12: NYPD

 Sex sells is a proven formula, and you don't have to look far to find it. I discovered that working on the product can have an adverse effect. When I spent all day on The Comet, I would come home dirty and hit with comet steam. When you work on a western, you come home dusty and chapped. When you work on a porno, well-- sex definitely does have a smell, and it lingers. Especially with an accumulating number of acts and participants.
 All you really want to do when you get home is wash the stench off, so you tear off your clothes and jump in the shower and then are furthermore reminded of where you just were. The last thing you want is to hop in bed with your girlfriend. It's an icky feeling-- I guess that's why they call them dirty movies.
 Fortunately for me, I didn't even see Laura that evening. She was out late with her group, and they went partying after rehearsal. I went to bed early, and she never even questioned what it was I was working on. I might have told her if she had asked, but she was too preoccupied to take interest.
 The following day started the work week, so she went out like a streak in her usual morning rush. I was confident some job would surface for me soon. I still felt taxed from the months of Deep Impact, so my leisure time was hard to eschew. Any day now I'd find a new groove.
 My whole future in the studios seemed out on a limb. I thought about Laura and myself, our plans for the future. She wanted to marry and have kids, and succeed as an actress. I didn't know how to tell her that those choices seemed mutually exclusive. Marriages in and around showbusiness are difficult to maintain and frequently short-term. It can be done, but sacrifices have to be made.
 Children and the entertainment business don't mix; it's clearly no place for kids. Craig from Venice was a perfect example, and his folks were both successful actors. The parents have to make time for the kids, when they don't even have any time for themselves. It's a long shot that a marriage will even last long enough to see the children grow up. Showbiz can be brutal on relationships, with way of keeping people apart, and compromising situations. I thought Laura would realize soon enough.
 If we fall short of our dreams? She, working in the studio business could rise to the executive level. Me, as a rigging gaffer working the shows. I had a hard time imagining it, our children growing up studio brats like so many I had come across. Certainly a good life; I just didn't know if it was for me and I didn't think that I could live in Hollywood forever. I had too much time on my hands now to think about it.
 Then, the calls started dripping in. Don Purnell rang, he invited me to day-play on NYPD Blue. I was glad to accept. I had never worked on the Fox lot, and I could use another TV show for repeat visitation. One proven formula I came to rely on is, work begets work.
 The Fox lot was fun. The soundstages were painted with giant murals depicting movie or television scenes of characters that had done Fox proud. There were Henry Fonda and Marilyn Monroe, larger than life, boasting film history. Turn around and there's Luke Skywalker fighting Darth Vader, then there's The Simpsons mural, with the Fox Plaza skyscraper in the background. You might recognize that building, made famous and saved from destruction by Bruce Willis in Diehard.
 I went to the gold room on Stage 9 to look for Don. It was small and lived-in. There was a couch, television, computer, phone, and a desk. It looked like the dorm of a high-school senior-- all the amenities, with a few crushed beer cans along the walls. I had become accustomed to these type of arrangements. So much of my life lately was spent checking in to these small studio enclosures or sharing living space with other electricians on a forty-foot truck full of lighting equipment.
 No one was there yet, so I made myself comfortable. It was hard though, I felt out of place on the stage that was foreign to me. I roamed the perimeter, thinking I might scare up a cup of coffee. Sure enough, finding craft services led me not just to coffee but to a cappuccino machine!
 If coffee makes the world go 'round, then cappuccinos are like gold. In the film business they are in demand, to fuel an already hectic schedule. Having a cappuccino, or access to cappuccinos, is the easiest way to make friends. Having free-flowing cappuccinos with someone courteous and happy to make them for you, as you might find on the bigger shows, is like living in the city of ElDorado. The streets are paved with gold; everyone is rich and happy!
 A cappuccino machine by itself on the other hand, can be deceitful. Spinning a delectable cappy is an art unto itself; every artist has his method, and every mechanic his machine. Under the right circumstances, I have been known to deliver a delicious capo-- but the likes of this prosumer barrista I had never met.
 I eyed the beast curiously. Mid-size, with a steamer and locking filter. Nothing I had never seen before. Maybe a step-up from the one I had at home. I was a technician, I thought I could manage, so I grabbed the handle.
 No sooner than I had touched the coffee dispenser did I have someone yelling at my back.
 "Hey-- hey-- you can't touch that! Nobody touches that! I'm the only guy that makes cappuccinos around here!" He said it pushy, with a thick New York flavor. I felt like he pulled the thing out of my hand, though he never touched me.
