01: STAND
 

 "Who am I, and why do I exist?"
 The question was posed as a joke by Amanda. She looked deeply into my eyes, smiled, and shook her head in bewilderment. She used the phrase often to break the tension, and it always seemed to work. I don't know if it was the changing of the scope of focus or the cute aloofness of the way she said it, but again it achieved the desired effect. Even this time.
 I cracked a smile, and the little bit of breath inside me pushed its way out through that unconscious movement of the lungs which accompanies laughter. It was a futile laugh, like when you laugh at yourself because you can't accomplish some simple task. Although it is a routine chore, like tying your shoelaces-- after successive attempts, still today you cannot get your thumb and index finger to cooperate. You must step back and appreciate the beautiful electricity of that moment where we leave the everyday world and momentarily are lost in some netherworld where thumbs and forefingers have agendas of their own.
 There we sat in her bedroom, engaged in the folly of life. Who was I to say who she was? The immediate response was to ask myself the same question. It was quickly dismissed, though, because I had no time to address such esoterica. Life was leading me into a strange vortex, and I obligingly swam with the current. One thing was certain about her existence-- she would take me through diverse extremes of feelings, and never spare me the truth. This was one of those times.
 "There's just so much I need to be doing right now... To be with Camille and the baby, and-- I don't know what I'm doing with my life..." She was beautiful. It was like she was pleading with me, begging of me on a sympathetic note. Her roommate, Camille, had given birth to a baby girl just six months ago. I listened, but only sat there, silent, smiling.
 Not answering, not protesting, not saying anything, was always the perfect response to Amanda's conundrum. The internal conflict was in her, and I refused to give her an external issue to point to. I used the moment to reflect. We had been together for seven months, and had overcome many obstacles together. Now she was telling me that I was a distraction.
 She was right. It was a reciprocal sort of relationship-- it always was. She was a distraction to me, always, in a hundred different ways. I didn't want it to be any other way. A necessary distraction, fulfilling an emotional quotient which was for a long time absent in me, buried beneath a string of short-lived stands and unsensuous affairs.
 "So, you want to break up?" I said it blankly, absent of emotion. I heard myself say it, and then the feelings started to rise to the surface. Pulse gets more erratic. Breathing deeper. Face, brain, and teeth get more tense through the wave that is building.
  I don't know, Jack, I just feel like I can't give you the time that I'd like to..." She gave me the puppy-dog look like she wished that I would give her the answer, but I didn't. So she continued. "Between work and school, and you, I just feel like I'm being pulled in all different directions!"
 We both still had a ways to travel on our paths. I wasn't ready to hitch my wagon yet, and neither was she. I gave her credit for wanting to finish school, I only wished she had done it a few years earlier, so our lifestyles would now be more suitably matched. I hated to admit it, but I had no answer either.
 "That's it, huh, you just want out?" I said it defiantly, challenging her to act with conviction. I felt like storming out of there, spitting on the floor, and kicking something over on the way out. But I could never leave that way. I wanted to be looked in the eyes and asked-- no, told to leave. So I looked at her.
 She averted my glance, pursed her lips, and clenched her teeth. It was quiet for too many seconds. Something needed to be said, the air was too thick in there.
 My mouth opened, and I started spitting out words. I felt my shoulders lifting as I spoke, spine elongating and ribcage expanding, like a cobra ready to strike. The words came up from my gut, raked along my back and went right out of my mouth, completely missing the cranial cavity and any thought-processing.
 "Amanda, since I met you, I never wanted to walk away from this relationship, but if that's what you want, I'll leave right now!" I meant it. I didn't want to, but I would. She had to want it too.
 The silence returned, but the atmosphere was more relaxed of that squishing, churning feeling. We were getting somewhere. She really didn't want out. But we had only gotten out of the deep muck she had stepped us into. We really hadn't gone anywhere.
 "You hate my job, I'm always doing schoolwork-- sometimes I wish you had another girlfriend."
 "And you'd be my mistress?"
 We laughed, relieved, glad to be together. She moved closer to me, and I could feel the nearness of her. She had a warmth that surrounded her, which at the same time had a sharp coldness to it. My senses tingled, her essence was exciting in times of comfort and danger.
