Over the course of this commercial, I’ve come to be chummy with the guard in the booth of the Anonymous Content parking lot.
Guard, whose name I really ought to have learned, is probably fifty or so, extremely skinny and harsh looking with a long ponytail, a baseball cap, a Slavic accent and a side of sass. (Please note that by Slavic, I really mean that it is foreign but not Spanish, French or Italian. You can’t honestly expect me to know any more accents than that. I’m a sheltered and elitist American, for heaven’s sake.)
Guard and I got off to a rough start, but over time we worked out our differences, and though I took a bit of mocking, became comfortable with each other. Every day I would drive in and he would ask if I was going to be parking for a while, or if it was just a delivery. Each time I would tell him that I did not know, that I was at the whim of Fate herself, and that I may very well see him in five minutes. He would shake his head, disappointed with the impending hassle, pass me a ticket and point to the second row.
“You can park over there. If there is no spot, you park in garage.”
Though the speech never changed, he did tend to vary the inflection upon delivery, adding a little variety where there otherwise would be none.
One afternoon I left the lot with a two dollar charge, only to leave later that evening with a six dollar charge.
“You see,” he said as he pointed to a sign, “that the maximum charge is seven dollars. You have paid more than that. But you don’t tell me how long you’re staying. I can’t help you.”
“It’s not a problem,” I said as I passed him the bills. “It’s not my money.”
He nodded his head in approval and understanding.
Today, as I rolled in past the guard, I found myself in the midst of a shoot of some sort. Three star wagons, as well as a few vans and a handful of people-looking-busy were cluttering up the lot. As a result, one row of parking was gone and the row I usually park in was full, save one spot.
Not wanting to hoof it to and from the garage, I attempted to park in the spot that remained. The cars on either side were hugging the line so closely that I’m impressed I actually parked there. Getting out was a tad embarrassing, as I had to slide sideways between the two cars. And, of course, once I escaped I realized I had forgotten something, so I had to shimmy back in and back out.
During a run to the dumpster (the life of a production assistant is nothing if not glamorous) I was approached by Guard.
“You know,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Alicia Silverstone is in that trailer. She comes in and says, ‘Alicia Silverstone here for the photo shoot.’” He shrugged his shoulders, “No big deal.”
I was inclined to agree. I turned my head just as she walked out of her trailer and was surprisingly unimpressed. After dumping the trash, I walked back to the building thinking to myself that I am over celebrities. It’s finally happened. The thrill is gone.
Of course, if I talked to Jennifer Garner or Michael Vartan, I’d still wet myself – but that doesn’t count. They’re not celebrities, they’re gods.
When it was time to make a drop-off, I shimmied back into my car and prepared to wiggle Bullet from the space unscathed.
This was a task.
I was so focused on getting out of the space unharmed by the cars that flanked me, I forgot to check behind me until well into the process. When I did, I slammed on the brakes, halting my .02 mph speed abruptly.
Not two feet from my back bumper was Danny Devito. My heart leapt into my throat.
The physical reaction could either be because it was Danny Devito, or because I was going to hit him. No one knows for sure.
I like to think it means I’m not over celebrities just yet. It gives me an odd sort of hope. It makes me believe that the Oregonian in me still lives…
It also makes me feel a bit sad for Alicia Silverstone.
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Guard, whose name I really ought to have learned, is probably fifty or so, extremely skinny and harsh looking with a long ponytail, a baseball cap, a Slavic accent and a side of sass. (Please note that by Slavic, I really mean that it is foreign but not Spanish, French or Italian. You can’t honestly expect me to know any more accents than that. I’m a sheltered and elitist American, for heaven’s sake.)
Guard and I got off to a rough start, but over time we worked out our differences, and though I took a bit of mocking, became comfortable with each other. Every day I would drive in and he would ask if I was going to be parking for a while, or if it was just a delivery. Each time I would tell him that I did not know, that I was at the whim of Fate herself, and that I may very well see him in five minutes. He would shake his head, disappointed with the impending hassle, pass me a ticket and point to the second row.
“You can park over there. If there is no spot, you park in garage.”
Though the speech never changed, he did tend to vary the inflection upon delivery, adding a little variety where there otherwise would be none.
One afternoon I left the lot with a two dollar charge, only to leave later that evening with a six dollar charge.
“You see,” he said as he pointed to a sign, “that the maximum charge is seven dollars. You have paid more than that. But you don’t tell me how long you’re staying. I can’t help you.”
“It’s not a problem,” I said as I passed him the bills. “It’s not my money.”
He nodded his head in approval and understanding.
Today, as I rolled in past the guard, I found myself in the midst of a shoot of some sort. Three star wagons, as well as a few vans and a handful of people-looking-busy were cluttering up the lot. As a result, one row of parking was gone and the row I usually park in was full, save one spot.
Not wanting to hoof it to and from the garage, I attempted to park in the spot that remained. The cars on either side were hugging the line so closely that I’m impressed I actually parked there. Getting out was a tad embarrassing, as I had to slide sideways between the two cars. And, of course, once I escaped I realized I had forgotten something, so I had to shimmy back in and back out.
During a run to the dumpster (the life of a production assistant is nothing if not glamorous) I was approached by Guard.
“You know,” he whispered conspiratorially, “Alicia Silverstone is in that trailer. She comes in and says, ‘Alicia Silverstone here for the photo shoot.’” He shrugged his shoulders, “No big deal.”
I was inclined to agree. I turned my head just as she walked out of her trailer and was surprisingly unimpressed. After dumping the trash, I walked back to the building thinking to myself that I am over celebrities. It’s finally happened. The thrill is gone.
Of course, if I talked to Jennifer Garner or Michael Vartan, I’d still wet myself – but that doesn’t count. They’re not celebrities, they’re gods.
When it was time to make a drop-off, I shimmied back into my car and prepared to wiggle Bullet from the space unscathed.
This was a task.
I was so focused on getting out of the space unharmed by the cars that flanked me, I forgot to check behind me until well into the process. When I did, I slammed on the brakes, halting my .02 mph speed abruptly.
Not two feet from my back bumper was Danny Devito. My heart leapt into my throat.
The physical reaction could either be because it was Danny Devito, or because I was going to hit him. No one knows for sure.
I like to think it means I’m not over celebrities just yet. It gives me an odd sort of hope. It makes me believe that the Oregonian in me still lives…
It also makes me feel a bit sad for Alicia Silverstone.
