07: HAPPY DAZE

 During the course of Grace of My Heart, a passionate affair developed between Laura and I. After our first meeting in the parking lot at Panavision, we became close working together day after day. What started as a mutual attraction blossomed; we took big steps, quickly and abruptly, but such maneuvers are not uncommon in spells of love.
 She was the cute stand-in off in the corner reading, the timid little lamb browsing at craft service. I could see out of the corner of my eye, most every guy that crossed her path would try to engage her or get her attention. It was clear from watching her that she was not like other girls.
 Our friendship developed as I saw her dismiss her suitors one after the other. I tried to stick to my original plan of non-involvement, but soon became overwhelmed. In the wake of the strike, emotions flared and connections were made. The draw was too great; her allure, her innocence, her potential. Desire took hold, and we submitted.
 In the company of a film production with a rigorous shooting schedule to adhere to, these moves can be disastrous. It is only a matter of time until such information becomes public interest. This was the case with Laura and myself, though we were halfway through the picture before our involvement became apparent.
 Gossip can be epidemic in controlled environments like this. The onslaught came like a ton of bricks. We were careful to show no public display lest we give way to our secret too soon. Still, we could only keep wolves at bay so long.
 Steve-O and Welder were the first to catch on. Obviously, they would wonder why I suddenly elected to forego the carpool we would ordinarily form when I lived but one block from them. Then they would see me on set with bags under my eyes and a smile on my face, and know. They were supportive, they were my friends, the least of my worries.
 It was the others I had to watch out for. The assistant directors, for example. It was they who Laura answered to as a stand-in, and they got quite critical when they caught wind of what was transpiring. I don't know if it was jealousy, envy, or what, but one second assistant director crossed the line.
 We were at some old theater downtown, which should have been condemned, but by some miracle (read: payola) wasn't. I think the cockroaches ran the concession, there were so many amok amidst the empty candy case. I came out from the backstage area we were pre-rigging, and saw Laura standing in the corner crying.
 "What is it, what's the matter?" I asked as I held her and wiped her tears.
 "It's nothing..." She said between sobs.
 "C'mon, tell me-- do you feel okay, are you alright?"
 She nodded yes. "Well, then who did this to you? Who made you cry?"
 She didn't know how to respond. For a moment she didn't say anything. I took off my jacket and put it around her.
 "Was it Pendleton? What did that fuck do to you?"
 She didn't say anything. I knew it was him, that bastard, he had it in for her all the way back to the makeup test. Playing Mr. Big second assistant director, gonna show the small town Texas girl Hollywood-city. Yeah right. Laura was way too smart to fall for any of that come-on shit, let alone from a slick-ass yo-yo like him. He can play that worthless crap with the extras all he wants, but now he had gone too far.
 Laura finally peeped up, from behind big, sad eyes, red, white, and blue, like two spherical American flags, with her tiny frame bunched up in my denim jacket.
 "He said he was gonna get me fired."
 That set my temper flying. I wanted to storm off and beat him to a bloody pulp, no questions asked. But I had to control myself, and I had to console Laura.
 "He can't do that-- you're in a union. SAG has rules about that, and he knows it. You're a good stand-in, and very professional-- talk to your friend Monica, she'll tell you!"
 Monica was the other stand-in; older than Laura, still youthful and pretty, but approaching middle age. After years of being a struggling actor, she had submitted more and more to stand-in jobs (everybody's gotta eat, and it beats waiting tables). Then one day she woke up and realized she had become a career stand-in waiting for that big acting job to come along. Now she was past her prime. I think she saw a bit of herself in Laura, and tried to coach her in the right direction.
 Laura lifted her head from my shoulder and sniffed. She nodded her head that she understood. We had talked about this, when we were alone and safe. I told her how people would try to contrive things to serve their purposes. She was so vulnerable and naive, and trusting. I had become her protector, spending many nights together, helping her sort the true from the false. I had taken on a number of roles, and would continue to-- I had fallen in love with her.
 I saw Monica turning the corner.
 "MONICA!" I shouted to get her attention. "Take care of Laura," I said, "I've got something to take care of myself."
