The Morels

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THE EDITOR I WAS TO fire worked out of his one bedroom in Herald Square. He’d been the lowest bidder on our project by far, his single stipulation that we meet him no more than once a week and he be allowed the other six to work undisturbed, a stipulation we’d had to accept — he was the only editor we could afford — until an old classmate of the director’s volunteered to cut the film for free. The director told me about it that morning over eggs and coffee at the Galaxy Diner. The inconvenience of starting over, he explained, would be minor compared with the inconvenience of filing for Chapter 11.

It was 1999. The last Checker cab in the city had just been retired. All over, people were stockpiling canned peas, just in case. I was seven years out of college, lived at home with my mother, worked for free by day, and by night swept stray popcorn and condom wrappers from the back rows of the arthouse on Houston.

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