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ursafilms · 6 years ago

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Can We Hold The Line At One Suicide Per Owner? Or Is There Something I Should Know Before Moving In?

Chapter 4 – The Invention of the FAX Machine, or a Poltergeist, or Something

The fax machine was, at the time, a piece of modern technology that signaled the end of the United States Postal Service . . . which the USPS and the sycophants in Congress have ignored. And it continues to bring us execrable service, high prices, and damaged deliveries.

It also cut down on bike messengers shooting up in your company’s bathroom and mislaying crucial documents leading to the following conversations:

Irate Joe Client: “Where the heck is the XXXXXXXXXXX? It was supposed to be here hours ago!”Me: “According to Crystal Methengers it was delivered and signed by Irate Joe Client.”Irate Joe Client: “Impossible. That’s me.”Me: “Look at the hand not holding your phone.”<CLICK>

The advent, therefore, of the FAX machine was a boon, not only to anyone who took sadistic pleasure in the overreactive meltdowns of clients . . .

. . . uh, that would be me.

But also yearned for a more efficient way of delivering the simplest of messages.

However, when the thing goes off at 3am, you have to wonder what in the world could be so crucial as to warrant 37 pages of legalese marching through the machine and landing on the carpet in your home office. Adding to the spike in my heart rate, the proximity of the FAX. It sat in the home office, a room right next to our master bedroom.

My wife could sleep through an event such as a mushroom cloud blossoming in our backyard, but I had the REM depth of a bloodhound. I ejected myself out of our bed and landed on the floor in front of the FAX and waited for the remaining pages. When I focused on the readout, it said, “Page 2 of 37.”

I made a cup of tea. Read two chapters of Stephen King’s Insomnia. I walked down to our garage and started a load of laundry.

The FAX ground out the last of the pages and I spread them out on my home office desk and read the top page. It was our formal offer to the estate of 310 Twin Peaks Blvd., dated in the Autumn of 1993. Of course the calendar now read September of 1995.

The estate of 310 Twin Peaks Blvd. conveniently glossed over the “Offer Valid for 30 Days” language at the top of the form. The estate also decided to send the 35 pages of boiler plate terms and conditions. The only parts of an offer sheet necessary are the first page, which has the specs and contingencies, and the last page, which contains the signatures.

I paper clipped the document, and went back to bed, where Lee slumbered. I passed a hand mirror under her nose. It fogged.

“Who was that?” She croaked out.

“The FAX fairy left us a surprise.”

“Can it wait until morning?”

“It is morning, but it can wait a few more hours.”

“Shmaldodaeislehnfieodnwneidjfjfieoanfanfnieoaaodnd.”

“I love you too.”

****

Genuine morning arrived around four hours later. Vickie and Joan called.

“The office received a fax last night,” said Joan.

“You mean this morning at 3am.”

Papers rustled.

“How did you know that?”

“I’m holding the clone in my hands, or you’re holding the clone,” I said. “No matter. We both have an offer in hand that expired about two years ago.”

“Vickie and I spoke to the agent for the estate,” said Joan. “They’re ready to revise the acceptance of the offer, if you’ll buy the house as is.”

“Did IQs drop in Chicago recently?” I asked.

“Not that we know of. Why?”

“Because it clearly states on the two year old front page that we had removed all the contingencies and that we are aware of the death on the premises; the leak into the kitchen; and the need for an electrical upgrade. We also are willing to do a complete inspection and compare it to the original property lines so we know where 310 Twin Peaks boundaries begin and end.”

“Yes, you did.” “Then what are the next steps?”

“We will issue an updated offer, which means we’ll take this one and put it into the new legal document. Should we assume you’re sticking with the $830,000 price?”

“Sure,” I volunteered. “Given how long they’ve screwed around, they’ve lost even more money on the deal.”

“Yes, that’s ironic.”

“Do we want to take a walk-through?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Vickie, the most pragmatic of our foursome. “I’ve already set it up for today, if you can make it, with the house’s caretaker.”

“Caretaker?”

“Yes, someone has been living on the premises for the past two years.”

“Anything unusual about them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Undead. Uh, vampire. Ghost, maybe? You know the usual questions. Have you ever seen the TV Show with the Crypt Keeper in it? That’s what I’m expecting to see when we get there today.”

“You’ll be disappointed. He’s a living, breathing person named John.”

“Darn.”

****

Off we went to take a perfunctory schlep through 310 Twin Peaks. We pulled into the parking area, conveniently located directly in front of the house. For some reason the highly efficient government of the city of San Francisco had opted not to spend any money on a sidewalk on the western side of Twin Peaks Boulevard. This parsimoniousness on the bureaucracy’s part allowed several cars to park, without restrictions, in a perpendicular fashion to the street. Over the course of our ownership, three abandoned cars took up residence in this “lot” for several months. I had to call the police on all of them to get them removed.

One of them belonged to my neighbor up the street, which I did not know, because the layer of dust on the vehicle accumulated to the point of obscuring the find gold metallic paint job.

Perhaps he should have driven it once in a while. Just a guess.

Lee and I exited the car and looked up at the house. It stared back at us in a benign fashion, which made me distrust the place even more than when we had seen it two years prior. Feel free to take in the aerial photograph posted below, but do not be fooled by its apparent beauty.

We worked our way up the 52 steps that led to the front door. John, a harmless looking individual sporting a weak attempt at winning a Tom Selleck lookalike contest greeted us at the front door.

“Getting ready for Halloween?” I asked. Lee, Vickie, and Joan took a step away from me.

“Perhaps,” he replied, not getting the joke.

“Halloween?” Asked Vickie.

“George is referring to my striking likeness to Magnum P.I.,” said John, getting the joke.

“Of course,” said Vickie.

We cruised through the house. If John had done any straightening up, it did not jump out at us, but then again, the place had not suffered during his occupancy.

The kitchen walls had deteriorated further, through no fault of John. The electrical system still needed a facelift. And the previous owner was still room temperature.

In addition, the following items needed to be addressed as soon as we moved in.

1. We needed to re-engineer the garage to accommodate a second vehicle.2. The driveway had to be excavated and the concrete poured to widen it.3. The brick steps had enough moss on them to qualify for an EPA inspection. A power washing was in order.4. Weeds and vines had taken over the backyard. Our gardener from 661-28th Street would be brought in for what looked like a two week job.

Of course we had to actually buy the house.

“What’s the verdict?” Asked Vickie, as we negotiated the front steps, doing our best to avoid skidding down the moss chute to Twin Peaks Boulevard.

“Let’s submit the offer at $830,000,” said Lee, who turned to me, “You and I just have to be prepared to have contractors on the property for about the next three years.”

“Agreed.”

“Alright,” said Joan. “Today is September 30th. How long of a close do you want?”

“A month,” I said. “We should talk to a few contractors and get someone out to look at the patio, which is where that leak is coming from. And maybe the same person can also take on the garage and the driveway. I’ll call Dev to deal with the electric. He can do that in about a day.”

Joan pulled out a Day Timer.

“You want to close on Halloween?” Her voice rose a couple octaves on the last word.

“No, Joan,” I said with a laugh. “I want to take possession on Halloween!”

Chapter 5 – Give Me the Sage and Stand Back

And we did. Halloween night, 1995, we became the owners of 310 Twin Peaks Blvd. As a boy from South Jersey, the only thing that, uh, spooked me might have been the oncoming rainy season and a kitchen wall that had dry-rotted from an incessant leak.

Our Marin County friend, Deborah Collins, had something more astral planar in mind.

“You have to sage the house,” she declared after arriving to check the place out on the our first morning as owners.

“I am not sage-ing a house,” I replied.

“You have to.”

“Is that somewhere in California state property law?” I asked.

“Don’t be silly.”

“Silly? Of course. One of my best friends is going to light an herbal torch and shepherd it around my house in an effort to what? Decrease the likelihood of my adjustable rate mortgage heading north? You’re right. I’m being silly.”

“You’re such a cynic.”

“That too. Can we get this started?”

“Don’t be silly. We have to wait until it’s dark.”

“And why is that?”

“More effective.”

I turned to my patient wife, Lee.

“Can we move back to New York now?”

****

Darkness did arrive and if 310 Twin Peaks Boulevard had an intimidating aspect during the day, it only got worse with the sunset as the house leaned forward on the hillside more acutely. A combination of burned out walkway lights, a yellow front porch bulb, and an empty interior only helped with the threat. ****

John, God bless him, had cleared out . . . his stuff. There were still just enough remnants from the previous ownership to initiate a call to Sunset Scavenger and start the trash pick-up service earlier than our move dates of the last weekend in November. We still occupied our first home over on 28th Street, and would remain there until the Thanksgiving Holiday. Our buyer planned on moving in on December 7th.

I wish I was making that up given that the new owner was a young, Japanese woman.

“Too bad we couldn’t get Judy to move in during August.”

“August?” Asked Deborah.

Lee cast a hairy eyeball in my direction.

“Hiroshima and Nagasaki,” explained Lee.

“Yes, of course,” I said. “Then we move in on Armistice Day.”

“That’s World War I, dear.”

“I didn’t want to wait until Spring.”

Deborah pulled out a paper bag from Andronico’s. It contained several stalks, or sprigs, of sage, dried out for the past week or so. She took sliver of bamboo, also dried, and tied up the bunch. I had our fireplace lighter from our other house and flicked it.

“Not yet,” said Deborah.

“Is there a ritual, or something? A chant? Are we in the proper attire?”

I laughed, but stopped when I looked at Deborah. Her skin had gone white as a, ahem, ghost. Lee looked a little queasy as well.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” said Deborah.

“Me neither,” said Lee.

“Okay, you numbskulls, are you kidding? This was your idea. Actually it was both of your idea, if that’s a real sentence.”

“The house is so dark, and cold,” said Deborah.

“Yes, I don’t think the caretaker did a whole ton of caretaking. Doesn’t appear he had the slightest idea of how to turn a lightbulb in a socket.”

A floorboard creaked.

“What a cliché,” I said.

Deborah made a move for the front door.

“Give me the sage, Deborah.”

She handed it over. I lit it.

“Let’s go.”

“What?”

“As I said, this was your idea. We are saging this house.”

And we did. Every single room. The sage went out once in a while, but with the fireplace lighter on hand, that issue was remedied. We finished and I think the happiest of the three of us was Deborah Collins.

****

We lived

, worked, loved, and raised four-legged children for the next 22 years. There were no more strange paranormal coincidences. No one capped themselves on the premises. Things, save for a clumsy golden retriever named Harpo, did not go bump in the night.

Yes, Ozzie and Harriet were back, and except for the meth lab next door, the couple that insisted on feeding the raccoons, and the patio leak that took eight years to fix, 310 Twin Peaks Boulevard acquitted itself quite nicely in terms of domestic bliss.

And then we moved.

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

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The House is Somewhat Unfriendly to its Occupants

Chapter 1 – Sale No Longer Pending

My wife and I sold our San Francisco home. Hallelujah! Huzzah! Thank God. Much as we loved Kooktown, USA, it was time to move on.

A sense of NO REGRETS came over me, as I reflected on a 30 year life in the State Formerly Known as Golden.

The house, a 3400 square foot split level neo-deco beauty designed by Frank Lloyd Wright protégé Aram Torrossian, sits in the made-up neighborhood of Clarendon Heights. The exact address is 310 Twin Peaks Blvd.

And perhaps the location’s monikered connection to a certain TV show created by David Lynch should have alerted us to the next 24 years. A run of comic, tragic, and coincidental events that had me wiping the sweat off my brow all the way, and up through the official closing date of . . .

. . . Friday the 13th. With an added bonus of A FULL MOON.

****

Don’t misunderstand. The house was not a construction disaster replete with Escher-like structure and sitting on an Indian (Cherokee Not Hindi) burial ground. Not at all. The property inspector who examined it before we bought raved about its structural integrity. In particular, the use of concrete and rebar to fortify floors and to support walls. He also fell in love with the countersunk bolts that secured the foundation and resisted earthquakes.

Prior to finishing, he pointed to a component of the build that included a support beam running the length of the storage facility just off the garage.

“Balances out the stressors on the top three floors,” he said.

“Uh, okay,” came the brilliant reply.

310 Twin Peaks was a design and engineering dream. I’ve included a photo at the conclusion of this introduction. Most important, it solved a dilemma Lee and I had regarding renting office space.

Our previous house, a cozy Marina-style home in the Noe Valley neighborhood of San Francisco, had three bedrooms, a kitchen, dining room, living room, and one bathroom all on one floor. Perfect for the two of us and an occasional guest.

Not so great for running my business, I was an independent film and video producer at the time, out of one of the bedrooms. Subcontractors coming and going; equipment in the garage; and a client meeting or three during the six years we lived there. I parked a coordinator at a spare desk once in a while as well. Not good for privacy.

In 1993, Lee suggested I rent an office somewhere in the city, which I did not want to do. If I had to go away from the house to work, I’d never see my wife, an unacceptable situation.

And this meant the hunt for a new house commenced and the very first of a series of disconcerting events sat just ahead of the stern of the good ship, George.

Bear in a mind a few facts as this unfolds.

1. We started looking for a new house in 1993. We didn’t buy, or take possession, until late 1995.

2. I was working on Tim Burton’s “The Nightmare Before Christmas” when the search began. It turned out to be a fitting starting point.

3. Lee and I are HUGE fans of Halloween. It might be our favorite Holiday.

310 Twin Peaks Blvd. Seems harmless despite the odd connection to the odd David Lynch show of the era. Yes? No?

Chapter 2 – The Nightmare Before Escrow

In the Autumn of 1992 the Mouse (Disney) hired me to work on Tim Burton’s “The Nightmare Before Christmas.” To that point, the biggest job of my production career. It also served as the house-buying inception point because Lee and I took the opportunity of Yours truly having a somewhat normal schedule (Monday-Friday, few weekends) to be squired around by Joan Foppiano and Vickie Tucker, the World’s Greatest Real Estate Agents.

And that’s not a false claim. They got us into our house on 28th Street in Noe Valley, no small feat considering we looked at 48 properties before deciding on this particular one, and yes I kept track. They would get us out during a down market two years later, and in Guiness World Record time, subjective as that sounds.

All of this would get us into . . .

310 Twin Peaks Blvd.

But first, Tim Burton.

Or, should I say, Halloween.

For those readers who don’t know “The Nightmare Before Christmas” or “TNBC” as insiders called the film, it was a creepy stop-motion feature that involved a skeleton in a tuxedo named Jack Skellington, who decided to hijack Christmas.

Yes, I’ve heard all the Grinch comparisons. Leave me alone.

I am looking at this in hindsight. I worked on a movie that made a lot of people uncomfortable and entertained at the same time. And that is exactly how the coinciding search for a new house felt when we discovered 310 Twin Peaks Blvd. in the Spring of 1993.

To that point, with the patient Joan and Vickie, we had looked at about a dozen properties and none of them seemed right. Too small. No truly separate room to run the business.

If a house had an in-law unit, very popular in the Bay Area . . . must be a lot of in-laws looking to be banished to the backyard . . . , it either needed $100,000 in work, had never been permitted, or did not afford more privacy than Lee and I had in the Noe Valley residence.

One weekend in mid-April of 1993, we were schlepping, actually being schlepped by Vickie, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We pulled up in front of what appeared to be an overgrown weed and vine infested lot. We exited the car.

“I really like what they’ve done with the place,” I offered.

Vickie laughed her “If I Only I Could Beat My Clients With An Ax Handle I Would” laugh, and dragged us up four flights of moss covered brick stairs. She gave us the tour, which included the following highlights, sure to close any quick sale.

1. The kitchen, admittedly a good-sized one, still had the original cabinets, floors, walls, AND (BONUS!) oven from 1939. However, the faucet was a Moen.

2. Water damage covered the entire north wall of the kitchen, a result of an ongoing second floor patio leak.

3. The washer and dryer were definitely from 1972, but the Maytag repairman had left his business card taped to one of the lids, so we had that going for us.

4. All the upstairs bedrooms (three) had bits and pieces of broken glass on the floor.

5. The downstairs powder room contained the ORIGINAL FIXTURES, which the seller consider a plus as that little fact was called out in the abstract. Abstract is real estate speak for flyer.

6. The garage, at 400 square foot had been designed to accommodate a single car, because it was constructed in the late 30’s when most families were lucky to own one. However, no adjustments had been made over the years and the garage had only enough room for a 1939 Hudson.

“We’ll take it!” I exclaimed. “Okay, maybe not.”

“I hear the Mini is a nice little car,” said Vickie.

After that comment landed with a thud, we moved onto the separate room, which would serve as my office. It’s location? The bottom floor of the house, just off the aforementioned garage.

****

Four hundred square feet. One wall entirely of mirrors. Wall-to-Wall carpeting that had seen better days, but just needed a cleaning. A storage closet next to it completed the floor.

And the high points. You could get to it without entering the front door of the house. AND no other common areas or rooms existed on the same floor with it.

“Again, where do I sign?” I asked, hoping the earnest tone of my voice would convince Vickie of my intentions.

“There are a few things to consider, first,” she said, and won Understatement of the Year from Dr. Paul Ehrlich, PhD in Hyperbolics.

“Oh?”

“Yes, let’s start with the previous owner’s suicide . . . on the property.”

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

The House is Somewhat Unfriendly to Occupants

Chapter 1 – Sale No Longer Pending

My wife and I sold our San Francisco home. Hallelujah! Huzzah! Thank God. Much as we loved Kooktown, USA, it was time to move on.