 Monica saw something was wrong, and urgently went to Laura. I charged off toward the set.
 "PENDLETON!!" I saw him halfway between craft service and the set. He was working some extra girl, pushing her around-- "here, honey, this way--" trying to exert some authority to compensate for lack of personality.
 "Pendleton-- what did you say to her?!" I got in his face. "You got no business messing with her head like that. You want to fuck around, pick on somebody your own size!"
 I offered myself up for the occasion. He got defensive, knowing I was right. I was ready to throw down, right then and there, though it would have been in poor judgment. I knew he would never accept.
 "What are you talking about? I didn't say anything to her, except she has to be ready when we need her. I don't know what you're raging on, but you better slow down!"
 By now a crowd was beginning to take notice. I gave him one of my best steely glares to let him know I meant business, before finally relenting. He knew I didn't like him, this was just the occasion to make it formal.
 From then on, Pendleton minded his p's and q's, knowing I could be just around the corner. It was difficult with Laura right there, all day long, not being able to reach out and touch her. Now we had to be especially clandestine, with the whole cast and crew watching.
 Pendleton wasn't the last of our problems, only the most obvious. There was also the producer, who was Laura's "friend," and got her the job on the picture. They met in Texas, when he was there doing a picture. He told her "come out to California, I'll help you get work in the movies!" and she did.
 He helped her get in SAG, and got her the job on the picture. Of course, she never submitted to his suggestive advances, and then I came into the picture. It seemed like pedophillia anyway, Laura being so young, and this man had a daughter who was fourteen going on thirty anyway. The funniest part was, when the show wrapped and he finally accepted that he couldn't get Laura as his spring-winter girlfriend, he wound up using her as the babysitter for his promiscuous daughter.

*****

 Grace finally ended, to everyone's relief. Many may have wished that it had never happened, but I can't say that. I got a new girlfriend, a new apartment to share with her, and new occupational security with complete health and welfare package, to name a few. My wage and income doubled immediately, and, oh yeah, I bought a new car.
 I felt like some kind of lottery winner. Not the high-dollar jackpot Lotto kind, more like the ones on the back of a cereal box or candy wrapper-- "You've won... A life in Hollywood! You'll live in luxurious Marina Del Rey! You'll visit the studios on a daily basis! You'll have a beautiful blonde girlfriend! And... A NEW CAR!!"
 It was all rather surreal. One moment, my life is in complete disarray, I'm a vagabond ragamuffin running loose around Venice. The next-- I have a seal-a-meal package deal for a studio future with all the trimmings.
 Certainly I was not the first to be so moved by feeling, and acted on the impulse of love. With Laura by my side I was not alone. Together we were blinded by the rose-colored glasses, and this was not necessarily a bad thing.
 Relationships are not easy in the film industry, because of complications ensuing from the demanding scheduling requirements. Most all in the community will agree with this, and everyone knows it requires special consideration, as any profession that separates social or life-partners for inordinate periods of time. Fortunately Laura and I had met on a film, and she could relate, since she had experienced it for herself.
 It wasn't long before we hit one of those uneasy periods. We were co-habitating, and I had taken her under my wing. With this, I soon began to feel that my own wings had been clipped.
 With Grace finished shooting, Laura began to find her place as a new kid in the big city. Work resumed for me rather steadily while my union stature took effect. For her, it ended abruptly with no place to turn.
 Her producer-friend kept her at bay watching his daughter after school while he worked late hours post-producing Grace. It would be a while before he would have another picture to shoot, and then he "might" have another job for Laura. In the interim, she was just sort of in limbo.
 "What are you going to do if he doesn't get you a job?" Anticipating the worst was always my strong point.
 "I don't know, get a job somewhere else."
 "Doing what?"
 "What I came here to do-- act."
 Oh God. I could see this coming on a mile away. She put herself through school on drama scholarships, this was what she came here to do, she was going to do it at any cost. Hence the phrase, "starving actor," or "waitress." Throw a stick, you'll hit six of them.
 "Eventually, you'll have to do something else. Until you get established." You have to be careful speaking to actors when directing them, I had learned early on. I was no neophyte to the business anymore. Hell, next to Laura, I felt like a veteran.
