in the first place. I went to see him and met