Production Assistant 101

The day is humid. I wear old jeans that felt tight around my waist, but within five minutes of walking start to droop. I have a t-shirt on, one of the t-shirts I have been buying to seem cool, with a symbol or wording or a logo that didn’t need to be there, but I like it for the camouflage it provides, look at my chest not at my face. On the streets of Brooklyn in park slope I am a speck among specks and I like that.

I like being invisible.

Three blocks down 4th Avenue I make a left on Degraw and see the address 621.

I am not excited. I think I know what to expect. I am poor. I have made mistakes. I will be surrounded by others of my ilk. We are all trying to scramble up from the abyss.

I enter the building recently renovated. The air conditioner groans and there is a funky smell. Like cat pee. Or old person. Or maybe it’s the physical embodiment of disappointment and regret , low expectations.

The first woman I see ignores me as I walk up to the counter. Another woman with pretty, moist, big brown eyes walks out of an office and smiles in a small way to suggest she may remember me.

I was here before I said the same thing.

I say this time, “I am here for the production assistant orientation.”

This time She says, “Have a seat.”

There are two choices. One against the window. Between a man with wooly salt and pepper hair, I don’t see his eyes. His face looks resigned. On the other side of the seat is a woman wearing tight bright spandex talking on her cell phone. I wonder if I’d agree with her loud opinion of, “fuck that bitch she aint right.”

The second seat is under the counter. Not directly, but near enough. I sit in this far awayseat secluded and plug in my ear buds to drown out a bit of the noise of talking and laughing and being human. I don’t listen to anything through them. I just leave them in my ears.

I pull my book out. Open it to my dog eared mark. I flip a page. I don’t remember any of the words I just read so I flip back and find myself turning it yet again having done no reading.

Marking my place I set the book on my lap.

I can’t help anticipate the resolution to my actions today.

My wife would not be happy if she knew.

She wouldn’t be happy if I sent her a text explaining , “this is a complete waste of time.” I do it anyway.

I am good at complaining and moaning and assuming.

She responds, and I see her sweet eyes roll through the words displayed on the screen to my phone, “then come home.”

She knows I wont.

The meeting is at one.

My phone says thats forty five minutes away.

Twenty minutes later the woman who ignored me calls,” those who are here for the production assistant orientation, please sign in.”

I jump up.

The dark eyed one says, “See.” And I wonder if she is talking about me.

I sign my name and sit back down.

Ten minutes later a different woman with a purple dress hugging rolls of fat directs us to a conference room, “Production people come sit in the conference room.”

I assume the conference room will be an obvious location.

It is.

I look at the ‘U’ shaped table and debate which would be the best seat. In college I would sit in the back corner desk farthest from the door.

I read later that’s the seat trouble makers take in a class setting. I choose the second seat from the front nearest the outside wall.

The guy next to me is fat and I wonder if I look like him. He doesn’t look comfortable. He pulls at his shirt. His pants are huge and baggy but somehow still cut into his waist . He glances at me and I can’t tell if its hate or fear I see briefly on his face.

On the other side of me a person sits whom I think is a woman dressed like a man. I can’t be sure.

I feel confused.

I don’t say anything to either of them.

The room fills up. I start texting my wife the results.

1 of this person , 2 of that, 4 of them and 18 of the other.

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

She responds “shut up” and I know she is getting angry.

I feel alone.

I look at the guy with the red hair and wonder if he always feels alone.

Ginger guys.

Unfortunate.

Scruffy.

Gangly.

My wife says they get laid a lot. I wonder if this guy does. I wonder if it’s just the red hair. Like it attracts women like a red cape attracts a bull.

Toro! I am a bit jealous at this thought.

The room fills up.

The proctor walks in, “good morning.” She lays down a box filled with paper.

I tried to print a collection of stories once that was 200 pages and the cost would have been too much for me to afford. I wonder how much that box cost.

How many reams.

How much ink.

Was it professionally done.

If it is her words on that paper is she proud to be able to hand them out.

The room really fills up now. The outside and the inside of the table have no empty seats, then 26, 27, 28 walk in together.

“No more chairs in here you guys want to grab some chairs from outside.” The Pretty proctor smiles. I like her smile. She seems smart.

Educated.

Capable.

If I ran a nonprofit employment agency I would want her to be the face my clients see.

Me and the fat man aren’t sitting very close together so I move my chair closer to him.

He moves his farther away.

I scoot a bit closer and he moves to the edge half on the table half off.

I feel bad so I move back away from him and I hear, “Ouch.”

I am certain it is a woman now behind me, but for some reason I say, “Sorry man.” Knowing I just caught her arm between our chairs.

I can’t tell if she feels hurt or proud. Weird that I would not be able to tell the difference.

Pretty closes the door and begins to walk back to the front of the conference room and says, “Ok lets get started, my name is..”

She is interrupted by someone trying to get through the door.

“Is it locked?” She asks the room.

Someone answers, “no.” without checking.

Pretty walks back over and opens the door. She pulls hard on one handle and both doors open.

3 walks in. He has a hairlip, cleft palate, that thing that is obvious to everyone but no one is allowed to mention.

He says, “ sorry,” in a lisp that has to make phone work impossible.

Three people work on reclosing the door.

“No flip that there.”

“Gotta turn that”

“Look just push it hard like this”

Each attempt lead to the door slowly ebbing open.

“It’s Okay guys have a seat,” pretty says jumping into her presentation with giving her name.

And I zone out.

3 hours later on the paper in front of me are three sentences, or fragments, or thoughts.

Feast or famine.

Go to Craigslist.

Gotta network.

After filling out the application with every truth I could summon I leave feeling dejected and buy a pack of cigarettes hoping my wife will control their distribution.