MOSTLY, IT'S REALLY FUN

Channel 13 did a profile on me and my job as a scout- the best and most fun job, as far as I'm concerned, in the locations department. Check it out!

http://www.thirteen.org/nyontheclock/

A LIFE LESS UNGLAMOROUS

As some of you may know, I am inching ever so slowly towards a path of a writer’s life. Having completed a manuscript (based on some of my best and worst experiences in the movie business) I have been shopping it around in the last several months to see if anyone will bite. Earlier this summer, I went to writers “Pitch and Shop” conference where hopeful writers workshop their book proposals and have a chance to pitch them to prospective acquisitions editors for various publishing houses. It was an exciting and nerve-wracking event, and at the very least, a writer will walk away with an idea as to whether or not their books are “commercially viable.” Because let’s face it, if it’s not going to make the publisher money, you could be Somerset Maugham and be rejected outright. Overall, my experience at this conference was positive, but the ultimate outcome remains to be seen.

As I have been revising and re-revising my manuscript, I’ve often thought back to that conference, particularly what one such editor said to me. It could have crushed me, had I not found it so damn funny. It was my first pitch of the conference and I was a little nervous.

After pitching my idea, the editor took a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. Our conversation went a little something like this:

“Have you considered reverting this to fiction?” he asked.

“I would have no problem fictionalizing my book,” I told him.

“I think we could go so many places with this. I can imagine you getting yourself in all kinds of situations. Comedic situations involving you in the most bizarre places, against the backdrop of some really wild locations with the strangest people, and of course, famous people. I envision you somehow getting yourself into a situation where we find you hanging off the Hollywood sign.”

“Yes, yes,” I told him. “And what you’re talking about. All these things actually happened in real life.”

“Really?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yes, all but hanging from the Hollywood sign,” I told him. “But I’ve been harnessed to the rooftops of some very tall buildings in New York. You know, the Empire State building, the Woolworth Building, and a couple in Boston.”

“Hmm,” he said, contemplatively.

I smiled, shaking my head. Truth can be stranger than fiction, I wanted to say, but how cliché.

“Well, have you smoked crack? Been a prostitute? Homeless? Had any kind of addictions to overcome? Disease?” he asked. “That’s what makes a memoir work. That’s what people want to read.”

“Oh well, no,” I told him. “Never smoked crack or any of that. But I’ve scouted crack houses, whore houses, you know, the like…”

“Well, I just don’t think your book is for me,” he said. “Best of luck to you.”

It was my cue to leave.

As I walked to the door, I thought of something- one time, I thought I had breast cancer! But I knew it was too late. Anyway, what is thinking you have cancer really, when you compare it to being a crack addict. It just wasn’t dramatic enough for him.

Oh well. I had three more chances with editors, who I hoped, would find my stories funny enough, dramatic enough, unglamorous enough, and gosh darnit, good enough, to be considered for publication.

Only time will tell.

SOMETIMES, IT'S JUST GARBAGE- PART 3 (Final Installment)

Please scroll down for Parts 1 & 2

THE CONCLUSION:

My theatrics were over for the day, at least as far as the gardeners were concerned. They usually finished their work in the mornings, as it was too hot in the afternoons those days. My only noise concerns now would be the barking dogs of neighbors, but they too were often kept indoors during the mid-day heat.

By the time I made it back up to the catering tent, crewmembers were picnicking on the lawn and seated in the tent eating plates full of bbq ribs and steaks.

The half-hour lunch break, which officially started when the last crewmember had gone through the line, had indeed started. Naturally, this “last crewmember through” rule did not apply when it came to locations people, but we never took it personally. We were always off doing other things. Things like giving tours of the set to municipal officials, hosting meet and greets with curious neighbors, arranging photo ops for local mayors, making supply runs to Sam’s Club, or of course, quieting barking dogs or gardeners on distant lawns. My boss and I would take our lunches when we could, usually on the run, standing up, or on the tail end of the break and although I sometimes missed sharing the banter that came along sitting down to a meal with my fellow crewmembers, often I enjoyed the quiet time without the questioning that always came along with being part of the department that was supposed to have all the answers.

As I went through the buffet line, the teamsters were announcing the winner of the bi-weekly numbers pool they sponsored. Among the “whoops” and “whoas” of the crew, one of the electricians had just pocketed the winnings- five hundred dollars.

“Five minutes and we’re back in folks. Five minute warning,” Pete, the key PA announced over the walkie.

“Five minute warning!” the other PA’s hollered out for everyone to hear.

In five minutes, while the rest of the crew went back to work, I would be sitting down for my meal.

