Storms came up fast in Savannah. A stirring breeze blew off the sea and the crackling air hung heavily all summer, so Billy was often caught unaware, especially when strolling under the broad limbs of Forsyth Park, where the leaves blocked out the gathering clouds. He stood at the fountain, sinking into the patter of water on marble, finding stillness in his mind and abandoning tension. Billy was prone to knots in his stomach, seemingly biologic trepidation, and his psychologist suggested that he take time to center himself in the day. Without a map Billy found that this fountain was the center. The air drew in deeply, and gave a hollow buzz followed by a metallic crash and a brilliant salvo that left spots in his eyes. Shaking off the popping in his ears Billy realized the sound of water was not the fountain, but fat drops of rain splashing down on the bricks of the park. He looked out to Gaston Street and saw business men, dressed lightly for the summer heat, dashing for shops and doorways, and he had the greatest idea of his life.
"Why isn't there a Southern film industry?" He asked the waitress who brought his sandwich in a brown paper bag. She blinked at him. He found the knot in his stomach had been replaced by a spring. He worked in a book store and in the slow times explained to his coworkers that the South had produced its' own music, sports, literature and comedy, why was it happy to let California and New York make its' movies? "In India they have Bollywood. We couldn't call it Dollywood, but I'm sure we'll think of something."
The day had turned clear and blazing. Billy walked home like he always did, and was covered in a fine sweat by the time he got there. He was restless, like the sun was an eternally stoked furnace driving the pistons of his industry, and he began working around the house. First Billy did the neglected chores; washed dishes, swept and organized the books that had built up over time like deposits of silt. The sun hung stubbornly in the sky so Billy began lugging cinder blocks from the demolished shed at the corner of his yard and stacked them neatly in the alley. When he came to the bottom of the pile he was amazed to see the sun hadn't move. It was trying to boil him out, burn away the fission of his idea into entropy, but he could not be had. Billy took up and ax and began chopping at the stout tree stump eating up his yard like a carbuncle. Billy assaulted the low table of wood and then the thick subterranean fingers, grinding it into the earth with attrition. When he was done, stripped to the waist, slick and dripping like John Henry, he looked up to where the sun cowered below the horizon, a purple crimson flag of surrender beating its' retreat, and smiled knowing he would meet the bastard first thing.
"Why isn't there a Southern film industry?" He asked the waitress who brought his sandwich in a brown paper bag. She blinked at him. He found the knot in his stomach had been replaced by a spring. He worked in a book store and in the slow times explained to his coworkers that the South had produced its' own music, sports, literature and comedy, why was it happy to let California and New York make its' movies? "In India they have Bollywood. We couldn't call it Dollywood, but I'm sure we'll think of something."
The day had turned clear and blazing. Billy walked home like he always did, and was covered in a fine sweat by the time he got there. He was restless, like the sun was an eternally stoked furnace driving the pistons of his industry, and he began working around the house. First Billy did the neglected chores; washed dishes, swept and organized the books that had built up over time like deposits of silt. The sun hung stubbornly in the sky so Billy began lugging cinder blocks from the demolished shed at the corner of his yard and stacked them neatly in the alley. When he came to the bottom of the pile he was amazed to see the sun hadn't move. It was trying to boil him out, burn away the fission of his idea into entropy, but he could not be had. Billy took up and ax and began chopping at the stout tree stump eating up his yard like a carbuncle. Billy assaulted the low table of wood and then the thick subterranean fingers, grinding it into the earth with attrition. When he was done, stripped to the waist, slick and dripping like John Henry, he looked up to where the sun cowered below the horizon, a purple crimson flag of surrender beating its' retreat, and smiled knowing he would meet the bastard first thing.
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