The Audio Project went off without any major hitches. That is not to say I didn’t encounter any creeps along the way.
I noticed this project’s only creep as I was recording maybe my twentieth painful take of Pier Point Resort, the first script I read. These recordings were done in a 12,000 dollar recording booth, or as I am ashamed to call it; my 2011 Toyota Yaris.
My Yaris is a bright tone of red, not just any red, the manufacturers had the audacity to call it Absolutely Red. So I zip around town in a flaming Yaris hatchback making flamboyant turns and either holding up traffic when I’m low on gas or zooming in and out of it when the tank is full. I experience the rhythm of the life and death cycle and the 12 stages of grieving whenever the low-gas light turns on.
I say the interior of the Yaris’ hatchback geometry lends its acoustics perfectly to recording audio of any kind. Confident of this, I sat in the back seat to further exploit the balance of the Japanese design symmetry.
My recording studio was, at this time of midnight on a Monday, located in the dimly lit parking lot of a strip mall in Kendall. I recorded here because of the anonymity of the space. I couldn’t loosen my rigidity up enough to do this in my driveway since a neighbor might drive by and what if he saw? And forget about doing it at school, with someone waiting behind the door, and another watching my soundless mouth move through the glass as we make awkward, angry eye contact, messing up take after take as this person begins to lip-read that I say the words pick-up very often.
So I have been at it for a while at this point, ever since Starbucks closed at eleven. All the cars have gone except a few, which I mindlessly stare at while reciting the script singed into my short-memory.
Then I notice the car exactly in front of me. It had been parked there an hour and clearly had a person in it. He was shifting in place, taking off his seat belt, then opening the door. I only ever saw his silhouette. He had a bowler hat on, like a Film-Noir, broad shoulders and moved with one adroit, demonic sway out of his car.
Buried in one of the later recordings of Pier Point Resort could have been prime audio evidence of an unsolved murder. It would have never been recovered since my voice overs were so unbearable to listen to. There could have been few other reasons this man was stepping out so brusquely from his car.
I didn’t make eye contact again. Every glance, every movement I made was aimed at jumping from the back seat as quickly as possible, turning on the car and getting out of there.
I backed up, drove off and only used the rear-view to see if he was advancing on me. He had evaporated again as he had for that entire hour that he stealthily watched me record.
It has been a week, yet I have only thought of it again now. This is the way of the wild hare; he narrowly escapes a trap, scurries off, and only thinks of his next vegetable dinner. I went straight home with the radio playing. I sat in my dark driveway, knowing I had to get these recordings, and spent another hour there before stepping inside my house.