A sense of NO REGRETS came over me, as I reflected on a 30 year life in the State Formerly Known as Golden.

. . . Friday the 13th. With an added bonus of A FULL MOON.

****

Prior to finishing, he pointed to a component of the build that included a support beam running the length of the storage facility just off the garage.

“Balances out the stressors on the top three floors,” he said.

“Uh, okay,” came the brilliant reply.

310 Twin Peaks was a design and engineering dream. I’ve included a photo at the conclusion of this introduction. Most important, it solved a dilemma Lee and I had regarding renting office space.

In 1993, Lee suggested I rent an office somewhere in the city, which I did not want to do. If I had to go away from the house to work, I’d never see my wife, an unacceptable situation.

And this meant the hunt for a new house commenced and the very first of a series of disconcerting events sat just ahead of the stern of the good ship, George.

Bear in a mind a few facts as this unfolds.

1. We started looking for a new house in 1993. We didn’t buy, or take possession, until late 1995.

2. I was working on Tim Burton’s “The Nightmare Before Christmas” when the search began. It turned out to be a fitting starting point.

3. Lee and I are HUGE fans of Halloween. It might be our favorite Holiday.

310 Twin Peaks Blvd. Seems harmless despite the odd connection to the odd David Lynch show of the era. Yes? No?

Chapter 2 – The Nightmare Before Escrow

All of this would get us into . . .

310 Twin Peaks Blvd.

But first, Tim Burton.

Or, should I say, Halloween.

For those readers who don’t know “The Nightmare Before Christmas” or “TNBC” as insiders called the film, it was a creepy stop-motion feature that involved a skeleton in a tuxedo who decided to hijack Christmas.

Yes, I’ve heard all the Grinch comparisons. Leave me alone.

To that point, with the patient Joan and Vickie, we had looked at about a dozen properties and none of them seemed right. Too small. No truly separate room to run the business.

“I really like what they’ve done with the place,” I offered.

1. The kitchen, admittedly a good-sized one, still had the original cabinets, floors, walls, AND (BONUS!) oven from 1939. However, the faucet was a Moen.

2. Water damage covered the entire north wall of the kitchen, a result of an ongoing second floor patio leak.

3. The washer and dryer were definitely from 1972, but the Maytag repairman had left his business card taped to one of the lids, so we had that going for us.

4. All the upstairs bedrooms (three) had bits and pieces of broken glass on the floor.

5. The downstairs powder room contained the ORIGINAL FIXTURES, which the seller consider a plus as that little fact was called out in the abstract. Abstract is real estate speak for flyer.

“We’ll take it!” I exclaimed. “Okay, maybe not.”

“I hear the Mini is a nice little car,” said Vickie.

After that comment landed with a thud, we moved onto the separate room, which would serve as my office. It’s location? The bottom floor of the house, just off the aforementioned garage.

****

Four hundred square feet. One wall entirely of mirrors. Wall-to-Wall carpeting that had seen better days, but just needed a cleaning. A storage closet next to it completed the floor.

And the high points. You could get to it without entering the front door of the house. AND no other common areas or rooms existed on the same floor with it.

“Again, where do I sign?” I asked, hoping the earnest tone of my voice would convince Vickie of my intentions.

“There are a few things to consider, first,” she said, and won Understatement of the Year from Dr. Paul Ehrlich, PhD in Hyperbolics.

“Oh?”

“Yes, let’s start with the previous owner’s suicide . . . on the property.”

0 notes

ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Southern Manhattan Suffers Historic Drop in IQ- Continued

“Mister Davenport? I’m Detective Cooper.”

Officers Murkowski and Lee deposited Roger into an interrogation room, which contained a single window that looked out over the surrounding harbor of southern Manhattan. He sat at a bare metal table that had two loops at either end. Roger assumed these were for handcuffs. The chair underneath him, wooden with a thin burgundy colored cushion, however, was secured to the table by a bicycle lock. It did not allow Roger to shift its position.

Cooper, as Groucho Marx might have described him, stood well over four feet tall. Actually, Roger estimated his height at around 5’6” and the detective carried about 200 pounds on a large, but overburdened frame. He had a well-chewed toothpick in his mouth, which he laid down on the edge of the table away from Roger when he introduced himself.

“Now, Mister Davenport, why don’t we get off to a rousing good start, and you tell me how you knew about the murder on Theater Alley,” said Cooper as he took another wooden chair from a corner of the room and sat. Roger swore he heard the chair groan under the weight of the detective.

“I told you,” said Roger. “I saw the images of the killing on Google Earth.”

“Yes, I remember. You also told me your name was Mike Williams. Sounds like there were two lies that evening.” Admonished Cooper.

“Am I under arrest, detective?” asked Roger.

“No, but we do take things like this very seriously, and your unwillingness to provide a real name, for whatever reason . . . let’s just say that makes my antenna go up.”

Cooper rested both of his beefy hands on the table; interlaced the fingers; and thumped his thumbs together.

“Did you look at the screen capture I turned over to you?” asked Roger.

“I gave it to IT, and they’re checking it out for authenticity.” Replied Cooper. “It is very easy to fake things in photographs nowadays. Don’t you agree, Mister Davenport?”

Roger pushed back from the table, and met the detective’s eyes.

“What are you saying, detective? That I fabricated the screen grab of a murder? I didn’t have time to fake it. Your IT person took it off my phone because I emailed it to myself.”

Cooper drummed his thumbs faster and locked eyes with Roger, who finally lost the staring contest and looked away.

“What do you do for a living, Mister Davenport?” Asked Cooper, his voice clear and direct.

“I’m a senior creative director at Tip of the Spear. You know that,” he replied.

“And would you say you have expertise in the area of photo retouching?”

“I would – hey, hold on one second. First of all I explained how your IT person got it from me, and the authentication tools today are exceptional, especially at police stations.”

“Exactly,” said Cooper.

“I don’t like where this is going, detective. Why don’t we just wait for the results,” said Roger. “And then we’ll see.”

“We have the results,” said Cooper. “And they’re inconclusive. Sort of like a biopsy result. We just can’t tell if the cancer is malignant or not.”

“I’m not sure that was the best analogy.” Offered Roger.

“But you know what I mean, Mister Davenport?”

“Sadly, I’ve not been the recipient of an inconclusive cancer diagnosis,” said Roger. “Or had a relative or family friend have to go through that, so, no, I don’t know what you mean, and that screen capture? Not doctored.”

“You say so. My IT guy says it’s inconclusive, and that’s what I’m working with.”

“Maybe your guy should get better at his job,” said Roger.

Cooper coughed and restrained himself from laughing.

“You know something, Mister Davenport,” he said. “I’ve been hearing that around here a lot lately. I’ll suggest it to the IT department. I’m sure that will help your case. Now, let’s talk about Memorial Day.”

“Fine, but I won’t be changing my story.”

Cooper queried Roger for about 30 minutes before he literally threw up his hands, which Roger found soothing since it meant the detective would stop obsessively tapping his thumbs together. Cooper moved his bulk out of the chair and charged out of the interrogation room. He made it obvious that Roger would be kept inside for some time by slowly locking and unlocking the door and testing it twice. He stormed away down the hallway.

Roger spent the next five hours in the room, and got his release just as the sun broke the horizon on southern Manhattan.

***

The police officer at the front gave Roger back his cell phone, wallet, loose change and keys, along with a handkerchief. A habit he acquired from his father. Roger always carried one.

He walked out of The Gotham Police Precinct, a newly renovated building situated between Old Slip and Governeur. Roger worked his way north back towards John Street, but decided to stop at an early morning breakfast place at the intersection of Maiden Lane and Water Street.

After he sat down at a table for two, he turned on his phone, which fortunately still had about 35% battery life showing on the screen. His news feed popped up.

Body found inside Louise Nevelson Plaza.

Roger sat two blocks from Louise Nevelson Plaza. He ran out of the café just as the exasperated waitress appeared at his table to take his order.

“Geez, you should wait untilI bring the food,” she laughed.

He stopped running a block from the park. Roger looked around the area. He slowed to a walk and redirected his approach to the park, looking for as much cover as possible.

He walked several blocks further north and east until he passed out of his neighborhood and arrived at a French café in SoHo called Balthazar. Roger again sat a two-top and

ordered a café Americano and some pastry. He waited until he had finished the coffee before pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

The waiter came by. Roger ordered another Americano.

The auto-feed on the screen still showed the same headline. Roger double-clicked on the notification and punched in his password. The full article, nothing more than a couple paragraphs, opened.

The NYPD, during standard patrol, stumbled on the body of a young woman shortly before dawn in Louise Nevelson Plaza. The park is in lower Manhattan.

The woman, whose identity is being withheld pending notification of next of kin, had been stabbed multiple times.

Anyone with any information should contact the NYPD immediately.

Nothing regarding the previous murder appeared in the article. Nor any mention of a possible connection to it. Standard Journalistic Operating Procedure. ]Anything even remotely smacking of a serial killer is an invitation to panic in New York City. The police would avoid that at all costs and make that clear to news outlets.

“But they were, or are, connected,” he said loud enough to draw the waiter’s attention. He waved them off.

He finished breakfast and walked to Louise Nevelson Plaza to look around.

***

Detective Cooper ended his shift just before Roger exited the Gotham Police Precinct. He took the subway home to his apartment on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx. He didn’t notice until he got home his cell phone battery had died. It had been more than two hours since Roger’s release by the time he walked through the lobby door of his building.

He sighed when he saw the black screen, and searched the apartment for his charger. He looked everywhere. He had taken it into the office with him, and had no backup in his apartment.

“Damn technology,” he said aloud.

***

Roger returned to the site of the second murder. He walked the perimeter of Louise Nevelson. The police and crime scene unit were clustered around a clump of trees in the middle of the park. Roger’s screen grab showed the murder took place right at the Maiden Lane and Gold Street intersection, and near recently arrived backhoes, barriers and dumpsters.

The killer had moved the body from the safety of cover to a place more exposed and easier to find. Just as the killer had done on Theater Alley, the site of the first murder.

Roger made a deliberate 360 degree turn and observed the abundant construction work around the park, another similarity between the two murders. When the police presence had thinned out, he noticed the trees where they were working not to be sparse at all, but rather low to the ground and clustered. The body could be hidden there, but more exposed than under a dumpster or backhoe, which would obscure it. This killer seemed intent on leaving more clues than he needed by putting the body out in the “open.”

“The murderer is trying to fool the police with false clues,” he said.

Roger moved towards the cluster of trees. Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Roger jumped.

“I am so sorry.” Came the stentorian tone. “I did not mean to frighten you.”

“It’s okay,” said Roger. He closed his eyes before he turned. He opened them. “At least you’re not Detective Cooper.”

In front of him stood a priest. Black shirt, white color, black pants and shoes. His height average, and the Father looked a bit on the heavy side, but more athletic than fat.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he stuttered. “Just nervous over these killings.”

“Killings?” He asked. “Oh, you’re referring to the one about a month ago over on Theater Alley? Yes, tragic. The loss of young life. Isn’t it?”

The conversation stopped as both men looked, not at each other, but at the taped off sections of Louise Nevelson Park.

“By the way,” said the Priest. “I’m PastorDavid Jones, and I’m a Lutheran Minister. I am not a Catholic Priest. Are you Catholic?”

“Un, no,” said Roger. “I’m not really religious.”

“Understood,” said Pastor Jones. “Did you know the victim, or victims?”

“No,” said Roger. “I just live very close by, essentially between the two of them. I consider it my neighborhood, and, well, uh – “

“Also understood,” said Jones. “Let us hope the police catch this horrible person, whoever he may be.”

Another halt in the conversation, this one longer. Roger interrupted the silence.

“Did you know the victim?” asked Roger.

“One of them, sadly.” Answered Pastor Jones. “The poor soul up on Theater Alley. She attended my church.”

“Oh.” Offered Roger. “Well then, my condolences for your loss, and let us hope the police are close to finding the killer.”

“Thank you, Mister?” He asked.

“Uh, Davenport. Roger Davenport.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, I must go and attend to my duties at the church, Mister Davenport,” said Pastor Jones. “I hope you will forgive me.”

“Of course.”

David Jones walked away from the scene, but stopped after only a few steps. He headed back to Roger, who imagined the Pastor as an undercover police officer about to cuff him any minute. Roger turned and move in the other direction.

“Mister Davenport! Wait!”

Roger stopped, but did not face the Pastor.

“Mister Davenport?”

Roger faced Pastor Jones and put his hands, wrists upright, in front of him. The Pastor looked down and then up. His face had a quizzical look.

“I, uh - ,” stammered Jones. “What are you doing?”

Roger put his hands down.

“Sorry, Pastor,” he said. “Force of habit?”

“No need to explain,” said Jones. “I wanted to see if you’d like to speak with one of my parishioners, a reporter for The New York Times. The paper assigned the murder on Theater alley to this member of my congregation. I have to assume this killing will be added to the assignment? Perhaps you’ll find some solace, or at least some information, that may help you?”

“I appreciate it, but – “

“Please Mister Davenport.” Continued Pastor Jones. “It is my job to assist those in need. You are evidently in need.”

“Oh, I don’t know, Pastor. I’m not interested in attending church,” he protested.

“That’s not a requirement for you to provide me an email or phone number or both. I’ll have the reporter get in touch with you, and you can decide as to whether or not you’d like to continue with a meeting or something.”

Roger cleared his throat and exhaled. He met the Pastor’s glance. He reached into his wallet and handed David Jones his business card.

“Thank you, Mister Davenport,” he said, a smile appearing on his face. “I believe you’ll find this a positive in your life.”

“Alright, Pastor Jones.” Roger said. “Let us hope so. I could use some of that positive stuff in my life right now.”

“Tip of the Spear?” Asked Jones, perusing Roger’s card. “How did you come up with that? That is a very unique name for an advertising agency.”

Jones let himself laugh out loud, a booming expression of mirth, and so much so that Roger found that he too laughed . . . for the first time in weeks, if not months.

“Yes, I get that a lot.”

Pastor Jones put his hand on Roger’s shoulder. The two men exchanged pleasantries; shook hands; and left the scene of Murder #2.

0 notes

ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Chapter 6 – Southern Manhattan Suffers Historic Drop in Average IQ

A three-day weekend. A year ago an enjoyable time for Roger, but now the idea of not going into work for 84 hours, give or take, put everything around him into the slow motion grind of avoidance.

Since his separation, Monday through Friday work served as a distraction. Weekends were another story, but he had the boys every other one, and that made the ones when he did not have Tyler and Max in his John Street apartment, tolerable.

Tip of the Spear, the office, the people, and the projects provided sanctuary for Roger. The routine gave him structure. His coworkers, save for Gary, did not ask him about the separation and kept their conversations relegated to the business of advertising. He worked late many nights, which delayed the return to the empty apartment in southern Manhattan.

****

The agency represented home and family for Roger now. Taking him away from it for a three-day weekend no longer had any appeal.

The actual Fourth of July fell on the Friday of the workweek, and the agency promised the employees that Thursday the 3rdwould be a very short workday. Roger drained every moment out of it he could, and remained at his desk when Gary stopped by at 5pm.

Everyone else left after lunch.

Gary leaned against the doorjamb. He stared at Roger, until he realized that Roger was refusing to acknowledge him.

“Let’s go, Davenport,” he said. “I don’t want to find you in here on Monday morning with three days growth on your face and body odor filling the room.”

Roger forced a weak smile.

“I have my shaving kit with me, and I could always use the shower in the bathroom in your office. I do have all the codes, you know.”

“Is that right?” Asked Gary. “Thanks for reminding me to have them changed once in a while. I’m not good about that.”

Roger exhaled blowing his lips and tongue in a Bronx cheer. Gary laughed and switched off the office lights. The two were out the door; into the elevator; and onto 9thAvenue in two minutes.

A sunny and mild day for July greeted them. Roger shaded his eyes, and slipped his right hand into his briefcase to pull out his sunglasses. He put them on as Gary grabbed his own pair from a side pocket inside his suit jacket.

“I think I could make an excuse,” said Gary. “If you feel a drink would help get you to southern Manhattan in a better frame of mind.”

Roger lifted up his sunglasses and looked at Gary. The two walked the block from 16thto 15thStreet and then over to 8thAvenue.

They halted just in front of the entrance to the subway on the west side of 8thAvenue. Gary was heading uptown. Roger down and across town.

“No thanks,” said Roger. “I’ll take my chances with a very long walk back to John Street. I could certainly use the exercise.”

“Alright, Roger,” said Gary. “I will see you on Tuesday.”

Gary disappeared down the steps. Roger dropped the sunglasses back down on the bridge of his nose and walked to 14thStreet. He was just about to turn left to start his journey in

the cross-town direction, but changed his mind and opted to take Hudson downtown through the old meatpacking district and into a section of Manhattan that showed the effects of capital investment with block after block of retail, newly constructed apartment buildings, and casual restaurants with sidewalk seating.

The usual hustle of humanity on Hudson Street seemed quiet for a pre-Holiday rush hour. No traffic jams. Pedestrian crowds light. That familiar Manhattan crush too many people on too narrow sidewalks had evaporated in a sea of weekend plans.

Roger traversed the distance to and from his apartment to the office often enough to know the route measured just a little longer than two-and-a-half miles and would take him an hour. Maybe longer if he reallytook his time and stopped at a bookstore with no intention of buying a darned thing.

It would be on less hour to kill before the oasis of Monday.

To kill?

