Drydocked

I wrote this for a class in college, and instead of posting something new, I figured I would share something I’m actually very proud of. Enjoy.

I am traveling to the City of Angels to visit a close friend and for what seems like an eternity I turn and focus my attention on the slow-moving ground below. The Sierra Nevada mountain range stretches for nearly 400 miles along the eastern border of California. These behemoths are home to Lake Tahoe, Yosemite National Park and monstrous sequoia trees which often boast a circumference that would have Paul Bunyan breathing heavily. From 30, 000 feet this land is like the surface of a freshly-fallen leaf, its canyons and rivers resembling veins running down the sides of the ranges’ vast torso feeding the valleys below. The Owens Valley is a wasteland of sorts. When one is flying west the view from coach quickly turns from virginal white powder to brown barren terra-firmer. Looking south down the valley the only signs of civilization are miniscule service roads running in straight lines, un-obstructed by office buildings, townhouses, or elementary schools.

“Sir¼Excuse me¼sir¼”

I blink and shake my head startled by a gentle tap on my shoulder. It’s the flight attendant asking me to buckle my lap belt as we will “¼soon be making our final descent.”

I remember my purpose onboard this commercial flight, with its bloated first class section (20 rows with optimal service and “free” cocktails), and its cast of New York and Los Angeles finest, which includes a former Lakers player seated roughly 25 rows in front of me. Flights from New York to L.A. often carry an interesting mix of people all whom seem to be fixated on their business outside the fuselage, lost for over 5 hours without use of their mobile devices.

Our plane climbs above the San Gabriel Mountains and slowly settles into the airspace above “the basin”. Listening to a channel which offers the air traffic control broadcast I hear the pilot wish his crew and the folks on the ground a “Happy New Year” in between flight instructions and instrument readings. He could be thousands of miles or a cab ride away from his family, lover, or lonely apartment. I know how far I am away from home and all I want is the company of my friend, a cigarette, and if all goes well an iced-cocktail at some point before what I believe is 10 p.m. Pacific time.

Exiting the terminal I make a phone call and after nearly an hour of searching I find Nicole’s car and we head off. A nighttime tourist in L.A. will mostly notice the lights, millions of them illuminating the sky into an orange haze without a trace of the cosmos drifting above. The city where the mountains meet the sand is something one might see in a science fiction novel, millions of people jockeying for position both in the street and in their lives. We drive along the 110, the 210, the 115, as the sun disappears along the Pacific tucking conveniently behind the downtown Los Angeles skyline. Palm trees dart up from the neighborhoods along the freeway as if painted to distract you from some of the dilapidated homes. Extreme wealth and devastating poverty are divided by invisible lines which are rarely crossed. A few blocks away from the base of Beverly Hills, you can find a homeless man inside a cardboard box, laying on his back, a few feet away from Jack Nicholson’s star on the “Walk of Fame”. Drugs and crime are just as much of a part of Hollywood, as cameras and limousines are.

Nicole moved out here going on three years ago, and has done well for herself. After a divorce, a series of 24 hour work days and an impressive resume of film and television projects later, she has settled down in Tujunga, California. A midsize town on the side of a mountain, that most country-folk would call a city. A place known for it’s down and out, not necessarily it’s up and coming. The entire town leans west slanting toward the ocean and the higher you travel the more wealth you encounter. Nicole’s apartment, a steal at 990$ a month, is near the top of one of these streets in a complex with a remote-controlled entry fence, installed for purposes of security as well as aesthetics.

