Uncle Harvey 1987

Lisa wasn't angry. She was used to the casual Southern California beachside banter, she just smiled and leaned back on her hands, digging her fingers into the cool, damp sand. A few fine grains clung to her moisturized skin.

"Thanks, guys, but you're ruining our shot," Lisa said.

"I'm Lisa, this is Amy, and we are actually trying to record a very important video here."

"A video letter?" the tall one asked, his brow furrowing with genuine curiosity.

He stepped deeper into the frame, flashing a dazzling smile that would have made her dentist proud.

"To whom? Your boyfriend? Tell him he's a lucky guy, but you're hanging out with us now."

He winked right at the lens.

"No, not my boyfriend." Lisa laughed.

Her British father's dry cadence subtly cut through her sunny San Diego accent.

"It's for my uncle. He happens to be a powerful Hollywood producer who could probably have you both banned from every cinema in the state if you don't move out of my light."

Her eyes twinkled with mischief. Behind the camera, Amy lifted her head away from the viewfinder. A strand of red hair had escaped her scrunchie, sticking to her sweaty forehead.

"Hey! Boys! Scram!" Amy shouted, her patience entirely spent.

"My shoulder is literally dying from holding this heavy thing, and you're wasting our tape. Move it or lose it!"

The guy in the Oakley’s sunglasses raised his hands in mock retreat, laughing. His digital Casio watch glinted in the fading light.

"Alright, alright, we're going! Don't get defensive. Just had to pay respects to the most beautiful girl on Mission Beach."

He backed away slowly, flashing a peace sign with fingers calloused from volleyball.

"See you around campus," he smiled, then turned to jog away. The two boys headed toward the boardwalk, hooting and laughing.

The lens swung back to Lisa, capturing her reaction in high contrast, saturated VHS tones. She pulled her white Wayfarer sunglasses down from her hair, settling them onto her nose with absolute confidence. The frames left faint red marks on her temples.

"See?" She tilted her chin up and leaned closer to the lens.

Her words dropped into a playful whisper that barely registered on the camcorder's microphone.

"The local color loves me. Amy, hit the volume on the boombox, okay? I need to talk to my uncle."

Her breath fogged the lens for a brief second. A sharp audio click cut through the air as Amy dialed down the music, leaving only the steady, rhythmic thumping of the ocean waves in the background.

Lisa looked over the rims of her sunglasses with an affectionate, wide-eyed smile that made her look younger than her nineteen years.

"Okay, is it just us now? Good. Greetings from sunny San Diego! Hi Uncle Harvey!"

Her delivery shifted instantly into a crisp, professional tone as if she were indeed addressing a ruthless studio executive, rather than a man who still sent her birthday cards with twenty-dollar bills folded inside.

"Seriously, congratulations on the summer box office numbers."

Lisa grinned, speaking clearly into the camera.

"Everyone at SDSU went to see Serafim’s new movie “License to Love” like four times. I swear, half the girls in my dorm are completely obsessed with the lead actor. I told everyone that my uncle practically discovered him. I’m basically a celebrity by association now."

She giggled, tossing her head back.

"Some of the guys in my business classes are begging me to slip them your corporate card. Don't worry, I told them your secretary would screen them out before they even got past the Serafim security gate. Mom always says you have the best security in the business. Probably because she remembers how you used to lock your bedroom door to keep her out when you were kids."

She paused, looking thoughtful for a brief moment.

"But I was actually just telling Amy about that time you let me crash at the beach house in Malibu for my high school graduation trip. We were trying to remember the name of that crazy, exclusive Italian place in Santa Monica you took us to. Amy thinks I'm exaggerating, but I told her, 'When you're with Harvey Bernstein, you never wait for a table.' You completely ruined normal restaurants for me, just so you know."

She adopted a more mature posture.

"Anyway, I’m trying to be super responsible this year. No more freshman goofing off. Mom told me to get my act together, so I actually just officially pledged a sorority! I am a Phi Sigma Chi now. It's a really big deal on campus."

She flashed a proud smile.

"We do a ton of charity and philanthropy work, and the older girls are already grooming me for a leadership spot. I'm practically networking already. You would be so proud of me."

A sharp gust of wind hit the microphone, creating a loud, fuzzy rumble across the audio track. Amy shifted the heavy camcorder. Her shadow stretched long and dark across the sand as she fought to steady the frame.

"My shoulder is dead, and now I'm freezing. Let's go."

The complaint came through muffled from behind the camera lens. Lisa laughed, looking past the equipment at her friend’s strained face.

"Okay, okay, hold your horses. The wind is starting to whip up anyway. We’re going to pack up the boombox and grab some tacos before we head back to the dorms.”

She turned her attention back to the lens, leaning close.

"But Uncle Harvey! Don't eject the tape yet! I'm going to film the rest of this tonight when I get back to my room. I actually have a little business proposition I want to run past you. A classic Harvey Bernstein consultation. See you in a few hours!"

She reached a sandy hand directly toward the lens. Her palm blocked out the San Diego sunset. The tape was cut instantly to a flash of tracking lines and snowy static.