***

The Summer in New York City started out with lower than normal temperatures, and little rain. The 4thof July weekend promised to be no different. Roger walked the distance to his apartment and did not break a sweat. He did have to remove his dark grey suit jacket and loosen his red and blue striped tie.

Roger also took off his hat, a throwback matching Fedora.

Old School described many things about Roger, dress being one of them. He liked the Mad Men style, and dressed in plain darkish suits and skinny ties. His taste in clothing ran conservative and the haberdashery trend the TV show started appealed to him immediately.

Roger Davenport presented the very picture of the television series as he strolled down West Broadway with his jacket slung over his shoulder held by only a single finger of his right hand; briefcase and hat in his left; and the collar of his white shirt just the right amount of open.

And for a while his admin, Joan ironically, greeted him with, “Good morning, Mister Draper. Coffee?”

The exchange worked for both of them, since Roger loved the attention and did not drink coffee, so Joan avoided the Old School female errand of fetching coffee for the male boss.

Gary Kaplan stated that Roger became the saddest advertising creative director on Earth, when the show went off the air. To his credit, though, Roger continued to sport the attire.

****

The hour-killing walk ended. Roger entered his building and took the elevator to the tenth floor. He entered his apartment and stripped off the tie, which he draped over the Barcalounger. Roger took in the view from his apartment, which again existed solely of the building across the street.

“Now what?” He said aloud.

To that, he went to the kitchen and poured about four ounces of bourbon into a tumbler. He reached for the freezer to get a couple of ice cubes, but changed his mind.

“Why bother? It only dilutes it,” he said to no one.

Halfway through the four ounces, he opened his briefcase; took out his laptop; and placed it on a box in the kitchen. Roger unpacked the contents of the box, but he since he hadn’t purchased a table yet, he had nowhere to eat his meals, save for the box. And now, it would serve as a desk, another piece of furniture he’d neglected to buy.

He checked his personal email. Just an annoying reminder from Patricia that she and the boys were away for the Fourth of July Holiday weekend. She did not wish him a happy engagement anniversary just as she had not wished him a happy wedding anniversary on Memorial Day. He read a few news feeds (Nothing new on the murder from Memorial Day); and checked the weather (Continued mild for the week).

Boredom and curiosity drove him to open Google Earth. He had not used the application since Memorial Day, the night of the murder.

He opened the application, but immediately closed it and shut off the computer. Roger left the black screen up.

“What are you doing?” He asked. “Besides talking to yourself?”

He switched on the television

“I’ll just channel surf,” he said out loud. “It will at least kill—”

Nothing interested him on any of the channels, so he went to Netflix and downloaded an episode of Mad Men from the first season. Watching it got him to 11pm. Late enough to call it a night.

Roger got ready for bed, but could not fall asleep. His insomnia was getting worse. Around midnight, he kicked back the covers and walked out to the kitchen. The bourbon enticed from the counter, but he turned away from it.

“Maybe I’ll watch Lost Weekend,” he said. “That will push me in one direction or the other.”

Turning from the bourbon bottle his eyes landed on his laptop, still open from earlier in the evening. He turned it on and opened Google Earth.

“Beats talking to myself, or does it?”

He searched for “Bars Open Near Me Now.” When he looked south from Theater Alley, he saw something he did not want to see.

At Liberty Place, south of Theater Alley, the exact same figure in the same position poised to execute another victim. A chill ran through Roger and he shook his head like a dog. He looked again. Still there.

He hit Command-Shift-4; heard the reassuring sound effect of a camera shutter snapping; and waited for a screen capture to appear on his desktop. It did. He emailed it to himself.

Roger double-clicked on it and when it opened, the shadow figure was there; knife positioned overhead; victim and blood underneath. He could get no further detail on the assailant, but the recipient of the stabbing appeared to be another young woman.

Roger shot out of the kitchen and into the living room. He grabbed the land-line and called 911.

“911. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“I, uh, think I’m watching, uh, witnessing a murder!”

“Where is this occurring, sir?”

“Uh, Liberty Place, below - !” He replies.

“I’m familiar with the area. What is your name, sir?” She asks.

“I don’t want to give you my name,” he replies. “Please send someone over there right away. I called several weeks ago when--,” and Roger stopped talking.

“Hold the line, please,” she says.

Roger rocks back and forth on his bare feet. He opens his mouth to say something into the receiver and reaches, once more, for the ‘End’ button. He pulls his hand back.

“It’s the same thing AGAIN! Should I run over there? The police are not going to believe it. They didn’t believe it last time!” He lowered his voice to a whisper when he realized he was getting loud.

“Detective Cooper, homicide.”

The same detective.

“DETECTIVE COOPER! HOMICIDE!”

“At least you yelled all the words this time,” said Roger, with a Peter Lorre laugh at the end of his statement.

“Is this Mike Williams?”

Roger dropped the phone. He picked it up.

“What?” Asked Roger. He fumbled and dropped the phone again. He got to the floor and shouted into the speaker. “Yes. Yes. This is Mike Williams.”

Another pause. Cooper covered the mouthpiece and motion to his partner. Acheson gave the thumbs up that the trace had started from the moment the dispatcher took the call.

“What is it this time, Mister Williams?” Asked Detective Cooper. “Did you see a murder committed on Facebook?”

“What? Uh, no Detective. It’s the same thing. I mean except it’s over on Liberty Place, and this time I have a screen capture.”

“You have a what?” Asked Cooper.

“A screen capture. I can send it to you. Just need an email address.” Roger answered. His voice cracked on the last statement.

“Alright, Mister Williams,” said Cooper. “Why don’t I find out exactly who you send it to. I’ll be right back.”

“You’ll be right back? What does that mean? Detective, there may be a murder going on right now, exactly the same as the one several weeks ago that occurred on Theater Alley!”

Roger heard a faint hum on the phone line, and he banged the received down into its cradle. He checked his pants pockets for his keys, and finding them in his left, bolted out the door and into the elevator. If the police were not going to at least send a patrol car over to Liberty Place, he would run over there now. The location of the Google Earth murder was only two blocks south of his John Street apartment.

The elevator chugged up to his floor and he bounced up and down on his toes as he waited for it. It arrived and he got on.

It stopped on the third floor. Roger exhaled. A young woman stepped inside. Her hair, streaked with lavender. Earbuds implanted above her studded lobes.

The doors opened on the ground floor and Roger shot out into the lobby. He collided with two NYPD policemen. Both officers lightly restrained Roger. The older of them, a

swarthy man of about 45 with a well-trimmed gray mustache tightened his grip. Roger read ‘Stephan Murkowski” on his nameplate over his shirt pocket.

“You Roger Davenport, also known as Mike Williams?” he asked.

Roger stopped what had been a weak struggle. The police had traced his phone call and found out his name; where he lived; and dispatched a patrol car to pick him up.

“I’ll be whoever you like, but I, uh, can you please come down to Liberty Place with me?” He implored. Roger shouted the words at the officers, who blinked in synch.

“We have orders to take you directly to the precinct station, Mister Davenport. Detective Cooper will see you there,” said Officer Murkowski.

His partner, a younger Asian man named Arthur Lee, reached for a pair of handcuffs clipped to his belt. Officer Murkowski waved his hand back and forth.

“We aren’t going to need to cuff you, are we Mister Davenport?” He asked.

“No,” said a contrite Roger. “But I will ask you once more to please drive past Liberty Place. I’m sure it’s on the way to the precinct.”

Lee and Murkowski exchanged a look.

“I think we can do that,” said Murkowski.

“Thank you,” said Roger. “Can we hurry?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone ask to hurry to the police station, have you Arthur?” Joked Murkowski.

“Nope. It’s a first.” replied Officer Lee.

The policemen and Roger walked out of the building. The officers allowed Roger to place himself in the backseat of the patrol car. They drove south on Gold and, because of the heavy construction blocking vehicular traffic, turned right on Liberty Street. When they arrived at the alley of Liberty Place, the officers hopped out of the car, and made a cursory look around.

Not a person in sight, but had they been two minutes earlier, they might have seen a body being dragged out of the alley and hidden underneath a dumpster that had just been dropped off that afternoon in the area. And if the officers had stayed two minutes longer they might have spotted the trickle of the victim’s blood pooling just outside the dumpster. The next day the body of Nickie Walsh, the 25-year-old Goldman-Sachs intern would be discovered where Ruben had hidden it.

“Sorry, Mister Davenport,” said Officer Lee. “But that alleyway is, uh, dead. There is no one there.”

“Thanks for checking it out,” said a dejected Roger. “You can take your time now.”

Officer Murkowski allowed himself a laugh as Roger slumped in the back seat. He pushed himself further and further into the cushions while they rode to the precinct.

CHAPTER 6 TO BE CONTINUED

0 notes

ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Chapter 5 - I Liked Killing so Much, I Decided to do it Again

Roger woke the next morning, Memorial Day Monday, and felt the repercussions of sleeping in a Barcalounger. He couldn't move his head up and down without a pain severe enough to convince him to stay still and allow it to subside.

This made for an interesting morning of drinking coffee without tilting his head back. Roger swallowed a couple of Excedrin by sucking them through a narrow slit between his upper and lower teeth. He followed that action by inhaling some coffee. He moved out of the kitchen. The pain got his attention again when he sat down in the now upright Barcalounger to read his news feeds. The reborn headache and neck ache also reminded him of what he saw on Google Earth the night before.

On nytimes.com in the local tab.

Body Discovered on Theater Alley

Roger couldn’t tilt his head enough to read the article. He put the laptop down on top of one of the boxes in the living room. He held his head perfectly still as he got out of the chair. He walked into the bathroom; leaned over a single small box marked ‘Meds,’ and with a grunt tore open the flaps on top. Roger looked in. His eyes were drawn to a white and blue bottle, which advertised ‘Ibuprofen.’

"Might as well complete the cocktail,” he said.

He continued his ‘Frankenstein’ walk to the kitchen where he located an opened bottle of bourbon. He slugged down three capsules with a full swallow of the alcohol.

“Aaaaaaah,” he exhaled, which hurt his neck. “Old Kentucky, best muscle relaxer on the planet.”

He leaned against the counter and set the kitchen timer for ten minutes. When the alarm sounded, he walked a little more fluidly back to the Barcalounger. Roger picked up the laptop and forced his head down to read the article.

Body Discovered on Theater Alley

The body of a young woman was discovered by the NYPD early this morning. The police came across it during standard patrol.

The young woman, whose identity is being withheld pending notification of next of kin, had been stabbed multiple times.

Anyone with any information should contact the NYPD immediately.

“I did contact you, NYPD,” said Roger. “I did.”

Roger reached behind his head and massaged his neck. After two minutes he felt much better, at least physically.

“But what do I do now, besides talking to myself, which is a sign of insanity? I have no evidence of the Google Earth image. It wasn’t clear enough to give the police a description.”

He heads back to the kitchen for another drink. He lifted the bottle of bourbon off the counter and unscrewed the cap. Roger brought the opening to his lips.

“It’s a National Holiday and my Wedding Anniversary. Cheers!”

***

Roger returned to work on Tuesday. The week passed without incident, as did the entire month of June. The divorce, or at the least the possibility of it, and his job occupied him as the murder, and his conversations with the police, faded.

Chapter 6 – Victim #2 Annie Chapman, 9/8/1888

The Autopsy Report on Jack the Ripper’s Second Victim, Annie Chapman:

The throat was dissevered deeply with a very sharp knife with a thin narrow blade, and must have been at least 6 in. to 8 in. in length, as such an instrument as a medical man used. The incisions into the skin indicated that they had been made from the left side of the neck. There are indications of anatomical knowledge. There was no evidence of a struggle taken place. A handkerchief was round the throat tied, but cut when the incisions made.

He noticed a protrusion of the tongue. There was a bruise over the right temple, on the upper eyelid there and on the forepart of the top of the chest perhaps delivered by a blow. However, the bruises on the face are recent, especially about the chin and side of the jaw. Therefore the person who cut the deceased throat took hold of her by the chin, and then commenced the incision from left to right.

There were two distinct clean cuts on the left side of the spine. They were parallel with each other and separated by about half an inch. The muscular structures appeared as though an attempt had made to separate the bones of the neck.

The abdomen had been entirely laid open: the intestines, severed from their mesenteric attachments, had been lifted out of the body and placed on the shoulder of the corpse. From the pelvis, the uterus and its appendages with the upper portion of the vagina and the posterior two thirds of the bladder, had been entirely removed. No trace of these parts could be found and the incisions were cleanly cut, avoiding the rectum, and dividing the vagina low enough to avoid injury to the cervix uteri. Obviously the work was that of an expert -- of one, at least, who had such knowledge of anatomical or pathological examinations as to be enabled to secure the pelvic organs with one sweep of the knife.

The appearance of the cuts confirmed that the instrument, like the one which divided the neck, had been of a very sharp character. The mode in which the knife had been used seemed to indicate great anatomical knowledge.

Chapter 6A – Victim #2 Nickie Walsh, Independence Day

Ruben disliked this murder site. He disliked it a lot. It gave very little cover. The place where the thing is supposed to happen is too open. He did not like this at all.

At least when he first saw it.

Now, here early in the morning of July 4th, he liked it. It looked different from just a week ago. Yes. A week ago, there were people all over the place and nowhere to hide. A week ago there were bright lights and cars and other traffic and those pesky kids with their Ubers and stuff.But there would be one less of them soon.

Yes soon.

And now the place had big orange barriers to hide behind, and scaffolding with its opaque blue plastic cover which ran along one side of Maiden Lane, and all the way up to the weird statue where the thing would happen. There were rows and rows of police barricades and metal dividers that looked like bike racks.

The place had very little room for anything or anybody else, and the weird statue, well, that just looked darker than ever. He needed that right person to come along and walk the wrong way.

****

Nickie Walsh, a beautiful bottle-blond intern at Goldman-Sachs in her first summer between semesters at Georgetown, walked down Maiden Lane. She had fallen asleep on the 2 train and ended up in Brooklyn after missing the last stop in Manhattan.

She waited an hour on an empty platform for another train to take her back into Manhattan. She shot out of the train when it stopped at Wall Street and flew up Pine Street to get to the apartment she shared with three other interns. It sat at the intersection of William and Platt Streets.

She turned the wrong way on Pine Street, walking east as opposed to west. She stood at Pearl Street and screamed; stopped; composed herself and ran back up Pearl to Maiden Lane, which would save her a quarter of a block once she got to William.

She hustled down Maiden Lane in the direction of William. She approached the point where Maiden forked. Liberty to the left and Maiden continued to the right.

“No more wrong turns,” she said.

The steel chisel crashed against her right cheek and orbit bone. She went down in a broken and bloody heap.

Once more the hand reached into the jacket pocket.

Sever the throat deeply with a very sharp knife with a thin narrow blade. It must have been at least 6 in. to 8 in. in length. Use the medical saw if you have to.

And the instructions continued.

0 notes

ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Chapter 4 - Is That a Knife?

Roger Davenport became an official resident of lower Manhattan, when he moved his belongings into an apartment at 90 John Street, the Thursday before Memorial Day. The building sat on a narrow street between Pearl and Gold, and had a spectacular view of another apartment building.

The sounds of construction work filled southern Manhattan, John Street being no exception. Roger spent most of the day getting settled; dodging cement trucks and getting redirected through a series of detours by a collection of unhappy police officers. The pathway to and from his apartment resembled a Tetris game, with the pieces represented by backhoes, mini-bulldozers, and barricades constantly on the move.

The last of Roger’s boxes got dropped off on the Friday before the start of the Memorial Day weekend. He’d missed most of the latter part of the workweek with the move. Gary Kaplan gave him the time off, and Roger needed it because like most Manhattanites he had become very insular in his previous neighborhood, the Upper West Side. His geographical illiteracy outside of UWS, as it was called, had him taking longer to find grocery stores and set up cable and internet and other services. He knew little about the world below Lincoln Center; East of Central Park; and North of Zabar’s.

He spoke with his boss about the area of southern Manhattan as he sat in a rented barca-lounger and looked at the large open floor plan detailing the 10thfloor of 90 John Street. The apartment he occupied.

“You’ll figure it out, Roger,” said Gary. “After all you figured out the Upper West Side. How long did that take? Only four or five . . . years?”

“That’s funny, chief.”

“Come on. It is on the same island as the Upper West Side. It has bars and restaurants and grocery stores,” said Gary. “At least I think it does. I understand they’re getting television reception there next year.”

Gary heard nothing for a moment, except Roger pushing things around his new apartment.

“Look, Roger,” he said. “Another employee used Google Earth to help them get used to a new place in an unfamiliar part of the country. I’m sure it can aid with southern Manhattan.”

“Google Earth?” He asked. “How did that help?”

Roger got out of the barca-lounger and walked the obstacle course from the living room into the small clubman kitchen. He managed to find the coffee maker during his first feeble attempt at unpacking. He poured another cup, which he would have to drink black until he found a grocery store.

“She said it gave her a more realistic idea of the locale. Where things actually were in relation to her new apartment. Was the grocery store really just down the block, or did she have to go around something to get to it? Was there something closer that might be easier to deal with, but might be more expensive.” Gary continued. “Google Earth gives you the terrain along with a lot of the businesses and subway and bus stops. It’s updated constantly. Not just the photography, but if something new opens, Google isn’t far behind in getting the information onto the application.”

“When did you become such an expert?” Asked Roger as he sucked down the coffee. “God, this is awful.”

“What?”

“Black coffee. I really do have to find a grocery store. Go on.”

“It’s easy to use, Roger. For a creative guy who has an awfully good grasp of so many digital tools, you can be a Luddite.”

