“Kicked Me Out”
Jan 13, 2020“That sonofabitch PA had it out for me,” Paul said as we got on the train. “Ten seconds in, the guy beelines for me, saying I ignored his instructions, and he kicked me out of the shoot.”
I’ve known Paul long enough that he wasn’t going to go quietly.
“I told the guy,” Paul continued,” that I did exactly what he told me. He stood there with a smug look on his face and tried to tell me I was a liar.”
“So what’d you do?” I asked.
“I looked around at all the other extras and said ‘You guys heard him tell me to wait five seconds and then walk down the stairs.’ But none of them would back me up. They all just looked down at the ground. ‘That’s just great,’ I said to them.”
“And?” I said, knowing Paul had more to tell.
“And the guy tells me to get the hell out of there ‘cause they’re gonna do another take. And I say I’m gonna stay put and do it again ‘cause I’ve been waiting eight hours to get in a shot and I’m gonna get in this one. And he grabs my arm and says ‘let’s go, buddy.’”
Big mistake, I think. Paul’s been in the East Village since the days it was a terrible idea to be anywhere near the East Village. He’s had many a late night walking home having to deal with the crackheads just sitting around [waiting] for some white boy walking by with a nice new guitar over his shoulder. Paul never had a nice or new guitar. Faded, beat up Strats bought used or given to him by friends, probably stolen. He knew not to risk breaking a nice guitar over some crackhead’s back. When it would inevitably happen, he wouldn’t feel bad about losing the thing. Someone would get him another in time for the next gig. Paul learned this the hard way and he learned it quick.
“And?” I said.
“And I grabbed the motherfucker’s hand and broke his wrist.”
“You didn’t,” I said.
“I did,” he said. I knew he wasn’t lying.
“So I guess you won’t be working for Comer again,” I said.
“Probably not,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. I’m done with this shit gig.”
Unlike it was for me, background acting was only a part-time gig for Paul. He spent the rest of his time taking care of his old lady. Disability paid them enough to live in their rent-controlled apartment. CBs was long gone, so he sold his axe-wielding powers to young bands who wanted to play Pianos or Arlene’s. They were too naive to know those places were lame. Kids these days had no idea how lame [the East Village] was nowadays. So he took advantage of them, just like someone would have if he was in their shoes.
“Well, let’s go celebrate,” I said, “before you have to go to jail.”
“I’ll be fine,” he laughed, “but let’s go celebrate anyway.”