Likely distracted by flying frisbees or a quick game of croquet before being called back “in”, sometimes crewmembers would forget to clear their plates from the long catering tables- a chore that eventually fell upon the caterers and I. The caterers always appreciated the help and in return, acquiesced to my request that they not fill the catering garbage bags so full that they couldn’t be easily launched into the dumpsters. Hauling catering garbage was like carrying body bags and let’s just say, I’ve had a few catering bag mishaps in my day. Mishaps that required immediate showers.

After a tasty meal enjoyed solo, I went to work straightening chairs and playing busboy so that the tent would be tidy and ready for the next day. Keeping busy made the day go faster.

If there’s one thing you never want to let them see you do (and by them, I mean anyone ranking above you, and in my case, everyone pretty much ranked above me) is see you slacking, so I tried to remain constantly on the move. Unlike the others, I did not take a full half hour for my break, instead, I could often be found shoveling in food at record speed, only to ready myself for any situation that might arise. This sort of attitude may have been overkill at our very controllable mansion location, but you never knew what they were going to throw at you. Yesterday, they sent me out scouting for spur-of- the-moment driving shots. The day before that, Blaire and I had asked the caterers to allow us to be in charge of the afternoon “hot snack” for the crew (when I said it had turned into a kind of day camp, I was not exaggerating), and we had spent much of the afternoon perfecting our chicken wings with hot sauce. Occasionally, an unannounced guest would show up and would expect the VIP treatment or someone needed to be faxed directions or Cher needed a new light bulb or the upstairs bathroom needed more soap or toilet paper. You just never knew. So I tried to keep on top of things best I could so no one ever needed to ask. I had learned early on that a locations person was doing a good job if they didn’t have to be called upon. It meant you could anticipate what would be needed and the less a location person heard their name being called over the walkie, the better job they were doing. So I started my rounds.

To ease into my afternoon routine, I straightened the chairs by the pool and grabbed a net and skimmed the odd leaf or bug that had met its maker in the chlorine blue. Next, I went into the house, made sure the kitchen was clean, the bathrooms were stocked and random cups and plates, that tended to build up within twenty feet of the craft service table, were thrown away.

Next, I decided to go out to the back of the house to an area our grips had tented in to create a night-time effect. Using enormous tarps and scaffolding, the entire rear of the mansion was engulfed in darkness so that we could film our interior night scenes any time of day.

It was a hot one and once I entered the “night zone” the temperature had dropped at least seven degrees. Just inside, one of the PA’s was sitting on a folding chair, flipping through a fashion magazine.

“What’s happening?” I asked her.

“They’re just finishing lighting,” she said. “And they just called a ten minute warning for rehearsal.”

Perfect. I could do a quick run through before they started shooting. I checked my walkie, making sure my earpiece was connected and my microphone was adjusted in front of my mouth so that I looked either like a PA or a worker at a McDonalds take-out window. Anyone near set was required to have an earpiece so random chatter could be detected by the actors and director at any time. They did not need to hear what was going on around the peripheral. They’re job was to arrive to a set that was ready to shoot. The crew’s job was to make it seem quiet, calm and effortless.

I let the tarp fall behind me and I was engulfed in darkness, so I focused on the house. There was a glow coming from the living room window that lit up an area near a back door. My foot crushed a can. Dammit, people. Really? As I inched closed to the house, I could see the smoke-fest that must have occurred earlier. Like a fire pit at a camp ground, there were at least a dozen cigarette butts flattened in the grass, one of them not quite stamped out and still smoldering.

Lost in my own frustration of what lay before me, I failed to notice the signs- the signs that they, in fact, were finished lighting and had started rehearsing. But since no one called out "Quiet please, rehearsing!" on the walkie, I thought I had a little time to get out of there. It was soon to become apparent, however, that they were not rehearsing at all. They were actually shooting.

With the garbage flung over my shoulder like Santa with a bag of toys, I bent down, with a napkin in hand and began picking up the butts. Chazz’s voice was booming but Cher fought back, delivering her lines with intensity. There was a moment of silence and as I stood up to continue my way through the darkness, the back door opened. I turned my neck to see who it was, and like a deer in headlights, I froze. Chazz was screaming his lines, but stopped short when he noticed me. Then, Paul’s voice yelled “Cut!” and the swearing and threatening began.

What could I do? I blanked out. I panicked. I ran. I jumped in the nearest bush.

Rolling? Nobody said they were rolling! I said over and over to myself. How the? What the?

So there I was, trapped, in the bush. Listening. Contemplating. Praying.

“Okay. Let’s settle. People, settle down. Pete?” the first AD yelled into the walkie to the key PA. “What happened there? Who let that person through? Name names.”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll find out, “ Pete the PA promised and proceeded to take each of the PA’s to channel two for a lecture. I switched over and listened in silence, but no one admitted to letting anyone through. Not even the PA who had been reading the fashion magazine, as she knew, she would be in trouble, too.