“Okay, Gary,” said Roger. “I’ll give it a go. I just have to some of these boxes unpacked and I’ll open up the laptop and take a look.”

“Good,” said Gary. “Call me back if you can’t find Wall Street. I’m pretty sure I know where it is.”

“Not helping.”

“No?”

“No.”

Gary ended the call. Roger walked over to the sink; moved an unopened box out of it; and tossed the remainder of the coffee into the drain.

“Google Earth? Ah, what the heck,” he said as he watched the liquid disappear.

Roger negotiated the obstacle course back towards the barca-lounger. Along the way he gathered up his work backpack and pulled the laptop out of it. He signed in and a bright Red, White and Blue graphic flashed onto the proclaiming the advent of the Memorial Day Holiday and just around the corner, The Fourth of July break as well. Digital reminders that every year for the past 15, he, Patricia and however many kids they had at whatever age they were, ventured down to Cape May, New Jersey to spend both Memorial and Independence Days with his parents and his sister. This year that would not happen, unless they settled things by the 4thof July.

“That is unlikely,” he said to the screen in front of him.

Memorial Day and Independence Day were also the anniversaries of his wedding and engagements to Patricia Davenport nee Hitchcock, respectively.

Another twinge and Roger hit the space bar to clear the screen. He opened a browser and typed in www.googleearth.com. Which did not work, but did redirect him to the company’s main page with a helpful instruction to type Google Earth into the search bar.

And received the requisite message informing him he’d have to download the application, and a Pro version would be available as well . . . for a small fee.

He clicked on the link and it took him to the page where he could download Google Earth. Roger did as instructed and had the icon on his desktop in minutes. He double-clicked on it.

Seconds later the big blue marble of planet Earth spun in front of him. He put the address of 90 John Street in the search window. It gave him the view from over the top of his building and displayed about 16 square blocks of the immediate neighborhood.

If anything could be called square in southern Manhattan. People told Roger, when they found out where he moved that the charm of the Wall Street area existed in the fact that nothing laid out in a grid. It was an old Dutch village and still retained some of the cobblestone streets; blind alleys; and narrow thoroughfares of the original settlement.

“Yes,” he said again to the screen. “Very charming. No straight lines. Dead-ends. Ankle-twisting cobblestones. Charming indeed.”

He opened another browser window and did a standard Google search for ‘Grocery Stores near me.’ A Jubilee had just opened down the block right on John Street and the same for a Gristede's a few blocks away on Cedar. As if he had any idea where Cedar Street sat in relation to John, but that’s what Google Earth was going help him wi—

Then he saw it, or saw him, rather. Over on a street called Theater Alley, northeast of his apartment. The search window on his laptop just large enough to show a section of the grid that boasted of a grocery store called Brother Food Vendor on Ann Street.

When Roger moved over to take a closer look by zooming in on Ann Street, the location of the store, he did a double take. On Theater Alley, which runs perpendicular to Ann, he saw the figure of a man leaning over someone.

Roger increased the size of the image on screen to get more detail. He refreshed the browser, which is a mistake, because it took him all the way back out to a 10,000 foot view. He quickly hit the ‘+’ on the application screen until he’s back down to the level where Theater Alley is dominating the upper left corner of the interface.

He pulled his screen in the northeast direction and hit the “+” button again. A person is bent over a prostrate figure, half of who is lying on the curb and half in the street on Theater Alley. A knife, identifiable even by its blurry profile . . . is raised above the assailant’s head.

The person is in mid-strike. The body language is more forward then backward. A thin grayish streak shows underneath the assailant. It must be the victim’s blood. The attacker has already stabbed his prey.

“I read something about this. Google Earth had captured a murder on the streets of Berlin. It turned out to be just an assault, but the image did help the police capture the criminal.”

While talking to himself, Roger does a search. He is looking for a number for Google Earth or Google. Nothing. At least nothing readily apparent. He does not want to call the police. They would never believe him.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his left wrist. Roger is sweating. He searches again for a call center. Nothing at Google. Not even a 1-800 number.

He wants to save the image as evidence, but Roger can’t remember the method of screen capture. It’s a simple series of keystrokes but it has flown out of his head. It is something he has done a hundred times for work, and yet it is now gone.

Roger exhales; tosses a few boxes and articles of clothing out of his way; and picks up the land line in his apartment. He dials 911.

“911. What is the nature of your emergency?” The dispatcher, a woman, asks.

“I’m witnessing a murder,” he blurts out before he can think.

“Where is this taking place, sir?” The dispatcher asks.

“Uh, Theater Alley. Just north of Ann Street,” he replies.

“What is your name, please?”

“Uh, I’d really prefer not to give it.” Roger replies. “I’m really not sure what I’m looking at.”

“Hold, please,” she says.

Roger paces around the apartment. He squeezes the handset repeatedly.

“Please don’t trace this call,” he says out loud. “I will hang up this phone and dash over to Theater Alley myself.”

He reaches towards the ‘End’ button, when a voice comes on the phone.

“Detective Cooper, homicide.”

The voice is New York, born and raised. Bronx.

“Detective Cooper, HOMICIDE!”

“I’m sorry, Detective,” says Roger. He pauses, until he hears heavier breathing coming from Detective Cooper. “This is Mike Williams. I believe I’m looking at a homicide on Google Earth.”

“A homicide on Google Earth?” Asks Detective Cooper. “What’s that mean, Mister Williams? Google Earth?”

“I was doing a search of my neighborhood. Looking for grocery stores. I, uh, just moved in.”

“Where do you live Mister Williams?” Asks Cooper.

Roger reaches for the ‘End’ button again. But stops.

“Please, detective, I’m not sure what this is,” says Davenport.

Cooper turns and motions to his partner, Dave Acheson, who is standing at the door of the detective’s office. He has an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Cooper puts the handset under his chin and scratches out “Google Earth and Theater Alley, NYC” on a notepad. He extends it to Acheson, who walks over to Cooper’s desk.

The detective, Cooper’s longtime partner, mimes a question mark in the air in front of him. Cooper says nothing and stares at him. Cooper makes the police sign for a trace. Acheson leaves the office. He sits at a desk in the interior of the floor and runs the program for a trace of his desktop computer. A policeman behind Acheson dons a headset. He lifts his right hand and makes a one handed clapping motion, the sign for Cooper to keep talking.

“We’re not finding anything here, Mister Williams,” says Cooper, just enough sarcasm when he says ‘Williams’ to set off Roger’s alarms, “You should tell me what this is really about?”

Roger has hung up.

“Did we get an address?” He yells across the room.

“Sorry, Dennis, not on the line long enough.” The policeman wearing a headset yells back.

“We have got to get better at this,” says Cooper, in the direction of the officer with the headset.

“Oh yeah?” Replies the officer. “Well, maybe you should think to ask for the trace earlier? Maybe that’s something you should get better at?”

There’s an escalation of shouting in the room, before someone says something along the lines of, “Yeah, maybe you should all kiss my –“ Cooper slams the door to his office and cuts off the noise coming from the precinct bullpen.

***

Roger returned the phone to its charger. The image of the murder, if that’s indeed what it is, has disappeared from his laptop. He sits in the Barcalounger and looks out at the apartment building across the way. The home he shared with Patricia, Tyler and Max had a view of Riverside Park. A tear filled his right eye. He pressed the palm of his hand to it.

Roger fully extends the Barcalounger, and looks at the newly painted ceiling. It is the last thing he remembers before falling asleep.

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

The Google Earth Murders - Chapters 2 & 3

One Week Earlier - Chapter 2 – The Divorce?

Patricia Davenport sobbed as she slammed the door shut and turned back to her two sons, Tyler and Max. Her husband Roger Davenport stood outside the now locked door of his condo at 131 Riverside Drive. He closed fingers around a key in his right hand, and held a large rolling suitcase in his left.

His jaw dropped from clenched teeth, and Roger raised the hand with the keys in it to knock, but he lost his nerve when he heard the voices of his sons, thick with crying, yelling something at their mother. He didn’t understand what they were saying, but it no longer mattered. He wheeled the suitcase down the hall, and pressed the button for the elevator.

On his way out of the building at 131 Riverside, his home for the past 12 years, he said goodbye to Albert, the gaunt and expressionless doorman.

“Good night, Mister Davenport,” said Alfred, not understanding the gesture of Roger’s ‘good-bye.’

“Good-bye, Albert,” said Roger again, accentuating the ‘good-bye.’ “Have a nice weekend.”

“It’s only Sunday night, Mister Davenport,” said Albert. “We’ll be seeing each other during the week . . . before Friday.”

“Doubtful,” said Roger.

Roger walked to the corner of 86thand Broadway; took the 1 Train downtown to Pennsylvania Station; waited for the stationmaster’s call of the NJ Transit line for Roselle Park; and boarded for the 30-minute ride to the suburb of Newark.

On the train, Roger called his longtime friend, and boss at the advertising agency, The Tip of the Spear, Gary Kaplan. He told Gary the day that mightarrive had indeed arrived. Roger would need the apartment in Colfax Manor, one of the company’s corporate housing properties, in North Jersey in the likely event that Patricia asked him to leave, which she had.

“Do you want me to pick you up at the station?” Asked Gary.

“No thanks. I remember the way to the apartment,” replied Roger.

“Okay, call me back if you have any issues getting inside,” continued Gary. “And you can use either bedroom.”

“Thanks, Gary. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

The conversation paused. Gary cleared his throat.

“You don’t have to come in to work, you know,” said Gary. “I think we can handle the subjective demands of our clients for a day without you. And it’s the week before the Memorial Day Holiday. Won’t be that busy anyhow.”

“Hang on, Gary.”

Roger reached into the side pocket of the rolling suitcase, and pulled out a small bottle of eye-drops. He placed a drop in each eye, both of which were red. He noticed a little girl in the seat across from him. She was staring at Roger, and tugging at her amber curls.

“Allergies,” he explained to her. It satisfied her curiosity, and she returned to staring at her mother, another redhead, her gaze transfixed on the Review section of the Wall Street Journal.

“What allergies?” Said Gary.

“Sorry,” said Roger. “But that comment wasn’t meant for you, and if I don’t come into work tomorrow, I’ll spend the day staring out the window of the apartment and looking at that empty ballfield across the way, and you wouldn’t want that on your mind, would you?”

“Not a chance.” Gary replied. “Come on in, but do NOT mope around the office all day, or I will send you back to New Jersey. Deal?”

“Deal. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Roger hung up his cell phone, and closed his eyes for a moment. He jerked awake when the train hit a rough patch of track. He looked out the window and saw the sign for Westfield. He had fallen asleep and the transit line had now passed four stops beyond Roselle Park.

Just one of those days.

Roger grabbed his suitcase and ran out of the train, just before it pulled out. He need not have rushed. The next northbound one would not arrive for at least an hour, if it arrived on time.

He pulled back his arm to hurl his suitcase across the platform floor, but stopped. He set the luggage down next to a bench in need of a facelift. He dropped onto its uncomfortable surface and waited.

And, of course, the train pulled in 35 minutes behind schedule.

By the time Roger got to the Roselle Park station, the digital clock on his cell phone said 12:03am. The apartment building, fortunately just a ten-minute walk from the train station and through a public baseball field and park, sat on a street named Colfax Manor.

“Manor? That’s rich. Actually, it’s not rich. It’s anything but,” he said as he walked through the park.

Roger, surprised to find the duplex-style apartments of the post-World War II era had been replaced by pine-colored stucco two-story buildings. Their facades greeted him after he breached the baseball field and crossed the street. There were even side alleys between all the units. No shared walls.

He rolled the suitcase up the walkway. Small patches of green were on either side of it, and a healthy looking oak tree grew in what passed for a front yard. He stopped at the front door and found the key to it on his key ring.

“Things could be worse . . . and they will be.”

As a reminder to just that, as he stuck the key in the lock, a fob that also remained on the key ring that read ‘131 Riverside’ flashed in front of his eyes.

He shoved open the door and walked up the steps to the second floor. Roger decided to take the bedroom upstairs. His New York City apartment laid out, as most did, on one single floor. If he had to climb steps upon his arrival at the end of the workday, that is all the better, so as to not remind him of what he had left behind.

He trudged up the steps; found the bedroom; and collapsed on top of the mattress. He fell asleep seconds later.

***

Roger did go into work the next day, Monday. He took the New Jersey Transit Line in and out of Manhattan, and then walked to and from Penn Station to his office and 16th

Street and 9thAvenue. Spring weather had become very pleasant, and the hot summer, while not far off, still remained almost a month away.

That Monday afternoon, just prior to the Memorial Day Holiday, he walked to Gary Kaplan’s office and observed the interior, his boss’ Spartan desk dominated. As per usual, only Gary, the world’s tiniest laptop, and a memo pad the side of a credit card in front of him occupied most of the surface’s workspace. Behind him sat a single bookshelf on a white credenza, which had no function other than to support the empty bookshelf.

Gary, his headset looped over one ear, conversed with someone in German. He noticed Roger leaning up against the doorjamb, which had no door. Gary motioned him in with a single crook of his finger.

Roger sat on the one three-legged stool that Gary would allow in his office. A way of keeping meetings and visits short.

Gary finished his call with a single, ‘Tschus.’

“How goes it, world’s greatest creative director?” Gary asked Roger.

Roger shifted his weight forward, though it had nothing to do with taking a more aggressive posture with his boss. He needed to make sure his legs didn’t fall asleep.

“I’m ready to move back to Manhattan,” he said.

Gary placed both index fingers next to each respective eyebrow.

“I didn’t think Patricia was ready to have you back after less than a few days?” He asked.

She isn’t. The only time I’ve spoken to her is when she needs something for Max and/or Tyler, and it usually involves me schlepping back into the city after I’ve already taken the train out to Roselle Park,” he Answered. “And I won’t keep doing that during the course of our separation, so I have to figure out some way to get an apartment in the city.”

“Alright,” said Gary. “How can I help? I don’t have any available corporate housing in the city right now. I will after the summer, but that’s not doing you any good.”

“But you do have a real estate agent you like?”

“I do. He’s mostly commercial and residential purchase, but I could put the arm on him for a rental. I’d have to call in a chit, but I’d do it for you, world’s greatest creative director.”

Gary reached inside his right pants’ pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He started looking through the contacts. Roger let it go for a moment, but couldn’t contain himself.

“For God’s sake, Gary,” he blurted out. “I’m sitting right across from you. How about you give me his phone number and I call the guy?”

“That’s what I’m doing. I’ll text it to you.”

Roger got off the stool and grabbed the Munchkin-sized memo pad; he took the four-inch pen that was magnetically attached to the pad and shoved it at Gary.

“Either write it down on one of these precious pieces of paper on this pad, or tell me what it is and I’ll write it down.” Laughed Roger. “Gary, you are something. Have you ever used this memo pad for an actual memo, or is it just a prop like everything else in this office?”

“Including me?” Asked Gary.

“Don’t give me a straight line, Kaplan. I haven’t had that many laughs in the past month and I would certainly take the opportunity if presented.”

“Okay. Okay. Here it is.”

Gary scratched out the number along with agent’s name and handed it back to Roger, who tucked it into his pants pocket. He left his boss’ office and walked back to his own.

Chapter 3 – Southern Manhattan

Roger procrastinated calling the real estate agent, but he relented when Patricia phoned him at 6pm that Monday night, just after he’d arrived back at the Roselle Park apartment. She insisted that he attend Tyler’s awards ceremony, this evening at 8pm, for the end of the sports year.

The ceremony, something Roger would have been thrilled to attend, happened to also be an event that Patricia could have let him know about prior to Roger commuting back to Roselle Park that evening. He exhaled after hanging up the phone, and headed out the door to catch one of the last trains to the city.

On the way into Manhattan, Roger pulled the note from his pocket and dialed the number.

An annoyed voice answered the phone. Professional, but annoyed.

“Rick Zeifman.”

“Rick? My name is Roger Davenport. I work for Gary Kaplan at Tip Of The Spear Advertising. He said you might be able to help me find a good temporary rental in Manhattan. At least for the summer.”

“Davenport? I-uh. Oh yes, Gary mentioned something about it to me. You’ve had a little trouble on the home front.”

Roger bit his lower lip and felt a headache coming on. His boss, lovely man, could not keep his mouth shut about anything, especially someone’s personal life. He gripped his cell phone tighter, and pressed it closer to his mouth and ear.

“Yes, leave it to Gary to divulge everything. People could save a lot on email and cell phone services, if they would just tell my boss not to say a word about something. It would immediately go out on the wire services, if there were still wire services.”

“Wire services?”

“How old are you, Mister Zeifman?” Asked Roger.

“Does it matter?” Came a swift reply.

“No, I guess not. Would you like to talk at a more business-like time?”

Silence from the other end of the line and Roger contemplated hanging up when the annoyed voice came back.

“I’ve just sent a few options to your email, which Gary gave to me. Take a look and let me know what you think.”

“Now?” Asked Roger.

Again, silence.

“No, of course not,” said Rick. “Take your time. You know how long decent properties at bargain prices stay on the Manhattan rental market. Oops. There they all go.”

A sharp laugh, like a Chihuahua bark shoved Roger’s ear away from the phone.

“Tomorrow morning at the latest, Roger,” said Rick. “I’m holding onto these as a favor to Gary, but I’m not the only agent with access to these and you are going to have to move fast. The larger of the two is at 90 John Street. If size is a factor, and you’ll have to move in this week.”

“John Street? Isn’t that – “

But Rick Zeifman hung up.

