Steve Braunias evacuates his home for a film crew.
They tromped up the stairs and stood in the middle of the lounge. I was expecting them but their invasion was still a bit shocking, the way they filled the silent house and took it over. They looked at the walls with great interest; one of them stroked the wallpaper. He saw that it was 1970s wallpaper and that pleased him very much. They opened the curtains and peered out, they stood in huddles of twos and threes, and sometimes they talked with their hands, drawing squares in the air. I said, "I'll leave you to it." No one paid any notice. I was invisible in my own home.
They all wore jeans. There were six men and one woman and it was easy to identify the boss: the woman. She moved with more confidence and chose who to speak to and more importantly chose when not to speak to anyone and to look around by herself, size things up, see the future. I said, "What've you got in mind?" She showed me the storyboard. An artist had drawn about 20 frames. The characters were young parents with twins. The mother walked out of the darkness with one of the babies in her arms; the father sat in the darkness cradling the other baby. The darkness was my lounge.
They stayed for about 20, 30 minutes. They talked in low voices in their little huddles, 12 legs in denim taking little steps around the lounge, admiring the brick wall above the fireplace, looking up at the ceiling. I said, "One thing. When you come back, can you make sure you don't turn off the power to the fish tank? That needs to stay on." One of them looked into the tank, and said, "What've you got?" I said, "Neon tetras." I wondered if the neon tetras were going to become famous but they said they were only going to film in one corner of the lounge.
They left in a white minivan. It was Wednesday. They said they'd come back for the shoot late Sunday morning. I spent all day Saturday cleaning the garage, where the crew would sit in deckchairs and eat catered sandwiches and make use of a portaloo. I also cleaned the rumpus room, where four mothers of four newborn babies would wait for the call to go upstairs. Both the garage and the rumpus room are lined with books. I dusted every single book. What if someone wanted to pick out a Patricia Highsmith thriller, a biography of George Best, my collection of Commando war comics, slim volumes of poetry, illustrated field guides to the birds of New Zealand, England, and Africa? They were going to be stuck in my house for eight, nine, maybe 10 hours. I vacuumed, beat the rugs, placed porcelain figures on the windowsills.