Still, I was trapped and embarrassed beyond words and I imagined at any moment, someone would notice a red hot glow (of my flush skin)shining in the bush. So, what did I do? I did what any other criminal on the run would do. I attempted to change my identity.

I took my pony tail out and let my hair fall to my shoulders and pulled a baseball cap from my back pocket and pulled it down over my forehead far enough to cover my eyes. I removed my long sleeve t-shirt, stripping to my tank top and threw it in the garbage bag, which I abandoned at the scene. Fleeing on foot through the opening at the other end of the tent, I slipped past the PA who was cluelessly kicking a hacky-sack in the air.

As I exited, it took my eyes a moment to adjust to the sun. It was blinding and I stumbled onto the grass, but I was free. Yet, it seemed only a matter of time before I was found out, I thought. Who the hell else carried a garbage bag around as if it was a fifth limb?

I made a run for the catering tent and found Blaire doing paperwork and talking on the phone. Her walkie was on the table in the off position.

“What’s up?” she asked, hanging up.

“Garbage,” I moaned. “I can’t wait to be a location manager. Then I won't have to deal with it.”

“Being a location manager is a whole other level of garbage,” she said, checking her vibrating beeper. “It never stops.”

At the time, I had no idea what she meant by that, but I think I know now. No, at the time, I was so sick of being a peon that I was sure that moving up in the ranks would mean things would be so much easier.

At the end of the day, as the last van was loading, I made an appearance near the front door where I met up with Pete the PA. He approached me, chuckling and told me he knew it was me.

“Who else would be carrying a garbage bag?” he asked, jokingly laughing and shrugging. “Not any of my PA’s, I assure you. They do as little as possible.”

I admitted to nothing, but I must have looked terrified because he immediately assured me that the secret was safe with him.

“Anyway, they were making a much bigger deal of it than it was,” he assured me. “And by the way, nobody called it. It's not like it was you're fault. Perhaps the first AD should take note of that."

I shook my head.

"I heard one of them say they'd find out who it was when they watch the dailies tomorrow," I shrugged.

"Hey. Don’t worry. Unless you were lit, no one's gonna know, and I can assure you, no one’s gonna tell. You’re among friends, remember," he said, patting me on the back. "And we peons? Well, we're all in this together.”

SOMETIMES, IT'S JUST GARBAGE- PART 2 (of 3)

Scroll down for PART 1

*******

THE STORY CONTINUED...

July 1995

As they say, the show must go on and despite my brand new khaki’s that were now spotted with dumpster garbage stains, I had roughly thirteen hours to go. It had to get better.

“Laura Locations, go to channel two,” the second-second assistant director called out over the walkie, as if Locations were really my last name.

“On two,” I replied, eagerly. I already knew what he was calling about and I was ready.

“Laura. We’re hearing something outside. A lawn mower or a leaf blower or something. Can you check it out and make it stop,” the AD said. “We’re about ten minutes to shooting.”

“Copy that. On it,” I replied.

I was on it, all right. I had already prepared a small cooler of drinks and snacks that I planned to use to bribe the guilty lawn help into submission.

The culprit was likely a non-English speaker of Mexican or Guatemalan descent, as people in this neighborhood did not mow their own lawns.

I made my way on foot down the driveway and stopped for a moment to listen. It was coming from over there. No over there. It was hard to tell, so I just started jogging to my right. After circling the block, climbing a fence, ducking through tall hedges and scratching myself on some kind of hideous thorny plant, I found the culprit. He was wielding a weed whacker, which he used to attack a thick patch of tall weeds on an otherwise pristine lawn. I ran up to him waving my arms wildly.

“Hello. Hello,” I was yelling, but he was wearing a set of ear-plugs and did not notice. I stepped slowly to his left side, fearing a sudden reaction on his part that might result in injury on my part.

“Hola,” I yelled.

“Hola” he said, shutting down the machine.

“My name is Laura. I am working on a movie down the street. This weed whacker is very loud.”

“No habla englise,” he said.

At the time, I lived a block from Spanish Harlem and I’m ashamed to say, I knew about three words of Spanish and one those words was “cerveza.”

“Que Cher? You know? Cher?” I started, easing into what I knew could be a lengthy explanation.

“Cher? No comprende,” he said.

No comprende, huh? That meant I had to pull out the big guns. It meant I had to sing.

“I got you babe. I got you babe. Da na na na na na, Da na Da na na na na naaaaaaaaaaa. I got you babe,” I sang.

But he only looked at me more confused than ever.

