14: EPILOGUE
 

 Once you get over the glamour and glory of Hollywood, you realize that there is really only one thing that is of primary importance; that is, that your check is on time. From the biggest director down to the lowliest grip or electrician, it is all really about money. When you have a wife and kids to feed, or a mortgage payment to make and you're counting on a check this Thursday, movies suddenly take a back seat to real life.
 I didn't have such expenses to account for. True, my lifestyle had moved skyward, and I was living modestly in the lap of luxury. With it, the monthly price tag for these niceties had inflated considerably. I didn't have to keep regular hours and hold down a job like Laura did, but I did have to work a certain number of hours in a month or I would find myself owing.
 Ever-realizing the need for income, I was getting better at finding jobs. In one respect, you don't find the jobs, the jobs find you. But now I was unwilling to let this job run my life. I wasn't afraid to say no to work anymore, as sooner or later something else would come along. Ultimately, it always did.
 "Hey, Jack-- you want to come day-play with us Monday and Tuesday? It's this little rinky-dink TV show they shoot right here in the Marina-- convenient for you, I might add, and not such a big deal, either. I'm putting in some rigs, and leap-frogging with the company-- oh, did I mention that it's that crappy NBC contract rate-- you know, what is it, twenty-one dollars and seventy-two cents an hour?"
 The voice was Dean Park's, another best boy around town I had recently become acquainted with. You could tell that there was a little bit of schmooze in his voice, indicating the company might be trying to do something exorbitant without spending the money (let alone it was a reduced rate). 
 "Actually, Dean, I still have a few days left to wrap the last stage from that little thing we just finished. After that, I think I'm due for a vacation."
 "What about Steve-O? What's he doing?"
 "He's jumped over to Fox, rigging that feature with Capelli. Call DaMonde, I think he just got back from New Mexico..."
 And so the conversation went. Oftentimes, it felt like you were gearing up for a big game. Right now, I was coming down off of one.
 Things had changed quite a bit for us. Rick and I spoke about it, reminiscing with a certain reservation about how much our lives had changed. His refusal to go back to 90210 made it ever more apparent. He could tell we were at the crossroads, and he urgently wanted to make a move.
 "I don't want to be an electrician anymore," he pleaded with me.
 "What's wrong with being an electrician? You used to love being an electrician." I was playing devil's advocate.
 "It's just not my life anymore. Back then it was our life." He imitated the zeal of our younger days-- "You makin' a movie? WHOOO-HOOO!! Let's go!! He's makin' a movie!!"
 It was true, I nodded as I laughed. "You don't have to tell me about it," I said. "I do my forty or fifty hours a week and that's it."
 "Yeah, you've got a good thing with the rigging... You can keep it at arms length. Maybe I could get a gaffer job on a three-camera show..."
 "Rick, you'd still be an electrician. I think we need to get out! Do something else! But what else could we do?"
 "Yeah, you're right. We need to make our own film."
 "Yeah, no kidding. Doesn't everybody in Hollywood?"
 "C'mon-- that's what we came out here for-- to make film. We have to at least take a shot at it. Look around-- everybody's doing it!" Rick would urge me.
 "Yeah, that's what scares me-- everybody's doing it. I'd like to make a film, sure, everybody here does. But they don't want ingenuity in Hollywood, they want proven reliability. They want formality, not freedom of expression. They're not making works of art here. It's not the Louvre, it's a Ramada Inn-- the same squalid print hanging in hotel rooms across the country, muted in color, tempered to be benign."
 We could not neglect, this was our life-- the last ten years we had made it so. It wasn't so easy to turn your back on, that was clear to me. All those years Rick had been sitting pretty on 90210 I was out there contending with these feelings. I tried to get out. I tried to run and hide. I tried to devise an alternative plan, but there was none.
 It felt like a shackle, holding my leg, unwilling to let me go.  An elite club, perhaps, even more difficult to get out of than it is to get in. Organized crime? At times, possibly. Sometimes it felt like fate; like this was the time and place we were born unto, the life we were pre-determined to live.
 I accepted my predoctrination, and embraced it-- for now, at least. The years of hard labor were beginning to take their toll, and injury was always just around the corner. I knew I could escape, slip from this bondage, that the moment would come when I could make my dash for the fence. I had secretly been tunneling all these years, and now I could finally see a hint of daylight.