 I told her, "Take all the time you want, just don't come over after work and only tell me how miserable your night was." She smiled and we embraced.
 It was true, I hated her job. She worked at the "in" Hollywood celebrity trash restaurant of the moment, Tribeca. It was financed, run and patronized by entertainment industry nightcrawlers, living on found money and fueled by their egos. Maybe it was contempt for what I worked for, maybe it was jealousy. Either way, I didn't care to mix in that kind of company, and I disliked the fact that she was dependent upon them for her livelihood. She was treated with the typical disrespect a waitress might meet, and serving to these types added further humiliation. Obviously, she needed the money.
 I, on the contrary, loved my job and the world I lived in. It didn't seem like work. Being on a movie set is charged with a certain energy. Everyone there is a specialist, there to carry out a specific task as efficiently and quickly as possible. There is a military quality to it. A rank and caste system, where certain lines are not crossed. Rarely did I answer to a higher-up, except the guy who hired me or our gaffer, usually a friend.
 A microcosm of the real world, filmmaking calls for all types: technicians, artists, business people, athletes and specialists from all walks of life. A make-believe world where you make it all up as you go along. Point the camera, strike the lights, and-- "ACTION!" Life is how you, the director, or the department head, define it in the context of a two-hour photoplay.
 That's how I viewed reality through the looking-glass, growing up watching movies and television, as a tool for learning about life. Now I was penetrating the facade, seeing what life was really like behind the velvet curtain. I was learning something new every day.
 The temperaments I found on a low-budget movie set were very disciplined. It drew an interesting quality of people who were willing to throw themselves indivisibly into their work, and live their lives in and around it. Whether you were doing it for the money, or for want of experience it always had something to offer.
 Every film had a different crew, different locations, and different concerns. Each one was surrounded by it's own unique life-force. The way a film brings something to it's audience in a hundred minutes, it does so to the people who work on it-- only magnified a hundredfold, as we were living through every moment of it one scene at a time.
 I wished that I could do something for Amanda, say some words of wisdom to her that would put it all in perspective. If only it was that simple, but there was no script to refer to, and no dialogue coach to make it sound unrehearsed. We had to work this one out ourselves.
 We conceded that breaking up wasn't the solution to our individual problems, at least not at this juncture. There was always an indefinable temporal quality to our relationship. I felt like I had known her forever, would know her forever, but I didn't know the rest. And I didn't care to ask.
 We made love that afternoon and were two new people. Our awareness of each other was heightened, and it was beautiful and revitalizing. Afterwards, she slipped into a light slumber. She seemed so far away when she slept that I felt alone in the room.
 I looked around at the organic bohemian decor, antique pieces crammed into the small circular room of the modest Spanish villa. I helped her rearrange the furniture earlier, before our little schism. I wondered if it was a neurotic reaction to pressure building, as she had a potential for getting wound up and releasing in strange ways. Regardless, I sympathized with her situation.
 I gingerly got up, gathered my clothes and got dressed. Not having anything pressing to get to, I just felt the urge to move on. I knew Amanda could make use of the time to herself.
 "Where are you going?" she asked from her half-consciousness.
 "Back to my place. Give me a call. Let me know what you're up to." I figured I'd leave it at that, she'll get to me when she has the time.
 As I departed her house, I wondered if I had left too soon. Either way, I asserted myself and let her know how I felt. Maybe that was what was needed to sustain the relationship at that moment. Maybe that was why she wasn't wrenched out of my life abruptly and whimsically.
 The air outside was refreshing. I kick-started my bike, and savored the smell of gas and oil mixing with the freshness. The Triumph roared to life, then settled to a gentle valve-clatter. I basked in it's lush comfort as I let it warm up.
 This was a vintage machine. A classic British motorcycle, circa 1966, it came off the production line about the same time I was born. Just the bare essence of a motorcycle; upright, exposed and minimal. It was what I had always dreamed about riding as a child.