“If I could turn back tiiiiiime. Be what you want me to beeeee. Da na na naaaaa, naaaaa. If I could turn back time,” I sang again. People of all nations and backgrounds knew that song, I was sure of it, and his sudden burst of laughter proved this. He nodded his head knowingly.

“Si. Cher,” he confirmed.

“Okay. Cher, “ I said, relieved that I would not have to humiliate myself further. I pointed down the street with much enthusiasm, cupping one hand around my eye and started making a cranking motion with my other hand.

“Cher, make movie,” I said. “Cinema. Comprende?”

“Si. Movie.”

“Si,” I said and pointed to the weed whacker and plugged my ears. “Too loud. Bzzzzzzzzzz. Cher no make movie, too loud. Okay?”

What was that I said about not having to humiliate myself further? I promised myself then and there, it was time to enroll in a Spanish class.

“Ah,” he said, seeming to understand and agree. He looked at his watch. “Ah. Yo? Ah, one hour.”

“Okay. Uno momento,“ said I and reported back to set via walkie. I told them we could work on “cuts and rolls,” knowing this would involve more theatrics on my part.

“Okay. Thank you Laura Locations. Okay everyone, the noise is no longer an issue and we are ready to roll. Everyone quiet please. Quiet. Here we go. And...we. Are. Rolling.”

“Action,” I heard the director yell and the walkie went silent.

I looked back up at the gardener who was waiting patiently as I cranked one hand, with a finger of the other pressed to my lips. After a minute went by, they yelled “cut” and I pointed to the weed whacker and the gardener whacked away for a few minutes until we were ready to shoot.

"Okay, here we go," the AD announced. The director yelled action again and the walkie went silent.

Again, I cranked and with finger to lips, the gardener shut down the machine, thankful he was well versed in the international language of idiot.

“Uno momento. Um. You want aqua? Coca cola?” I asked, reaching into the cooler and to remove the booty.

“Ah si. Coca cola. Gracious.”

He cracked the Coke and I took a bottle of water out and handed that to him too. He smiled.

“Caliente,” I said referring to the weather although the look on his face told me he thought perhaps I was referring to the ice cold soda as “hot.”

“And we cut,“ the voice boomed over the walkie.

“FABULOUS!” Paul yelled in the background.

This routine went on for precisely forty-five minutes until it was finally fabulous enough to satisfy our director and it was time to move on to the next scene.

“Laura Locations?” word came over the walkie, this time, it was the first assistant director.

“Go ahead,” I acknowledged.

“Release the weed whacker,” he said. “Moving on to scene thirty-five. We’ll set up, break for lunch, then pick this up after the break.”

“Copy,” I said, pressing the walkie close to my mouth.

I emptied the contents of the cooler and smiled, thanking my new gardener friend profusely (Gracious gracious amigo. Gracious...we are finito) and made my way back up the street to the mansion.

It was a performance I had grown accustomed to, as it became part of my daily routine (although I was convinced that at least some of the gardeners knew English, but enjoyed watching the gringo acting a fool). But I didn’t mind. It was part of my job and I felt like I was contributing, in some small way, to the success of the film. Each of us was hired to do our part, and I knew, like everyone else, I had to pay my dues. And besides, it sure beat sitting in an office, behind a desk everyday.

I walked back up the long driveway, to the mansion, with a pep in my step, pleased with myself and hungry for lunch. I had all but forgotten about the incident with Hal earlier—but could have never guessed that what lay ahead of me was about to make the Hal encounter seem like a walk in the park.

SOMETIMES, IT'S JUST GARBAGE- PART 1 (of 3)

July 1995

“Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut,” the director, Paul Mazurski, repeated over and over again. “Who the fuck was that?”

“I dunno, it was dark. They were carrying a garbage bag,” Chazz Palminteri responded, dumbfounded but obviously annoyed.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” Paul screamed again.

To say the man was mad would be an understatement.

Paul was a screamer, but never in this way. Usually, he screamed an enthusiastic “fabulous” at the end of each take, no matter if it was truly fabulous or not. The crew had even made t-shirts with this credo emblazoned across it.

As the cause of this sudden outrage, naturally, I hid. In a prickly bush, to be exact, crouched down, hiding like child, waiting for it to pass.

“Whoever it was, I’m going to scratch their eyes out,” Cher added, sitting bath-robed and tied to a chair.

Oh. Great.

I will admit it. It was me who caused this upset by walking through the scene at the wrong time, but in my defense, it was in the course of doing my job (and someone else not doing theirs. You know who I’m talking about, AD’s).

I was picking up garbage. That’s right. Picking. Up. Garbage. Why should my fellow crewmembers inconvenience themselves by walking ten feet in any direction to dispose of their trash in a garbage can that I had provided? No matter that I had worked tirelessly to make it easy for them to practice some degree of cleanliness, but the sad fact remained, at the end of the day, it was the location department’s responsibility to make sure the location was fit for humans. And since there were only two of us in the departement (I, being the low man), this responsibility fell upon me.