 I turned to surrender the items to him and was surprised to find he was dressed as a New York City cop. I shouldn't have been so surprised, it being NYPD Blue and all, but I was disoriented and it was early. Here I was getting harassed by the cops for trying to make a cappuccino.
 "Sorry, dude-- it's my first day here. I was just trying to get a cup of coffee." I was caught a little off guard-- I mean, back off, dude, it's just a coffee!
 "Hey, no problem-- if you want, I'll make you one." I think he felt a little bad for jumping all over me.
 "Really? That would be great, man, I'd love one." Maybe this would work out after all.
 "Hey, I didn't mean that, it's just that this is the script supervisor's cappuccino machine, and she doesn't want it to get broken with everybody using it. Since I used to work at Starbucks, I'm the only one that she lets use this machine. How do you want this?"
 "Oh, just a regular capo-- you can put some of that flavored syrup in it-- yeah, vanilla. And lowfat milk is cool. Thanks."  Whatever you say, dude. As I waited, I grew more intrigued by this coffee police bully. I inquired of him as he professionally fixed my coffee beverage.
 "I'm trying to understand," I said, "do you do craft service here, or are you an actor?"
 "No, I just have a small walk-on part of the show. And I work as a stand-in-- I just do this as a favor for the script supervisor, and everybody who wants cappuccinos."
 "Oh, great." I didn't really understand his deal, but my capo was nearing readiness. I did understand that this guy knew how to make friends and now he had a part on a television show, however big it was (not very).
 I took my drink and moved on back to the electrician's gold room, to see if Don had arrived. We were almost on the clock. Getting there, I was surprised to see, of all people, Larz Montague sitting on the couch.
 "No way!!" I exclaimed out loud upon seeing him.
 "Jack? Wow, I can't believe it!" was his reply.
  I remembered working with Larz on several occasions. We never really hung out socially, but always ran into each other from time to time. Most memorable, I guess, was the fact that I was the best boy on Larz's first movie, and met him when he was fresh. "New guy" syndrome was only experienced once, and the guys who break you in will never let you forget it. Larz was through the rabbit hole now; he was no stranger to Wonderland anymore.
 It was a while ago that I met Larz, on the same film that I met Amanda on. Then Larz was a fresh-faced kid right out of film school. Greener than a Washington apple, he was smart and a quick learner, so I liked him and took the time to teach him.
 I would periodically bump into him over the last five years, and I knew his wife Diane as well. I remembered when they were dating. I remembered when they were engaged. And now she was nine months pregnant and expecting!
 Larz Montague was having a baby; I couldn't believe it. I should have felt old, but I didn't. I felt like time was passing me by. Larz was aging, becoming a man-- a daddy, no less, and I was still working on keeping a girlfriend.
 Not only that, but he was signing a contract to be represented by a production company as a DP/Director. He had shot some spec-commercial spots for a reel, and his friend knew some busy company that was looking to take on a new director. Right time, right place-- I was happy for Larz, it couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Perfect timing-- now he had a baby to feed.
 We talked about responsibility and what it was all about. Larz had a straightforward "go for it" attitude, and a little bit of smarts. You can take that a long way.
 Commercials. They were the most sought after types of jobs you could get. Why? The money, of course-- they paid overscale. Almost double the union rate than that for features. The overtime accrued sometimes ran into astronomical denominations, so you can see why everyone wanted to do them.
 Except me. Oh, I couldn't say no when they came around-- the money was too good. That'd be like looking a gift horse in the mouth (whatever that means-- probably to check their teeth). But I didn't pine for them like everyone else ("ooohh-- commercials!" and the inevitably oft-uttered backlash: "I don't have to put up with this bull$%!# everyday-- I'll go do commercials!").
 I had occasion to do a spot for the Discover Card that same week. I was quickly reminded of my disdain for them upon arrival. Comercials were like high-budgeted music videos that very un-hip people were in charge of. Those were the "agency people," the people who paid for the commercial (they hired the production company who hired us). We, the crew, often treated them with contempt, yet we had to play nice with them-- they were picking up the check.
 This particular slew of nerds were in from Chicago, where the agency and spot originated. I detested their kind and I knew these would be no exception. They were tourists on a work vacation in Los Angeles, where moviemaking was an everyday thing. All of their whims were catered to despite their lack of knowledge. They were idiot kings and we were their subjects.
 Of course, when lunch came around, I wound up sitting in the midst of them. By circumstance, not choice; I was late and all the other seats were taken. I kept my head down in my food as I couldn't help listening to their conversations. They were so boring it was almost interesting.
