TWENTY-THREE
O
ne month later
Falling asleep anywhere was an art form Pio had mastered long before crossing over to an industry where 24-hour shoots were considered a norm. Busy and often packed theatre green rooms were the training ground that prepared him for chaotic film crew tents, and the three-monoblock chair-s***h-sleeping-bag combo was his weapon of choice.
Today, he fell asleep in the makeup chair, leaving the bags under his eyes and his unruly hair under Gina’s (his makeup artist) experienced hands. His nap was short-lived, though, disrupted by the grating sound of audio feedback that rang in his ears. He woke up with a start, catching Gina’s crass string of expletives, some of which he didn’t really understand.
“Ay, sorry Sir Pio,” she quickly said, hiding her mouth behind