  It was elusive, this freedom. Like any hardened criminal, I had become accustomed to the institutional lifestyle. There were lots of perks, and I worked the angles so I might best come out on top. The job filled my pockets with enough money, enabled my medical benefits, and slowly, slowly satisfied my retirement pension that I might someday wake up needing to collect.
 A funny thing it was, that pension plan. The average number of pension checks a professional set lighting technician would collect after his retirement was two. Sometime thereabout the life functions give in to the great thereafter; usually because of overworked, shot or blown cartilages and muscles in the necessary parts to keep a man standing erect.
 Maybe it has to do with that great will to survive and support, and be a wage-earning entity in the household. Work till the end, that's what the former generation felt. Earn, purchase, consume, produce-- that 1950's post-war mentality persisted, especially here amongst pockets of old-timers that are so busy slaving in a place only beginning to feel the effects of change.
 Earl Crowe was one such fellow. He had been a gaffer for years, he refused to retire and refused to give in. He survived two wives, and was now with his third. An ex-Marine, I suggested, and he quickly corrected me-- "Son, there's no such thing as an ex-Marine. Once a Marine, always a Marine."
 He got started in the movie business after returning to California from World War II, so he told. "Back then, the only work around was at the shipping yards, or for the military. With the war being over, well, there wasn't much employment. Then a guy approached one of my buddies, and offered him a job at the studios. He brought me along, and the rest is history."
 A lot had changed in the last fifty years, but some traditions withstood the test of time. Like, breaking in for example. This notion of "the right place and the right time" has always loomed curiously around this enigmatic desert basin. It seems to have a place in every great and humble Hollywood success story. True, some of us work very hard to put ourselves in the right places so that when the right times befall, we might also be at those places. I guess I got my foot stuck in the door.
 Earl must be seventy-something now. He runs around lighting the set with the energy of a teenager, barking out orders in antique vernacular. "Just hang there-- hang like a cat. No-- the 2k is a dead-duck. Just leave it alone! You know, when I was a lamp operator, I could walk through the set and tell which lamps had diffusion in them just by how hot they were! We'd have arcs, and studio seniors-- no one uses arcs anymore, and now you can't even find operators for them!"
 Yeah, on the other hand, a lot had changed. There was much new equipment and innovation, but all the old stuff seemed to work just as well. At times there were even certain fads in lighting that called for digging up relics of lighting instruments from the studio graveyards for particular applications. "Okay, get me every T-5 and T-2 Beam Projector. I think there are still eight in existence. I know they have two at Universal, and they can probably help you find the rest. What, they're all out on rental? Okay, then get me a Viking 12k Xenon with focusable/ no-pattern spot. It is rumored to be in creation and available for demo..."
 Fortunately, the best boy didn't actually have to find and contract the stuff. That was the production coordinator's job. We just had to ask for it, based on the wishes of the director of photography or gaffer. Like so much else about the business, "what's the latest" or "who's the hottest" seemed to matter at certain higher levels of hiring, especially as you get close to the production level.
 One of the evident, gradual changes was the mindset of the various crafts and studio technicians in this day and age. It wasn't just another job, for many of us it was a point of entry, or so we imagined to be at the gates of something better. There, within grasp, was the life we all so loftily desired. Whether you wished to be an actor, director, writer, producer, cameraman-- you name it, your dream was right there in front of you.
 On the sidelines were guys like Rick and myself, who, in the manner of convention common to the late twentieth century had arduously labored for some four years to obtain degrees of certification that specified we were educated in the ways of the elusive medium for which we provided the technical support. Because of the lack of knowledge that predominated in the industry, and the inefficiency which perpetuated because of it, we were condemned to silence in the wings.
 For ten years I had been chasing reality through a picture tube. Now, I was the man in the box-- everywhere I looked I saw those same stale images, conceived in the mind, poorly executed in reality. Baywatch, Pacific Blue, Party of Five... You name it. The same squalid beachfront, the same studio backlot, the same set-dressed walls, with a different face and ass that looks so much like the last one. I could not escape the vacuum of the tube. Now I was trapped, and I wanted out.
 Somewhere along the way I had awoken to a new perspective. I realized how glad I was to be no-one. In a sky of rising, shooting, and falling stars, I was simply a satellite; a drone on a path, trying to keep in orbit. Now, there were so many obstructions in my way; I felt I needed to get to a less crowded and volatile sky.