 I remembered the kite I owned as a young boy. On that kite was a picture of a rider on a bike just like it. I would imagine it was me up there, perched atop that motorcycle, flying through the trees with the wind in my hair. I conspired with my dad to acquire one as I got older, and he was poised to abet me. Then reason took hold of his senses; he was an insurance company lawyer, and was handed the case of a motorcycle accident. The rider was thrown from the bike and his spine broke, paralyzing him immediately. With this crashed my dreams of having a motorcycle anytime soon.
 But it was more than just that. The Triumph was a toy that I bought for myself. A beat-up runt, the neglected street bike was sitting gathering dust in the corner of a local bike shop. The product of two decades of tinkering no one would lay claim to.
 When I saw it, I knew I had to have it. I couldn't afford the showroom-type bikes the place specialized in, all restored and perfect. They were reluctant to put the time and effort into this one. I saw the potential, took it for a ride, and rode it home that afternoon.
 It was mechanically sound for a bike it's age, aside from some obvious shortcomings. The lights didn't work, it leaked oil like most British bikes and it was pretty worn into the ground. I was determined to make something of it. I wasn't much of a mechanic, but I could learn what I needed to know.
 I dismantled the sucker down to the bare metal frame, stripped it of all it's components. For a long time the engine sat apart in one corner of the garage, the exhaust system and tires in another, and a mass of accouterments laid out on shelves, disembodied. It was a long, tedious process I felt compelled to do. Seeing it all taken apart, I really wasn't sure how I would get it back together in one piece. I was confident some invisible force would lead me there.
 Then I got the call. I was offered a job for six weeks on location, a television movie about a Naval disaster. I was to leave the next day. We would be on a battleship in Mobile, Alabama for the first two weeks, before flying on to the Bahama Islands for the remainder. They were putting us up in a fine hotel with all the amenities, and the pay was good. I couldn't say no. The Triumph would sit disassembled in the dark garage for a while longer, waiting to once again meet the road.
 It was easy to forget what I left behind for those weeks, as there was sunshine and bikini-clad women all around, and plenty of adventurous work to keep me busy. Amanda wasn't in the picture yet and I had a workplace affair with the office coordinator for the show. I was swept up into the lifestyle, a long way from home, and my other life was put indefinitely on hold.
 When I got back to L.A. I was exhausted and unmotivated, and my wallet was full. I saw my scattered machine. Now I had to earn it's respect, and there was only one way to do that-- reassembling and riding it.
 It seemed an insurmountable task, unfinished business in need of attention. I lost sight of how significant it was to me, and working on it became a chore. I procrastinated as long as I could.
 As I cruised down Hollywood Boulevard that afternoon, I thanked myself for persevering and finding the determination to see it through. It brought me pleasure and a sense of accomplishment to ride that motorcycle. It wasn't much, but it was mine, and it meant a lot to me.
 Just like being here in California was important. I had been here as a child, at age three. Young mom left dad behind to go meet her girlfriend, and brought the kids along to the City of Angels. I will never forget that feeling, knowing that I would one day be back.
 It wasn't so much a conscious decision, as an inevitable consequence. Film school on the east coast prepared me, and before I knew it I had broken-in to the realm of low-budget film production. Work a few days, do a good job, and your number gets entrenched in some secret phone-file, accessible only to those who might need your services, invisible and nonexistent to others.
 This word-of-mouth rite-of-passage initiation is really quite peculiar. No where else is a recommendation so rigidly held to measure. Not knowing anyone, you could walk around town endlessly handing out your business card, and never get a call. A good phone number on the other hand, especially when the town is busy, is like a match ready to start a forest fire.
 Getting known is always the hardest part, when you don't know anyone. It helps to work for cheap, or even for free if you don't know anything, and can afford to invest the time. The skills learned will quickly pay off, if you have the aptitude and discipline to go with it. Then the work calls continue, and your rate soon becomes more of an issue.
 The various jobs can earn handsome paychecks, as I had heard espoused on a number of occasions, before I became worth such amounts and learned from experience. They do not come without much toil though, and spending many hours dispatched. Eventually, you realize the cost of your troubles, and decide you are worth no less than what other skilled practitioners are making, and-- bang, you're making the rate. All it takes is one or two "flat" rates (same rate for any amount or max hours) coming up short for you to realize exactly how much that is.