 I just couldn't stand her moping around the couch watching TV all day while I worked, and then her being indignant about finding a job. I could hardly blame her, seeing the kinds of work available in Hollywood.
 After witnessing what Amanda went through as a waitress, I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Being a stand-in or an extra was no alternative; it led to more of the same. Monica was living proof of that, and she made sure Laura knew it. Somehow she was her second chance. It all made me wonder what being an electrician had done for me.
 Eventually, Laura caved and began looking for a job. She had to, when she realized what the cost of living in So Cal amounts to. Steve-O happened to be dating a girl that worked at one of the studios in the Human Resources department, and offered to set up an interview.
 That's how Laura got her start in the entertainment business. She knew a producer, she knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a girl... I think that's how everyone gets their start, if they are not heir to some legacy, or born into a long descendancy of studio technicians or craftspeople. Now Laura could start her lineage on the path of the studio business.
 So goes the saying "you have to know somebody," which although intimidating and prohibitive, really does have quite a bit of truth to it. Perhaps it should be more accurately rephrased-- "you'll have to meet somebody," because while you may not know someone now who can get you started in the business, you will eventually have to.
 There are plenty of opportunities for capable people who are willing to make sacrifices. It amounts to whether or not you are willing to make the sacrifices. My lifestyle as a studio technician had become quite comfortable of late; I wondered how much I was willing to sacrifice anymore.

*****

 So I find myself back at 90210 for their (gasp) sixth season. I have come to love the Walsh family, and liked being a guest in the Walsh house. Especially the living room-- the couch was really comfortable, I had fallen asleep there many a lunchtime back in the second season. And those big, comfy, end chairs. I get sleepy just thinking about it. 
 The events that landed me back here were ironic, indeed. On the surface it seemed the obvious connection that Rick Martinez had been working there for five years, and my recent introduction to the union would be accountable. But no, there were really sublime unpredictable forces at work, forces that would make me endure countless hours of rhetoric and self-inquiry into the very matters that brought me here in the first place.
 It was the second show of the new season, and we had been back to work for about two weeks now. I was getting acclimated to the daily grind, working twelve or so hours a day. We had come to expect less hours and lighter workloads in the Beverly Hills zip code. That's the way it is in television. It's not the chills and thrills of high-budget studio movies, but a lot less sweat and grime as well.
 Home to the Beverly Hills show was still a group of warehouses in Van Nuys. The protocol for set lighting had changed much, though; now this was a union show. No more grunting slouches bathed in perspiration-- we now took pride in facilitating the routine with moderate effort, at an everyday workday pace, without the novice frenetics. Still, some days we'd get hammered with surprises, and peeled in the process.
 Such were the breaks, but it was mostly sweet. At one point, Rick and I even considered wearing white collared shirts to work. We fancied bringing back the old days, like you'd see in black and white photos, when the director carried a megaphone and all the men wore hats.
 This episode's director didn't carry a megaphone. He carried something much larger, and much louder, that spoke to anyone of my generation with booming clarity. What did it say? "POTSY." That's right, Potsy. It was Potsy Weber, from Happy Days!!
 I didn't place him until late yesterday, and I remembered Rick mentioning Anson Williams was a director earlier on. I couldn't believe it when I saw him. He was wearing a loud, tie-dyed Rolling Stones shirt and had his tortoise-shell glasses on a string, like your grandma or schoolteacher would. His hair was peppered with gray, and his face spoke of a few more years than when he hung out at Alfred's, but underneath it all, he was still Potsy.
 I guess he'll always be Potsy to me. Now, that's not such a bad thing, I mean, because, as I found out, Potsy's a nice guy. And, as I gathered, he's led a pretty interesting life, and was in a pretty good racket now. Is all this worth being labeled Potsy for the rest of your life? I guess that's a question you'll have to ask him.
 We had a pretty light schedule that day; we were only shooting six pages. A few less scenes than we had done the day before. Hopefully we would get out a little earlier. Anson was a good director, because he was fast. That's the way it is in television; good means fast. It means you can get a lot of coverage in a small amount of time. Producers liked that.