We make our way to Sun Valley, a secluded, PG-rated suburban town, just west of Tujunga. Out the car window, the landscape whizzes by as my mind races to take it all in. One level houses, mostly manila, stuck-o walls with red thatched roofs, their spot-on South Western attire. The mountains to the starboard side oversee our trip, keeping a watchful eye on the sparkling metropolis below. We take a seat at a sushi bar at which she is obviously a regular. The chef smiles and says what I assume is a greeting in broken English. It is hard to forget the girl with jet black hair, a full sleeve of horror movie tattoos, and friendly demeanor. We sit and talk. I spend most of the time listening. I am happy to be there, to hear how her life is going and to leave mine behind for a few days. The room holds a modest weekday crowd, mainly working-class couples and a handful of children, smiling over their eel, tuna, and octopus. Sushi is a big industry on the west coast and Nicole has fallen in love with it. I chew what I believe is eel and try to keep from gagging. A cell phone rings and Nicole answers, after a series of monosyllabic exchanges she turns, grabs her glass and proposes a toast:

“My mom just said ‘They just hung Saddam.’” She offers.

“Huh, Cheers,” I say, noting the historic event.

The next morning, I find myself opening the refrigerator searching for a drink but only find three cases of varying energy drinks, a bag of grated cheese and pita-bread.

“Yea, I’m sorry dude, we need to go shopping for the week, only stuff I have are the drinks I get from craft-service, and toilet paper left over from the set,” She says, later explaining that she has only purchased toilet tissue twice since she moved from Newburgh, New York to L.A.

“We’ll grab breakfast and then run a few errands I really have to take care of, if you don’t mind.”

Of course I don’t mind.

We make out way into the punishing, bright California sun, bound for the Burbank branch of her union office. Los Angeles County with a population pushing 10 million is a microcosm of the entire United States. People of all socioeconomic backgrounds make their home in various neighborhoods within 469 square miles. A great number of its residents transplant themselves here from other parts of the country to start a new life, or escape a past one. For Nicole it was a desire to achieve both that landed her here. Small town gossip and limited opportunities made the decision easy.

She joined the local after paying five-thousand dollars in dues at the beginning of her second year on the west coast and cut her teeth as a member of the crew on various low-budget horror films. The union offers steady work, desirable benefits, and an income that most people at her age of 23 would kill for. At her age, she is a successful special effects artist and set dresser, but instead of using a keyboard and mouse to craft her work, her monsters come to life with plastic and clay.

“I never wanted to be a computer geek. I’m a horror movie geek and I want to make zombies and dead-people. There is a huge difference.”

Many younger adults in Hollywood are caught between tabloid pages and the shadow of their millionaire parents, but Nicole has avoided the tinsel town machine and kept her New York sense of pride and street smarts. An admirable trait in a town where all too often ones desire to achieve leads to exploitation and scandal.

We arrive at her union hall, a fairly modest building in a palm tree-lined alley off of Ventura Boulevard with glass doors and a waiting area much like an emergency room. The walls however are peppered with black and white time-capsules of American icons rather than dime-store paintings. Bogart in his famous fedora, Burbank soundstages in 1954, Marilyn Monroe in “Some Like It Hot”. Someone from my parent’s generation would more than likely be overcome by feelings of nostalgic remembrance of days gone by. As we make our way to the counter I recall our purpose here. We are here to pick up the “dailies”, which she later explains is a report of all the movies that are being shot in and around Hollywood. We get into her Honda, cut south and merge onto the 405. I open the large publication which offers nothing of supreme interest to those outside the film industry, except a roll-call which includes some B-list actors.

“Get it? 405 , as in ‘It’s gonna take 4 o’ 5 hours’” she says as she rolls down the window, tying her hair back and steering with her knee. I am familiar with this joke but laugh anyway. I notice that she hasn’t changed much since our time spent in New York. In public she often attracts curious glances, most are unaware of her professionalism, work ethic and success that has subsequently come with it. People in her profession wear casual clothes, no need for costumes or makeup. Today it’s wrinkled green shorts, a tank-top revealing the large green and black tattoo on her chest and red sunglasses with jet-black lenses.

“No use in getting gaffing tape on your Prada shoes.”

