The reason real television shows have hundreds of people working on them is pretty much for “disaster mitigation overhead.” Also: it takes a village to make people look pretty. In our case, there were only the three of us to deal with everything that could go wrong during our shoot. And tons of things did. And bonus: I am plagued with the kind of anxiety that makes me dart my head around like a meth-addicted hamster! So . . . not the best combo.
When a light fell over outside one of the windows of my director Jane’s house, it started a VERY minor brushfire. I immediately thought, Oh God, the City of Los Angeles is going to arrest me for arson. And we don’t have a permit to shoot here. We’re all going to be arrested, then sued in The People’s Court. Must scout overpasses for future homesteads on the way home tonight.
Of course, none of that happened, but the landlord did find out about it and forbade us to shoot at that location again (forever and ever for the rest of eternity). So we all had to sneak in separately the next day to finish one last scene, with a plan that was so intricate, it could have been taken out of Mission: Impossible.
“Joseph: Enter back door at 10:54 a.m. Felicia: Front door at 11:07 a.m. Lana: 10:20 a.m. through garage. Carry craft service in a single grocery bag. DO NOT BE LATE!” I’ve never been more nervous going to someone’s house in my life. I wore an outfit with a huge hat and sunglasses like Audrey Hepburn in a spy thriller. I parked half a mile away and, as I approached the house, I ran through the back door, feeling as if a sniper was outside waiting to take me down.
We finished the scene, but with me talking in a very creepy whisper. (And people ask me why my character Codex is so neurotic.)
Another time we were filming at my own house, and in the middle of the shot, the sound guy called, “Cut!”
“Leaf blower is really loud next door, dudes. We can’t work like this.”
Kim turned to me. “Felicia, you need to go charm your neighbor, get the gardener to stop working.”
“But why me?!”
“It’s your neighbor.”
“Oh, God. Okay.”
When I send food back at a restaurant . . . well, I don’t. Because I’m convinced they’ll send it back with cyanide in it. Or bodily fluids. I have only fired agents by certified letter. I apologize to cashiers when I return things at clothing stores. I’m sorry you have to re-rack this dress because of me, but look! I steamed the wrinkles out! Confrontation is what I dread the most in life. But my precious creation needed me to gird my loins. So that’s what I did.
I walked next door with my heart pounding in my throat. This was how Marie Antoinette had approached the guillotine, I was sure of it. “Hi, Mr. Gregory! We’re filming over at my house . . .”
“Is that why people were loud at seven a.m. this morning?” Of course, he had to embody the “cranky old man neighbor” cliché.
“Um, so sorry, I’ll tell them to be quiet tomorrow. We just need to finish filming.”
“So?”
“And we need the leaf blower to stop blowing?”
“He has to finish. The crepe myrtle’s gone crazy this year. When I first planted that tree . . .”
“What a cool story. Ahem, so if he could just pause for thirty minutes or so . . .”
“Don’t ask me, ask him.”
I turned to the gardener, who was standing too close, staring at me silently, and holding the leaf blower on his shoulder like a weapon. I started sweating.
“Hello.” No response. “Can you wait for thirty minutes please before doing more leaf blowing?”
He stared at me. And stared. I turned to Mr. Gregory.
“Does he speak . . .”
Mr. Gregory was staring at me, too. I felt like I was in a zombie movie. I fumbled in my pocket for any money I had and held out my hand.
“Eleven dollars? Stop blowing? Until five o’clock?” I tapped my wrist. There was no watch there.
The gardener took the money and nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Gregory!” I called out over my shoulder as I ran away as fast as I could, back into my house. Full run. (Reminder, I have no dignity.)
Kim met me at the door. “How’d it go?”
“He’ll stop for a half hour, but I’m pretty sure if my house is invaded by robbers in the future, he’ll lend them a dolly to help carry stuff to their car. Let’s make this COUNT!”
Every time the camera rolled on set, my nerves ratcheted up. I seriously didn’t poop for a week. I think it was because I cared SO MUCH. I wanted everything to be perfect, I wanted people to think we were hilarious; hell, I wanted us to be the first to win an Oscar for a web series. I had incredibly high expectations, and at the same time, I wasn’t secure in anything I was doing. Half the time I put my “producer hat” on, I felt like I was playing dress-up.
“Absolutely the budget can accommodate a Steadicam for this shot. Psst, Jane: What’s a Steadicam?”
I pretended to be a leader, but on the inside I was still that homeschooled kid who wasn’t allowed to walk to the corner by herself. Because, you know, murderers.