 One story went on about entertaining clients, at a "gentlemen's club" (read: strip joint) in Chicago. It was a small client from Wooster, Ohio. They turned this guy on to lap dances, and table dances, and he went nuts for them at twenty bucks a pop all night long.
 "Lap dances? How do you write that off on an expense account?" one guy asked.
 "Laptop expense," another woman said. She must have been in accounting.
 The guy went on to tell how the client loved the company, and couldn't wait to do business with them. Only problem was, the bill for the evening got back to the client's home office (they eventually had to pick up the tab). They decided they couldn't afford such a high-priced Chicago agency after all.
 I thought about Larz, how he would be kissing their asses and how easy it would be for him. He would handle it great, it would roll right off his back. Not me though. Everything would be a confrontation. Principle would be too important. I thought about it as I labored on the Discover spot and got furious with the production's audacity.
 It was late in the day, the martini shot of a sunset on the beach. The director wanted passerby's to skate and bike through the shot at the last minute. They found a transient man, who had his belongings all strapped to his bicycle, including his dog that rested in a basket on the handlebars. It was really a marvelous rig and quite a sight. They held him on the side until they affirmed that the director wanted to use the man in picture. They were going to pay him in cash for what they said would be half an hour of work.
 I went over to the man. He was very nice and well spoken, and his dog was gentle. He introduced himself thinking I was someone important, and he was nervous. I put him at ease by asking if I could pet his dog. I wanted to be near this guy to help protect him from these sharks, to warn him if I must.
 "Dude, make sure that they give you at least like, a hundred bucks. They pay people good money for this, so don't let them take advantage of you," I said in some confidence.
 He nodded and understood. He was no dummy, he lived on the street in Los Angeles. Then the production confirmed that they wanted to use him.
 The AD shouted across the set to a nearby PA, "Ask our friend if he'll do it, tell him we'll pay him ten dollars in cash for a half of an hour's work."
 My face dropped. "Ten dollars?" I said loud with disgust, so everyone around me could hear. The transient man even laughed like it was insulting. I made a big fuss over how cheap they were, and the audacity they had to be so cheap. It was really amazing. The funniest thing was, here's this homeless guy considering doing it, and he's more concerned about the professional actors that he's taking work away from than he is with himself making money.
 Production companies get away with things like that in the movie business-- taking advantage of a situation. That's how they operate, with knife in hand. Sure the man got ten dollars easy money for ten minutes work, but he was paid way below scale for what others were being paid overscale for. And he and his dog could use the money more than anyone.
 That was another insidious thing about commercials; the rate. They were paying commercial scale so they expected everything to happen fast, despite their poor preparation and unprecedented change. No matter what it was, you just do it. I didn't like that feeling of being bought. The dignity was missing, and the professionalism I had spent years cultivating went out the window. But lately the movies I found were less organized, and at least here I was making the commercial rate.
 I made it home shortly after nightfall by electing to pass on having drinks with the crew. After wrap the director went around to everyone and thanked them, and invited them for drinks. That's always a nice gesture and this woman was sincere. I was anxious to return to my other life, though, and felt a little guilty about making a scene with the homeless man.
 Laura wasn't home yet, she was working overtime at her new position. The house was always quieter until later in the evening. I missed her more and more. I wondered about the change of stations we were going through. Would they affect us, dramatically, like it did for Amanda and I? Or would we manage to persevere through the rough times until we found a plateau to rest upon? Only time could tell.
 Who knows what kind of effect working at the studios would have on her? Look at the people she was surrounded by-- mostly shallow, self-serving, obnoxious executives with but a few exceptions. Beside them were their assistants, the victims of their venting. They bottle it all up so that when they later get promoted they can unleash it on the next crop of hopefuls. So the cycle continues, the inept promoting the incompetent so that chaos runs amok.
 I hoped I was wrong, that Laura's friends were the exceptions, the ones who would upset the existing principles in the studio system. There was a new era of thinking upon us, and we needed new vanguard mavericks to bring us into the future and cease perpetuating the old ways. Of course I would soon be proven premature in my thinking and staunch fundamentalism would prevail, with Titanic sweeping the Academy Awards that year.
 How could anything compare to a mega-million dollar epic like Titanic? James Cameron was typical of the hypocrisy that was the order of the day. He openly condemned the unions, blaming them for inflating budgets and runaway production costs. He should be making comedies, for fostering a notion so preposterous and proclaiming it publicly in a trade journal. That's a presumptuous statement from the man who made the most expensive film in history to date, and he made it non-union in Mexico!!
