Arrivederci, Aldo
by Kim Sykes
Long Island City
I love my job. How many people can say that?
I could be working security in a department store over in Manhattan, where they make you follow old ladies with large purses and mothers with baby strollers. Or in an office tower doing Homeland Security detail, looking at photo IDs all day and pretending I care whether you belong in a building full of uninteresting lawyers and accountants, most of whom come to work hoping I’d find a reason to stop them from going in. Or guarding a bank where you’re so bored that you consider robbing it yourself or kicking one of those lousy machines that charge two dollars to do what a bank is supposed to do for free.
My friends tell me I got it pretty good because I work security at Silvercup Studios where they shoot television shows, movies, and commercials. Not to mention the fact that it’s not far from my walkup in Long Island City. My neighbors treat me like I’m a celebrity. Which is pretty funny since my mother worked at Silvercup in the ’50s baking bread and nobody ever treated her like she was somebody, except me and my father.
Yeah, okay, I see lots of good-looking men and pretty girls, famous singers and movie stars. No big deal. They’re just like you and me. Especially without the makeup and the fancy clothes. They all come in with uncombed hair, comfortable shoes, and sunglasses. Some of them got egos to match the size of the cars they drive up in. They arrive with their assistants and their entourages carrying everything from little dogs to adopted babies. Some of them pride themselves as just folks and come in on the subway. The one thing they all got in common is that I make them sign in. It’s my job. They might be celebrities, but I treat them all the same.
There are exceptions, like the directors and the producers. They don’t bother to sign in. Every day they walk past my security desk and one of their “people” will whisper to me who they are. You’d think they were royalty or something. I check their names off a special list the office gives me. The boss says that they pay the bills and we should make them happy no matter what. I guess when you’re in charge of making multimillion-dollar movies, it’s the little things that matter, like not having to write down your own name.
Then there’s everybody in between, the ones who are not movie stars — the supporting and background actors, backup singers, and the hoochie girls in the music videos. When they come in, all eager and excited, they usually put their names in the wrong places and walk through the wrong doors. Especially the first-timers. They don’t pay much attention to anything except the hopes and dreams in their heads.
Last, but not least, there’s the crew. Most of these guys I know by sight. They come in when it’s still dark outside and that’s usually when they leave too. They walk past me half asleep. It’s hard work getting up before dawn every day, unloading, setting up and breaking down and loading up again — not to mention looking after all those people. So sometimes I try to make their days a little easier. If I’ve never seen them before, they sign in. If I know them, I let them go through, but you didn’t hear that from me. You see, we got thirteen studios and they’re in a constant state of shooting something. So sometimes I have to bend the rules.
The phone at my security desk rings and I almost fall backwards in my chair. It’s probably the boss’s office telling me about an unexpected delivery or adding a name to the list. You see, they got it under control up there. The next day’s schedule and sign-in sheets are usually done at midnight and placed on my desk for the following morning. We run a tight ship around here, so when the phone rings it’s pretty important. I answer it on the second ring.
“Yes, sir?” I straighten up in my seat. It’s the boss himself.
“Listen, Josephine, we got an intruder walking around the premises.”
I can hardly believe my ears. The news makes me stand up and grab hold of my nightstick, my only weapon.
“I’m sorry, sir,” comes tumbling out of my mouth. I feel as if I’ve let him down. Being the only woman in security here at Silvercup, I know I have to work harder than everybody else.
“He’s walking in on sets, Jo. He’s ruined a shot in Studio 7, for Christ’s sake. See who the hell this guy is, will you? Probably some damn background actor looking to be discovered.”
It happens occasionally that extra players, bored with waiting around, go exploring the place in hopes of finding the next job. Sooner or later a production assistant spots them and sends the poor thing back to where he or she belongs. The fact is, Silvercup is the last place you’ll be discovered. By the time actors get here, they’re just numbers in a producer’s budget. If you’re not in the budget, you’re not in the shot. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but I can count them on one hand.
“Anybody say what he looks like?” I ask my boss.
“White, around thirty. Wearing clogs.”
“Clogs?”
“That’s what they tell me. Just take care of it, Jo.”
“Yes, sir.”
There are thirteen studios here at Silvercup, and at least two sign-in sheets for each one. We’re talking hundreds of people. It’s barely 10 o’clock and the place is packed. This is not going to be easy. On one of the sheets, a couple of wise-asses signed in as Mick Jagger and Flavor Flav. They came in early. I can tell by the names before and after them. That means these comedians are with the crew. I take a moment to remember who came by my desk just before dawn. There was nobody I didn’t know. And I would have remembered a guy wearing clogs.
The new guard, Kenneth, is checking out the Daily News and eating his second meal of the morning. His plate is piled high. He is reading his horoscope and is oblivious to my panic. I watch him dunk a powdered donut into milky coffee and drip the muddy mess on his blue vest. I hand him a paper napkin and look past him at the tiny security screens mounted on the wall. Like I said, there are thirteen studios here, with at least three times that many bathrooms, not to mention dressing rooms, storage rooms, production offices. These little screens are useless to me. You’d think we’d have better video equipment here, but we don’t.
Still, nobody-but-nobody gets past me. I pride myself on that. I’m famous, if you will, for keeping the place tight and secure. Okay, I’m not going to make it seem like I’m guarding the U.S. Mint, but we get a lot of people trying to come in here, like rag reporters or crazed fans or desperate actors. They don’t have weapons but they have things that are far more lethal to us like pens, cameras, and unrealistic expectations. It’s my job to protect Silvercup and everybody inside from all that. My job and reputation are at stake, and I’m not going to let some clog-wearing twerp or donut-eating knucklehead ruin it.
Just my luck, my other two colleagues are at lunch. That leaves me and the munching machine, who since he got here has been visiting the different sets and mooching free meals. I watch him fold the News and start the Post. He reminds me of myself when I started on the job years ago. After the rush of the morning, it slows down to a crawl. Keeping yourself awake is a chore. Thanks to plenty of coffee, newspapers and magazines, and hopefully some good conversation, you can remain alert most of your shift.