good cause for a manicure.

Last Thursday, feeling entitled, I went to get a manicure on my lunch break, a luxury for which I spring about once every eighteen months. I went to a place called Dream Nails in a strip on the backside of Harris Teeter and had my fingernails trimmed, conditioned and painted bright pink for $15 (including tip). I was feeling stressed and exhausted, and when I sat down at the little desk and put my fingers (which I had only the night before painted lavender) under the desk lights, the man looked at me and said, you tired. Brother, you ain’t kidding. Here’s why… Three weeks ago I received an e-mail from a friend in town saying that her cousin, a student at the UNC School of the Arts in Winston-Salem, was part of a film crew that was in the process of producing a short film. The crew, students at UNC-SA (one of the best film schools in the country, which I didn’t know) was teaming up with a group from NYU to produce this film that would be submitted to film festivals around the country, and would also serve as the writer/director’s senior thesis. COOL. They would be shooting in Winston. COOL. Their location had fallen through. NOT COOL. They were in immediate need of a last minute house. OKAY… And they were looking for something a little older, small, brick, with a front porch, nice but not too nice interior décor, you see where this is going. My friend said, and I told my cousin that I have the perfect house for your film. MARK AND GINNY EVANS’ HOUSE. Not knowing much about anything, really, I of course agreed to this. Why not? Mark and I work full time (the house is inhabited by only the dog for 9 hours a day) and making a film is pretty neat, and I am clearly an extrovert and love to meet new people. Plus, I’ve always kind of felt like the house isn’t REALLY ours anyway, and anybody should really be able to use it… so, YES. Absolutely, you can film your movie in our house. The schedule went like this: Saturday afternoon: Eight crew members come spec the house for an hour and a half. Monday-Friday: 8:00 a.m., van, several cars, twenty-something people pull up at Walker Ave. and unload massive cameras, light fixtures, trash cans full of props, costumes, some sort of scaffolding, wall-sized black standing sheet-wall things, large metal brief cases full of sound equipment, large boxes of food, tables, chairs, shovels, etc. They worked until 8:00 pm every evening, except Friday when they stayed later filming evening scenes. They dug a massive hole in the backyard, moved furniture, took down photographs, filled the fridge with caffeinated beverages, turned the writing room into a producer’s closet of equipment and, in a matter of 60 hours and change, made a movie. And let declare it here, from the bottom of my heart: It was one of the most fun weeks of my life. Every day I came home at lunch to a couple dozen artsy, interesting people who were living in my home, loving HARD on Sidney, smoking cigarettes on the front porch, lounging on the sofa, re-decorating and creating something from scratch. I got to talk with them and learn about acting and making movies and directing and living in New York and trying to make a career out of their craft. I drank wine with one of the actors, and we laughed about the process of turning your art into something – he knows exactly how the whole writing thing goes because it’s in many ways the same as being an actor. They were fun, and kind, and completely endearing, thankful and gracious and mouse-like when they broke a wine glass and when we first saw the depth of the hole in the yard. We came home from being away for the weekend to the house, as it was last Saturday, clean and fresh, as if nobody had ever been here. There was a bottle of red on the table, a blue tennis ball for their best friend Sid, a stack of trashbags to replenish the ones they had used, and a sincere thank you note signed by the whole lot. They kept saying what a gift we were, but what I kept wanting to write back was No, you were the blessing.