 The screenplay for Titanic was a showcase for ludicrosity. No wonder it did not get nominated for a best screenplay award. The script had so many holes in it, I'm surprised it did not sink before the film ever set sail.
 With such wonderful art direction, cinematography, and all such crafts on such an elaborate budget, how could it be surpassed for best picture? Kudos to all the fine laborers and footsoldiers who put together the pieces of such a monstorous marvel of a behemoth. But what about the story and script?
 A travesty of truth at the very least. A mockery of the dead, at best. I feel for all the victims who lost their lives on that fateful night, that this should be the epitaph to mark their grave. Thank goodness James Cameron didn't get the rights to Schindler's List.
 Laura explained the story of the deal to me after I cooled off, because I was so upset after having to sit through the whole thing. I wanted to leave after it turned into a James Bond movie when the villain, the rich fiancee, chased through the flood after the hero and the girl. He was shooting at them and trying to kill them, despite the fact that they were on a sinking ship and all pretty well doomed to die. My intelligence could only take so much insult; I had an education in screenwriting from NYU, and understood that the average viewer didn't. Mr. Cameron himself admitted to Howard Stern that he got his film education in copy fees from the UCLA Library. I guess you get what you pay for; I blamed myself for being subjected to his nominal education in this more than two-hundred-million dollar, three-and-a-half-hour essay. Then I looked at the figures this movie generated in revenue, certain to exceed the all-time high earnings ever. No doubt he got the last laugh there.
 As Laura explained it, Cameron didn't make a dime from the movie. He was so overbudget he had to sell all his interest in the film in order to finish it. That's what he says to the camera. Either way, it didn't really matter; I just felt discouraged that the American public bought so heavily into such a shoddy design, and let it go uncontested. To see him walk with an Oscar was the ultimate crime of the century.
 I could see that movies weren't about integrity, they were about box-office returns; we all know that. Maybe that was the critical factor to their current state of demise. Thank goodness for companies like Miramax, who weren't afraid to take chances, and studios like Fox, who could see profit potential without being marred by presumptuous values.
 Fox was on fire that year, and they were proud, boasting about it all over the lot. Why shouldn't they? If you're playing on a winning team, you want to fly your colors high and hear the marching band loud. There were times that weren't so promising, like back in the sixties after the big-budgeted flop Cleopatra. Then they had to sell off half their studio land to a development corporation to recoup costs. Erected on the former backlot was the contemporary skyscraper building plaza known as Century City, which Fox quickly put to good use; it was used as the futuristic city backdrop in the low-budget fourth-generation sequel Conquest of the Planet of the Apes. It is still bustling and now famous for it's sprawling galleria shopping plaza.
 I liked Fox because they were irreverent and self-depreciating; how could they not be, with shows like Cops, and Fox Files: When Buildings Collapse, or When Animals Attack. They would show anything, as long as there was a public there to watch it. They weren't afraid to show the truth. I remember when Married With Children first appeared, when Fox presented the truest caricature of the American household since All In The Family. Then it all crystallized in my mind: the problem with movies wasn't the writers and directors, it was the audience! There they were, right in front of me, in front of their television sets, and in the cineplex seat right next to me the whole time!
 I felt ignorant and kind of silly having made the journey all the way to Hollywood to find this out. I was jaded, having had childish dreams that were more egocentric than noble. I took a good hard look at the Hollywood gentry that lauded their vanity versus the professionals that practiced their craft, for whatever reason or inspiration that drove them to persist unceasingly. And I found, more often than not, it was the love of life and the family that kept them there.
 The most common denominator was putting bread on the table to feed the family. That was, after all, what became the real reason we were all there every morning. That was why the producer was fielding calls in the office all day, and that was why Johnny was rigging next to me.
 Suddenly it didn't all seem so fantastic. Flashing back to my impression as a kid, of wondrous movies like Jaws and Star Wars, now all the mystery was taken out of it. I could recognize them as just jobs.
 I questioned if I even wanted to make a movie anymore. I wondered if I ever really did want to, and why. The idea of spending what seemed like a lifetime concocting two hours of fakeness didn't seem so appealing any more. There had to be more merit to it, I knew there was, but I was so bogged down in the mire I couldn't see it. I needed to get away; the glare of tinseltown had finally struck me blind.

*****

 I have been taken to many diverse locations as part of my job requirement; stadiums, prisons, museums, airports, you name it. The list is as long as it is varied and wide. Some places are more memorable than others, like Edwards' Air Force Base, the NASA installation that is home to numerous historical aircraft such as the F-41 Blackbird. I recognized it as the Cocoa Beach NASA on I Dream of Jeannie, you know, with the scale-size jets-in-flight on pedestals in front (oh yeah..!).