 I had spent so much time creating things that weren't real, trying to fabricate threads of reality in an industry of make-believe. I wanted to get away from Hollywood, as far as I could, and go do something real-- with or without a camera following.
 Maybe these past ten-years were an adolescent diversion to remain in a world of make believe, where you can control your destiny. Fantasy had now become reality, tangible to the point where you can feel it wisp through your fingers like a burst of steam from a teapot. Now it was time to get real.

*****

 The troublesome times between Laura and myself grew more and more difficult to amend. It seemed like we were going in such divergent directions, we would inevitably break apart. She had grown and matured so much, and still there I was, overshadowing her with criticism and discouraging her with my contempt.
 She needed different influences, ones that would be more supportive of her aspirations. She would get handed scripts and get excited about auditions, and then there was me, Mr. Scrutiny.
 "Do you really even want to be a part of a project like this? Are the people putting it together competent?"
 If you want to succeed in the movies, you have to believe in them. You have to believe in yourself, and you have to take whatever they are handing you on the page and believe that you can make it special. Laura wanted to believe.
 I couldn't help being critical-- it was in my nature. I found it difficult to separate myself from it. The electrician in me had disconnected the artist; romance and passion were dead, except for technical pursuits. Somewhere in my heart lurked an artist waiting to strike; someday, there would be a short-circuit, and then...
 And then, sure enough, the most unimaginable thing happened.  After ten years of being a freelance lighting technician, making a comfortable living in the wilds of Hollywood, the phone stopped ringing. It had been a while since I wondered where my work was coming from; there was always plenty waiting. This time, something was different about it. There wasn't a lot happening around town.
 I spoke to a few friends, to see if they knew what was going on. Steve-O was just laid off from a job with Capelli. I felt like calling Capelli to tell him that I was available. I wondered if there were any sour feelings. Then again, it didn't matter; if they had just laid off Steve-O, they certainly didn't have any need for me.
 Next I called Rick Martinez, to see what he was doing.
 "I'm getting worried," he said, "my bills are starting to pile up."
 "I know the feeling," I offered, "it's time to start downsizing."
 "Either that, or-- find a new occupation. I feel like I may never work in this business again!"
 I knew what he was talking about. The days passed, and still the phone didn't ring. Sure there was work going on, TV shows and such, but I had managed to work my way out of the day-player slots on the episodics I had frequented of late. My most recent gigs had been doing commercials with the Rayteam; since he was now out of town, I was back on my own.
 I knew Ray would be gone for the first part 1999, but I didn't realize how much I would be aware of his absence. It seemed there were no movies shooting in town, and then I found out why-- they were all going to Canada. The Canadian Government was giving a financial kickback to producers for bringing shows from other countries (principally the U.S.) north of the border. It amounted to about one-third of the cash that was spent in the territory. One producer described it as "for every three films you bring up there, the fourth one is free!"
 This was the reason why the studios were so quiet. I went by the Fox lot soon afterward, to visit Laura at her new job. She got a gig in the location department on the X-files, a show that had recently (unlike the current trend) been brought to L.A. from Canada. They had an opening to fill, and Laura was well qualified.
 Her tenure at MGM expired recently, when they paid off and terminated her boss' contract. Per his agreement, they paid her a handsome severance which she used to pay off all the debts she had accumulated while working for them in the past few years. Now MGM was crumbling, and she was relieved of the grief to watch them fall and found a more secure ongoing position.
 For me, things were so slow a month passed and I still hadn't had a call for work. I made use of the time and finished a number of projects that were awaiting my attention. With the close of the twentieth century just around the corner, I was determined not to enter the new millennium with a bunch of unfinished antique baggage weighing me down.
 Eventually, even all that was complete. I had fixed all the mountain bikes I could fix, organized all I could organize, and was about ready to start taking things apart again. Idle hands, well, now I was looking for something new to do. I began to consider my options. Even Laura became concerned.
 "What are you going to do? Are you ever going to get another job?" she asked, incredulous.
 "What would you like me to do? No one is calling."
 "Can't you get work out of your union?"
 "I could, if there was any work going on. There's no features shooting in town; they're all going up to Canada. Nobody's working; only the episodics."