 I liked watching him work with the actors. He knew their position, from so many years in the business as a young actor, sidekick to the righteous Richie Cunningham. Of course, Richie's now the acclaimed Hollywood director who brought us Splash, Cocoon, Backdraft, and Apollo 13, to name a few. You've come a long way from Mayberry, Opie. So: Richie is directing blockbuster hits, Potsy is directing TV, The Fonz is also directing movies (Cop and a Half,...) but still looking for a big hit (maybe you should go to Richie for advice this time), and ... Oh, yeah-- didn't I see that Ralph Malph guy doing one of those paid programs in the middle of the night?
 Our first location for the day was the restaurant at the Marriot Hotel in Woodland Hills. We were set up for the shot, and were waiting on one of the show's main characters, as was often the case. 
 I had one of my colleagues cover my absence, and returned to my tuna-pesto in tossed greens salad at the bar. There she was getting primped, with makeup and wardrobe set-up at the bar area, sitting beside my waiting lunch. I straddled up to it and resumed munching vigorously. From my peripheral vision I could see I was being enviously watched.
 The assistant director appeared around the corner, flustered with the normal urgency that goes with being an AD.
 "Tiff, they're ready for you! C'mon honey!"
 She cajoled her with coddling like they always do. Tiff put on her finishing touches, got out of her chair, and threw one last look at my food. She turned to the makeup guy and said:
 "They have a great vegetarian chili here. Order me one. Bill it to the production." Then she walked over to the set.
 I chuckled to myself, knowing she was always dieting. That must be tough-- knowing you could have anything you want, but not being able to have it, even though you could... Poor girl. I could feel the transparent screens between us, the working class, and them, the elite Hollywood set. Within the fishbowl of the show, they were the big fish. They could order a bowl of chili, and bill it to production. They could hold up the show to satisfy a whim-- didn't like their hair, their wardrobe, the script-- or, they just don't feel like doing it. They were the princes and princesses of this world, and we, well, we were merely landowners subject to their taxation.
 Never before was there a more feudal system. The whole business was medieval, with king's ransoms being paid to produce machines to torture the masses, and bleed them of their petty cash. We at 90210 lived in a little subset of the business, like Fantasyland or Frontierland, only this was Spellingland. We made free things for your home, paid for by sponsors. Little trinkets of free entertainment-- the stuff in between the commercials.
 Fortunately, lunch came quickly, and I had already eaten, so I took this opportunity to escape the tedium of the Dark Ages. Walking about outside the shopping mall, one of the guys from the set suggested we go in.
 Once inside, Daryl beckoned me towards the pub across mall. "I'm gonna get me a beer!" he said in his country best. I wasn't much of a drinker, so I told him no. We still had half a day to shoot, and while a quick pop at lunch might make some guys day, it would only ruin mine. I had decided to go shopping instead.
 So I took a walk through the mall, and I thought about it. There I was working for the guy who spawned the shows that I grew up with, like Charlie's Angels, Starsky & Hutch, The Love Boat and Fantasy Island. I was inside the Spelling Empire. Even better than that-- I was on the show that hit closest to home-- the one that featured his daughter. I was witnessing how the other half lived.
 I spied in the distance a sunglass shop just around the way. Perfect. I needed a new pair of shades for work, the ones I had were pretty banged up. So in my consumer delirium I lumbered forward into the tiny store. I looked down at the countless pairs of multicolored lenses and looked up, and there he was beside me trying on glasses himself; good old Potsy Weber. He was there with the first assistant director, Carol, who smiles when she sees me.
 I thought to myself, this is weird. If we were on set, they wouldn't even acknowledge my presence. My first instinct was to ease my way out of the store, but I fought that off. So I looked at more sunglasses. They all looked the same to me. Uninteresting. Then Carol turns to me wearing some funky multi-colored mirror glasses.
 "What do you think of these?"
 "Ungh-ungh" I nod, in the negative. Anson grimaces. He recognizes me from the set.
 "Maybe those silver ones," he says, and she tries them on.
 "Better," I say.
 "Yeah, I like these," she says. "A hundred and ten bucks. What's a hundred and ten bucks?" DGA minimum is pretty good these days. A lot more than I make. That's lunch money to her.