At the moment of the incident, I was in fact, picking up someone’s cigarette butts. Apparently the dozens of metal cans containing sand with the words BUTT CAN written in large block letters on them- the same ones that I had placed all around the house- were just there for show.

As the responsible and conscientious locations assistant that I was, part of my job was to pick up after a bunch of full-grown adults, who were either too lazy or illiterate to understand the concept of trash receptacles. And on this fateful day, it was garbage that had the potential to be by downfall.

The big wigs were taking this particular breach of scene security extremely seriously and if I was found out, not only did I fear being fired, I feared certain blindness.

I took a deep breath, releasing this fear with a long drawn out sigh. This kind of thing happens all the time, I thought. Take two. Move on. What is the big deal?

But Paul was still swearing, Chazz was still complaining, and Cher sat mysteriously silent, surely contemplating how she would carry out her threat. She had been into “goth” at the time and had an entire side business dedicated to the sale of cryptic items such as chain link headdresses, medieval daggers and enormous wrought iron candelabras. They were all showcased in a mail-order catalogue called Sanctuary, which always struck me as goofy. I suppose if you lived in the middle-ages and in a dungeon, this stuff would be appealing for one’s household, but it just wasn’t for me. With this in mind, however, I imagined her coming at me, dressed head to toe in spiked leather and chain mail with one of those mace and flail thingys. With weaponry like that at her fingertips, why would she settle for simply using her hands to take my eyes out?

I took another deep breath and contemplated my lot. Could my day get any worse? Then it occured to me, that yes, yes it could. Having my eyes scratched out by a woman who was known to wear ass-less pants was the least of my worries. Chazz was from The Bronx, the Arthur Avenue area to be exact, and he knew people. Or at least, people knew him. And they were very, shall we say, protective. When we had filmed there a few weeks prior, the neighborhood guys made it clear that no one fucks with them. This was exemplified by one of the café owners when he told me not to worry about leaving our valuable set dressing items on the sidewalk overnight.

“Sweetheart. If you get a security guard you will insult me. Don’t insult me,” the man from Arthur Avenue said, taking a puff from his giant cigar. “If anyone touches this stuff, I’ll personally cut their fucking hands off. Capiche?”

Needless to say, we didn’t need security in the, how shall I say, traditional way that night and I am pleased to report, our set dressing remained safe and untouched.

So there I was, in the bush, mulling over my next move, thinking about the events that led up to my stepping onto the set at such an inopportune time. Let’s recap, shall we?

I arrived at our mansion location at 6:00am, parked my car in the four-car garage (one of the perks of the location assistant, although this perk was canceled out by the fact that I arrived an hour and a half before the crew and left a full hour after them). I said good morning to the caterers, who were busy preparing breakfast for a hundred crewmembers. They’d been there since 4am and were the only crew people allowed to park in the mansion’s narrow driveway. Indeed, if the caterers couldn’t get to their trucks, we did not eat. The crew may have hemmed and hawed at first at not being able to park near the set and the unfairness of it all, but at least in this case, they got their priorities straight.

As per usual, I greeted the overnight security guard, who always looked as if he had just woken up, and I was given a full report. It was always the same: “Quiet.” I told him to get a cup of coffee and some breakfast and, as usual, he ordered a large stack of blueberry pancakes, covered his plate with foil and drove off in his maroon Geo Prizm. “See you tonight. 7 o’clock sharp,” he said, buzzing down the driveway.

Preparing to make my rounds of the property, I caught a whiff of a very unpleasant aroma. Garbage. A quick scan revealed the culprit- the dumpsters.

The dumpsters, which were supposed to be dumped the night before, were brimming over with garbage bags and although they were set several feet off the ground, I could see that the wily raccoons had figured out a way to munch on the weeks luncheon delights. One more overnight would mean complete and utter destruction. I opened my notebook and found the emergency beeper number and I ran inside to call. This definitely constituted an emergency.

From there, I started to make my way through the mansion, unlocking doors and turning on lights. Everything was left just as it had been at wrap the day before. The camera sat at the bottom of the stairs covered with a shiny hood. The sound cart was tucked away underneath the stairwell and hampers, full of lights and grip equipment, lined the walls. There was a sign reading “HOT SET” laying across the couch in the living room. The tall director’s chair were lined up in row behind the monitor, names embroidered on the backs. I imagined my own name on one of them some day.

As I headed upstairs to make sure the star rooms were open and ready, I distinctly heard a car door slam outside. At the time, I thought nothing of it. It was probably a teamster, I thought. One of the shuttle van drivers grabbing a quick bite before the crew showed up.

