13: CHANGE

 New York was a welcome change of pace. It was exactly what I needed; to get away from the same sights, same grind, and as much as I hated to admit it, to get away from Laura. I required a bit of time to myself, to try to sort things out.
 A trip home was the perfect place to do this, or so it seemed. Nowhere else could you so convincingly delude yourself into thinking you were a child. Seeing all those familiar sights would surely find the familiar comfort of the nest you'd flown from.
 Not so. Everywhere I looked I was confronted with change. It was like I had come back to a different city. New structures had been erected everywhere I looked. Short-cuts on roadways I formerly used now displayed traffic lights that defeated my purpose, leaving me extra moments to consider the advantages of impending progress. The reasons in support came up few.
 I was going to use the time as a retreat, to try to get in touch with some sense I seemed to be losing. I would refrain from the normally hedonistic pursuits that could be indulged in a city such as New York. Instead, I took it easy, and spent time with the family.
 I arranged a visit to an optometrist, thinking it had been a while since I had my eyes checked. I had been experiencing headaches of an unknown nature, which led me to this decision. The doctor found they were being caused by an astigmatism, mostly in my left eye. I knew it before I even asked for confirmation; I needed glasses.
 I couldn't believe it. Adolescence slipped away in an instant. My years were catching up with me. Gone were the cocksure days of my youth. From here on in, my eyes were damaged goods.
 I looked at myself in the mirror at the opthamologist office as I shopped for frames to hold the lenses on my face. I took off the glasses and saw my image in the glass. It was me, without my glasses on. I would never look at myself the same way again. I felt a mourning for the loss of my youth. But at the same time there was a tinge of excitement, like I had finally begun my adult life.

*****

 I visited with some friends while I was home, both from the neighborhood and the far-reaching halls of high school. I was interested in what my peers were doing, and how much happiness they were finding in their daily routine. I got in touch with Rob, my oldest and dearest friend. We sat and talked for a while.
 Rob was a ski-and-surf-bum living a bi-seasonal lifestyle. His brother owned a house in the Hamptons that Rob and his buddies rented during the summer, where he surfed and worked as a waiter. Then during the winter he went to Vermont to ski and do the same at a restaurant on the mountain, where he got skiing privileges as part of the deal.
 "I've been working there for the last five years, so I have it all snuffed out. The guy I rent from holds the apartment for me. I've always got a job to come back to, and I get free ski stuff from the equipment reps-- I know them all from being at the mountain so long."
 He made it clear that he was doing pretty extreme stuff, stuff that was only beginning to get publicized in the ski magazines.
 "Why don't you go pro?" I asked.
 "Ehh, I probably could if I really wanted to, but I don't think it's worth it. There's all that travel and crowds, and rules of competition, and there's so little money in it..."
 I knew the story well, it was always being whined about in the mountain biking magazines. To be fully sponsored and salaried is a rarity only a small percentage of "extreme sport" athletes could enjoy. Rob was smart. He had engineered a lifestyle he could enjoy, that kept him healthy and happy. I would be envious of him if I had not done for myself the same.
 I also saw Bill, a friend from the neighborhood who went on to become a physical education teacher in the NY Public School system. He was trying to get a job at one of the better district schools close to his home. He was currently a substitute in all subjects, working at different schools around the city.
 It was ironic, I thought, that suddenly we had become the teachers and were no longer the students. I could use a lesson in life skills right about now, but I was on my own curriculum. The stuff we needed to learn to exist in this day and age they weren't teaching in school.
 My high school friends were more goal-oriented self-starters. I went to one of those specialized schools for science, for the more promising public school children. It attracted kids from all over the city, myself included, and aimed to make academic prodigies out of them.
 Most of my classmates were now professionals of some sort, or business people involved in money matters. On their way to earning Nobel Peace Prizes, you know the sort. High rollers, if you will. Matt was earning a solid six-figure income, and Simon was close to earning his first million. Matt explained it as we sat having dinner at one of SOHO's hot upscale restaurants one Saturday night.
 "Simon has this investment group, that he sort of leads-- they have access to all the cash, but he advises them-- they don't make a move without him."
 I nodded, understanding this is how business sometimes worked. Matt himself was in the currencies game, trading, etcetera. It was all Greek to me, but nonetheless I questioned and tried to get a grasp on how these people's days were spent. It was quite a different experience from what I did. Most didn't care to talk about it, and found their jobs boring when pressed for details.
  They wanted to hear about my job. "What's so-and-so like? How'd they do that stunt? Why do they do that?"
 Oftentimes, I was called upon to account for the actions of all of Hollywood, like I was some senator representing their faction before the moviemaking congress. "What kind of a film was that? They need a good story! Get them to make movies with better stories!"
 Even my father's friends-- the doctors, the lawyers, professional people of stature and years-- they were all intrigued with what went on behind the scenes. They wanted to know about the real Hollywood, and I didn't know how to tell them in a sentence or two.
 When I spoke about it there was a certain tone in my voice of incredulity. It was difficult to feign excitement for something in which the novelty was gone, yet the truth was deceptive. To attempt to explain at one sitting was far too involved of a process. I tended to be quiet a lot.
 There is no doubt it has been fun, and there have been many perks along the way. The money is good, the benefits unsurpassed. But I cannot escape the image of a carrot on a string, dangling and taunting, coaxing us into pitfalls of this celluloid menagerie.
 Jerry Seinfeld turned down five million an episode to renew his contract for another season of "Seinfeld." Five million an episode!! That's one-quarter the fee Jim Carey got paid to do The Cable Guy only eighteen months ago, and this is television!! That price-tag set tinseltown's ears burning, and made actor's salaries a bidding war with the sky the limit.
 The cancellation was a benchmark, the way the news whisked through town. I guess Jerry proved to NBC that they couldn't pay him enough, and he couldn't be bought. Laura later pointed out that he was making millions annually in residuals anyway. 
 