 At The Ambassador Hotel, in the once-great Wilshire district, you can feel the post-wartime forties and fifties era oozing in the decaying deco detail trying to stay alive. The place is closed to the public, but often open to production companies. There's sometimes three or more films shooting there at a time. The Coconut Grove nightclub is on the site, which  back in the day was the place for stars and VIP's. It's also the location where RFK got shot-- if you can get back into the kitchen, you can still see the dink that the bullet made. Of course, that's the lore and part of the charm and history of the place, as is so often the case.
 The Hollywood Forever Cemetery is another landmark that has been around since before the turn of the twentieth century. It is the final resting place to some of the areas most influential early settlers, as well as studio biggies and early stars of the silver screen. This sacred parcel of land is centrally located in Hollywood, closely equal in size and adjacent to Paramount Studios. It is open to the public, and though there are no stars on the tombstones, you can get a map at the entrance which shows where some eighty occupants of notoriety are laying in eternal rest.
 The place had fallen into much decay, since it had seen better days in the past when business was better, and real estate was now so limited. Like so much of historic Hollywood, this place echoed of grander times, the heyday, but now was left to ruin. The management company was doing what they could to eradicate the disrepair, repaving streets and such, but one couldn't imagine there was much of an inflow of revenue here.
 "I wonder who pays the property taxes on this place?" asked our driver, as he lowered the gate, opening the box on our forty-foot trailer. This was a mid-season replacement show one of the networks was producing to fill the slot for a short-lived series gone bad. Who knew what would become of this "Providence" TV show? It could go the way of it's predecessor and never truly find it's way to flight, or possibly be like 90210 and soar to seasons of success and even syndication.
 Whatever. Either way, it was a nice place to work. I had recently met the electric crew through a friend and they were funny guys. They kept a regular spot for me day-playing a few days a week, and it seemed to fill the hole that was there now that Rick had finally broken away from the 90210 grind.
 The driver's question was a good one-- "I guess we do," I replied. No one seemed to mind having a movie company on the property. I guess, sure, most of the people there were already dead and they wouldn't mind. There were no funerals going on, okay, but-- there didn't seem to be any mourners or visitors of the graves other than-- tourists. Casually walking along, they were  referring to their maps to establish the locations of the final resting places of some of Hollywood's greats. Men such as John Houston, Cecil B. DeMille, Peter Lorre, and Mel Blanc (the looney tunes man of 1000 voices, his modestly sized tombstone reads "t-t-t-that's all, folks!"). Besides these few I know, are hundreds more who did tremendous things to further Los Angeles; real estate magnates, oil tycoons, silent screen stars, veterans and statesmen alike.
 Across from our set stood a lone open-air type of crypt that belonged to (or rather, he belonged to it) Douglas Fairbanks. Nearby, Rudolph Valentino was encrypted in a mausoleum on the property. There was something sad and alone about these great names now, that did not carry with them the regal grandeur they once held. I wondered where their families were and if they cared, ever came to visit or even existed. If they did, what would they think of this movie company here making their forgettable little television show, dragging cables across the graves of their loved ones. Striking lights in the darkness of their eternal peace, disturbing them and kicking dirt across their headstones so they can "get the shot."
 But the real question on everybody's mind was, "What the hell are we doing here, in the middle of a graveyard, in the middle of the night in Hollywood on Friday the 13th?!"
 Everyone was asking themselves, and asking each other, "How come we couldn't do this on stage? Put out some sod, a couple of fake headstones-- they do it on "Buffy" all the time!"
 I had recently been working on "Buffy the Weekend Slayer," as it was known to those who worked on it. The days went long there, and Thursday and Friday consisted of all-night shoots. Sleep all day Saturday then ou were due back at work at 7A.M. Monday, so-- you get the picture. It was like 90210 on the mouth of a hell-hole; back to high school for another semester, new teeny-bopper heartthrobs, only this time Lucifer is the principal. With an average seventy-plus hour week, it's not the kind of place you missed when you got away from it unless you're a money-hungry vampire, which in Hollywood there are plenty. They wouldn't have any trouble filling my spot. Fortunately for me I had other opportunities to make rent.