We arrive in North Hollywood to drop off the “dailies” with a friend of hers who she works with from time to time. She asks how she looks and I tell her. My answer is correct, and we slowly creep down an ominous driveway running behind what looks to be an abandoned factory. Windows along the top of the building have been busted out and graffiti lines its aluminum siding. As we get out of the car a huge metal door swings open and the air is thick with the smell of super glue. This is the shop where she is currently working. At first glance it looks like a category-four hurricane has torn through the metal building and decimated everything in its path. Bubble wrap lies on one side of the room, ash trays overflowing beneath a forest of empty coffee cups, presumably the by-products of all-night projects. On the work bench, a white, freckled face looks at me with deep, horrified blue eyes and a severed jaw. Beside it rests a green, bulging mass with three red eyes. I trip over a power-cord and shake hands with Rob, her partner in slime.

“Did you hear about that NBC project in Pasadena? We tried to get on that but we were here until about 4 this morning finishing up the prosthetics for Matt.” Rob yelps over the sound of a power sander whining from across the room.

“I am going to see him tonight; I will see what I can do.” Nicole answers.

They continue to talk business for a few more minutes as I flip through a picture book showcasing a short history of their work. After exchanging pleasantries we turn and leave.

4 hours since our departure from Tujunga and we are finished and can now go shopping.

“Who was that?” I ask Nicole, previously noticing a change in her attitude upon entering the dank work space.

“Well he worked on ‘The Mangler : Reborn’ with me and then kinda’ had a thing for a while,” she explains. “But that’s over, and if he found out that Matt and I are seeing each other I think I would be fucked out of work at that studio for a while.”

Their business is in a way about everyone else’s business and how to avoid getting caught in it all. Pleasing the “right” people and partying with “wrong ones” can make a world of difference when trying to land a job. Periods of work are nothing like the normal nine to five. Nicole tells me horror stories of working for three weeks with an average of two hours sleep each night. Sleeping in cars, being in the desert without a bathroom or running water within 50 miles, driving to Mexico, paying the police south of the border three-hundred U.S. to get back into the country. Glitz and glamour. She explains all her adventures with bursts of manic laughter and an unadulterated enthusiasm which gives away just how much she enjoys her work. Even when describing the most laborious episodes, her tone shows her interest in telling the tale again. She enjoys it. Weeks are often spent building sets and props which in most cases are overshadowed by the people reading the script. The time between projects is spent sleeping and getting business in order before the next marathon begins.

“Before you came I hadn’t cleaned my house in a month,” Nicole explains, “But I really I haven’t been home for more than 3 hours at a time, and when I am here, I’m in bed.”

Two days later we are sitting on the couch in her living room grappling with more run-of-the-mill issues. All day she has been on the phone with the Department of Motor Vehicles, the bank, three of her bosses and is visibly upset. It’s New Years Eve and the millions of people in this time zone are gearing up for that infamous 10-second countdown. We are sitting trying to balance a checkbook and pass an online traffic-safety exam before 5 pm so she can keep her driver’s license. The L.A. traffic has yielded four tickets in the past year. I pet the resident pooch “Link”, and ask her what is on the agenda. According to her sources there is a party in West Hollywood that sounds like it could be fun, but may just be a bust. She mentions Matt’s house as a possible destination, seeing as he will soon be leaving for two weeks to shoot a pilot. Noticing her look of confusion, I tell her to relax and that we will stay in if she would prefer.

“No, No, we are gonna have fun tonight I just need to figure all this out before I do anything, I’ll be right back.

She leaves to pick up the mail and I look around her apartment which by now, is familiar and comfortable to me. However, a few things catch my attention. A picture book personalized and signed by the cast of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” rests on a shelf next to a replica of a human skull. The couch I’m sitting on is covered by a blanket used in the recently released film “Bobby”. As the sound of a motorcycle rumbles past, the front door opens and Nicole returns wearing sweat pants, and a navy blue t-shirt which reads “Newburgh Free Academy Softball 2001”. The mail plops down on the coffee table sliding like a wave washing up on a beach, and she picks out a piece that perks her interest.

