A brief career in film production
Thirty-six hours that darn-near finished me off.

by Chris Radant

(Continued from page 2)

That's when the cacophony stopped for a moment and I heard myself say, "No es bueno."

I was willing to suffer through an uncomfortable learning curve, ready to work like the devil, without sleep, and for very little money, but now I had become dangerous. I realized then that there were several dozen younger, more adept people in line for my job who desperately wanted a future in production, and the best thing I could do was to let that better match happen.

I wept uncontrollably as I packed my walkie-talkie, my vibrating pager, some messages to crew members and an apologetic letter of resignation into a plastic bag, and hailed a van driver. "Take this to my superior back at the terminal," I pleaded with bloodshot eyes the size of fried eggs. And with that, I ended my career in production.

On the drive back to Barb and Ethan's, I realized that I must also leave Baltimore, since I had promised my hosts I'd be quite scarce in their house.
The next day, I loaded my Ford again and drove 10 hours back to Boston, where I had cancelled all other work for the rest of the month.

For two whole weeks after returning home, I drank Pedialyte, a remedy for dehydration. Both my big toenails turned black and threatened to come off altogether. I was a whole pants size smaller. I have since recovered from all of the above and have ceased waking up in the middle of the night, shouting, "What's my twenty?" (Walkie-talkie talk for "location.")

Retirement from the rigors of production agrees with me, and I am content to get only one credit on the movie.*

*The names that are rolling while you put on your coat and leave the theatre belong to some of the hardest-working people you can imagine. Think of my story the next time you watch movie credits roll. Those people stayed and finished. Most are still alive today.

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