 I received a referral call offering me a job as rigging gaffer for some Sandra Bullock film that was shooting in town for a few weeks. I was certainly skilled enough for the promotion, I just wasn't so sure I wanted to take on the responsibility. After Deep Impact, I felt I could handle any rig in town. But now I would be answering to a production manager for budgeting rigs and cost accountability, and taking on the liability for those working beside me. It added a whole new dimension; plus, there was no Thorpe to make the executive decisions and take the big hits.
 Problem for me was, I was running out of people to work for. Sure, Rick and a few others would always have a job for me, but, what if I don't like their gaffer, and, eventually they'll start to gaff, and then-- well, I could be Rick's rigging gaffer... So, it seemed upward mobility was imminent if you had the slightest capacity for it. I had evaded it long enough.
 Promotion, logically, was inevitable and necessary for survival. You had to be made of steel to do the manual labor through your later years, as were some of the relics you would find on the lots. Counting their days until retirement, they had bent spines to speak for what decades of bending over to pick up hundred-pound  cables could do for the physique. This was what I had to look forward to.
 Even as I did change gears and become a finger-pointer, I was wary of those working around me. I felt lucky with ten years in the business having escaped without a serious injury. Last thing I needed was some butterfingers letting a rope slip, and WHAM!, a 10K lands on your head, and now you're collecting disability for life. I knew guys who were victims.
 This particular production was cursed from day one. As rigging gaffer, I was privy to all the inside gossip on the show's course as it twisted and turned with the tide. Within the first week the best boy who hired me along with the gaffer and first unit lighting crew quit; the director was an idiot, the hours were intolerable-- same story, different set.
  Really? I hadn't noticed. Everything worked out fine for us, the rigs all got done in due process and I refused to let production push me around. That was the beauty of rigging, being on "the dark side" of the camera. You're there the day before and the day after, before the lights are struck and the stars come out-- you get to control your hours and sometimes go home early.
 The rigging crew and I decided to stay on and endure. It was a whole new ball game, and we had the home court advantage; I had done the location scouts, we put in the stage rigs, and production knew us and was counting on us. Can you say "carteblanche?" Being head honcho wasn't so bad after all, if you're in the right company and know your game. I caught on quick.
 "If you need eight guys, hit them with a budget for ten, that way you look like a good guy when you knock two off and you still come out on top..." Fundamental rules for negotiating, in any business I'm sure. But now I'm getting into secret budget meetings with the key rigging grip that precede our meetings with the production manager so we could get our strategies straight, and not get underbudgeted and come out looking stupid and unprepared. It was a rush at first, but now it was all getting a bit screwy.
 I looked to Steve-O and Rick, who I was fortunate to find available, to help me through it all. They enjoyed the job, it's going good, they told me at lunch when I was lucky enough to join them. We could have been on different films for all I knew. I spent most of my time in the production office, getting pulled out on last-minute location scouts or revising the production coordinator's cost analysis'. I would have been much happier pulling cable with them; I questioned how long this could last.
 I viewed my production counterparts with sympathy, for I was aware of the headaches they had. Lack of experience on many levels left them coming up short. I tried to make their lives easier, offering solutions to their problems, but certainly did not want their jobs. Their reliance on me grew to the point where I finally turned off my pager since I got tired of them calling me on off-hours to advise them. I was resting in my home one afternoon following work, when I received a frantic visitor banging on my door-- one of the production assistants from the office.
 "They tried calling, but you weren't answering your pages! They want to speak to you at the production office!" He caught his breath, relieved to have found me.
 I was so stunned, and felt so like my privacy had been invaded. I didn't want to be rude, he was just doing his job, but I didn't feel particularly nice either.
 "Okay..." I said, after I had left the door open long enough that I didn't slam it in his face, which is what I felt like doing.
 I saw that same PA kid at the production office the next day, after I made it clear to the production coordinator that this should never happen again. I eyed him with both contempt and forgiveness, wondering which was registering on my face.
 "That's Harlan, he's a little anxious to please..." It was one of the other production people from the office; I recognized him from my travels, but couldn't quite place what it was he did there.
 "Yeah, I know, he came to see me at my house yesterday. I wasn't the nicest person in the world... I'm Jack, the rigging gaffer. You're... "
 "I'm Pete, I'm a production assistant also. I've seen what you guys are up to-- you've got your hands full. You're doing a great job though, Nancy would be lost without you."
 I eyed him curiously, judging him to be a bit older than the average PA, with a bit more savvy, too. "Thanks. I thought you were a coordinator, or with locations or something. You seem a little overqualified for the position."
 "Nah, I'm just doing this for a while, my wife and I recently had a baby. We just moved in to our new house, and I can't really commit to anything right now."
