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

by Chris Radant

After a year or so of dropping hints, several months of strategically aiming them, and finally, some shameless grovelling, I secured a job on the production crew of Home for the Holidays. Despite many warm invitations to just come and watch the filming in comfort, I pushed for the crew job and got it.

My mission was to make myself useful while on the set of this movie, which was a byproduct of my own short story. I had somewhat romantic ideas about being a part of this other family, comprised of the production crew and cast. I preferred this vision to that of me standing around on the sidelines, not knowing what to do with my hands, and blushing.

Originally, the exteriors were to be shot in Massachusetts, near my home, but since it was impossible to start the filming until February, the venue had to be changed to a city farther south, Baltimore, in order to make it look Novemberish. For some reason, this wasn't enough to dissuade me, so through a friend of a friend, who long ago lived in Baltimore, I found a lead on a home there, for the month-long production gig.

Peggy Rajske, the film's producer, thoughtfully put me in a position smack dab in the heart of the action, where I could watch everything being filmed. I was to be a set p.a. (production assistant), a position at the very bottom of the film production food chain. And no amount of warning could talk me out of it.

Finding a Baltimore home-away-from-home finally materialized just two and a half weeks before my job was to begin. It was right around the same time that my ten-year-old Subaru quit on me. Harry, my lovable Greek mechanic, called with its death knell, "I gotta bad noose." There was very low compression ("compresh") on the left side of my Subaru's engine and it would cost $4-500 for Harry to take the car apart just to see if it was salvageable. So, for several days there, I had a p.a. job in Baltimore, no clue about what that meant, no place to live and no car to get there. Did I mention I love an adventure? After a minor freak-out, I got through to Barb and her 19-year-old son, Ethan, in Baltimore. They seemed very nice and said I could stay in their spare bedroom. I promised them they wouldn't see much of me once the gig began, due to the long hours.

As for transportation, I found shopping for a decent used car is a time-consuming and unpleasant task. Other people's cars smelled funny. Plus I had the sneaky suspicion that they were lying to me.

Finally, in an anxious moment, I bought a new-smelling Ford Escort (I held out for one with heat) and packed it with only the bare necessities: Bright yellow rubber pants, goose down feather bed, boom box and cassette tapes, lumberjack plaid wool shirt, reflective ankle bands, three kinds of perfume, flashlight, silk and wool undies, camera, picnic basket, over-the-knee socks, sun block, chemical toe heaters to put in my shoes, laptop computer, floss, tweezers, itty-bitty book light, some flares, two down pillows, framed pictures of my boyfriend and daughter, a hairdryer, cold and flu medications, my Eddie Bauer down jacket, makeup, floppy disks, an assortment of earrings, a pair of ski pants, a push-up bra, Prozac, a bungee cord, medicated lip balm, 3 maps of Baltimore, some spring water and some Tums.

When my departure date arrived, I squeezed into my bulging Ford and, with my head barely poking out of the cargo, realized I look like Claudia in the first act of the movie, after she gets fired. I drove 6 hours to Mount Holly, N.J. and stayed in a HoJo. The next day, some sort of snafu prevented me from being able to move into the house in Baltimore for one more day. So I drove an hour past Baltimore to Reston, VA, where I stayed with my girlfriend Patty's sister and bro-in-law. They took good care of me, sticking me in their Jacuzzi, letting me pet their ferrets, "Willie" and "Winkie," and taking me out to eat. The following morning, they fed me french toast and packed me off for the hour's drive back to Baltimore.

There, my host family, Barb and Ethan, greeted me with hugs, helped me unload the Ford, and invited me into Ethan's room (sort of a reggae 'chill' grotto), for a "welcome bong hit." Barb's a little giddy and hyperactive with a big, warm heart. She has an accent that sounds just like a Pittsburgh accent, which freaked me out some, since my family lives there. Ethan is an adorable kid who stays stoned and listens to reggae and has only three responses for every occasion: "cool," "that'll work," and "no problem."

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