I’m standing outside a rusting gate in Hollywood, set in a cinder block wall. I’m here to scout a landscaping operation that’s supposedly within, but there’s no sign to confirm this.
I call my contact, Manny (not his real name), but he doesn’t pick up. I ring the front bell. Wait. Wait some more.
Then, the gate dings, and I step inside the courtyard. It seems like I’m in the right place, a maze of flowers, potted plants, and various outdoor decorations. But no one comes to greet me.
Off to one side is a small one-story building, just larger than what would constitute a shack. Despite its diminutive size, a banner hangs on the front for a film production company I’ve never heard of.
Unsure what to do, I go to the door of the shack and knock. Inside, a dog starts yipping up a storm. I hear someone shuffling.
The door opens, and a guy about my age stands in a bathrobe, scowling at me. “What do you want?” he says, glowering. A small white terrier leaps at his ankles, barking its head off.
I’m thrown off for a moment, as this was a scout appointment we had arranged over the course of several phone calls.
“I’m Nick,” I say. “The scout. We had the appointment today to scout the property? For the TV show?”
“Yeah?” he says, sneering at me. “I’m in film. What is this for? Who are you working for?” He talks as though I’m a child who has borrowed his dad‘s camcorder to make a movie with his school friends. His dog continues to yip shrilly.
For a minute, I’m not sure how to handle this one. I know LA’s reputation, but it’s still pretty rare to get hit with this level of overt condescension.
My eyes drift past him to the movie posters on the wall, presumably produced by his company. Horror movies with lots of sequel numbers after their title. Like, Lumberjack Killer 8 and Sleepover Slaughter 13.
Then I see a movie I’m familiar with, and suddenly, I realize I know who this is. He’s a director. Years and years ago, I went and saw his very first movie at a screening in New York, back in a time when he was allowed to make movies without sequel numbers. He even stayed for a Q and A and answered a question I asked about the film’s score. I’m not sure what happened in the subsequent decade or so, but this seems to be a very different person in front of me now.
“Sorry. Let me start again and see if I can clear up the confusion. I’m working for [director whose film career is larger than this person’s by astronomical magnitudes], on his new TV show. I had arranged an appointment to scout a landscaping company. Am I in the right place?”
He looks at me with total disdain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But this is a landscaping company, right?” I ask. “Manny. I arranged the appointment with Manny, the owner. Do you know Manny?”
“Sorry, dude,” he says. “Can’t help you.” And with that, he shuts the door in my face, his dog still yapping up a storm.
I stand alone in the middle of what is clearly a landscaping business, utterly lost.
Not sure what to do, I wander back out the gate and stand on the sidewalk in a daze, having apparently followed my Google Map directions into the Twilight Zone.
Then, my phone rings. “Hey, Nick, sorry I missed your call!” says Manny. “Come on in!”
“Manny, I think I’m in the wrong place, I say. “I’m on the sidewalk outside some kind of landscaping place, but a guy here says this isn’t the right location.”
“Oh. OK. Hang on, I’ll come get you.” After a minute, the gate in front of me opens and Manny steps out and shakes my hand. I feel like I’m losing my mind.
“Manny, I just had the weirdest experience,” I say. “A guy in the shack over there said there was no landscaping company here. And he said he didn’t know you.”
Manny’s face clouds. “This fuckin’ guy… I rent out that place to him for his film thing. He’s very…” And for a moment, it looks like he’s about to unleash an unholy explosion of wrath and fury at his tenant, who has subjected him to countless such irritations over the years. But at the last second, he calms himself.
“…He’s very particular,” he concludes. Yip yip yip, still coming from inside. “And that fuckin’ dog… Anyway, come in!”
They say you need an ego to survive in Hollywood, and I guess that applies to everyone. Even the director of Sleepover Slaughter 13 operating out of a small shack to one side of a landscaping company that he refuses to admit exists.
(note: as always, picture is not a location being described)