I’m scouting the exterior of a corner market. I take a pic, and suddenly, a man is getting out of his car, and now he’s thundering toward me, and I realize I have about 12 seconds to figure out what to do before he beats the shit out of me.
Because this is a neighborhood where corners like this are usually worked by a guy. And as a rule, said guys do not like pictures of them standing on the corner working.
No one was on the corner when I started. But what I hadn’t noticed was the Cadillac parked at the curb, with a man reclined back in the driver’s seat.
This is the man coming at me now. “You taking fuckin’ pictures of me?”
I’ve been here many times before, and I know what not to do: fumble through your story, speak timidly, avoid eye contact, attempt to run – because why would you do any of those things if you don’t have a good reason for taking pictures?
I don’t budge. I look him in the eyes and say, with confidence, “Sorry, I’m not taking pictures of you. I’m taking pictures of the market. We want to use it for a TV show. But if there’s a problem, I’ll delete them.”
His voices grows angrier, louder. “What do I know about a fucking TV show? All I know is, you were taking pictures of me.”
But this is good. Because if he was going to throw a fist, this was the time. And there’s something else. The louder he gets, the more the words sound forced, like he’s a bad actor trying to fake a tough guy role.
Then I have the strangest thought. That what’s happening is part of his job description. A part this person isn’t very experienced at, or doesn’t like doing. Maybe both.
I ignore his tone and continue, dropping the TV show’s name and explaining how the scene will play out, exactly as I would to a homeowner in the suburbs who is curious why I’m leaving flyers on their block.
And suddenly, his eyes light up. The bravado drops, replaced by the look of a kid getting a toy on Christmas morning. “No shit! I fuckin’ love that show!” he says. “They’re going to film here? Shit!” We’re good now.
He gushes about the show for a minute, and I do everything to hide how hard I’m shaking. He goes back to his car with a friendly wave. I finish taking pictures, then drive away fast.
I’ve been in a bunch of these encounters while scouting. I hate them. I avoid them at all costs.
But I’ve somehow always managed to diffuse them in the same way each time, a combination of honesty, confidence, and respect.
I sometimes wonder if it works because the people who come at you, maybe they don’t get a lot of that in their daily lives.