June 30th, 2016 - Wes Worthing
- 45 minutes ago
- 4 min read
The summer sunlight greets me as I close the front door of my home. This is the first step toward having to endure the impending silence of The Specter. Step two is walking along the driveway with the youngest half of my four children, to say, “See you later,” yet again. After the last hugs, my seventeen-year-old son hops into the driver’s seat, while my daughter, fifteen, knowing she’s the only passenger, comically calls “Shotgun!” Step three is the last goodbye wave as the rumbling engine of the car eventually fades from earshot. The death blow.
My son is a cautious driver, so my anxious energy is less about their trip to my ex-wife’s house and more about the foreboding emptiness. I won’t see them for the next eight, grueling days.
I re-enter my home and The Specter has already smothered out the room tone. Okay, the tone of the room is still here, but it certainly feels void of sound. I would give anything to hear my kids’ voices, footsteps, even happily welcoming the slamming of a dresser drawer.
“Everyone settle for room tone!” is a common phrase called out by the sound mixer on a film set. They record with their boom mic the unique ambience of every scene location. All the cast and crew try to remain still as statues, typically up to sixty seconds, hoping not to make bodily sounds that would ruin the recording, which, if it happened, would usually be met with laughter and another attempt.
On one occasion, while I was editing a film, I noticed something wrong with the audio of a scene. The video monitor confirmed what my ears were sensing. I could see the sound waves drop to zero when the actors stopped speaking, and then return during their dialogue. The sound mixer had accidentally deleted the scene’s room tone while crafting the film’s sound design. I had the original audio files, so it was a simple fix, but the profound quiet was jarring… and all too familiar. It seemed as if The Specter followed me into the studio.
During the eight days with my children away, my earbuds work overtime, cranking playlists to fill the void. The music is upbeat, either head-bangers or dance tunes I can bounce to while putting minimal care into yard work. My lawn is the most colorful eyesore on the block, loved by the bees more than my neighbors. A playlist also keeps me company as I sort through my house to downsize. Two years later I’ll move, and I’ll be grateful to get rid of all the knick-knacks. I put my earbuds aside to read murder mysteries, the classics, some work by local authors, and the book I revisit most since 2013, Helping Your Kids Cope with Divorce. During the first few days I’ll certainly open my mouth to call out to my children, only to stop myself before I do.
By the third day, I begin to feel not only less unnerved by The Specter, but strangely inspired by it. Needing to do anything, besides yard work of course, I immerse myself in the flow state of writing, attempting to channel my emotional distress into characters and themes. I utilize what I’ve learned from reputable podcasts and self-help books about the strength of being vulnerable, and a few months later, I’ll begin to sense the payoffs while touring the festival circuit in support of a short film and screenplay.
At one of the festivals, I won’t share with the other filmmakers that I sleep in my car because I can’t squeeze a hotel stay into my budget. I’ll lie on a blanket across the folded seats of my Honda Pilot, writing in my journal, when the acute silence of The Specter triggers unwanted thoughts. Is this worth it? What if you’re basic? Or, What if you’re brilliant and no one notices? I’ll add more questions while gazing through the back window, watching mesmerized moths circle a streetlamp. Am I like them? Am I disoriented, flying in a loop around my dreams? I’ll fall asleep with no answers, and awake with my imposter syndrome intact. Although a trophy isn’t going to call “Shotgun!” to ride on my passenger seat for the way home, both of my entries will be finalists, and that will quiet my hypersensitive mind for a time.
By the seventh day of my children being away, l come to learn that The Specter’s seemingly unbearable nothingness has gifted me both the time to create and a better understanding of why I should. And when it does its worst to draw out my ache, I lean into it, because that’s where vulnerability lives, and my bravest stories are born. I accept The Specter as my forever annoying roommate, and the knowledge that its hush will torture me following every future visit with my four adult children. Perhaps The Specter is a relative of grief… its muted cousin that, too, helps reveal the pain of devotion.
On the eighth day, the first step toward the impending joy is my son parking in the driveway. Step two is he and his sister, lugging backpacks and a week’s worth of clothing, trekking toward the front door. Step three is their entrance. After the first hugs and quick catchups, they make way toward their bedrooms, with my daughter singing aloud, and my son speaking in a nonsensical voice to make me laugh. It works. It always does. The restoration. While they busy themselves with unpacking, The Specter recoils to the corner, defeated by the echo of my children’s voices. The room tone seems louder, and my earbuds stay in their case because, I mean really, what song could top the sound of a dresser drawer slamming?
Wes Worthing is a former president of the Iowa Scriptwriters Alliance, and a current member of the Dramatists Guild of America, and the Iowa Motion Picture Association (IMPA). He’s been a judge for a variety of film and screenplay competitions including for the Iowa College Media Association, the IMPA, and the Film Independent Spirit Awards. With an education in Broadcasting, Wes once enjoyed crafting radio spots and spinning records, but he eventually changed course and dedicated himself to working in film and theatre as both a creator and performer. His work in front of and behind the camera can be explored on his IMDb page, and also his Facebook page titled “Worthing’s World.”