I unlocked Cher’s room to find her movie robe hanging on a rack and one of her long, curly wigs atop a plastic head, sitting on a side table. I flipped on the lights and headed across the hall to Chazz’s room.

I keyed open the door and noticed how tidy he kept his space. His clothes hung straight and unwrinkled in a closet and his shoes were in a short row on the floor near a dark wood chest of drawers. Not even a rumple in the bedspread or a dog ear in a book. Unlike Cher, Chazz didn’t spend a lot of time in his room between lighting set-ups. Instead, he could often be found hitting golf balls with the teamsters or lounging by the pool, talking politics with random members of the crew. Not that Cher was anti-social, not in the least. On Fridays, she would invite the women crewmembers (there were only nine of us) to her room for coffee and tiramisu. Quite civilized, I thought, especially for someone who wanted to scratch another person’s eyes out.

At last. The phone rang. I checked my watch. Only five minutes had passed but when there’s an overflowing, extremely smelly dumpster in our midst, time did not fly.

I ran to the production office, that was housed in a room over the garage, and was startled to see the set decorator, Hal, and one of the set dressers there. I waved a hello and answered the phone on the second ring. Hal saw me, but I was ignored. Oh well, he was a prima-donna. Everyone said so.

“Production,” I answered. “This is Laura.”

“Laura? It’s Shelley from A-1 Carting.”

“Hi Shelley. I’ve got an overflowing dumpster. The guys didn’t come last night.”

“I know. They had a breakdown. Tommy just called me. They are around the corner and they’ll be there any minute.”

“Thank you so much. I’ll be on the look out.”

With that, I hung up the phone and headed down to grab a quick breakfast. No sooner did I get to catering did I hear the garbage truck begin its climb up the steep driveway.

That’s when I noticed the car- the car that was blocking access to the dumpsters. Hal.

It was our second week at the mansion and at that point, people knew the drill. If they drove to set, they had to park at a parking lot down the road and be shuttled there by the very efficient and friendly teamsters. The result had the effect of school busses dropping off loads of dysfunctional kids at day camp each day, but it worked, and the driveway remained un-clogged. Things had settled into a kind of a well-oiled machine but the car in front of the dumpster threw quite the kink that morning. I ran back up to the office in a panic.

“Hal. Can I move your car for you? The dumpster guys were supposed to come last night but they broke down or something, so they’re here now. You’re car is right in front of it,” I pleaded, breathless.

“Sounds like a location problem to me. Tell the dumpster guys to wait. I have more important things to do,” he replied, without looking up.

“Okay. Crew will be arriving any minute and I’d like to get it taken care of. I’d be happy to move it for you,” I said again.

Now, with his back turned toward me, he took a deep breath and said the following, “Listen. If you were doing your job, the dumpster would have been dumped last night.”

“Okay. Hal. I gotta get this dumpster dumped. And you know, you’re not really supposed to be parked up here anyway.”

With that, he spun his head like Linda Blair in The Exorcist and faced me with red eyes.

“I know you. And I am going to do everything in my power to make sure you NEVER, EVER WORK. IN. THIS. BUSINESS. AGAIN.”

This, of course, shocked me. Could he actually do that? I knew he probably couldn’t, but I was relatively new to the business and there was a part of me that still didn’t know exactly how things worked. Who knew who he knew? And who knew how he’d twist this? Maybe, just maybe, he did have the power, but what had I really done to deserve such treatment? Horrified and in spite of myself, I turned around and ran from the room, hardly able to contain my tears.

By the time I made it back outside, I had somewhat composed myself, but the garbage guys could see my distress and set their coffees on a nearby prep table.

“Hey Laura, sweetheart. We can’t get to the dumpster,” one of them called out.

“I know I know. I can’t get that car moved right now. I guess I’m just going to have to remove it bag by bag.”

“Aw. Naw. Come on guys, we’ll help you,” he called out agian, sympathetically.

“Thanks guys. I really appreciate it.”

It took three men and me about fifteen minutes to get the mass amount of garbage from the dumpster twenty-five feet to the truck. I checked my watch. It was 7:00am. Crew call was in fifteen minutes.

With the garbage guys rolling back down the drive, I dragged the garden hose across the lawn and started spraying the down the pavement, washing away any remnants of nastiness that had seeped on to the ground, when the first van pulled into the driveway.

Smiles and good morning’s and a few grunts greeted me as the first round of crewmembers exited the shuttle van.

“Laura, you’re always so up in the morning. Always smiling,” one of the cameramen mentioned with a broad smile as he passed. Oh, if he only knew.

