patio screen door
Patio looked like he'd just stopped a bullet with his chest. He held the phone in front of him, waist high, viewing it like an old-time pocket watch, or something that he didn't want near his head. He looked pale and stunned, which was rare. 
Patio was not easily stunned. His jokes were often scatalogical, his demeanor brusque but loveable. He had endeared himself to the English-language-challenged production designer by being frank and truthful to a fault. The designer would look to him and in the thickest of french accents say, well, Pat-tee-oh, what you you sink?
To which Patio invariably replied, I think it looks like shit.
So to see him stunned by his phone could mean only one thing: He'd just caught a raftload of shit from our fearless leader Louise.
Louise was an LA leadman whose twin distinguishing characteristics were that she weighed at least 350 pounds and had purple hair. She also spat vitriolic commentary to any and all who challenged her authority, or anyone who could be perceived to be doing so.
On this day, we had reported to a dock in Baltimore harbor at 5am to strike a yacht, the Anson Bell, which we had dressed the previous week.
The yacht had been shooting all night, and the early call was necessary because we had to have everything out of the boat, and the original furnishing restored, before noon. This was a drop-dead time, the boat was leaving, God help us if we weren't finished by then.
And Patio had just been shot through the eardrum with a shit filled rocket. I could see it in his eyes. This was not a shy guy, not one easily rattled. There he stood, silent, mouth dry, eyes blank, motionless, which was not helping with the urgent task at hand.
What did she say? I ventured, gambling that by opening this line of questioning, we could laugh it off, and continue as if a traumatic exchange had not just occurred.
He considered the question, I think, and slowly, the light began to return to his eyes. He blinked a few times and started climbing down from the truck he was standing in. I was glad he was moving again.
She told me, he said, thankfully starting to laugh, that today was the wrong day to have my head up my ass. He was grinning again, that shruggy grin, that who-gives-a-fuck grin which is essential equipment when your boss is a 350 pound woman with purple hair.
Patio was not easily stunned. His jokes were often scatalogical, his demeanor brusque but loveable. He had endeared himself to the English-language-challenged production designer by being frank and truthful to a fault. The designer would look to him and in the thickest of french accents say, well, Pat-tee-oh, what you you sink?
To which Patio invariably replied, I think it looks like shit.
So to see him stunned by his phone could mean only one thing: He'd just caught a raftload of shit from our fearless leader Louise.
Louise was an LA leadman whose twin distinguishing characteristics were that she weighed at least 350 pounds and had purple hair. She also spat vitriolic commentary to any and all who challenged her authority, or anyone who could be perceived to be doing so.
On this day, we had reported to a dock in Baltimore harbor at 5am to strike a yacht, the Anson Bell, which we had dressed the previous week.
The yacht had been shooting all night, and the early call was necessary because we had to have everything out of the boat, and the original furnishing restored, before noon. This was a drop-dead time, the boat was leaving, God help us if we weren't finished by then.And Patio had just been shot through the eardrum with a shit filled rocket. I could see it in his eyes. This was not a shy guy, not one easily rattled. There he stood, silent, mouth dry, eyes blank, motionless, which was not helping with the urgent task at hand.
What did she say? I ventured, gambling that by opening this line of questioning, we could laugh it off, and continue as if a traumatic exchange had not just occurred.
He considered the question, I think, and slowly, the light began to return to his eyes. He blinked a few times and started climbing down from the truck he was standing in. I was glad he was moving again.
She told me, he said, thankfully starting to laugh, that today was the wrong day to have my head up my ass. He was grinning again, that shruggy grin, that who-gives-a-fuck grin which is essential equipment when your boss is a 350 pound woman with purple hair.
posted by eric at 6:01 PM
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