Mad Atoms

It's no small coincidence that the title of "production assistant" shares the same initials with "piss ant." My first gig in the dream factory found me completing such fulfilling tasks as getting yelled at for not retrieving a large enough “Mango-a-Go-Go” from Jamba Juice. I smiled gratefully to whoever it was dehumanizing me that day, be it the out of touch producer who threw tantrums when he had to eat In-N-Out, or his partner who used the term "rock and roll" earnestly.

On my 5th day working on a throwaway game show, a seasoned P.A. was gracious enough to take me under his tattooed wing, and teach me the secret to dealing with the obstacles of low end grunt work: covert intoxication.

Returning from a run to purchase $450 worth of Koo-Koo-Roo, John, the career P.A., indicated I retrieve a film canister from the backseat of his Chevy Tahoe. "You ever smoked hash?" He asked in a tone that implied, regardless of my response, hash-smoking would happen in the following moments.

Part of me thought it irresponsible to return to a set high on the mysterious, distant cousin of my all too familiar friend, marijuana. I’m a sucker for presentation though, and the fact that John had all sorts of paraphernalia rattling around in that film canister struck me as a fitting metaphor for the entertainment industry: flashy exteriors filled with instruments of sedation.

Returning to the set in an acrid daze, I immediately wandered into a bathroom to urinate, and did so successfully until I figured out I was pissing into a waste bin directly next to the sink. A call on my radio from an assistant younger than myself, but with way better tits (and higher in the power chain) snapped me out of my piss trance. She ordered me to show up to some sort of holding tent backstage for talent. “Stan Lee is inside, and under no circumstances are you to let him leave.” It is hard to understand things on hash, and even harder to assert authority over an opera singer, Miss California, a breakdancer, and the creator of Spider-Man.

After silently ogling Miss California from my stool in the dark corner of the tent, I shifted what little attention I had to the conversation happening between the breakdancer and Stan Lee; the former was pitching a comic book about a breakdancing superhero to Mr.Lee. Stan listened for a moment, exhausted his courtesy, then immediately exited the tent.

About 8 seconds too late my lips mumbled a protest with the volume and energy of two sleeping caterpillars. I peeked my head out of the tent to see what had become of my escapee, and watched as that same titted-assistant intercepted Stan Lee, shooting winces at me and my apparent failings.

Wow, I finally made it.