[As we rejoin our story, Timmy and June are stranded after their raft tipped over in the river. Lassie has gone for help...oops, wait a second...(flip, flip, shuffle). Okay, here we go.]

Day Two dawns. Well, it hasn't dawned yet, and I'm learning a hard lesson about life in the desert -- don't wear shorts before sunrise. I know many of you would like to believe that by the end of this narrative I will have figured out how to dress appropriately for southern California, when to wear cool clothing, when to wear warm clothing...I'll save you the suspense. I don't. So I'm freezing my ass off at 5:45 in the morning, but this time we know the bowling alley is open and this time I don't immediately drink 15 cups of coffee (and since this is not the type of narrative where I would describe the gastronomical effects of jet lag/no food/smoking/extreme stress/too much coffee, I won't).

We get the truck unloaded, after checking with the security guard (whose name I can't remember, and who henceforth will be named Phil) -- rather than move this huge truck back and forth every night, we load it up, lock it up, and Lee has hired a professional security guard to patrol the location all night every night; this really is like a real movie! -- who assures us it was an uneventful night. Phil is an older man who drives his daughter's multicolored VW bug. An ex-sheriff's deputy, he tells us how he got shot up once (it contributed to his early retirement). He also tells us how, recently, he was doing some electric work at Vandenburg Air Force Base (he's a part time electrician, too) and accidentally got electrocuted -- the bolt shot through his arm, punched out through his elbow (taking a good chunk of his elbow with it) and hit a truck that was parked behind him. He shows us the bandage on his elbow. Neither of these things were any fault of his own, but it doesn't inspire confidence. Luckily, he says the worst that happens is several people ask about the movie, which he knows nothing about and says so, and so they leave.

The first thing that happens as I enter today is I'm ambushed by Tommy. Tommy is the production's First Assistant Director -- the person who, essentially, runs the set, makes sure everybody's working hard and fast and that each shot is set up and ready and all the actors are prepared when the camera rolls. He is the Voice of the Director, the person who kicks butt so the director doesn't have to. He missed the first day of filming because of his father's funeral, but he is here now, and he doesn't screw around. He's got long silver hair and psychotic eyes and he yells and laughs with equal abandon -- he seems exactly the kind of guy you want in this position: kicks butt and takes names. Kerry introduces us, and the first words out of Tommy's mouth are "Oh, you're the writer. Let me talk to you about scene numbering. Once you set the numbers, never change them etc etc etc."

Brief aside here: When you, or I or anybody, write a screenplay, you don't add scene numbers until the final draft, that is, the draft that you're "submitting" as a shooting script. It will still change, perhaps drastically, but this is the draft you're saying is the starting point. On draft 6, I added scene numbers. We then went on to draft 7 -- and I did what I had been taught was appropriate; if scenes are eliminated you leave the scene number in the left column and put [omitted] next to it. If a scene is added you call it 71A (if comes in between 71 and 72, that is assuming). By draft 7C we had a number of significant changes. Unbeknownst (what a wonderful word) to me, Lee and Kerry were afraid that it had gotten too confusing and so had renumbered all the scenes. To make matters worse, we ended up essentially going back to draft 7A as our shooting script. Unfortunately, because of the fast approaching shooting date, most of the production people had received draft 6 as a "shooting script". Remember back on the first day, in the rehearsal, when we did a reading because among other things we needed to reconcile scene numbers in everybody's scripts? This is the origin of that. Needless to say, this was an educational experience for everyone involved, and one of the things we learned was "have your scene numbers solid before you distribute the script."

Now, my first impulse is to say to Tommy's little lecture "I didn't do it. It's not my fault. You can't prove a thing." But I nod my head, because Tommy seems like a man who knows what he's doing and like a man who'll respect this response, and say "No excuses. Lesson learned." But it wasn't how I wanted to start the day.