 "Oh, cool. Congratulations." As I was saying this, Nancy the production coordinator came out from her office.
 "Ah, Jack, I see you've met Pete, our production assistant who's really an executive producer. Good, because Pete's going to be the production liaison for your rig at the burnt-out forest this weekend. You guys should have plenty of time there to get to know one another."
 "Huh?" I didn't really catch all of that, but judging by Pete's wry smile it was more than just an office joke between them. As Pete and I became acquainted, he told me more about it.
 "Yeah, my wife and I just sold a script to Saban. She took the writing credit and I got an executive producer credit, for getting the deal together."
 "Wow, nice!" I thought to myself as red flags fell all around my head. "Saban, huh?" I queried, intoning what I knew. They were the cheapest of the production companies, notorious for their Power Rangers franchise and a reputation for evading unions at any cost.
 "Yeah, I know they're not the best people to work for, but they're making the movie up in Vancouver and me and my wife get an expense-paid trip up there, so..." This was the beginning of a trend that was starting where production companies were "outsourcing" labor to other countries for capitalization on currency exchange rates and foreign-government incentives. It wasn't good for local business, but served Pete's needs; no doubt he was an executive producer.
 The toughest thing about Hollywood is getting your first movie made. Even if it sucks, well, you've done something, and that is worth more than having done nothing in this town. This logic struck me as having holes in it, but made some sense and seemed to be working out for Pete and his wife.  
 We got to be better friends over the weekend, being stuck working on a desolate mountainside and all. I had a large crew and the grips were an even bigger presence, installing movie equipment a mile high on a mountaintop. Three Condors, tons of cable, and very unstable terrain-- not to mention the burnt stumps everywhere. They were the remnants of young trees fallen victim to a vast fire across the hills. It was spooky; sharp extinguished matchsticks protruding from the ground everywhere you looked, with no trace of the trees that they once footed.
 Pete and I spoke as I oversaw the various details of the assignment. I was interested in his screenplay deal, and he shared what the experience was like. He had production contacts and got Tom Arnold attached to it, then sold the thing for a little more than Writer's Guild minimum for a television movie (which could be as low as forty grand, I gathered). He knew the production game pretty well for someone a year or two new to the business, coming out of the stocks trade. It smelled kind of fishy. I had witnessed time and again that a producer needs to know little or nothing about making movies, but he knew too much too soon, and was just a little too lucky.
 Oh, those overnight success stories do happen. One guy who worked with Laura was an office assistant, bottom of the totem pole and just a few months green. At a bar after work one night, he meets a guy and winds up optioning this fellow's screenplay for about the price of the bar tab, or thereabout. In no time he has the interest of one of his bosses in this property and talk starts spreading around the office. Laura kept me informed as it progressed into some kind of betting war. About a week or two later, she came home and announced, "Ben finally settled on a contract. He got a half-million dollar development deal for two years with so-and-so (one of the in-house production companies)."
 It could happen, this was Hollywood, where dreams were made-- only it was making my nightmares come true. Pete and I finally got to the point we were both leading toward; he was as engaged by me all along as I was by him, I could tell. It was a feeling-out for the business arrangement that was to come.
 "I've written some screenplays, but never had the incentive to try to get an agent," I told Pete. "They're such middlemen, and so self-serving-- I couldn't bring myself to pandering."
 "Well, hey-- I know some people, if you want me to take a look at it. Those guys at Saban, they're not the best people to deal with, but if you can get something sold quick..."
 Instinct told me not to, judgment told me to be cautious. I felt like I was walking into a drug deal about to go bad, but, oh, I wanted to score.
 Up until then, my dignity was intact. Maybe I was naive, possibly oblivious if not ignorant, but these defense-mechanisms protected the writer's integrity. Now I was a mile-high (was it the altitude?), making handshake deals to have my script represented. But why not, he was interested and thought he might have a buyer. After all, he was an executive producer and already got one script sold, right?
 Right. The rest of the pieces came into the puzzle before it became clear. We made arrangements to meet the next weekend. I would come by the house and drop off a script.
 I raised an eyebrow when he gave me the Beverly Hills address. Not like I had never been there, I had an aunt and some friends who lived there, upscale as it was. But a PA, supporting a wife and baby in the 90210 zip? Even if you did just sell a script, your first feature even (which yields a much higher ticket than a TV movie), this was quite a chunk to bite off. The most modest house would teeter on the million mark-- no PA rate in the world could support that.