“What the hell is this?” she asks, knowing I have not the slightest clue. Finding my way back to the grocery store would be a stretch, I am not the person to be making postal predictions. She opens the envelope and quickly reads the message while mouthing words here and there.

“HOLY SHIT!”, she screams and startles both the dogs and myself. Link barks sensing that something is wrong.

“It’s a check for three grand!” she says between bursts of delirious laughter.

One of the union jobs she worked on reported having a budget of roughly 5 million dollars but they ended up spending twenty-five. The production company was audited and all union workers were compensated for the wages they should have been receiving while shooting was taking place.

I laugh and celebrate with her as she calls her friends and plans a night out to dinner and a party to follow.

“I’m taking you guys out; this is gonna be the best night you have had in L.A.”

Arriving at a dimly lit one-level house in North Hollywood, Matt’s house looks overwhelmingly unfriendly. The moonlight and Los Angeles glow guide me as I push open a large, complaining metal gate, stepping slowly to avoid falling. I round the corner and wait for Nicole who carries Link in her arms.

“This place is kinda odd.” I say, less concerned now but more intrigued.

“Just wait until you get inside.” Nicole answers with a laugh.

The door swings open and a bald man of about 5 feet 6 inches appears with a wicked almost sinister smile. He welcomes us and shakes my hand, saying how glad he is to finally meet me. I enter and there are two older women, probably in their early 40’s sitting smoking cigarettes next to a smoke invaded bar. One is over-weight with teased blonde hair and a low-cut white blouse. She pulls on her cigarette and looks directly through me as if I am not even there. The other is a skeleton. Her cheek bones look like they are trying to escape the skin that wraps itself around them. She rises and makes her way to the rest room inching her way through a cloud of smoke that hardly notices her movement. Her arms both held out on either side of her body drift along with her, moving up and down like a diseased maple tree in a sudden storm. Both of them look devoid of any emotion. Empty stares suggest that they once had something great and have spent years looking for it, but instead have gotten lost while searching. Nicole does not know them either so I make conversation with her about the surrounding decorations. One wall is covered completely in replica medieval weaponry and samurai masks. Two huge leather couches, a projection screen and a circular glass table fill the living room. It is less of a house and more of a museum or art gallery with a kitchen. A credit card with the name “Julia Geffin” rests on the edge of the table, accompanied only by an empty beer bottle and a crumbled soft-pack of Pall Mall’s. At first I find this strange but as I return to the kitchen to grab a drink, I see the two women snorting the stuff off of the bar. One nostril pushes closed face down. It’s not like the movies. Most people take the drug without sounding like a Hoover vacuum. As soon as I mix a drink for myself and one for Nicole, the two women say goodbye and leave. I don’t know Matt, but I am sure they stick around because he has the coke. Nicole had told me about him and shown me his work but I still did not know what type of character he was. He carries himself in a very mysterious, introverted, quiet way. He mainly asks very precisely worded questions and spend the majority of a conversation listening to the answer. He rarely asks follow up questions and relies on you to think what he would ask next. At first this annoys me but I grow to appreciate it.

We sit around the bar, and Nicole leaves to pick up a few things from the store. I am left alone with Matt.

“So I’ve heard a lot of good things about you from her.” He says as he takes a pull from his cigarette slants his head and holds it in, as if waiting for some far-away camera to roll.

“That good to hear”, I reply.

Nicole returns and brings a friend of hers. Manford is a heavy-set Mexican man with tattoos all up and down his arms as well as on his neck. Much to my surprise he gives me and hug and asks me how I like L.A. I raise my eyebrows, because right now I feel as if I am in one of the movies that these three make. The unexpected sign of instant acceptance is appreciated and I feel a bit more comfortable. He explains that he has worked with Nicole on a few different shoots and is hoping to start his own record label soon.

Nice enough guy. You know what they say¼ “Don’t judge a book¼”

“Nicole, when are we going to figure out how the budget is gonna work for Josh’s movie?” Matt says.