And the filming at the bar continued apace. Every time Brian read his lines I ground my teeth, but I stopped him this time from throwing a "buddy boy" into the middle of a speech (BUDDY BOY?! WHO THE FUCK WROTE BUDDY BOY??!! but this time I was faster and simply whispered to Parris, "Can we lose the 'buddy boy'? to which he responded, "Huh? Oh, sure," and in the next take it was gone.) There were frustrations, certainly, but also unexpected pleasures -- the lovely miss Kerry Hite proved not only capable of the part of Cat but downright scary (which is a good thing for that role), which, considering I was worried about her casting from a physical standpoint (I thought she was a little young), was a joy indeed. And I, out of everyone, was pleased with the readings of Eric, playing the other main character, Sam. Parris mumbled threats about looping his voice (that basically means dubbing over it), but he mumbled the same threats about Ron Ross, and he was the one who hired Ron, so I learned to take Parris's disgruntlement with a grain of salt.

Mr. Ross. I was one of the few people who like poor sad Mr. Ross. He couldn't hit his marks, he flubbed lines, he kidnapped the Lindbergh baby -- this all according to other crew members, and especially Lee, who actively disliked the man. And Ron did nothing to endear himself to Lee. This film is, as has been noted, a deferred deal -- nobody gets paid until after it sells. The actors' contracts call for $200 a day, which is below the current Screen Actors Guild minimum day rates (this is not a union gig. Nobody is getting union money. Except me and Charlie, and that's only if the film grosses enough to hit that number. Don't hold your breath, boys and girls, you'll be blue long before that happens). Deferred. So Mr. Ross goes up to Lee and says "So how come we're only getting $200?"

"What do you mean," Lee says.

"How come we're not getting SAG minimum?"

"Because this isn't a union gig," says Lee.

"But it's deferred," says Ron.

"What does that have to do with it?"

"If it's deferred, what difference does it make if it's $200 or SAG minimum? Why not make it SAG?"

"Because," says Lee (who is a man not afraid to mince words when the time is appropriate for a lack of mincing), "that's what you're getting paid. If you don't like it, you can leave, and we'll replace you."

Ron just shrugs and walks away. Why do I tell you this story? Why, set up, of course. After lunch (I believe it was chicken, and something with walnuts. This is an inside joke -- the set was catered by a woman named Salay, who made some lovely lunches for us except for the fact that she was making quiche for a burger kind of crowd. Which was Lee's call -- he thought the crew might appreciate something different. They didn't. It happens. Anyway, it seemed everyday, whatever Salay made, it was a chicken dish. And somewhere, in one of the dishes, there were walnuts. Without fail. The food at the wrap party--not prepared by Salay--was specifically advertised as sans walnuts.), we are setting up to resume filming when one of the crew runs into the room and says "Medic!" Kai, the medic, grabs her bag and races out and as the door opens we can hear, clear as a bell, choking. Not coughing or wheezing. Choking. Dying choking. Ron Ross has something stuck in his windpipe and is close to passing out. Kai does what she does (I stayed in the other room -- my motto through most of this shoot was "Sometimes you can be most helpful by just staying the hell out of the way of the people who actually know what they're doing.") and Ron is saved. He gets on the cell phone with his doctor, who puts him on hold for 45 minutes. This is the production cell phone, on which production business is supposed to take place, and for which the production (i.e., Lee) pays the bills. It costs approximately a dollar a minute to use it. And Ron stays on hold for 45 minutes. On the cell phone. Standing twenty feet away from a pay phone.

At one point Lee walks by, after Ron is off the phone. Ron has his hands up in the hair, and is hacking -- the remnants or something, I don't know. Standing there with his hands above his head, eyes closed, hacking and coughing. And Lee shakes his head and says "He ain't worth it, man" and walks on by.

Who said making movies was all sweetness and light?

And Tommy. Tommy kicks butt all right. Tommy kicks so much butt that by the end of the bar filming he is roundly hated. Not just by the "paeons," the PAs and other grunts. By the other department heads. By Parris. By Lee. He yells at people without cause, and this to a crew that is working their asses off for free. They're not getting paid enough for this shit. People start remembering they have other projects to work on, can't be here tomorrow, sorry Lee. And it is discovered, more and more, that Tommy talks the talk, but he doesn't walk the walk. His script breakdown (in which it is determined which scenes will be filmed when and what they need, etc.) left out whole scenes. What had started out as a tight, coherent crew is splintering, breaking apart. And we're only halfway through the first week.

And those damn walnuts aren't helping.