October 19, 1988: Soho, New York
The pottery wheel spun with a low, rhythmic hum, the clay slick and malleable under their combined touch. Alex sat behind Demi, his chest bare and his hands guiding hers as the Righteous Brothers' "Unchained Melody" filled the Soho loft. It was the iconic pottery scene, beginning with a playful energy as Sam teased Molly about the wobbling clay. But as the music reached its crescendo, the playfulness evaporated, replaced by a sudden, heavy, tactile passion.
The clay became a messy afterthought as the physical tension between them finally erupted. Alex stood, pulling Demi up with him. In one fluid motion, he lifted her, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms locking behind his neck. He held her there for a moment, his hands firm against her, before slowly letting her slide down his body until her feet hit the floor. His hands settled low on her ass, gripping her as her palms pressed against his lean, corded abdominal muscles—a physique honed by Alex for years. They crashed into a long, deep kiss, the kind that made the world outside the frame disappear. He lifted her again, carrying her the short distance to the bed, where he laid her down and moved over her, the blue-tinted moonlight of the loft casting long, romantic shadows across the scene.
While it may look like they were lost in a moment of transcendent passion, the reality was far from that. While they were able to manage the passion and make it look effortless, the "uncomfortable" factor never truly left. Performing such intimate movements with fifty people watching—focus pullers adjusting lenses inches away and sound technicians hovering overhead—requires a total detachment from one's own ego. Arousal is the last thing on the mind; you are simply hitting marks and ensuring the choreography of the kiss perfectly matches the rhythm of the music.
"Cut!" Alex called softly, the word hanging in the hot, quiet air.
He exhaled, the tension leaving his frame as he pulled away. "Good job, Demi. Really great work."
"It's always the weirdest part of the job," Demi admitted softly, grabbing a towel to wipe the clay and sweat away.
"Every time," Alex agreed, nodding as he moved toward the technical monitors.
He walked over to the video tap monitor to review the playback with his cinematographer, Adam Greenberg. As an actor-director, Alex functioned by alternating roles with surgical precision.
After a few moments, he looked at Adam. "Excellent work, Adam. The way the blue light hits the skin... it looks perfect."
Alex stepped back, letting out a long sigh and cranking his neck until it popped. The weight of the day was finally settling in.
"Exhausted?" Adam asked with a knowing smile.
"Yes," Alex admitted, rubbing his eyes. "But also excited. This won't be enough to let me stop. But right now, what I really need is a very strong coffee."
As if on cue, a steaming cup of black coffee was thrust toward his face. Alex looked up to see his Assistant Director—and current personal assistant—Quentin Tarantino.
"Thanks, Quentin," Alex said, taking a grateful sip. "You know exactly what I want."
"If I didn't know your coffee specs by now, boss, I'd be pretty crappy at my job,"Quentin chirped, his voice vibrating with high-speed energy.
Alex had met Quentin earlier that year at Video Archives, a rental store where Quentin worked as a clerk. Fascinated by the man's encyclopedic, machine-gun-fire knowledge of cinema, Alex had convinced Nancy to hire him at Hayes Productions. Now, the same-aged Quentin was the "utility player" on set, serving as the AD while managing Alex's chaotic schedule.
"Did you get it?" Alex asked.
Quentin pointed to a garment bag nearby. "Got the clothes in the bag right here."
"For what is it?" Demi asked. She had already changed back into her normal clothes and was preparing to leave the set.
"My clothes for the tonight show with David Letterman," Alex explained.
"Still doing the Rain Man publicity?" Demi asked.
Quentin answered for him while Alex sipped his coffee. "Yes. Paramount is pulling out all stops for publicity and Alex has to do his part on this."
Alex nodded. "Fortunately, the network studio is in New York. If not, I would have to travel to L.A. and waste days."
"Well, have a good show," Demi said with a wave as she left.
Alex turned to Quentin. "Let's go."
***********
They left the Soho loft together and climbed into the back of a car. As Quentin took the wheel, Alex leaned his head back and closed his eyes to relax.
Though he was tired, the sheer level of preparation he had put into pre-production made the workload manageable. He could have taken the filming of Ghost slower, but the Goodfellas shooting was slated to begin in November.
Fortunately, Alex had a reprieve: Martin Scorsese was first shooting the scenes of Henry Hill's childhood. That meant Alex's part as the adult Henry Hill wouldn't start until January. He had another two months to wrap this up, but he knew one thing for certain: next time, he would need even better planning to handle such tight schedules.
The car merged into the glittering stream of Manhattan traffic, the neon signs of Broadway blurring into streaks of light against the rain-slicked pavement. From the driver's seat, Quentin glanced into the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing as he studied Alex's reflection.
"You look like you need a sleep, boss," Quentin remarked, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine.
"And a meal," Alex admitted, leaning his head back against the leather headrest. "I'm famished. My stomach has been growling since the third take of the pottery wheel."
Quentin reached over to the passenger seat and hoisted a heavy, grease-stained paper bag, offering it back to Alex. "Here. I figured you'd be running on empty."
Alex took the bag, the warmth of it seeped into his hands. "What is it?"
"A double hamburger and a mountain of French fries," Quentin said with a grin.
Alex pulled out the burger, the savory scent of grilled beef and onions filling the car. "The ultimate American fast food." He took a massive, appreciative bite and let out a satisfied breath. "Ah, that's good. Really good. Where did you get this? It doesn't taste like the usual franchise stuff."
"A small diner tucked away in an alley near the set," Quentin explained, navigating a tight turn. "It's a great spot—real character, real soul—but it's struggling. The location is a nightmare for foot traffic. It'll be a shame if it goes under; they make a mean shake, too."
Alex chewed thoughtfully, looking out at the passing storefronts. A small injection of capital, a better marketing push... maybe I should invest in the place, he thought. He made a mental note to ask his banker to look into it.
"So," Alex said, shifting the conversation as he reached for a fry. "How is the script you're writing? Is it finally done?"
Quentin's posture straightened, his energy level spiking at the mere mention of his own work. "Yeah, it's almost there. I'm just doing some final touches, tightening the dialogue, making sure the 'pop' is just right. It's got this non-linear thing going—I think it's going to be special."
Alex nodded, looking at the back of Quentin's head. He knew from his "visions" that he was going to be a very influential and significant filmmaker in the future. "Once it's completed, let me read it. I want to see what you've got."
Quentin's eyes lit up in the mirror, a genuine flash of excitement crossing his face. "Really? Thanks, boss. I'll get a clean draft to you once it's done."
"I'm looking forward to it," Alex said, and he meant it.
Quentin nodded, steering the car through the neon-lit maze of Manhattan toward Rockefeller Center. Moments later, he pulled the car to a stop at the entrance of Studio 6A, NBC Studios.