 My hands were tied. Secretly, I harbored a desire not to work. That may sound like a common notion for many, but for me it was unusual. I had traveled so far and spent so long putting myself where I was, but now I felt like leaving and not doing it anymore; at least not for a while.
 Laura snapped me out of my trance. "Well, I wish you would do something. It's kind of hard to get things done when you're always hanging around-- I mean, I just never get any time to myself!"
 "Oh, so that's what this is about!" I thought to myself without saying anything, as a big sardonic smile cracked across my face. It's funny how times change, and when you've seen them change a few times you can almost see them coming. I had learned a few things from it, and this time I knew just to keep my mouth shut-- even though I clearly remembered a little girl from Texas with too much time on her hands not too long ago.
 I knew Laura didn't mean anything by it. She had a lot going on with her acting career and had undergone many changes of late, and was under lots of pressure. Who in Hollywood isn't, from the lowliest starving actor to the highest paid producer? I still had strong feelings of love for her, and was determined to keep it that way. But now she needed her space, and I felt like I needed mine.
 It was hard to escape the image of the circle. For a moment I felt like I was back in the room there with Amanda. Now here we go around again.
 Fate then, of course, would intervene on cue like a sharp stick waking me from an unpleasant dream. It came in the form of a phone call from New York; it was Simon.
 "Dude, you gotta come back and check this out. I bought a farm upstate, and we're renovating it. Come and hang out-- everybody's building cabins on the property."
 "What?" I heard what he said, but thoughts were coming at me quickly. I wanted to hear more.
 "We throw pitchforks and shovels around during the day, talk about Buddhism and philosophy, then eat gourmet vegetarian meals at night. Come and hang out-- I'll lend you money, or give it to you, if you even need it. Build a house if you want!"
 It sounded inviting, if not completely crazy. Turn my back on show business? Put my life before my work? Timing had everything to do with it. Certainly a difficult offer to turn down, considering my circumstances.  
 "Is there mountain biking? What's the terrain like?" I had to ask. I needed something more than whimsy to guide me.
 "Unbelievable red-rock cliffs. Miles of trails-- I haven't gone out full-on, I just checked out the area. Lots to explore."
 That was all I needed to hear. I felt like I couldn't bear to get in my car and drive in L.A. traffic one more second-- unless it was to drive out of town, with my bike strapped to the back. I began making arrangements in my mind before I even hung up the phone. But what would Laura say?
 Since Laura and I had already agreed to separate, it seemed easy enough to facilitate. I felt the thirst for adventure stir in me once again, as I prepared to leave all that is comfortable and familiar for what is strange and unknown.

*****

 Time took a new precedence as I set my agenda for the coming months. I wasn't sure exactly what I was going to be doing, and I think that's what was most enticing about it. I knew I would be getting away from Hollywood-- about as far as I could go. At the same time, I would once again be close to home.
 The smog began to lift in my mind the days before I departed. I asked myself horrifying soul-searching questions like, "what do you want to do with the rest of your life?" knowing full well to be careful what you wish for. I had ideas I wanted to expand upon, artistic pursuits to endeavor, and most of all, an imminent retreat from the movie industry.
 It was funny, because with all my time off, I found myself thirsting for a good film to watch. My sensibilities rekindled after being away from the set for some time. More discerning and critical, yes, less gullible too, but coming shrewdly alive.
 It was time to leave, of that I was certain. The rest was up for speculation and only time could tell. With a fresh perspective, for better or for worse, I knew I would inevitably find my way back.
 I lay in bed that night, pondering the consequence of events that had led me here. I thought about all the people I had met along the way, the ones who never made it to the screen for one reason or another, maybe never wanted to. Then there were those who did-- by lineage, perseverance, destiny, or some twist of fate.
 I thought it would make a good movie, sprinkled with characters like the hippie Tarot card reader, the palmistry girl on the porn set, and the venerable biker dude at the hemp rally all helping me to chart my course along the way. But I knew that the movie in my head was better than anything that could be put on that screen, no matter how beautifully you lit it, or how seductive it was, and I knew the pains it took to get it there.
 And then, of course there would be a star, overshadowing it, upsetting the balance, making it all feel like a lie. No, this movie wasn't about movie stars, and it wasn't about seers or fortune tellers having hidden secret meanings and showing me a path, because they didn't, even though I looked for them. No, this movie was about circles.
 "Who am I, and why do I exist?"

*****