Wednesday, Feb. 12, 2003
The mist kicked up by freeway traffic on a rainy night takes on an orange haize under the street lamps. I was doing seventy through packs of cautious drivers wondering to myself what the scientific studies suggest about the usefulness of pinkish orange lights in a rain storm. I'd just finished one of those marathon editing sessions on an episode of the Show with which I was less than thrilled. On it's own merits, our show is pretty good. Not yet polished with experience or preparation, not quite settled into a groove, what comes across is still better than most of the programming on community television. Yeah, it's community television. Saying our work is better than some random geezer standing in front of a camcorder with too much to say about hellfire and sin isn't much of a statement. But everyone has to start somewhere. I'm cutting my teeth here because it's the most available opportunity.

The ruts in the pavement had collected channels of standing water in the last 36 hours of constant downpour. I was in no particular rush to arrive anywhere as much as I was to get away from the Station. Through the orange mist, as dense as fog, I could see puddles of water two seconds before my tires hit them, jolting the car to one side or the other. What an annoyance. I finally took the hint on the exchange overpass when the car began to wag back and forth across the lane. The overpass rises on a fairly steep incline then veeres north around a blind curve. Halfway through that curve I stomped on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the line of traffic stalled in the merging lane. The back end of the car slid out left and I reflexively jerked the steering wheel - not too much, just enough to compensate. As I did, the car then slid in the other direction, and I pulled the wheel back around to control the slide. I felt like I was sitting on an animal that didn't like to be sat on. Again the car started to slide and I followed it with a quick pull on the wheel.

The moment lasted about three seconds. Traffic crawled along. And nobody noticed what didn't happen. I sat there, inching onto the merge lane, amazed by my own unconscious reflexes. I hadn't even thought about it; it just happened.

The kind of work that I do succeeds or fails by how well it goes unnoticed. (Well, the technical side, that is. Of course I want people to notice the Show.) Instead of heart palpatations after a near wreck I felt slightly more cocky. I don't know; I guess my ego needed the inflation. How many people instinctively know what to do when their car skids sideways in the rain? I exited the freeway into the industrial district feeling like I could handle anything. Call it fantasy. Call it dilusion. As trivial as mine are in the grander scheme of life, riding high on the little successes can carry me through the bigger failures. Even though I'm not quite doing anything with my life at the moment, churning out a little cable access show every week keeps my head out of the oven, often floating in the clouds.

When I was little I had a cordouroy jacket that made me feel like Fonzie when I put it on (even though my mother wouldn't let me go to kindergarten wearing a white cotton undershirt). Now I have this thigh-length black denim P-coat that represents my dreams of making movies. It was a "holiday" gift from the Post House, one of a few styles handed out to everyone with the company logo embroidered on the front. Young and naieve as I was when it was given to me, I used to walk around in that coat thinking the logo was some kind of badge in this town. Now I think most people would regard it as a stain. As soon as I get my own logo (right after I find a good enough reason to get one), it's going on that coat right over PostHouse.

Not far from the freeway exit, on the edge of town between the wearhouses and the condominiums, there's a nice home-cookin' cafe where yuppies and their parents will pay $12 for a salad. While I was the gopher at the Post House I'd often call in dinner orders for producers and staff to this place. Scrambling every night to get twenty or thirty dinner orders served to very picky advirtising people, I was paying my dues while learning the sometimes-subtle, sometimes-brutal politics of the business. Since it was a quick three minutes away, it made my life easier that everyone liked the food. I would drive up to the front door in the company van, leaving the parking lights flashing in the NO PARKING zone and walk in wearing that black denim P-coat as if I were their best customer. As if I ran with the Soprano crew. Once a week I would bring them a $100 order that occupied no space on their dining floor. $200 if we were busy.

I was usually greeted by one of the hosts, either Ma or Pop, genuine people who always treated me like a family friend without actually knowing my name. All they knew was PostHouse. I'd saddle up on a counter stool and they'd put a glass of ice water in front of me while the order was being boxed and tallied. (One night it was a glass of wine.) The kitchen is open to the dining room so customers can see the flames leap out of the most fancy dishes and sample the aroma of others. I'd notice the cooks trying to steal a look at me, the one who brought a load of stress into their night, trying to read what was embroidered on my black denim P-coat.

A couple of years after I'd left the Post House I was still coasting on that recognition when Lisa's parents took us there for dinner. As she took our drink orders, I had a pleasant exchange with Ma which I'd hoped would earn me points with Lisa's parents. When I walked in the other night I recogized no one. And no one recognized me. Not even in my black denim P-coat.

Not that I was expecting it, or even wanted it at the moment. It just struck me that all the familiarity was gone. I'd had a big crush on one of the assistant managers back then, a sweet woman who let me flirt with her while I was waiting. I suppose she's a doctor or a lawyer by now, if not the owner of her own resturant. Maybe a full-time mom.

The new hostess is a tall, handsom woman with a strong, beautiful smile. All at once she presents the commanding personality of a Navy captain with the warm and comforting welcome of a relative. She led me to a stool at the counter and arranged the utensiles and napkin in front of me.

"What can I get you to drink?"

I loved that she was speaking to me. Even if it was good business for her, I was charmed by her voice and engaging demeanor. With all the money to my name I could barely afford the Cobb Salad. I'd been jonesing for it since I left the Station, and I didn't want some common glass of house wine to bump me down to the Tuna Melt. I asked for water.

There I sat, munching on the complimentary bread and butter, tired as I was, feeling very positive about my direction. I'm barely out of the starting gate (if I've even made it that far), but at least I'm happy doing what I want to do. Through this project I've met people who are niether rich nor famous, yet happy and satisfied with what they do - whether or not it earns them a living. And I've met people who make quite a good living at their jobby job, but can be the bitchiest crabapples. All I've ever wanted is to be good at something. Of course I have monumental aspirations for that something, but like Curley says, the secret to life is that one thing.

"Stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese."

Rodreiguez says all you need is a business card. I'm not sure he was speaking to me because I need a lot more than a fucking business card from Kinkos to call myself a producer. Every field has its wannabes, the dilusional morons who have a hundred times the enthusiasm as they do common sense, experience or work ethic. I wouldn't call myself a producer until I've proven I can support my life's expectations by doing it. Finding my way across town to this trendy little cafe was a way to deal with my self image by graduating from my past.

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