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

The Google Earth Murders - Chapter 1

1888 - Victim #1 Mary Anne "Polly" Nichols, 8/31/1888

The Official Autopsy Report on Jack the Ripper’s First Victim, Polly Nichols:

Cause of Death – An incision, made by a long-bladed knife, sharp and used with great violence, ran four inches from the Left Side of the Neck to the Right Side. The cut began an inch below the Jaw and one inch from below the Left Ear.

An inch below and before this cut is an additional circular incision about eight inches in length, which terminated at a point three inches below the Right Jaw. This cut severed all tissue back to the Vertebra. This also completely severed both large Vessels of the Neck.

Five Teeth are missing, and there is a slight laceration of the Tongue. A large bruise runs along the right side of the Face and terminates at the Jaw, a result of a severe blow to the Head.

No blood was found on the Breast, or of the body or the clothes. There were no injuries about the body until just about the lower part of the Abdomen, where several incisions were made, which ran across the abdomen. Two or three inches from the Left side of the Abdomen is a deep and jagged wound, very deep and cutting through all the tissue.

There are several additional incisions across the Abdomen. Three or four deep cuts run downward, on the right side, all caused by a knife used with extreme violence. These injuries are from Left to Right and might have been done by a left-handed person. All injuries inflicted by the same long-bladed and sharp instrument.

Today - Victim #1 Riley Singleton, Memorial Day

Ruben crouched behind the barricades at the intersection of Ann Street and Theater Alley. Scaffolding surrounded by plastic sheeting covered both sidewalks of the alley and ran from Ann Street back north to Beekman.

Construction trailers, backhoes, and bulldozers crammed the stretch of Theater Alley. The street closed off to vehicular traffic. The only way through would be by foot on the sidewalks and under the suffocating scaffolding.

Riley Singleton, an off-Broadway theater manager, exited the Number 2 subway train she'd taken from the Upper West Side at Park Place, a stop across City Hall Park and west of the intersection of Beekman and Theater Alley. She trotted up the steps, her posture forward, her stride athletic. Riley gained the street and looked straight ahead.

Southern Manhattan used to have all the charm of a tuberculosis ward on weekends before the re-building after 9/11. Apartment high-rises and condos replaced a lot of empty spaces and shuttered businesses.

Nightlife activity increased in recent years and the area had streetlamps that actually worked. The exit from the subway station had plenty of light, and Riley stepped along Park Place and towards City Hall Park.

She hustled down Park Place, but found the gates locked, which forced her to circumvent City Hall Park to get to Beekman. Riley's apartment, a five block walk from the Park Place subway station, sat on Fulton Street, one of the newly constructed buildings.

As she headed down Beekman, the crowd of people on the street diminished with every step.

Riley stopped when she got to the intersection of Theater Alley and Beekman. The street lamp did not shine any of its light through the plastic scaffolding cover, and the night sky had a thick cloud cover which obscured the moon and stars. It would, however, save her a minute or two if she cut through Theater Alley, and her latest unsuccessful on-line hook-up had exhausted her.

She increased her pace and ran down the western side of Theater Alley. Her long legs covered the distance quickly, and since no one seemed to be around to see it, she hiked up her skirt to allow for greater speed.

Riley approached the end of Theater Alley in a sprint. Ann Street lay just in front of her. She exited the last of the scaffolding.

A fist shot out and smashed her on the right side of her face. The blow broke her cheekbone and knocked her to the ground unconsciousness.

Ruben pulled her back into the alley. He spotted a passerby on Ann Street who stopped and looked down the street, but then hurried away. Ruben pulled his dark-colored windbreaker around him.

He pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. It started with:

Make an incision, by the long-bladed knife, sharp and use great violence, run it four inches from the Left Side of the Neck to the Right Side. Begin cutting an inch below the Jaw and one inch from below the Left Ear.

Followed by four more paragraphs of instructions.

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

A HAPPY ENDING!

This is not an excerpt from Try Not to Annoy the Kangaroo. If it were, it would involve finding one of the following above-the-line dweebs in a massage parlor when they should have been reviewing a storyboard, or finding their way to set.

1. A substance abusing Director of Photography who didn't feel that $5000/8 was a good enough rate to warrant his/her undivided attention.

2. Anyone from England.

3. A Director more interested in virtue signaling their Liberal credentials to the crew as opposed to actually moving the day forward. The virtue signaling usually involves finishing any dependent clause with " . . . and is it all George Bush's fault? Of course it is." Cue clapping seals in the crew.

No, this posting is known in the blogosphere as a "Transition Post."

I am here to tell you that I got an agent for Try Not to Annoy the Kangaroo! Yes, it's true. Someone with actual juice found the book as hysterically funny as I did, and will now attempt to convince an editor and a publisher to feel the same way. Or at least to convince them there is money to be made off my recollections.

We shall see. Finding an agent is just one more step in a very long journey. So far so good. I will keep you all apprised.

Onto the transition.

I have a novel I've been shopping. The title is The Google Earth Murders, It is about a Jack the Ripper copycat attempting to duplicate the Whitechapel killings of 1888. But this time, Jack 2.0 as the press dubs him, isn't slaughtering prostitutes. The victims are millennials, the new urban blight. As one agent who summarily rejected the book said, "Is Jack the good guy in the book?"

Perhaps, depending on your point of view.

I am going to serialize the first part of the book. The feedback I've gotten is that there is not enough suspense and the action moves too quickly. This is shocking to me because people have the attention span of, well, millennials and the depth of, well, millennials. I don't see a lot of HP Lovecraft flying off the shelves, or being downloaded to Kindle. Stephen King and James Patterson is more the order of the day.

Therefore, would love to get some specific feedback from those of you who have been diligent in reading Try Not to Annoy the Kangaroo excerpts.

The first chapter of The Google Earth Murders will be posted on Wednesday the 12th. Subsequent chapters every week, again on Wednesdays. I'll serialize the first 60 pages of the book.

Many thanks, again, to those of you who read the excerpts. Your input was both encouraging and helpful.

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Time for a Change of Scene

In September of 2017, 35 years after I appeared on-camera dancing in a music video, I retired officially from production work. I did work for three years after the PG&E dust-up in 2014, but I cannot remember one remarkable thing about any of the jobs, though there were a lot of them.

There are a lot of people to thank. Suzy Miller, who gave me my first behind the camera job. Bill Cote. Cory Anderson. Richie Zeifman. Phil Lofaro. Steve Dauterman. Jonathan Zurer. Dan Ogawa. Joyce Quan. Petra Janopaul. Dan Smith. Scott Ewers. Janine Lane. Andy Rasdal. David Bacigalupi. Jane Hernandez. Patricia Dorfman. Jill Byron. Jack Gallagher. Jodie Marko. Michelle Donnelly. Bob Gondell. Larry Lauter. Cheryl Rosenthal. Jef Loeb. Lou Cubillos. Cat Chatham. Chris Whelan. Sinead O’Mara. Andrew Bender. Phil Paternite. Richard Camp, Jeff Apps, Edy Enriquez, Eric Foster.

But especially, Lee Rauch, my wife of 30 plus years. She hasn’t been perfect, but she’s been awful darned close.

This is not a comprehensive list of all the wonderful people with whom I’ve had the good fortune to intersect professional lives.

This diary of my professional life goes counter to that adage, “In the end, you will only remember the love and the people.” That’s not true. I still have dreams of flying actors in body armor, gawking at George Lucas, and watching a Mister Softee Ice Cream Truck leap Green Street in the Nob Hill neighborhood of San Francisco.

And I don’t wake up screaming.

I cannot imagine a more rewarding and fulfilling career than the 35 years I spent directing the crew, staff, agency, clients, directors, and actors to the motorhome and fielding complaints about the four-star cuisine I provided to a bunch of people too cheap to go to McDonald’s on their days off.

Anyone genuinely interested in working in production, note that it does not take any special training or talent. All you have to do is work hard, show up on time, and do the best you can every hour of every day you are on a job.

If you are fortunate enough to be able to turn around some day and look back at a series of relationships and jobs that just don’t exist anywhere else except in the odd world of production, consider yourself one of the lucky and truly blessed.

I do.

NOT THE END

TIME FOR A NEW BEGINNING

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Owen Wilson to the Rescue!

A few weeks after Leonard Nimoy Professional Debacle 2.0 ended, Jodie called me.

Jodie: “I take it you’ve gotten over the Leonard Nimoy incident?”

Me: “Which one? And you would be wrong.”

Jodie: “I understand, but you have to make this situation right.”

Me: “And why is that?”

Jodie: “Because I have to provide the voice-over talent now, and I haven’t got anywhere near the contacts you have. You have to do this for me.”

Guilt doesn’t work on me. Usually. But Jodie Marko was and is one of the most hard-working and brilliant people I worked with in San Francisco, despite the fact that she was from Canada. She had done a lot for me and had always been a reliable colleague. Doing something for her is a legitimate ask on her part.

Me: “Any suggestions? Other than Leonard Nimoy?”

Jodie: “Yes. Didn’t you help get Vince Vaughan’s movie, The Internship, onto the Google campus?”

Me: “Yes. His producer, Sandra Smith, is a friend of a friend. I made the introductions, but make no mistake, she did the heavy lifting.”

Jodie: “You always say that, and it’s not true.”

Me: “Sure it is. I have no marketable skills. I don’t actually do anything. I just know lots of people who have marketable skills and actually do things. That’s all. Maybe that’s what producing is. If that’s the case, that is kind of depressing, don’t you think?”

Jodie sighed.

Me: “Okay. Okay. Okay. I’ll stop. What’s your idea?”

Jodie: “Owen Wilson.”

Me: “Let me unpack this for you, you conniving little twerp. You want me to call in a favor from a woman that I know via a friend of mine, to bail out The Stupid Museum People?”

Jodie: “If you’re going to put it that way.”

Me: “How else should I put it? They blew a huge opportunity to work with a man synonymous with science. No knock on Owen, who was lovely to work with on the movie, but Leonard Nimoy was, oh, how can I say this? Perfect?”

Jodie: “I know. But will you talk to Sandra?”

Me: “For you, yes, but I don’t want anyone from The Stupid Museum People involved in the negotiation. This is you and me, and you don’t know I’m doing this. Got it?”

Jodie: “Yes.”

****

Sandra Smith, Vince Vaughan's producer at Wild West Picture Show Productions and a total babe, accommodated my request to submit the script to Owen Wilson, who liked it enough to agree to let his voice be used for the video. In order to record, though, we would have to go to him during the filming of the location work on The Internship.

And, of course, the location where he could do the voice-over? The Marin Headlands. Not hard to get to, but the scheduling issue had to do with Owen being able to carve out an hour to read the script, a five minute snoozer about the birth of the universe.

The deal broke down to Sandra’s assistant, Amy calling me and giving me a couple hours to get over the Headlands with my sound engineer. What time and what day? Anyone’s guess. The production would be there for about a week. I waited. And waited. And waited.

And of course my phone rang the day before I scheduled a trip back to clean out my parent’s house in the over-55 community where my father had spent his last days and from which my mother had recently moved.

Amy: “George, tomorrow afternoon at 3pm is the only day and time that will work for Owen. And even then I’ll have to call you to confirm in the late morning.”

Me: “That’s fine. I’ll call you when I get there with my sound engineer. Would you object to Jodie Marko, my co-producer coming with me?”

Amy: “Not at all. But text me when you arrive. If I get one more phone call.”

Me: “I understand.”

I called Jodie to give her a heads up.

Jodie: “I can go!? Really!?”

She paused.

Jodie: “The director is going to want to go.”

Me: “Is that right? Some corporate video director with a list of credits as long as a nose hair is going to direct Owen Wilson’s reading of some insomnia-curing copy? I don’t think so. You’re lucky I got you in there. Nobody else.”

Jodie: “He’s not going to be happy about this.”

Me: “Oh well, then by all means. I wouldn’t want someone to be unhappy on one of my jobs.”

Jodie: “Point taken.”

Me: “Oh, and I have to change my flight back to New Jersey. The production company is picking up the tab.”

Jodie: “I’ll submit an expense report. Just don’t upgrade yourself.”

Me: “Count on it.”

****

Next day found Jodie, me, and Ted Ver Valen, fab sound recordist, in the crew parking lot of The Internship at the base of the Marin Headlands. Windy. Cold. Overcast. I texted Amy who turned us over to Owen’s personal assistant, a jittery young man who could not have been nicer. He led us to Owen’s trailer, introduced us to his boss, and then left us alone. We set up quickly as Owen sat down in a chair and reviewed the copy once more with Jodie, who just would not shut up.

Jodie: “This is so great. Thank you for doing this. I hear you’re from Texas. I hear your mother is from Texas. That makes sense. You know, both of you being from the same state. That would be odd if you weren’t.”

Me: “Jodie.”

Jodie: “Odd’s not the right word. I’m sure there are people from the same family who live in different states. So, maybe not so odd? I don’t know. How are you? Do you have any questions? I like the script. Do you like it?”

Me: “Jodie.”

She managed to compose herself and Owen read through the script. There’s something about professional actors. Something they’ve got that the next level down of what might be referred to as somewhat talented and very hard working just don’t have. I listened to him read it and knew he had saved the copy.

The script was a safe, corporate attempt at describing the birth of the universe. Had anyone else read it, you’d nod off in about a minute. I listened to the full five minutes of Owen’s read and knew how the universe was born and why.

Owen: “How is that?”

Me: “Only outstanding.”

Owen: “Why don’t I read it through again in pieces. I’ll start and stop every half page or so.”

Jodie: “That’s a really good idea. Don’t you think? Start and stop. Read it in chunks. Is that how they do that in Texas? If so, that’s really smart. Is everyone in Texas really smart? If not, they should be.”

Me: “Jodie.”

Owen read through it again. I still have the memory card with the original recording.

****

Of the many pet peeves I developed regarding the film industry, my favorite is a riff on the “Let no good deed go unpunished.” This particular job for The Stupid Museum People had this in spades. And since it happened towards the tail end of my career, I, obviously didn’t hesitate to call the ungrateful on their various character flaws.

In addition to embarrassing myself during the second failed Leonard Nimoy attempt, not only did I score Owen Wilson to voice the opening video, but I also found more than 30 minutes of finished 3D animation of artists renderings of the universe and its beginnings. I also convinced some Unabomber type time-lapse expert to sell us three shots of his night sky work for the price of one.

To follow are the total number of thank yous I received from the director, who would have to have used hand-puppets for his Birth of the Universe video had it not been for Yours truly:

ZERO.

What did I get? I got the following email when the director received the raw takes of Owen Wilson’s brilliant read.

To: George Young

From: Herr Director

Re: Owen Wilson V.O. for The Birth of the Universe

Hey George;Listened to the Owen Wilson voice-over. I should have been included in the recording since there are different ways I would have had him read certain parts of the script.

Is there a reason I was not scheduled as part of the team?

Herr Director

****

I’d gotten to the age where I waited until I responded to emails such as this. Obviously, in one of her few lapses, Jodie had not called Herr Director to explain to him why we couldn’t cram one more body into Owen Wilson’s trailer. Remember, I was no longer, technically, on the project.

To: Herr Director

From: George Young

Re:Re: Owen Wilson V.O. for The Birth of the Universe

Herr Director;

Why you’re welcome! Glad you liked the tracks, and the scoring of a Hollywood Star for this little POS video. And your continued gratitude for the 3D animation freebies, the recently released Hubble Telescope photography, and the three for the price of one time-lapse photos, is just overwhelming. It makes all the grief I normally get from narcissistic, ungrateful, self-centered jerks fade in oblivion. Good luck with the edit. Given what you have to work with, I’m sure that even a one of those narcissistic, ungrateful, self-centered jerks of a director couldn’t screw it up.

George

****

A few weeks later, after I returned from cleaning out my parent’s house, Jodie called to fill me in on just how much my response had bent Herr Director out of shape.

Me: “A simple thank you would have been nice. The guy writes a substitute for Sominex. Owen throws a 10,000 Volt charge into it, and I’m the bad guy? How does that work?”

Jodie: “He felt left out.”

Me: “That’s because we left him out. This wasn’t the type of situation where we schedule an hour at One Union Recording and put Owen Wilson in a cab. We’re lucky we got him. You’re lucky you got me to get him, because after that Leonard Nimoy fiasco, I should not have done anything to help the project. I did it for you, as you requested.”

Jodie: “I get it. But now I have to listen to him for the rest of the project.”

Me: “Jodie, just do what I do.”

Jodie: “Not a chance. I still have to work with the guy.”

Me: “What if I apologized?”

Jodie noticeably brightened her tone.

Jodie: “You would do that?”

Me: “Sure would. Just as soon as the ungrateful jerk thanks me for turning his unwatchable video into something worthwhile.”

Jodie: “That’s a long way of saying ‘No.’”

Me: “Yes.”

0 notes

ursafilms · 6 years ago

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Leonard Nimoy and The Stupid Museum People - Part 2

As with music videos, I never learn my lesson. Another museum project came my way a few years later. Did I turn it down? No. Despite the wear and tear on my fingernails holding on to the last few shreds of capability and patience for the industry, I headed into my late 50s with no clue as to how to remove myself from the job of line producer, which, as mentioned before, required that I perform as nursemaid to everyone except myself.

And I would like to tell you that at least this science museum did not fit the mold of the previous science museum which recently sandbagged me, but I would be lying. The first tip-off should have been in the name of the institution.

The [Famous Person] Museum of Nature and Science.