Relieved to have averted a garbage disaster, but still upset by what had transpired in the office, I made my way over to the catering truck to cheer myself up with breakfast in the company of the nice people on the crew. The discussion of the morning had the grips debating the virtues of butter versus margarine and their deep love for French toast.

In the next van, my boss, Blaire arrived and she called me on the walkie. I was to meet her by the backyard pool.

“Good morning,” she called as I came around the side of the house. “Hey. Whose car is that blocking the way out there?”

As I came closer, she must have noticed my puffy eyes.

“Oh my god. What’s wrong?” Blaire asked.

I relayed the story of the dumpster and what Hal had said to me, and just as I was at the crescendo of my saga, Big Sal, the teamster captain, walked up with a chipper and a small bag of golf balls.

Sal was big, thus the name. He had a mop of white hair and a deep, extremely intimidating voice and he took no shit from anyone.

“Hal told Laura she’d never work in the business again and that he’d do everything in his power to make sure of that,” Blaire said, matter-of-factly, facing Sal.

“What?” Sal asked. “For what reason did that little douche bag say that?”

“She was trying to get his car moved from in front of an overflowing dumpster in the driveway.”

“That skinny little son of a bitch isn’t supposed to be parked up here anyway,” he said, nodding in annoyance. “If I have anything to do with it, he will never work in the business again. Where is he?”

“In the...” I started, but stopped myself. I had never witnessed the wrath of Big Sal, but he was a man of principle and couldn’t stand to see any injustice done, especially to a hard working kid like me. He was like a father figure, protective and firm and didn’t like any bullshit- and certainly not bullshit from the likes of Hal. But did I really want to rat him out? Yes, yes, I did. Would it make things worse? It didn’t matter, the cat was out of the bag. Sal was going to find him sooner or later and either way, I knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

“In the,” I gulped, “office.”

Sal didn’t hesitate. He dropped his club and golf balls and turned toward the mansion while Blaire and I just stood there, the ground literally shaking beneath our feet. We remained quiet and listened.

Seconds later, a door slammed, opened again, and had enough velocity behind it that it to slam again. My sniffling ceased abruptly and Blaire and I looked at each other. Something terrible was about to happen, I imagined we were thinking simultaneously. We made a bee-line for the front of the house.

A hush came over the crowd that had gathered around the catering truck and some were pointing toward the garage. One of them said the windows began to rattle, another reported hearing a squawking sound that was “not quite human, not quite animal.”

Then, there was complete silence. The calm you feel before the storm.

“MOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOR FUUUCKKKKKKKKKING CAAAAAAAAAAR!”

Big Sal had spoken and it was a call heard across the county. I was certain a body was going to come flying out one of the windows and I involuntarily flinched, turning away. Instead, that skinny little bastard came running out the garage with his tail between his legs, in front of a captive audience. We all watched as he put the car in reverse and screeched down the driveway at record speed. A few members of the crew put down their plates and applauded and at that moment, despite my low status on the crew and despite their littering habit, I felt great comfort in knowing that I was not alone. I was among friends.

TO BE CONTINUED...

DECODING HOLLYWOOD-SPEAK

I came across this today and thought is was funny, primarily because it is true. Here's the link. Enjoy while I work on posting my next piece.

http://kenlevine.blogspot.com/2009/10/decoding-hollywoodspeak.html

THERE'S A LAB FOR US

There’s a place for us. Somewhere there’s a place for us. Leonard Bernstein and Steven Sondheim did not write these lyrics for location scouts in New York City. But today, as I walked into Photomax in the West Village, this song (the Barbara Streisand rendition, actually) came into my head. Yes, it was this goofy, sentimental show tune that provided the soundtrack in my mind as I stepped into the quiet basement (fondly referred to as “the hole”), feeling a wave of nostalgia wash over me. I had spent hundreds, if not thousands of days in this lab over the last 15 years. It was like a home away from home- like Cheers. But today, there was nobody there who knew my name- no one except Romie and OG, the proprietors.

My eyes wandered over the montage of photographs that covered the basement walls- pictures taken by dozens of film and tv scouts and it was like a gallery of the ever changing city: girls in bikinis playing softball in Central Park; a view from the top of the Queensboro Bridge; a sea of dead pigeons on a playground; a guy riding his bike dressed as Marie Antoinette; a child playing next to a burned-out car. Then of course, there is my personal favorite: the dude with the hair hat (see pictured).