 When I finally did make it to the cozy little cul-de-sac, things came clearly into focus. It made sense that Pete would be in search of his next credit, and if he could be instrumental in making another picture it was certain to net a nice fee. I didn't mind that; I liked Pete, and was comfortable speaking with him. He understood what a writer dealt with, admittedly having co-authored his script with his wife (although he gave her the screen credit for it).
 There was a certain showbiz affiliation Pete was privy to also, I realized that afternoon, as we sat in the backyard of the hillside cottagehouse. His wife was inside nursing the new baby with grandma, and he had just introduced me to his mom's dad.
 "Isn't that...?" I queried of Pete as the man walked away, under my breath, and Pete nodded affirmatively to forego further questioning. "...Didn't he do that picture with...," Pete still nodding, me continuing, "and...?" Meeting with a barrage of sympathetic nods, he understood I had made the connection.
 Now, I'm the last one to ogle Hollywood hoo-hahs, especially in the privacy of their own home, and more importantly when it's your father-in-law who's the hoo-hah. But I was just shaking his hand with my script under my arm, and he was one of the more prominent directors of his day which dusk had settled on only recently.
 No wonder he gave me such a sour greeting. There I was, the neophyte, typeset in hand and smile on my face over for a script meeting with his son-in-law. I had seen some of his movies when I was growing up, the last of which when I was in film school, and hadn't heard much of him since.
 I wondered what his story was. Had he stopped making films, or did he have deals cooking as we spoke? Was he resigned to babysitting now? Filmmakers never stop making films; they die, I thought. He was a true filmmaker, of a generation that preceded mine. If he wasn't making films, maybe he was just waiting to die?
 He didn't seem too happy, this new grandpa, and made me feel that I'd spoiled his mood. He certainly wanted nothing to do with me, the way he immediately disappeared. I knew it was nothing I said, because all I said was "how do you do?" Not so well, these days I guess.
 Pete, on the other hand, was doing really well. Marrying into royalty has it's obvious privileges; the dowry, the principalities, the title. Hollywood has it's own royal families, as we all know, and here I was in the court of the PA prince. Talk about being down and out in Beverly Hills!
 Both Pete and his wife read the script, enjoyed it, and felt it was a very saleable property. They had visions of dollar signs dancing in my head, but I had always written the piece as a low-budget movie I could direct. I never intended to put a price on it, but all it had really done lately was sit on a shelf. I certainly didn't want to make it for Saban, that much I was sure. I wouldn't even work for them as an electrician, let alone a director. But to sell a script for cash...
 "Well, they have their own people that they like to work with..." Pete later confided, "...And they're apt to make some script changes, you know. They want to make it theirs. I got my wife a deal for a rewrite on our script, if we get a buyer maybe we can work something like that out for you."
 "Yeah, I guess so." I had been around, didn't want to play the bleeding-heart writer, attached to his property. I knew what it entailed; you sell it, say good-bye. It's not yours anymore, it's theirs now. You get the money and the credit, but you're a silent partner.
 The money and the credit. That first credit could be the starting gate, you know, and I just finished walking the course. Funny thing was, I thought I was the jockey, but I was really the horse. Pete was leading me into this with sugar cubes and there I was nodding along like Mr. Ed the famous talking equine.
 By the time they were done rewriting it, would I be allowed screen credit? These are the things credit disputes are made of, where Writer's Guild arbitrators show their jurisdiction. Would I would even want my name on it? Of course, there's always the Hal Smithee file, the notorious name without a face that will take your credit if you refuse to put your name to something. That left just the money.
 I thought about it alone as it weighed upon me. Pete had been having meetings regarding my script and met with some, "Oh, we have something like that in the works right now," or, "interested, but our production slate is full right now." It started looking like my golden goose was sterile.
 Eventually Pete got back to me. He had made his primary rounds, reached out to his closest contacts and came up empty.
 "My brother-in-law does this thing with MTV, I told him about it and he wants to read the script," he told me.
 "Oh yeah?" Maybe all hope wasn't lost after all.
 "Yeah. He likes the idea, y'know, a bunch of slacker skatepunks in Venice. I was wondering if, maybe, you could do a little re-write, just to set it up for him better..."
 "Mmmm..." I didn't know if he was barking up the right tree. I had already written it a couple of times, and this version was fine for me until I got paid to do a rewrite.
 "Yeah, instead of four skatepunks, do you think you could make it three, though?" He continued, "...And do you think you could make those three skatepunks-- Hanson, the blonde-boys teenybopper rock group?"
 "I'll tell you what, Pete. If you think it will sell, then, you have my full authorization to go ahead and do the rewrite." That was the last I heard from Pete.

*****