 The first film I ever worked on was such a disaster. "Alexa" was the story of a call-girl trying to go straight. Rumor had it the story was autobiographical to the producer. My first day in the field, and already I was in bad company. There were telling lines of dialogue like "You'll never get out of the jizz-biz, baby!" reverberating in my ears, the significance of which would later come to pass.
 Alexa was a location shoot in New York, low-budget, around two-hundred thousand, or so we were told. The figures were always rather vague, if true, because you never knew how much went to post and pre-production, producer's salaries, talent, etc., unless you were specifically in on the shooting budget. It didn't really matter back then anyway, we weren't so aware of the economics. It was just something to talk about and learn from while we took the jobs that came our way.
 I got that first gig on Alexa through the film school, arranged as a summer internship for credit. It was understood that I would be a "production assistant for the electric department," as my interest leaned towards lighting, but this basically meant "entry-level electrician," though no one would in the front offices would ever admit it. It might cost them more. Production assistants come free or cheap; electricians you have to pay for.
 My presence was appreciated though, as was that of anybody who showed up. When you are working for below scale or free, whoever helps the effort is always welcome. My deal was for school credit, but before long they were paying me some nominal amount like seventy-five bucks a week. I think they were afraid they were going to lose me. With shoot days averaging sixteen to eighteen hours long, it's probably a good idea that they did. Lucky for them I was having the time of my life, learning about the movie business, and getting a little money put in my pocket to boot.
 I got promoted quickly, as often happens in times of distress when none qualified will fill the call. Formality went out the window on the first day of shooting when production rescinded any further claim to me. No longer was I an "electric PA" (just plug me in, I'll work!), but now I was breaking into the crew as third electric.
 Third electric. I liked the sound of it. I had played baseball in youth leagues, second base was my position. Now I felt back on the team, in the infield, playing third electric. With it came the slightest bit of recognition, as I got to meet my teammates.
 Harry was the gaffer, or Chief Lighting Technician. The term "gaffer" comes from England, referring to the job boss or head electrician back from the days of ye olden. To "gaff" also has the connotation "to hook" from some maritime application involving a long pole with a hook on the end. In a studio situation, with all the overhead lighting in use, such a gaffer's pole is a necessary tool for last minute adjustments. Initially recognized by this long stick used for hooking lights, it's no wonder the CLT has always been more informally called "the gaffer."
 In those olden days, as with today, a gaffer would initially prepare for an upcoming job by acquiring a crew. The first stop back then was the union hall, whereby he would go in, pronouncing to the call steward "give me your bestboy."
 That is how the enigmatic term "bestboy" came to be. How it made it from the shores of England to New York to Hollywood, is the mystery to me. And why is it so on the minds of moviegoers (at least the ones who stay to watch the credits), this dubious question, "What is a best boy?" Although this particular thought never beset my otherwise riddled mind, I would ultimately learn the answer.
 I first heard the term when I met the best boy on Alexa. "Jack, this is Ron, he's my best boy." Harry introduced me to him, but Ron was busy with his hands full from the moment I met him until he left the picture, which was the next day. He got pissed off at the production for being disorganized and left for a better job, or so he said. If I knew then what I know now, I probably would have done the same thing.
 This is how I came to be the best boy on my first movie ever. The job stuck though, and despite adversity and a learning curve, I made it through and got my first movie credit there; as second electric. Whoever made up the credits couldn't even get the terminology straight. At least they spelled my name correctly.
 I would hardly call that film "professional," although it did eventually get finished and shown. They re-shot some of the sex scenes and added more nudity, which made it more marketable, so I was told. As I relaxed at my hotel one evening between set calls while on location in The Bahamas, I flipped on the TV. Alexa was one of the adult-themed choices for the pay-per-view television. I guess that producer never did get out of the jizz-biz; she just changed professions in it.
 This was a long way from New York, Alexa, flat rates, and film school. Here I was in Hollywood, making the rate, surrounded by movie stars and dispatched to exotic locations. It was all very new and exciting, and I had a prosperous career burgeoning. Now I was just steps away from the big shows.

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