 "Hey, what about those?" Anson says from downstream counterside. The clerk is there showing them to him. He puts on the tortoise Wayfarers and stops to figure as he consults the mirror. Carol is busy sorting payment on the other end. 
 Pots looks to me.
 "What do you think?" he asks earnestly. I stop for a second look.
 "I like them."
 "You don't think they're too-- nerdy?"
 As long as you don't have a pocket-pal, you should be okay. I couldn't say it, but they did look good.
 "They're smart." I offered. "It's cool to look smart."
 "They are pretty cool." Now he was starting to like them. It's funny how you can talk yourself into something. Then he looked at the price.
 "Seventy bucks? That's great for seventy bucks."
 He found a bargain. Everybody loves a bargain. Potsy loves a bargain. So they both found great new shades, but I decided to pass. I thrash glasses on a daily basis at work, so I figured I'd stick with my existing ten dollar specials-- they always worked fine for me. It was getting late now, and I was hoping we could get a move on. "Are we back yet?" I queried to Carol, in a way that made it sound like I was saying "am I late yet?"
 "Don't worry about it-- you're with us," she said, intoning diplomatic immunity. For a moment I felt what it was like to be on the other side. I could be a spoiled child, hold up the group, and fulfill my most trivial whims. That's the way it's done in Hollywood. The bigger the star you are, the bigger the pain in the ass you can be and get away with it. It was all part of the power-play.
 That works fine, if you're Jim Carey, and your salary is half the budget of a forty-million dollar movie. Watch how fast Jim gets what he needs when he asks. When you're that big, people are falling all over you wherever you turn-- you don't have to be rude to get what you want.
 It's when they don't get the attention they want that talent can be trouble. It's no secret that actors must be treated like children, told they are wonderful, the whole world loves them, and here, let me get you what you want.
 I remember one actor on an NBC episodic drama, a New York knucklehead who would daily throw tantrums because he thought he was some huge star. He rallied an AD, "Jeff, why can't I get a hot chocolate brought to set when I ask for it? For God's sake, I'm the friggin' star of the TV show, and I got to leave the set to go make my own hot chocolate? What happens when NBC calls, and asks why the show is over-budget, you gonna tell 'em it's because I got to walk off set in the middle of shooting to make a hot chocolate?"
 The truth was, nobody cared. The AD was too busy off getting stoned in the bushes to get you your fucking hot chocolate. The craft service table was ten feet away--
get it your self, you dumb orangutan, and get back on your mark and try to remember your fucking lines!
 That's what should have been said. Instead, it's "Okay, I'll get your hot chocolate Bob!" and the AD climbs out of the bushes red-eyed, dumps the packet in the cup and adds the water while the actor stands there waiting to take the cup, watching him the whole time. Then they stand there together while the actor drinks the hot chocolate, apologizes for having to make a scene like that, but he is the star, and shouldn't he be able to get a hot chocolate brought to set?
 I got in the van to the set with Carol and Anson. Prominence has it's privileges, and I was with the right group. We all talked a little more, and I got the sense that life after TV could be pretty nice. It was for the Happy Days crowd, they all came out on top. It wasn't so bad for Rick Martinez and the 90210 bunch either, and I was glad to be a welcome part of this happy little television family I had returned to.
 No, this union business wasn't such a bad deal. It was nice to finally have some representation and make a decent wage, compared to the abuse I was used to withstanding while trying to make a living. I felt I had earned this, and when it came to paying dues, I had done so two-fold.
 I got out of the van at the location, and of course nobody cared that I was late. I jumped in with my electric brothers and soon we were wrapping it up and moving to our second location, a house in Van Nuys. Another day in Hollywood.
 A few hours later at work and the tedium began to gnaw at me. Set-up for the master, do the close-ups, turnaround. Watching Tori slither around in skintight pants could only sustain me so long. I had already exhausted my reading material on the sidelines. One more race-car story from the cast, or a fishing or boating story from the crew, and I would bust. Fortunately, my tenure here would soon expire, and I would be off to some other set in Hollywood to satisfy my attention-defecit work disorder.

*****