David Bowman
I watched the lens disappear beneath the murky water, a brief glint of glass catching the last bit of daylight before it was gone. The river swallowed it without a trace, as if it had never existed. Around me, the set stood frozen for a second—then the shouting began.
The director’s voice cut through the air, sharp with disbelief. I barely listened. My assistant, Jeremy, stood beside me, his face drained of color. He knew what this meant. It wasn’t just about the twenty grand lost to the river. It was about time, about budget, about how fast bad news spreads in this industry.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay.”
His eyes snapped to mine, searching for sarcasm, for anger, but I meant it. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that everything goes wrong at some point. Equipment breaks, shots get ruined, actors storm off. You fix it and move on.
I’m thirty-six. I live in Los Angeles, have for most of my life. I worked my way up from nothing, starting out as a camera assistant on low-budget shoots where the coffee was cold and the pay was worse. I learned by doing, by failing, by watching others fail. It took me years to get here, to have my own assistant, my own responsibilities. I knew what it felt like to be in Jeremy’s position, that sinking realization that one mistake could end a career before it even begins.
The next few hours were a mess of problem-solving. A replacement lens was rushed in at an obscene price. We lost daylight, pushed the schedule back. The director shot me glares between takes, as if it had been my hands that fumbled the lens. But I didn’t argue. That’s part of the job.
Jeremy barely spoke the rest of the night. When we wrapped, he lingered, avoiding my eyes. “I’m really sorry,” he muttered.
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. “Forget it. Just learn from it.”
He nodded, but I could tell he wouldn’t. Not yet. The weight of it would sit with him for a long time.
Tomorrow, something else will go wrong. It always does. And the audience? They’ll never know.