For some reason that did not set the alarm bells clanging at about 150 decibels.

A month into the project, we had the dreaded conference call. Once again, about 375 people with a similar 90/10 split between bloodsuckers and blood suppliers gathered. Jodie, Anna, and I dialed in, but before doing so, I turned to Jodie.

Me: “If you tell them I know Leonard Nimoy’s agent, they’ll never find your body.”

Jodie: “You talk a good game.”

Me: “I swear, if they mention an opening video, you can’t tell them about Leonard Nimoy.”

Creative Overlord 2.0, a woman with all the fine qualities of the previous Creative Overlord, came onto the call. I won’t bore you with how Jodie coldcocked me this time around. Suffice it to say, she did, but since she exposed me, and after the Chant of the New Sycophants died down, I took control.

Me: “Alright. I will contact Leonard Nimoy’s agent.”

Cheers from the sycophants.

Me: “But I want the assurances from the Museum that if Mister Nimoy agrees to do this, that we will hire him with no questions asked. Is that a deal?”

The cheers died a quick death.

Me: “My last foray into this arrangement resulted in two embarrassing phone calls to his agent, and I lay that responsibility on the last museum. All Mister Nimoy wanted was a donation (I gave them the amount . . . but doubled it, just in case. I had learned a few things in 30 years) to one of his charities. If you are not interested in making a donation of this size, please let me know now before I attempt this again.”

370 signoff beeps filled the air, as the sycophants fled the scene and any sort of possibility in being named as an accomplice. Only Creative Overlord 2.0 remained on the line with us.

Creative Overlord 2.0: “What if Mister Nimoy wants more than what you’ve mentioned?”

Me: “I’ll start the negotiation lower, and if they want to go higher than what I’ve quoted you, I’ll pull the offer. If they’re that interested in the project, his agent will figure something out. But again, unless you’re willing to go to at least the level I’ve mentioned, I do not want to make the overture.”

Creative Overlord 2.0 agreed to let me take the offer to Leonard Nimoy’s agent, who, once again, asked for the script and sent it onto Leonard. A few days later she called back. Leonard Nimoy would like to do the project but the request for a charitable donation did increase. However, not beyond the bounds of what I’d mentioned to The Stupid Museum People.

Elated and euphoric I scheduled a call with Creative Overlord 2.0 and a handful of his sycophantic followers, all of whom, from what I could tell from what few sounds they were making, stood several feet away from the conference room table and the speakerphone. I launched into what I thought would be followed by a parade through Times Square.

Me: “Leonard Nimoy is interested in the project and likes the script. His requirements are for the donation to the charity of his choice in the following amount, $XXXX, which I emailed to you prior to the meeting. We should schedule this as soon as possible.”

Creative Overlord 2.0: “Well, we’ve been thinking about it, and we aren’t sure we can afford this type of donation coming from a non-profit.”

[While I will admit to a certain amount of embellishment or hyperbole to this point in my conversations, this reply is verbatim.]

Me: “Are you F$#KING kidding me?! You better be F$#KING kidding me!!”

After the accusations concluded and Creative Overlord 2.0 reminded me several times as to who the client was in this relationship, I changed my attitude. Okay, I didn’t.

Me: “You agreed to do this. Got it? AGREED! Now, you’re telling me you were lying? What the HELL is going on over there?”

Creative Overlord 2.0: “Are you calling me a liar?”

Me: “Yes I am. You’re a liar. Would you like THAT in an email too?”

Again, verbatim. Creative Overlord 2.0 hung up. The production company, at the request of the client, removed me from the project . . . temporarily as it turns out.

NEXT WEEK: Owen Wilson to the Rescue!

0 notes

ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Leonard Nimoy and The Stupid Museum People - Part 1

Closing in on the end of my career did not make me sentimental. It did not make me regretful. It did not give me pause. It might have were it not for two jobs I produced in the waning years of my profession as a producer.

And they both involved Leonard Nimoy, and The Stupid Museum People, as I will refer to them.

Up first, a science museum. Science. Leonard Nimoy. Star Trek. In Search Of. Perfect, right? A match made in Heaven. Except for Carl Sagan or Stephen Hawking, perhaps the most ideal personality to voice a video for a science museum would be Leonard Nimoy.

It started with a conference call. Museum production is staffed by people who are about 10% doers and 90% stand-around-and-watch-doers. The latter just want to be associated with the project, and not actually accomplish anything.

On the call were about 375 people. The freelance side included me, Jodie Marko, and Anna Vavloukis. The three of us waited out the usual six hour waste of time instituted by the Museum Overlord, otherwise listed as The Creative Director. If he said collaboration once, he said it six zillion times.

Collaboration is a term used by creatives that means, “I’ll pay lip service to your ideas. Do what I want. When it ultimately fails, I’ll blame production.” I think it’s a noun.

The conference call got around to me, Jodie, and Anna.

Creative Overlord: “We need someone with an identifiable voice for the opening video.”

I texted Jodie, ‘DO NOT TELL THEM I KNOW LEONARD NIMOY’S AGENT!’

Jodie hopped on the opportunity.

Jodie: “George knows Leonard Nimoy’s agent.”

Me: “Well, I—”

Stupid Museum People: “Ooh. Leonard Nimoy! Perfect! Can I go to the session?”

Other Stupid Museum People: “What’s he like? Does he have those ears and eyebrows?”

Even More Stupid Museum People: “How soon can we record him? What a great idea. Thank you! Gotta go!”

About 370 End Of Conference Call Beeps chattered over the line.

Me: “Thanks for that.”

Jodie: “Happy to help.”

Me: “I’ll get you for this. I don’t know what’s entailed in getting him to work on this. He might want hundreds of thousands of dollars.”

Jodie: “It’s just a couple phone calls.”

Jodie’s last comment is an inside joke between us. An executive producer for who we worked in the 90’s had a habit of explaining that all production consisted of would be a few phone calls to the right people. Somehow this woman is still alive.

****

As much as I complained about being put on the spot in situations such as this, I actually took pride in being able to do what others could not. That’s what line production is.

Called the agent and explained the project. She requested a script. I sent it. Less than one day later, my cell phone rang.

Super Agent: “Leonard read the script and he’s interested.”

Me: “Who is this? Is this you, Tolbert?”

Super Agent: “What?”

Me: “Sorry. Joke from Major League, the baseball movie.”

Super Agent: “Got it. Leonard takes most of his fees now in donations to a charity of his choice. Are you okay with that?”

She sent me the list of charities and the amount, which was so reasonable, I thought about paying it myself just for the opportunity to work with Mister Spock. Alas, The Stupid Museum People did not see it that way and they expressed as much on the next 375 person conference call.

Stupid Museum People: “What? Money? We have to spend money on this?

More Stupid Museum People: “That’s not fair. I don’t get it.”

Even More Stupid Museum People: “Waaaaaaahhhhh!!! That’s not fair.”

Creative Overlord: “You said you knew Leonard personally.”

Me: “Okay, take it easy. First of all I said I knew who represented Leonard Nimoy. I do, and I contacted her, and Mister Nimoy likes the project. He’s willing to do it, but wants a donation to one of his charities. What he’s asking is a fraction of what he gets for appearances and voice-overs. This is a bargain.”

Over the speaker phone Jodie, Anna, and I heard the Creative Overlord breaking up a handful of slap fights.

Creative Overlord: “After much discussion and an impressive amount of collaboration, we have decided to pass on Mister Nimoy.”

Me: “You’re joking, right? And stop saying ‘collaboration.’”

Creative Overlord: “If Mister Nimoy would reconsider his request for payment—”

Me: “Leonard Nimoy is not requesting payment. He is asking for a charitable contribution to a very worthy cause. I don’t know who else you have in mind in terms of notoriety who would be a fit for the vpice-over for the opening video of the museum, but this financial bargain ain’t gonna get any better.”

Creative Overlord: “This isn’t our responsibility. Production has to come up with someone.”

Me: “Sure. How about Chris Sullivan?”

Creative Overlord: “Who is Chris Sullivan?”

Me: “Great V.O. talent and he’d probably do this for scale.”

Creative Overlord: “I never heard of him.”

Me: “Maybe you should get out more often.”

Creative Overlord: “Maybe you should take this a little more seriously. We have tasked you with providing a recognizable voice.”

Me: “Chris has a recognizable voice. You want a recognizable name, not voice, and that is going to have a price tag associated with it. Leonard Nimoy’s request is awful good.”

Creative Overlord: “We’re a non-profit, and can’t spend that kind of money.”

Me: “Are you joking? Have you seen your graphics invoices lately? You’ve turned the search for the perfect color palette into a re-do of the Sistine Chapel. If you hadn’t investigate 82 shades of purple, or was it indigo, we’d have the dough to make Mister Nimoy’s donation, which means we’d have Mister Nimoy, which means you’d have your recognizable NAME.”

Creative Overlord: “Are you shouting?”

Me: “Yes.”

Creative Overlord: “Maybe you should get hold of yourself.”

Me: “Maybe you should ki—”

Jodie hung up the speakerphone.

To this day I don’t know who they got to voice the video that greeted you as you entered the museum. The Stupid Museum People took so long putting the videos to bed that Jodie, Anna, and I were long gone and onto other projects. I did, however, have one more conversation with The Creative Overlord the next day.

Creative Overlord: “We could use Mister Nimoy for our fund-raising video.”

Me: “Is that right?”

Creative Overlord: “Yes, I may be able to make a case for the money.”

Me: “Let me get this straight. You want me to go back to Leonard Nimoy’s agent, after telling him ‘Thanks but no thanks?’”

Creative Overlord: “If he’s really interested in doing something for the museum, he would like to do this.”

Me: “Is that right? You want me to present to the agent a fund-raising video as some sort of a salve for bailing on Leonard Nimoy who wanted to work on the video that every customer will see when they walk through the front door?”

Creative Overlord: “I don’t see why not.”

Me: “I’m not going to do it. It was hard enough to go back there and tell his agent we had decided against it.”

Creative Overlord: “I don’t see why not.”

Me: “You said that before, and that might be part of the problem. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll go back and tell the agent we’re back on for the opening video. The Museum will make the proper donation. And if, and that’s a big if, she agrees, I’ll ask that he also do the fund-raising video during the same session. How is that?”

Creative Overlord: “You’re not getting it. We don’t have the money for the opening video. We might have it for the fund-raising video. Maybe.”

Me: “Not good enough, Creative Overlord. Maybe doesn’t repair the damage, especially if you are looking for a freebie on a much less interesting project, with all due respect to fund-raising.”

Creative Overlord: “Well, then, maybe somewhere down the road, we’ll find a way to work with Mister Nimoy.”

Me: “The man is in his 80s, Creative Overlord. I’m not sure he has a whole lot of ‘somewhere down the road’ left.”

The call ended, and I thought I’d reached the limits of creative stupidity.

I was wrong.

NEXT WEEK: Leonard Nimoy and The Stupid Museum People - Part 2

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Comic-Con & Wonder Women!

About two years after the Sara Bareilles debacle, something that had been on my bucket list finally got checked off. Comic-Con. Always wanted to work it. Don’t know why, but I did. It looked like an absolutely stupid collection of video and animation nerds together in one space, and that is exactly what Comic-Con is.

And I would nothave lobbied to work on it, had it not been through one of my favorite clients, Jill Byron of CBS and CBS Interactive.

One of CBS properties was an on-line site called TV.com. It served as a place to curate interest in the prime time shows on the network. To further generate interest in the property, Jill put together an awards show called, oddly, “The TV.com Now Awards.”

And the venue? PetCo Park.

The schedule? During the biggest self-inflicted freak show on the planet.

Comic-Con.

With the possible exception of San Francisco, Comic-Con is the largest collection of reality escaping, self-indulging narcissists converging on one geographical area. And, in the pursuit of full disclosure, I was not lying. Attending this homage to arrested adolescence has been on my bucket list for years.

I have no interest in dressing up as Wonder Woman and putting myself through the serial embarrassment of faking a good time. What I do have is a curiosity as to why people would want to dress up as Wonder Woman and put themselves through the serial embarrassment of faking a good time.

I also have no interest in buying a pass to attend. It’s expensive and that doesn’t take any of hotel, meal, and transportation costs into account. CBS Interactive hiring me opened the door to attending and having someone else pick up the check. That’s not to appear smug or cavalier about the task entrusted to me. I expected to take in Comic-Con in my down time, of which I knew there would be little.

****

I opted to drive to San Diego. As with most of my jobs in southern California, I had to schelp so many things that boarding a flight with all I needed to nursemaid a batch of middle-aged pre-adolescents through a job presented a task of curbside luggage hassles I could no longer accept. Also, I’d need a rental car when I arrived anyway.

The day before my scheduled departure, I picked up the compressed show files at Elastic Creative, the post/animation company that provided all the videos. Even in this modern era I had to act like Laurence Olivier in Marathon Manto get a straight answer out of the show control people as to how they wanted to receive the media. They just don’t want to commit to anything. Drilling into their teeth, while an option, was time-consuming and didn’t always yield good results.

This is a pet peeve, to use a cliché, of mine. I harbor no thoughts of genocide except for one particular tribe. Event producers, and specifically the hermitic and unhygienic dweebs that populate every satellite truck, back of the house, and control booth of every venue into which I had the displeasure of having to enter.

The TV.com Now Awards proved to be no exception. I did get to hire my own on-site show producer, an incredibly gifted woman named Karen DeTemple. But even she couldn’t prevent the obligatory black site conversation I had to have with the person in charge of the control room for the event.

Me: “How would you like me to deliver the media?”

Social Pariah: “Digital files will be fine.”

Me: “That narrows it down to about 3,000 options. Would you like to tell me exactly which type of file? Can you give me a spec sheet?”

Social Pariah: “HD.”

Me: “We’re down to 2,000 types. Fair warning. If you don’t specify which type of file, compression, output, size, audio, and all the other necessary elements, I’m going to send you what I think is most appropriate.”

Social Pariah: “What if it doesn’t work?”

Me: “Then I will hunt you down, like the passive-aggressive loser that you are and beat you with an old 1” tape machine.”

Social Pariah: “Let me get you our spec sheet.”

****

Every job is like this with event people. I don’t get it. I am more knowledgeable about matters that involve show masters and delivery of appropriate digital files than most. But like everything else in the production industry, there is some sadistic pleasure taken by those who just want to see a producer look foolish, which I refused to do after the first few years of my career. If I didn’t take the time and trouble to actually request specifications on deliverables, this wouldn’t gall me as much as it does. But I was vigilant about pursuing that information. My colleagues, however, did not show as much enthusiasm as providing it. To this day, I cannot tell you why.

****

An ugly confrontation took place years before The TV.com Now Awards. Let me have some laughs at the expense of the company that tried to embarrass me.

In the fall of 2000 I flew out to Washington, DC for a medical device convention. Prior to traveling, which I only did because the representatives for the production company wanted to make sure a scapegoat would be on site, I had a meeting with the head of the company which supplied all the hardware to run the show, including video.

Me: “I have three videos that play at this event. How do you want to receive them?”

Passive-Aggressive Loser: “Standard format.”

Me: “Let me be clear. I will send you HDCam with a three second title card at 30 seconds. 17 seconds of black, and then a 10 second countdown. So speak now if you want something different. In other words, is that what you consider standard format?”

Passive-Aggressive Loser: “No.”

This devolved into a lot of bad language. The Passive-Aggressive Loser told me to “chill out,” a term reserved for doofuses who have nowhere to go. We put each other in a headlock and the president of the production company broke the stalemate by assuring me that a spec sheet would be coming my way.

Which I never received.

The incompetent creative director of the production company informed me that I had to go to DC and to hand carry a back-up of the media.

Me: “Sure. What format would you like the media?

Unskilled Drain on the Overhead: “Morty can tell you that.”

Me: “Did you miss the headlock I had him in during the pre-pro meeting? You saw that Morty wouldn’t have given Brezhnev any intel if they ripped his testicles out and showed them to him.”

Unskilled Drain on the Overhead fled the scene.

I arrived in DC with a back-up copy of the media, done to my specifications. Checked into my hotel and headed over to the convention center, where the usual pre-show hysteria had commenced. And as soon as The Producer (Me) came on the scene, the wailing pre-adolescents descended on me.

Petulant 12-Year-Old: “We need a different version of the media. Morty said to see you as soon as you arrived.”

Me: “Gee and I thought Morty would greet me himself and exchange headlocks.”

Petulant 12-Year-Old: “Huh? So can you remake the show masters?”

Me: “Of course! I carried an entire editorial system on the plane with me. Not only that, I brought every tape deck known to man to cover every possibility.”

Petulant 12-Year-Old: “That’s great. We’ll need the new tapes ASAP!”

Me: “Do you have the specs?”

Petulant 12-Year-Old: “Sure.”

The Petulant 12-Year-Old handed me a piece of paper with a very complete set of instructions for delivering media to the hardware vendor.

Me: “Does Morty know about this?”

Petulant 12-Year-Old: “Why wouldn’t he?”

Me: “No reason. Give me a second.”

I read the spec sheet. The only difference between what I provided and what they specified? As opposed to 17 seconds of black before they countdown, they wanted two.

Me: “Your tape ops can just bookmark the two seconds prior to the countdown. This can easily be done by show control.”

Petulant 12-Year-Old: “Sure, but that means they have to do that every time they come back from break to restart the show.”

Me: “Oh, horrors! That means they have to build an entire cue! Why that should take them three whole minutes. That will cut down on their grousing time, won’t it?”