*****

 I spoke to Laura only briefly while I was away. I was confident she was where she was supposed to be, doing what she needed to do. She was a big girl now and she didn't need me to look after her anymore. I enjoyed the freedom and relief of not having to worry about her. After being away a few days I began to miss her.
 By the time I got back to Los Angeles I was glad to be in her arms. She looked cute at the airport when she picked me up. Anticipating her arrival, I was dismally reminded of the time I  picked Amanda up at the Bradley Terminal.
  Amanda was then arriving on her return from Mazatlan. One look at her face, and I knew it was all over for good. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Yes, we were on the rocks when we left; yes, I did have a brief encounter in Miami; and yes, she had been carrying on an affair the whole time she was gone.
 But it was not that way with Laura. I could see the love in her eyes, and I did not want to let that go. She saw me with my spectacles and smiled.
 "They look good!" she said, excited.
 "Thirty years of being cool, and now I'm a nerd."
 "No you're not. You look good in a pair of designer frames."
 We hugged and kissed and met each other with warmth and comfort. I was glad I had not furtively dismissed any hope of reconciliation like I had done so many times in the past, with so many relationships long-since gone. But still I was not sure if I was getting any better at maintaining relationships, or rather more patient and tactical at derailing them. Ultimately I had to ask myself: what did I really want?
 The work calls started filtering in immediately upon my return. I had a feeling it was going to be a good year. I got a call to do Condor duty, and opted to turn it down, even though I could have used the money. There were younger guys, more anxious and eager to serve, who were capable operators that could use the experience. I had my time up there. The last thing I needed was some hotshot gaffer with something to prove, and me, a hundred feet in the air telling him to fuck off.
 I realized I was getting very specific about the people and places I worked. I didn't like first-unit operating anymore; I couldn't stand being around the camera, and the attitudes that accompany it. Rigging was fun, but uneventful; the passion was in the process. I was running out of places to go.
 Then, I had an epiphany. In, of all places, a Condor. On, of course, 90210. How I wound up in that Condor was a mystery to me. Check that; it was no surprise. I don't know if you've ever experienced this before, but as for me I find it is typically a reliable notion that whatever you think won't possibly happen, will happen. Within reason, of course, and to differing degrees based upon the person and how accurately they can subliminally predict the future, ad infinitum.
 I knew there would be a Condor there that night, that was the reason Rick hired me as an extra man. But Keefer always went up in it-- he loved Condors, loved lighting, and loved to be "the guy" especially since he was on an essentially simple show for lighting. Rick knew I wasn't crazy about it, obviously, since he saw me take a dive in one so many years ago.
 This morning, when I ordinarily wouldn't even consider if I would be flying tonight, I accidentally thought about. My thought was "Naaah, I won't be flying tonight."
 Hours later, the phrase rung in my brain from my internal voice like I had just said them. Famous last words. I knew it was portentous, as I heard Keefer ask Rick as we unloaded the truck.
 "Who's going up in the Condor tonight?" He was opening a can of beans, as he always would. Like I said, Keefer loved set lighting, when for most of us it was just a job. Thank goodness there was guys like him around; I had been both at one time or another.
 "I don't know; you want to go up?" Rick asked him.
 That was usually the way it worked; Keefer would inquire, then he'd land the job. Tonight, he would give it away.
 "I don't know-- he's got the warm clothes!" was his reply.
 I lifted my head and he was pointing at me. "I don't care, I'll go." I said it without hesitation; I didn't care, I would go.