Located on Carmine between Bleecker and Bedford stands "the lab." First, it was “Flash Foto” in 1990’s and is now the home of “Photomax” since 2002. No matter what it’s name, it's traditionally been a mecca for New York City’s film, commercial and television scouts. Stop by anytime after noon when it was “Flash” and you entered a cramped, street level space, outfitted with narrow countertops and tape dispensers. The proprietors, Joe and Sam, always had a cheesy Euro-beat blasting from the speakers, insisting their stereo did not get the local NPR station. Often, they’d bust out a dance move as they stood behind the counter, processing thousands of pictures a day for the scouts. By the three o’clock hour, the place would be jammed- mostly with commercial scouts, taping together folders of lofts and kitchens (typical commercial fare) and film scouts, who would likely find the lab so crowded that they’d drop their ten rolls of film and put their folders together somewhere else. The space was cramped but always alive with people who had just spent their entire day searching for new and unique interior and exterior locations all throughout the five boroughs and beyond.

When “Flash” closed, there was a period of about a year when we scouts had only one other place in town to go that was set up to meet our needs. A place that had all of the tape and dispensers, folders and cutters we needed to complete our day’s work. It was on 6^th Avenue, just off Canal- “Soho Photo.” It was a little shop that sold cameras and cheap Made in China gadgets and sunglasses for tourists, although rarely did a tourist ever shop there. Soho Photo had all the tools we needed to do our work, but it just wasn’t the same.

In early 2002, Photomax, already a little franchise of two shops in Manhattan, leased the space on Carmine Street. The local scouts were very pleased. It was the preferred location, I believe, for most of us and there were several good places to eat in the neighborhood. Scouts were always hungry by the time we got to the lab and although it can’t be proved, I think our group is partly responsible for the early success of The Grey Dog next door. But that's another story.

Surely, the owners of Photomax knew there was still a big demand for a shop in NYC that could accommodate the scouts. The new owners went all out. They renovated the store, creating usable space in the basement with more room, provided a computer, a bathroom, a water cooler, a tiny fridge and two full walls of counter space for us to work. They would also provide an endless supply of tape and folders and photo slicers- and they’d often oblige musical requests so as not to torture us with 80’s pop during our many hours in “the hole.”

By the time the new Photomax on Carmine was complete, the commercial scouts had already moved to full on digital photography, posting their images on online sites while we scouts in the television and movie world were still developing our film. Even if we were using digital cameras, most of our production designers and directors still wanted our photos to developed and displayed the old fashioned way- in precision cut file folders, creating picture books of locations. The process of creating these photo books was long and tedious (think roughly 15-60 minutes per location when all is said and done) and often we’d have at least five location folders per day- often more. Time in the lab, however, was sometimes the best part of the day for me. It was the time to meet up with all my work colleagues and friends to swap stories about our day’s explorations, sharing new (and old) location ideas, gossip about work and catch up with each other’s lives. It was a vibrant atmosphere often filled with laughter and tales of experiences you could never make up. Our jobs had (and have) us accessing every conceivable type of location in the city and beyond- so it was always interesting to hear where people had gone on any given day. We each had a slice of New York to share- and every day at least one of us shared something fairly outrageous.

As the years go by, I’ve noticed the population of scouts at the lab has been shrinking. With the digital age in full force, many productions are embracing the fact that lot’s of money can be saved by scouts posting photos to websites. Even amid protests from designers who want their physical folders, the ones they can hold and carry with them, it just makes more financial sense to only print the locations they really like. My most recent job had me working for an old school (and very famous) director and production designer- both of whom I never thought would stand for the new, online way of looking at folders. But even they caved in. We posted almost everthing- hundreds and hundreds of locations- online for them to see.

So when I do find myself back in the lab these days, it’s a lonely experience. Most days, I am the only one down there. The last couple of years in particular have brought me to the lab less and less. Instead, I find myself, at the end of a long day of scouting, sitting alone in my apartment, face to face with only my computer, uploading the day’s images and talking to no one. Even my face-to-face, daily communications with the production designer (and even the location manager) have dwindled. I might be more efficient at getting and showing more locations because of technology, but sometimes I just need to explain what I’m looking for- or have it explained to me. Being a great scout is an organic process that grows each day with talking things over with the production designer, establishing trust, seeing facial expressions and reactions, tone of voice and catching little side comments that can often be chock full of information. Now, we can “call it in.” Which is, in so many ways...great. But we're not getting the full picture, so to speak.

This could be part of the reason why I wanted to start a blog- to share the stories of the day to day, not-so-ordinary (and not so glamorous)- but always funny or frustrating or quirky stories of the people and places that I’ve encountered while out and about, finding movie locations. All these stories that have historically been deposited daily in the basement of that lab. Stories now without a venue, an outlet. Stories without people to commiserate with now that we sit alone at our computers and don’t talk as much as we used to.

I miss my seeing my friends and colleagues everyday. Sure, we chat on the phone, but it's not the same. So maybe this is all a sign. The empty lab today reminded me that everything and everyone must change, evolve and move on. Everyone. Including me.