The Petulant 12-Year-Old looked at me with the same sort of admiration and respect given to a pedophile or drug dealer that hangs around grade schools.

Petulant 12-Year-Old: “I take it you didn’t bring an edit system in your carry-on luggage.”

Me: “No, and if Morty has an issue with me not wanting to spend thousands of dollars redoing videotape just because he doesn’t want to hear a handful of social misfits complaining about having to do some actual work, he can come talk to me about it. Capisce?”

And that was that.

****

Back to Comic-Con, 2010 and the start of my drive to San Diego.

Elastic Creative, again the facility where the videos were executed, performed all the necessary compressions and delivered them to me, as requested, on a hard-drive and a back-up hard-drive. Additionally, they stored them on DropBox in case that would be an easier get for the truly unambitous excuse-making mooks that populate back of the house.

Just as I settled into the comfy leather of my SUV, the cellphone rang.

Scratchy Voiced Misfit: “George Young?”

Me: “Yes.”

Scratchy Voiced Misfit: “This is Dak from Lousy Show Productions.”

Me: “Dak? Were your parents trying to save room on the birth certificate?”

Scratchy Voiced Misfit: “That’s my nickname.”

Me: “Oh, what’s your real name?”

Scratchy Voiced Misfit: “Bo.”

As it turns out the compressed files, which cost me thousands in hard drive purchases, compressions, and production time, were no longer the preferred format. Oh no, the vendor in charge of running show control switched to a different command truck that used some format of mini-HDCam.

In other words, during the phone call with Dak, my SUV and I went back in time two years.

I had to drive away from the Bay Area in less than 16 hours. That would not be a problem, if I

didn’t need, at close of business, to find a relatively obscure tape deck, even more obscure blank tapes, and arrange for Elastic Creative to make show masters for me overnight.

Me: “So, Dak, level with me. Why the change in the truck?”

Scratchy Voiced Misfit: “Much cheaper.”

My head exploded. After I cleaned up the mess, and sent the iPhone footage off to David Cronenberg, I thanked Dak and walked back inside Elastic. After explaining the conundrum to Drew Fiero, the World’s Calmest Father of Three, I found a private room and shut the door. I phoned the Social Pariah in charge of the satellite truck.

Social Pariah#2: “George, how nice to hear from you. I guess—”

Me: “Shut up, you douchebag. You went and switched delivery formats on me less than 24 hours before rehearsal! Are you insane?”

Social Pariah #2: “Calm down, all you have to do is—”

Me: “Like I said. Shut up, you douchebag. Don’t tell me what I have to do. You switched delivery formats because you think producers are the equivalent of inviting David Copperfield to your tenth birthday party. I’d hang you out to dry on this if I didn’t like Jill Byron so much.”

Social Pariah #2: “Hey, chill—”

Me: “Don’t tell me to ‘chill out, dude.’ Just shut up and thank me for dragging a couple dozen mini-HD tapes down to San Diego because you wanted to save $1.98 on the satellite truck.”

Social Pariah #2: “I—”

Me: “And I’m charging your company for the tapes, the tape deck, which I understand has to be trucked to San Francisco from San Jose because there are only five in the state of California, and for my time. I hope you saved the gross national product of France by switching trucks.”

****

I arrived in San Diego at the end of July, 2010. Ten minutes after exiting my SUV, parked along the main drag that surrounded PetCo Park, I spotted four Wonder Women. And two of them might have been actual women!

Regarding Wonder Woman.

1. Unless you’re Linda Carter in the 70’s, or have a body like Linda Carter’s in the 70’s, do not wear a Wonder Woman costume.

2. Unless you’re Gil Gadot in 2016, or have a body like Gil Gadot’s in 2016, do not wear a Wonder Woman costume.

3. If you’re a man, and I don’t care if you identify as a woman, or are in the process of becoming a woman, do not wear a Wonder Woman costume.

4. In general, there are nine women in the entire world who should wear a Wonder Woman costume and none of them attend Comic-Con.

There are, however, plenty of svelte, spandex-wearing young women who attend Comic-Con. They squeeze themselves into costumes that probably that last worked in 50’s sci-fi films. And based on the amount of gravity-defying cleavage on display, there were more polymers at the event than just those of the costumes.

But more so than the appearance of artificial flesh, I am fascinated by the herds of cattle that attend the event and stampede into the place to get a glimpse of actors who will be on the national radar for the shelf-life of chocolate in an Easter basket. There also is a deluge of movies and videogames to investigate.

1. Batman 27: The Latest Ofay Actor in Black

2. Black Humanoid: POC Tossed Another Bone

3. Superman*

4. Surgery, the Bloodletting

5. Military Assault on a Middle East Looking Country Never Named for P.C. Reasons

6. Dragons, Dragons, Dragons and more Dragons

Of course any of these titles could be swapped out as movie, TV series, or videogame. If there is any clarity as to why Comic-Con exists, it’s lost on me as an objective observer from afar. Perhaps being on-site will change my mind.

To the job.

I had to produce all the video for the gig, the bulk of which broke down into the individual nominees and ultimate winner of each category, of which there were about 20. To separate The TV.com Now Awards from the Oscars or the Emmys, Jill and her creative team came up with some interesting and unique contests. Here are some of them.

- Actor you are happiest to see back on Television

- Best performance as a Vampire

- Best reboot of an old show

- Best Actor returning to the small screen

- Best performance by a Non-Human

*Yes, there is yet another Superman

Some of the categories made sense because there had been an explosion of TV shows and movies with Vampires. And that had not reached saturation with the average viewer. Best reboot of an old show proved easy too, since several Baby Boomer specialties had returned to both CBS and other channels, including cable and the initial streaming services.

But some were difficult. We had problems narrowing down which actor we were happy to see back on television, since there were over a hundred suggestions on the cbs.com website when the general population got a chance to be polled. Also, Best performance by a Non-Human? I suggested Bill Maher about 400 times. When one of the station executives finally asked me explain myself I replied that he must be quite an actor if he’s able to convince HBO to allow him to go on the air on two separate occasions with two different unwatchable shows based upon the same disingenuous drivel.

CBS refused my request to nominate Maher.

****

A huge upside to the job, other than Jill Byron’s involvement, had to be Rob Diehl, the creative director of the event production company, MKTG. I had found my own personal unicorn. I did not believe in the existence of a creative director who had actual creative skills, and yet I finally met one in Rob Diehl. Not only did he have training in the arts, but a wealth of experience as well.

Rob could draw. He understood art direction and set construction. He had worked his way up from a theatre background and could tell you the difference between a piece of Louis XIV furniture and its nearly identical version from the Renaissance period. That may seem insignificant, or petty, or at the atomic level, but after decades of dealing with the agency owner’s room temperature IQ brother-in-law as an art director and the usual cult of 26-year-old copywriters who hadn’t read anything more complicated than a comic book, his experience and skill level provided welcome relief.

When he gave feedback, it made sense. When he felt something worked, he stopped trying to improve it. When a video component felt incomplete he explained why. I don’t think I had more respect for anyone on the creative side since I finished my last video game for George Lucas.

Working with Rob Diehl made every previous memory of the collection of hungover and incompetent creative department hangers-on fade into obscurity, at least temporarily.

****

Every comic book aficionado, basement dwelling hacker, and weather girl wannabe clogged San Diego’s downtown and waterfront during the four day Comic-Con. Jill dispatched her underlings to distribute flyers on ‘The TV.com Now Awards.’ The CBS websites blasted rich media with hourly updates and the B-List celebs who would be in attendance. A couple of musical acts that I won’t mention because I can’t remember who they were, also graced email blasts and hastily created Facebook pages.

We had an actual Red Carpet walk. Limousines pulled up and discharged the likes of Rob Lowe, Pauley Perrette, and Cheryl Burke. They smiled; talked to the press; and waved at the, ahem, “crowd.”

I hustled back and forth between the dugouts, where we had established green rooms for category winners like Daniel Day-Kim and LL Cool J.

And it was all for naught.

Because if someone goes to Comic-Con it is to do a small number of things. The hormone-clanging males go to check out all the firm, young flesh (Or flesh, period. Not that much was firm.) squeezed into the previously mentioned 50’s Sci-Fi costumes. The females go to either shoehorn themselves into spandex, or play video games with the man of their dreams.

And both go to get into freebie screenings of the latest summer movies and videogames.

That’s it. They don’t go to stand in right field at PetCo Park and watch a bunch of actors accept a plexi statue for acting in a show that nobody who attends Comic-Con cares about.

As I watched the footage at the local post facility, located in the lovely porn district of San Diego, I wondered what CBS Interactive would do next year for “The TV.com Now Awards.”

I had a hunch it would not involve Comic-Con.

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

Sara Bareilles, Sausalito, The San Francisco Bay, and The Shoulder

Phone rings. I don’t recognize the name.

Me: “Hi. It’s George.”

Person: “George, it’s Sara Dauberman. You worked with me when I was Sara Clarkin.”

Me: “Are you in the WPP?”

Sara: “The what?”

Me: “The Witness Protection Program, hence the name change.”

Sara laughs a musical laugh, which jogs my memory.

Me: “Okay, now I remember you. You’re the person I turned upside during that Cisco job for sassing me.”

Sara: “Yes, that was me.”

Me: “Okay. How can I help you?”

Sara: “A friend of mine is producing a concert video for Sara Bareilles in San Francisco, and she needs a co-producer for the location work.”

Me: “So you’re still mad.”

Sara: “What? No. What makes you think that?”

Me: “I don’t hear from you for a couple years after hanging you upside down by your ankles and you finally call and threaten me with a music video? I’d say that shows some open hostility.”

Sara: “What are you talking about? It’s not a music video. It’s a concert video.”

Me: “Does it involve a record label, a recording artist, a film crew, and very little money? And are all the people involved going to converge in the same place at the same time? If so, it’s a music video. And music videos suck. They’re for young people who need to develop production skills and who might also recognize the artist and the song. I stopped producing music videos after doing two of them in the early nineties. One for Zhane. And the other for Emage.”

Sara: “For who?”

I waited for the light bulb to go off over her head that she did not recognize those two groups before moving on.

Me: “During my LAST music video job, my camera went south on me on twice during the shoot. Once after it was “repaired.” And it took me six months to get paid. The only reason I got my check was because I happened to be in Los Angeles where the production company had their offices. I walked in and refused to leave until they gave me a check for the full amount.”

Sara: “Did they?”

Me: “Only after I’d been there for a few days and had begun to smell.”

Sara: “Well, this won’t be anything like that.”

Truer words might never have been spoken.

****

In order to educate myself on Ms. Sara Bareilles, I purchased a copy of her latest CD, and listened to the whole thing. Beautiful voice. Crystal clear. Strong. Had it not been for the usual pack of lies about what I had agreed to produce, and make no mistake it was a music video, I might have been a fan.

I agreed to take on the project since the, ahem, “concert video” consisted of a multicamera shoot at the Fillmore, a famous iconic San Francisco 60’s Rock venue in which I’d never worked. For that alone I thought it worthwhile. A classic bait-and-switch awaited, as the executive producer informed me that in addition to the shoot at the Fillmore, I’d be producing some performance footage of one of Sara’s songs at a houseboat location in Sausalito.

But not to worry, the houseboat location had been secured. It belonged to a friend of the executive producer. All I needed to do was scout the place and . . .

1. Arrange for crew and equipment parking in the private lot owned by a bunch of inbred Sausalito houseboat occupants.

2. Clear the dock area for usage of storing equipment, including the band’s instruments, and for serving meals and craft service. Said inbred Sausalito houseboat occupants were all part owners of said dock.

3. Work out the fee with the houseboat owner and get her signature on a location agreement. In other words, nothing had been done to secure the location and inform the woman of the juggernaut of people and equipment about to invade her crackerbox houseboat.

4. Inform the union that production company is from NYC, but is an IA signator, a little fact not presented to me as I attempted to hire the crew.

5. Rent several vans for the agency, record label, and clients use.

I could go on, but the upshot is that I had to produce the entire job. Nothing had been put in place, despite being told that it had, and the record label, the agency, and the client were all expecting to lay siege to the dock with a camera crew of at least six people and grip and electric and props of three times that many, plus the dreaded Vanities department, and video engineering, all union, all expecting to cram themselves into the one person houseboat, which, by the way, sat at the very end of the next to the last dock in Sausalito.

Making the job even more pleasant, the union strong-armed the third prop into sending them the call sheet, and then hassled me for not informing them of a sixth camera operator.

Me: “If you would give me two seconds, I would have, but I’ve been a little busy producing the job to do things on your schedule.”

Jimmy Hoffa: “You’ve got an attitude problem. I should fine you.”

Me: “Ah, go ahead. That will make me that much more cooperative.”

We did not get fined.

As the shoot progressed, it became obvious the crew didn’t want to walk more than eight feet to receive their daily intake of 6000 calories. My craft service person cleverly moved some of the food inside the houseboat and staged it in the kitchen, where it looked like, oh I don’t know, food in a kitchen.

NYC Cameraman: “Did you all see George’s on-site craft services?”

Me: “Okay, I dub you producer for the next three minutes. Where would you put it, goofy?”

NYC Cameraman: “Not on set.”

Me: “Brilliant. I had it “not on set,” but the Jenny Craig dropouts on the crew couldn’t go more than five minutes without a cookie. Any other suggestions?”

NYC Cameraman: “Yes, can we get a real A.D.?”

Me: “Sure. Can you get me a real budget? And, ironically, I was just going to ask about getting a real cameraman or two.”

That conversation deteriorated further, and I felt it best to leave the set and let the director continue to ask Sara Bareilles the same six questions over and over again, while the half-dozen cameramen tried to find the best angles inside the phone booth that some woman called home.

The shoot continued just fine without me, and as the sun set over Sausalito, the testosterone-challenged version of The Magnificent Seven, the director and the six cameramen emerged from the claustrophobic confines of the houseboat interior.

Me: “Do you want to call wrap, or should I?”

Director: “I’d like to put Sara in a canoe and have her sing using only her acoustic guitar while the camera boat follows her around the Bay.”

Me: “In the dark?”

Director. “We’ll use a DC powered light.”

Me: “I don’t remember that in the script.”

Director: “I’m adding it.”

I invoked my usual “It will never end up in the movie,” and it didn’t, but not for the reasons you might imagine.

****

I called for the camera boat, which pulled up next to the dock. I loaded a couple of the cameramen in, the ones not gorging themselves at the craft service table “not on set.�� The gaffer grabbed the DC powered light and checked the battery level. I put Sara in the canoe. One of her sycophants handed her the acoustic guitar.

I turned to walk back inside the phonebooth sized houseboat to assist with the wrap.

SPLASH!

The next thing I knew I had entered the 55 degree water of the San Francisco Bay. My production gear and clothes weighted me down, but I had been open water swimming for 12 years by now, and prepared to head to safety. But my left arm wouldn’t move. I had dislocated my shoulder.

I struggled to the surface. A hand reached down and took my right wrist. I scissor kicked onto the dock and rolled over onto my back. John South, the key grip, had pulled me up and out of the water. I panted. The pain traveled from my left shoulder to my brain. I gritted my teeth.

Jon Fontana, the gaffer, knowledgeable in dislocated shoulders tried to push it back into place, but something felt off.

Me: “Socket ain’t cooperating.”

Jon: “Ambulance is on the way.”

The EMTs arrived and hustled down to the lower dock. They asked several questions to check my level of shock, including;

EMT: “Do you have anything you need to tell us?”

Me: “Yes. I don’t think I’ll be coming into work tomorrow.”

Finally, after 24 years in the business. My favorite comeback.

They got me to my feet, but I had to walk the several hundred yards to the ambulance because the dock wasn’t wide enough for the gurney. I looked like a member of the SS in 1945 being led away by the Red Cross, my arm locked in a Heil Hitler salute, since any other position did not appear to be in my shoulder joint’s retinue anymore.

Me: “No more music videos.”

EMT: “What was that?”

Me: “Please don’t ask me to repeat myself.”

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ursafilms · 6 years ago

Text

The New Millennium and American Express

Production got positively dull after my last video game with Lucas, Force Commander in 1997. The company pulled it just after casting. Too bad because if you wanted to cast aliens (No. Not those.) and save money on prosthetics, San Francisco should be your first stop. A collection of some very talented people came through every casting session in the Bay Area, but the effects of living in one of the stranger parts of the world had taken its toll.

Casting in New York City had everything from strong character actors to every flavor of leading man and woman. Casting in Los Angeles showcased the concept of The Beautiful People. Casting in San Francisco would generate a remake of Tod Browning’s Freaks.

The tapes from Force Commander’s casting sessions looked like a rehearsal day for George Lucas’ latest meeting of the Imperial Senate. Somewhere in San Francisco’s past the circus came to town and all the performers escaped one night and polluted the gene pool. If PT Barnum had been around in the late 20thcentury, he’d never have gone into the business. The competition in Northern California would have been too stiff.

But alas, Force Commander died on the boardroom floor.

****

My four year run of bloated corporate gigs ran into the recession of 2000 and 2001. Since I cultivated TV, film, and commercial clients, a return to those sources of income presented itself and I took advantage of the ability to cross business sectors.

First up? A return to the world of ad agencies.

American Express ran a series of ads in the early 2000s that utilized the concept of ‘the chase.’ One of them had an Olympic sprinter running through the streets of Rome to catch the thief who had stolen her AMEX card.

Another concept showcased a Mister Softee ice cream truck pursuing a criminal on a Vespa through the streets of San Francisco. That thief had stolen the AMEX card of Michael Andretti, who had stopped by to purchase an ice cream cone.