 A reflex action in the back of my head said: "you don't have a Condor Certification Card." It was true, I didn't, and that was a violation. I purposely never got certified because I didn't care to operate them. But tonight was different; for some odd reason I felt like going up.
 Maybe it was because I was lazy, maybe it was because I was bored. We were all bored; grips, electricians, camera operators, actors, you name it. Oh-- except the DGA Trainee-- she seemed genuinely excited. And she was making the least money of anyone there.
 She was nice and tried to be helpful, but in my brief incident with her I found her enthusiasm to be more of a hindrance to my trying to do my job. I figured to give her a couple of years, then she would be making twice what I make now, and hating it much more.
 I hope, for her sake, that she loves it very much. I know that that is what has kept me here, still pursuing that dream, though it has very much changed direction. And there is a paycheck attached to that dream, though I try not to let it dilute the worth and make me think I do this for the money. I didn't know anymore.
 This was a typical day on 90210. We were on the beach in Topanga, and most of the work was shot for day and lit by that great light in the sky, the sun. Our Set Lighting presence was merely required as a formality, and to bring power to the video monitors. In the afternoon it became drive-by shots and process trailers; moving automobile photography in which access was limited, and one representative from Set Lighting was sufficient.
 Of course Keefer volunteered for it, to travel with the car rig and do the one-light mount. Maybe that was how I wound up in the Condor. I thought about it as I sat there in the bucket. Today, in the course of a workday, we had gone out for sushi, gone shopping at the nearby surf shops (I bought a cool alien wristwatch for $40; I'd have to tell Potsy about it), hung out on the beach with friends, and now I teetered one-hundred feet above the scene.
 Jump? Not hardly. Not now, at least. I was having too good of a time. But did it seem like I was right back where I started? Yes and no. I came out here to settle a score with the movies. I wanted the life I had seen on TV, and I came out here to get it. Upon arriving, I discovered a whole other lifestyle, the one they don't show you on television. The one behind the camera and just out of reach.
 Like so many others I met along the way, never met, or never got on their way, the course of my destiny was altered. Or was it my perception that was altered? Destiny is unchanging, so I guess it must have been me.

*****

 
 That night in bed I lay exhausted with Laura beside me. I had just moved through the house picking up after her so I might get to sleep with some sense of order, closing doors and drawers she had left open throughout the chaos of her day.
 "You always do that," she said, not peeved-- just curious.
 "Not always," I said.
 "We are so different. I would have just thrown that on the ground."
 She was speaking of the hanger I had just hung in the closet on the rod. I got quiet, and so did she. I was thinking, and she knew what I was thinking. I started breathing rhythmically to combat the stress I felt rising-- it wasn't an especially stressful day, and now it was getting longer.
 "Why do you love me," she asked, "what do I do for you?"
 "You're beautiful and I love you," I said, and I meant it, though tired.
 "That's it? I'm beautiful and you love me?" she inquired, not mad, just exploratory.
 I thought I had intoned a whole lot more. And I really didn't want to talk about it right now, I wanted to go to sleep, and her to too.
 "That's it?" I countered. "You're beautiful and talented, you're doing great things and struggling to survive all at the same time. That's quite a lot." I said it all in the same breath, and I didn't know where it came from, but it seemed to hit the spot. It curtailed her line of questioning and sent her into an esoteric daze of self-introspection.
 "It feels like I'm running in circles..." she said, and I could tell she wanted to talk.
 "It's all about circles..." was my reply, thinking she'd have nothing to say to that, but she did of course.
 "I thought it was about climbing ladders..."
 "No, it used to be about climbing ladders; now it's about circles." I felt I had answered as earnestly as I could. I knew Rick Martinez would agree with me.

*****