“Well, I think we need to talk to Michelle first and see how far in she is willing to go on this,” Nicole explains. “I mean we need at least another seven to get the rake scene to work, or at least look good. The filler putty they gave us was the wrong color and if I am going to be working on Kimmel I can’t devote every waking hour to this thing we might not make a dime on”.

Each one of them has an ability to negotiate even within a presumably friendly atmosphere. Getting the leg up is what all of them want, the question is how far they are willing to go to get it. Matt mentions how he “did blow” with the writer of a new film project and that he feels he will be able to get Nicole on the project. Coke is the glamorous drug of Hollywood and has enticed young people for years. Nicole had her time with it and now prefers Kettle One gimlets over well-cut lines. I fix her another while talking to Manford about my plans after college. 4 limes, 4 ice cubes, 2 shots. After they finish talking business, we talk art, music, our respective influences and passions. Manford prefers Pacifico over Corona, Matt thinks “The Breakfast Club” was John Hughes’ worst film. Good conversation never goes out of style, no matter how strange or foreign the venue. An hour goes by, three, six, I glance at my watch and it reads 5:37 a.m. I decline offers to sleep in Matt’s guest bed and make my way to the couch and fall asleep with my face firmly pressed against the cold leather in a house paid for by fake blood and prosthetics.

I awake to the sound of Nicole’s voice,

“We gotta go if I’m gonna get you to your flight on time”, she says softly.

I rise and soon learn that we are taking a friend of hers along with us for the ride to Tujunga and back downtown. Mackenzie is the younger brother of a famous actor, and dresses like Sherlock Holmes minus the hat and pipe. He has also acted in over 30 films, his most notable being his childhood stint on an early 80’s sitcom. He is an extremely eccentric fellow, who is the product of a family full of industry-types. We make our way down the road. I talk with him and we exchange general information about ourselves knowing damn well that both of us are in no shape to care. He is still high and hasn’t slept in over 24 hours and I am running on 2 hours sleep without substances floating through my veins, but delirious anyway. I glance over and squint at Nicole and see her expression change in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, she cuts Mackenzie off:

“Hey, I just realized I left something at Matt’s. Is it alright if I go back?” she asks, and I sink lower into the seat as images of LAX’s main terminal and my departing flight flash against the back of my eyelids.

“Oh shit, well, where are we? Van Nuys? ¼Well we are right near a friend of mine’s if you wanna drop me there.” He answers.

She agrees to drop him off at his friend’s apartment behind the Bombay Garden Girls! Girls! Girls! Building.

I say goodbye and flinch as the door slams shut. I sigh and look over at Nicole and try not to say anything to upset her, wanting to scream.

“I didn’t leave anything at Matt’s, I knew he had a friend around here and just hoped he would say that. I know you’re tired, I’m gonna call the airport get you a later flight so you can rest, will that work?”, she says.

“Why? You don’t have to do that, I can sleep on the plane, it’s no big deal”, I say the words and wonder if I mean them.

“No, it’s my fault we were out all night. I was trying to get Mackenzie to work on this new film of ours, but even after agreeing to it I knew he would hardly remember this tomorrow because of how fucked up he was. You are my best friend; I don’t want you thinking this is how every day is, because it’s not. This is not normal. I was trying to get ahead a bit on this project and I shouldn’t have dragged you into it. Let’s go home get some sleep and we will go to the airport tonight instead.”

I stutter for a second and then manage to thank her then I lean over and hug her.

As we stop at a red light on our way back through Tujunga, I look over at a black man dressed in a charcoal grey suit, white shirt, yellow tie, holding a young girl in one arm and a briefcase with another, slowly making his way down a long driveway. A big yellow bus pulls up in front of them and abruptly stops as its air brakes hiss. He kisses the girl on the cheek and smiles as she disappears up the steps and onto the bus. It’s just then that I look down at my watch and remember that it is a Friday morning.