“We’re at 501 West Olympic,” explained my caller. “Come up to the seventeenth floor.”
That’s downtown, my least favorite neighborhood for street parking. I might find a spot within three or four blocks, but it was hot, and I wear a suit. No problem, said the caller, directing me to crew parking a mile away.
I pulled into a lot jammed with mobile dressing rooms, equipment, cars, and a line of vans. An attractive young woman led me to the leading van which chauffeured me through downtown traffic and pulled into another line of vans to let me off. After phoning a contact number, I waited for another young attractive woman (all assistants at film shoots are attractive young women) to conduct me to an elevator which let me out into a crowded corridor.
It takes a small army to shoot a film. Dozens of people under thirty rushed about. They were probably crew. Lounging about and getting in the way, another dozen, mostly over thirty, were probably actors. A person in charge saw that I looked like a doctor and summoned the patient.
It was fortunate he wasn’t suffering hemorrhoids or jock itch because there was no privacy. We huddled in a corner and discussed his eye irritation. Afterward, the person in charge asked if I’d see someone who’d injured his neck in a fight scene. Leaving the building, I boarded the first of the line of vans and returned to the parking lot.