And that’s where I came in.

The production company, Anonymous Content, a major player in the commercial industry, called to check my availability to manage, not line produce, the job for American Express. I had moved on years ago from production manager, who is one of the most beleaguered individuals you will see on any film set. If you spot someone on a production who looks old for their age and isn’t some Hollywood retread with too much cosmetic surgery, that’s the P.M.

No small amount of convincing later, Anonymous Content had their P.M.

Me.

The job had too many tempting elements to turn down. International buy. Michael Andretti as the on-camera principal driving the ice cream truck. But most importantly, a proposed duplication of the famous chase scene from Bullitt.

So I sucked it up and took the job. Money did not motivate this. Line producers are paid much more than P.M.s and get compensated for more days. P.M.s also have a tendency to work sixteen hour days and are treated by every other person in every other department like the new sex offender in the neighborhood.

Other than that, it’s a great gig in the industry.

The job lost any of its remaining bloom early and went south in a hurry. It all started with the second phone call from Anonymous Content explaining their UK partner, Gorgeous Enterprises would send the line producer from London.

Said line producer would travel from their UK office along with the director, and a camera operator since there are none of those in Bay Area. We’re not talking the Director of Photography. This is someone further down the pecking order and not a shot composer. Literally, about a step up from a button pusher.

The third phone call informed me that a staff coordinator would be joining us, as would the production designer, another Brit.

By the time the fifth phone call came in, I had ten people from England piling onto a Bay Area junket right in the middle of The World Cup. They did spare me from bringing Roger Deakins from London in to shoot the commercial. I only had to drag some guy from L.A. and hire his 1stA.C. who wanted his 2ndA.C. That was an interesting conversation.

1stA.C.: “Let me give you my 2ndA.C.’s contact information.”

Me: “I’m not dating, but thanks for thinking of me.”

1stA.C.: “No, you’ll need it to talk to him about his travel arrangements.”

Me: “Now you’re messing with me. I’m supposed to travel a secondassistant cameraman; put them up at a hotel; give them per diem; and listen to their complaints about how badly production is treating the crew?”

1stA.C.: “This is not unreasonable. When you go out of town, don’t you bring your coordinator with you?”

Me: “No.”

That threw him. He hung up and the next thing I knew, Caliguletta, the line producer from London and Gorgeous Enterprises, called me.

Caliguletta: “I understand you and the A.C. are having a disagreement.”

Me: “It’s not a disagreement. There is no reason to bring a second assistant cameraman up from Los Angeles. A first, yes. Second, no.”

Caliguletta overrode me, and the contingent from Los Angeles, which now included the Key Grip and his Best Boy, had grown to equal that of the Junket Junkies from the U.K., with the addition of the 2ndA.C.

The bloat continued.

The shooting boards timed out at 97 seconds for a 30 second spot. For those of you with a firm grip on math that gave the director a more than three to one amount of creative to go into editorial and subsequently jack up thosecharges. All that says to me, because this particular director is not alone in this type of indulgence, is that the decision making gene in creative types is non-existent.

****

With all the junkets arranged and the prep finished, principal photography began.

On the first shoot day, the director decided to go three hours into meal penalties to get a shot of a Tai Chi group going through their exercises in a city park. Shockingly, the crew and the above-the-line Junket Junkies complained about the three hour old lunch, which many of them do because Junket Junkies don’t actually DO anything on a set. They show up. Eat. Complain. Go back to their hotels. Drink. Eat. Sleep far too few hours. Wake up late for call. And start the entire process all over again.

After the last complaint about lunch was registered with Caliguletta, she walked me around the block and divulged that the lack of a hot truck in the Bay Area would present an ongoing problem. When I countered that perhaps the six meal penalties on a cast and crew of about a hundred might present a larger issue, the response exposed Caliguletta’s financial POV of the job.

Caliguletta appeared non-plussed about the damage to the bottom line. I should have heeded her disinterest as a harbinger of things to come. Quite frankly the job housed and fed a production coordinator, a 2ndA.C., and a camera operator. I’m an idiot for not noticing the Moscow May Day Parade of red flags flying earlier.

The balance of the lunchtime meals for the job now included reservations for a party of about 25 every day for lunch at one of the tonier San Francisco establishments. At the very least, Caliguletta appeared satisfied the above-the-line Junket Junkies would be able to run up a $75 per person lunch tab.

Then the teamsters piled on with the help of Anonymous Content.

During the prep for the job, I went through the production company contracts. The usual ones were in place, DGA, SAG commercials, IATSE, 600 and 52 Cameramen and the dreaded Teamsters. There were a few subcontracts for the overstaffed Vanities Department, and I had to deal with local members of the IA as well as the L.A. crew and, of course, the U.K. members, which fortunately limited itself to the camera operator.

The accounting department of Anonymous sent me all the requisite paperwork and documents. I covered off on minimal staffing for drivers and at the very least, had 15 Teamsters on my job including the transportation coordinator and captain. In the middle of all the hiring, no one,

including Caliguletta and the staff personnel at Anonymous informed me of the need for Gang Boss for the Teamsters.

When someone finally told me about, I offered to hire a Gang Boss if their contract required it.

Me: “A Gang Boss? Okay. I’ll call the union and have one sent out.”

Hysterical Person of Unknown Department: “There are no Gang Bosses in San Francisco.”

Me: “That might be an impediment to quickly resolving this.”

Hysterical Person of Unknown Department: “You moron. You should know this.”

Me: “Actually, the 37 people I queried at Anonymous and Gorgeous should have helped me with their contract when I called and spent an hour making sure I had proper staffing. Also, the producer might have mentioned this.”

Hysterical Person of Unknown Department: “You’re incompetent. The Teamsters are going to hit us with a fine.”

Me: “Oh, go tell Caliguletta. That money stuff doesn’t seem to bother her.”

The Teamsters did hit Anonymous with a fine, and sent me a Gang Boss from Los Angeles. I now had a Gang Boss, a Transportation Captain, and a Transportation Coordinator managing eight vehicles and 12 drivers.

On top of all this hilarity, the World Cup or The Endless Insomnia Cure as I call it, started its 28 month round robin, multiple elimination, one-and-not-quite-done contest of six hour games ending in 0-0 ties.

Conveniently, The Endless Insomnia Cure had chosen the other side of world, Korea and Japan, as the countries in which to conduct its business. As such, the conscientious Junket Junkies decided that attending the midnight start between Myanmar and Bhutan at the local Faux Public House seven hours before call time of the first shoot day might be a brilliant idea.

Sleep-deprived and upset that Bhutan had prevailed by a score of 0-0, the director, camera operator and Caliguletta showed up the morning of shoot day one and immediately hated the craft service, an honor normally reserved for the ad agency.

Not enough fair trade coffee. No chocolate biscuits. Produce which appeared to have been picked by underage children. What hot food did make it to the first table did not have a vegan option.

In their defense, I’d hired the great husband and wife team that had been providing craft services for Bay Area shoots for a decade and had an excellent reputation. Of course, the wife chose this day to come down with the flu and in typical crew person fashion didn’t bother to tell me.

Nor did her husband, but all is forgiven since he was on his own trying to feed about 80 people who had breakfast at home amnesia. I assigned a P.A. to help him and turned my attention to important things. Like getting the director a chocolate biscuit, the instructions to which came over the walkie-talkie.

Caliguletta: “Director wants a latte and a chocolate biscuit.”

Me: “Okay, I’ll send the P.A. out that’s helping Craft Services. There’s a Starbucks near a Starbucks near here.”

Caliguletta: “You don’t have her anymore. Locations sucked all the P.A.s up for traffic and crowd control.”

Me: “That’s too bad. I was actually going to have them get me a chocolate biscuit too, since I don’t know what the Hell it is.”

Caliguletta lost her temper, which I ignored.

Me: “I’ll get another P.A., but you have to give me a few minutes, or give me one of the 15 I’ve already hired to send out. I’m by myself in this Motorhome. My coordinators are back at the office dealing with tomorrow’s shoot. Speaking of coordinators, why don’t you send the one we brought over from England out. He’d at least know what a chocolate biscuit looks like.”

Caliguletta: “He’s at camera with me.”

Me: “Doing what?”

Another loss of temper.

To Caliguletta’s credit she treated me with a low level of contempt during the balance of the shoot, and I’d soon find out why. But first, let me mention another unnecessary $5000 expenditure to throw on the bonfire. And I won’t even bother to cover the $2500 directional sign in original Mandarin that increased the running length of the spot to one hundred seconds.

Here’s how we ended up with another $5K charge on the San Francisco city permit bill.

The director and Caliguletta tasked the locations department with the removal of a streetlamp so the director could squeeze the Mister Softee Ice Cream truck down the one alley in Chinatown that couldn’t quite fit its width. I completely understand his insistence since Chinatown in San Francisco only has about a thousand slightly wider alleyways that look exactly like the one he picked. Quite frankly, Chinatown in San Francisco is a neighborhood of a thousand alleyways that look exactly alike. $2500 for removal and replacement.

Caliguletta waved her hand and made it so.

****

But the highlight of highlights had to be the $10,000 hazard pay fee we had to pay the stunt driver of the Mister Softee Ice Cream truck.

During the car chase scene in Bullitt, the Bad Guy GTO and Steve McQueen’s Mustang both jump a ridiculously steep hill in a neighborhood in San Francisco. It’s in Nob or Russian Hill. As long as I lived in the Bay Area I never knew where one of those neighborhoods started the other ended. The director decided to duplicate that jump using the Vespa and Mister Softee.

Did I mention that Michael Andretti drove Mister Softee?

Yes, he did. However for the stunt, we hired a SAG certified stunt driver. He received $10,000 per jump given the hazardous nature of the request. The operator of the Vespa, a Bay Area local, had the Bullitt chase scene on his bucket list. No one looked forward to that day more than these two stuntmen, and money did not enter into the equation. Maybe.

The day arrived. The street, clear of cars, save for two which necessitated a tow. Ridiculous because part of the art direction called for automobiles to be parked on both sides of the stretch of the jump, but, of course they had to be camera friendly cars, whatever that means. A week later, two irate citizens of San Francisco would be knocking on the production office door a few days later to demand reimbursement of the $227 fine and the $75 ticket. Reasonable requests given that production had only given them TEN DAYS NOTICE.

You can guess how much money the two received as reimbursement.

As I mentioned, the expensive vagaries of production dictated that the cars on both sides of the street be under the jurisdiction of the company, so spots were driven and filled by the location P.A.s (The ones hired by me, but no longer available to get lattes and chocolate biscuits, whatever they Hell they were.) and after parking the film-friendly cars, they hustled up and down the sidewalks warning occupants not to venture out until an ‘All Clear’ could be heard over the megaphone.

For some stupid reason, I left the confines of the motorhome to watch the jump. I’d not seen one take in four days. Sadly, I also had a walkie-talkie so the A.D. department enlisted me to help signal the Vespa and the Mister Softee Ice Cream truck from the top of the hill, clear it, and descend towards the multiple camera positions. I asked where the six other 2ndAssistant Directors were and got rebuffed immediately with some sort of gobbledygook from the 1stA.D., a harried Englishman with a shaved head who hailed from L.A. The incomprehensible excuses mounted and I finally broke the stream.

Me: “So they’re out getting lattes and chocolate biscuits?”

Sid Vapid, the A.D.: “If that lazy git of a production manager did his job, they wouldn’t have to.”

Me: “Really? If that lazy git of an A.D. and location manager could lock down a neighborhood with fewer resources than Eisenhower had at D-Day, I’d have a spare P.A. or two. So why don’t you just kiss my—”

Sid Vapid, the A.D.: “Sorry mate, got a set to run. Cheers!”

Whenever anyone from England says “Cheers” to you, they have an image in their mind of shoving an icepick into one of your eyeballs.

I stationed myself on the side of the hill opposite the down side towards the camera positions. The San Francisco based stunt man sat on the Vespa and continued to figure out how many laws of physics he could break before he ended up room temperature with an ID tag on his toe, or crushed to the size of Jeremy Piven. The driver of the Mister Softee Ice Cream truck looked so calm, I thought I’d have to shove a mirror under his nose to see if it would fog.

That’s when I noticed the walkie-talkie lying just to the ice cream truck driver’s right. Sid, the A.D. ran through the instructions over the walkie once more.

Sid: “The call will be Roll A Camera, Roll B Camera, Roll C Camera, and then Background! All that before I call Action!”

During Sid’s clear cut description of the call, I noticed the ice cream truck driver’s walkie cutting out at, oh, every word. The only word(s) that the ice cream truck driver heard was “Action!”

I figured this out when I heard the gunning of the ice cream truck’s engine and the release of the emergency brake. I got on the walkie.

Me: “Sid (Not his real name)! The truck is making the jump! Get everyone off the street!”

Sid: “Who’s the sodding b%$t@rd that sent the truck!?”

Me: “You. I’ll explain later. He’s approaching the crest of the hill.”

Have no idea what transpired on the down jump side of the street, but I sprinted to the top and saw an absolutely spectacular stunt. The driver got several feet of air under the vehicle and just before it would have taken out the entire front end of the truck, it landed on the front tires and flew down the hill.

You will have to take my word for it, as none of the three cameras rolled a millimeter of film on the event. The stunt driver hit the brakes somewhere around Lake Tahoe and turned around. After stopping for moment to speak with the A.D., he continued back up the hill for another take, which would net him another $10,000.

He sang “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” as he passed by me. He even smiled and waved.

****

The shoot ended a day later with the last of the shots needed to put together the film festival entrant, “Bullitt Redux.” While the crew from L.A., after diving into the hotel swimming pool at 3am, left for southern California, Yours truly and the production staff returned to the office to wrap the job and get the London contingent back across the pond.

The job wrapped smoothly, especially for such a large one. Credit goes to Joyce Quan, who dealt with the accounting and Petra Janopaul, who dealt with more production details than I think actually existed on the job.

I’ll even credit myself for putting up with the bunch from England who did seem more interested in the results of The World Cup than the seven figure job on which they worked. I worked on it. Petra and Joyce worked on it. I know I saw parts of the art department working on it. Even caught a glimpse of the 2ndA.C. changing a lens one of the days.

I still don’t know what a Gang Boss does.

We packed up the office, a temporary set-up in San Francisco’s Presidio, and I started my next gig, an episodic television show for John Wells of West Wingfame.

But not before a few things happened.

About a week after the shoot, I received a long email with a request to explain about 20 purchase orders and their attached invoices. A few examples:

P.O. #XYZ212 – Hotel Unknown –

Room Service for Tuesday 6/12 $453.27

Room Service for Wednesday 6/13 $377.02

Room Service for Thursday 6/14 $298.98

Room Service for Friday 6/15 $477.55

Room Service for Tuesday 6/19 $822.88

Room Service for Wednesday 6/20 $375.30

Room Service for Thursday 6/21 $654.01

Room Service for Friday 6/22 $468.24

GRAND TOTAL A LOT

NOTE FROM PRODUCTION: Given that the entire out of town crew was on Per Diem and received most of their meals during scouting and shooting, to what do we attribute these charges?

P.O. #XYZ277 – Bob’s Electric –

Installation of 220V Service $750.00

Removal of 220V Service $750.00

GRAND TOTAL $1500.00

NOTE FROM PRODUCTION: Since your country is on 110V service, is there any reason to install and then remove, just a day later, a 220V service?

P.O. #XYZ243 – City of SF –

Removal of streetlamp $1200.00

Replacement of streetlamp $1200.00

Nuisance Fee $ 100.00

GRAND TOTAL $2500.00

There were at least 15, if not 20, more P.O.s called into question. Having closed the office and completed the wrap, did not stop me from feeling obligated to look through the purchase orders and the invoices one more time as courtesy. I had reviewed them the first time during the official wrap, and every single one had been signed off by Caliguletta, the line producer.

A couple conversations took place between me and the head of the accounting department. I’ve consolidated them.

Me: “I’ve reviewed the P.O.s and the invoices and found nothing the second time through that I didn’t find the first time. Caliguletta signed off on the lot of them. I didn’t see any missing signatures.”

Angry Accountant: “The job is $100,000 over budget. How do you explain that?”

Me: “We spent more money than what was in the budget.”

Angry Accountant: “This is no joke. You’ll need to re-actualize the job.”

Me: “Okay. Let me see if I can rent a couple of the offices we used for the shoot, and I’ll check and see if Joyce and Petra are available. As soon as I tie that up, I’ll request—”

Angry Accountant: “We’re not spending any more money on this job.”

Me: “You don’t know how great it is to hear that. I don’t think that sentence left Caliguletta’s lips the entire time she was here.”

Angry Accountant: “Oh, so it’s the line producer’s fault, is it?”

Me: “Yes. That’s their job. The P.M. can tell you how the money got spent, but only the line producer can tell you why. I think you need to check with Caliguletta.”

Angry Accountant: “She quit a couple days after the shoot.”

Me: “That should tell you all you need to know.”

Angry Accountant: “So you won’t reactualize the job?”

Me: “Not for free.”

A few days later the executive producer from Anonymous Content and Gorgeous Enterprises had me on the phone. As calmly as possible I delineated the excess on the job that Caliguletta seemed perfectly fine with approving. As far as my own transgressions, I admitted to a lack of haute cuisine and that the amount of the Teamster’s fine for the lack of a Gang Boss could be withdrawn from my salary. They demurred, but did insist that my next job for either company had better have Wolfgang Puck manning the hot truck.

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