I snap a picture of the homeowner’s nice suburban living room. Then, I notice a book on the shelves, a book I happen to be reading at the moment. I don’t know it yet, but this book is about to make things get very strange.

It’s a history book about the making of a particular movie, a massive tome over 400 pages long. The movie is well-known, but this is a book few people have ever read. And yet, their copy looks well-worn and dog-eared.

Then I notice the homeowner has several editions of the book: the hard cover, a revised version, etc. I’ve been driving around with a copy in my car knocking off a few pages between scouting appointments for the past few weeks, and it’s just too funny a coincidence not to mention.

“You’re a fan?” I ask, gesturing to the book. “I’m about halfway through. It’s such a great book.”

A chill suddenly settles over the room. “You’ve seen the movie it’s about?” the homeowner asks, a strange suspicion to their voice.

“Oh yeah, it’s a favorite,” I say slowly, rapidly trying to get a read on what I’ve done to cause such a shift.

“What did you say your project was again?” the homeowner asks, as if they don’t believe the reason I’m in their home.

I immediately pause my picture-taking and give a very detailed rundown of the job that leaves little doubt that what I’m saying is true. It’s extremely important to me that a homeowner is comfortable with my presence at all times.

After my explanation, the homeowner seems satisfied, but the mood remains awkward for rest of the scout.

Later in my car, I can’t stop thinking about why the mention of a book could lead to such a dramatic shift in tone. So I start working it through. Who would have so many copies of such an obscure making-of film book on their shelf? Maybe someone involved with the movie?

I recheck the homeowner’s name in my notes, and suddenly, I realize it’s a name I know. And then, the world comes into focus and I understand exactly what happened.

The homeowner is an actor, and not only had a role in the film, but a major role. A fourth or fifth billing role. The sort of role that any fan would know, and should recognize them for.

Except, I didn’t recognize them. Because the homeowner no longer looks the same as they did in the movie. Not due to age, but because of the changes they’ve made to their face. It is now so pumped up and puffy and taut and emotionless, it takes a serious amount of mental photoshopping just for me to connect the them to the person I know in the movie.

And that’s when I realize: I don’t know if the homeowner was made uncomfortable by the idea that I had recognized them, or that I hadn’t.

Edit: to be clear, the picture is my bookshelf! And all highly recommended reads!

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.

I’m about to scout a morgue.

“I want to warn you,” says my guide. “We just finished an autopsy on a person who had been dead for three days before anyone found him. There’s still a smell in the room, and it can be intense.”

“Should I have put some Vic’s under my nose before coming in?” I ask, thinking back to all the police procedurals in which I’d seen this done.

“Oh sure, if you want to pass out, hit your head, and become the rookie story we laugh about all week. Happens all the time. Just try not to breathe through your nose.”

We go inside and I begin taking my scout pictures. And at first, I’m able to keep to breathing through my mouth, avoiding any odors.

But as time passes, I become curious. In my head, the smell of a decaying corpse is something like old hamburger meat you forgot you’d left in the fridge a month ago, or a torn-open garbage bag left to bake in the hot sun. Eventually, the desire to know for sure becomes too great, and I take a tentative sniff.

I immediately wish I could go back to what I thought the smell must’ve been. Because the reality is worse. So much worse.

It’s a smell unlike any I’ve ever experienced.

It’s ashy, but not like smoke.

It’s greasy, but not like food.

There’s a heavy, almost humid weight to it.

In my mind, I grope for more adjectives to describe it, but it is entirely singular. All I can arrive at is that the smell is wrong. It is wrong. It is wrong.

The smell lingers in my nose long after I leave the property.

And I know I will never forget it.

“I’m a singer,” the man says as I scout his home. “I’ve sung on more gold and platinum albums than anyone.” He lists some. All legends.

“How did it all happen?” I ask.

“Well, my father went off to fight in World War II. Never came back. And ever since, the blessings have just kept coming.”

I’m scouting the living room of a middle class home in the suburbs. The owner is next to me. He’s big, burly. Thinning hair. Walrus moustache. Wilford Brimley would play his part in a movie. I think he said he works at the phone company.

I notice a framed photograph of a boy, 10 or 12. He’s dressed in a pink and purple figure-skating outfit, an exuberant grin on his face. The man sees me looking and says quickly, “that’s our boy. He does figure skating.” He gives a small shrug as if to say, “I don’t get it.”

But at the same time, I sense him staring intensely at me, searching my expression for the most minute reaction. And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that if I exhibit any sign of disapproval or ridicule – a smirk, a raised eyebrow, a wince – that he will join me in it.

Because he knows that among some people, there’s a code of what boys and men should and should not do, and maybe he previously held himself to this standard, or still does to a degree, and wants to know where I fall, a form of self-protection.

And if I make a joke, he’ll laugh and we’ll move on, like he probably has countless times in the past. But there’s a tiredness in his eyes, like he just can’t put himself through this ritual again.

Of course, I say how great it is that his son has such a passion, and clearly one he’s good at, noting the many awards around his picture. And I can feel the man’s guard instantly relaxing, like a weight off his shoulders.

He suddenly starts gushing about his son, talking about the many trophies he’s won, and how there may even be talk about of the Olympics in his future.

Then, just as suddenly, he quiets down, as if he’s shared too much. He says “Yes. We’re really…” His eyes fixate on the picture as he drifts off for the briefest of moments. Then, even more quietly, sincerely: “We’re really proud of him.”

I like to think that I’ve seen the real man in this moment. He may not have been this man before having his son, and he may still be battling that old version’s shadow still fighting to survive within him.

But I hope this new man wins the day. I think he wants that. I think he’s trying. I think he just doesn’t have it in him to keep putting up the shield for the sake of a stranger like me.

And then we move on to see the next room.