As the aromatic smell of the donkey drifted away from southern Manhattan, Big City Films discovered the reincarnation of Charlie Chaplin working among them.
Gregg Rosinsky.
Gregg, would become a top-flight gaffer in the Manhattan film industry. Early in his career he labored as a freelance PA, occasionally showing up at Big City Films in various roles such as snack boy, salad fetcher, and sandbag. Yes, Gregg had to secure a light stand one time by standing on its base because we’d run out of sandbags. Perhaps this last role is what led him to the Grip and Electric department?
****
The client for this anecdote, Lewis Galoob, made toys. Based in South San Francisco, the company cranked out board games, one of them called “Mr. Game Show.” I cannot remember anyone playing it, but then again I think Parcheesi boxes have dry-rotted to dust by now, or should have. What an ennui-inducing exercise that Christmas present turned out to be.
“Mr. Game Show” arrived to some fanfare. One of the network morning talk shows scheduled the Lewis Galoob for an interview.
To pimp the game, a neon sign of “Mr. Game Show” hung on the studio wall behind the interviewers and interviewee.
Lewis Galoob, the company, shipped this neon sign and two back-ups to Manhattan, but none of them to Big City Films, where the set design dictated one sit on the back wall of the stage . . . at the request of the client. Given that little factoid, it’s no wonder the sign never found its way to set, since it was, again, something to be provided by the client.
Enter our Charlie Chaplin act-alike, Gregg Rosinksy.
Not only a specialist in snack gathering, salad fetching, and sand, uh, bagging, Gregg could also find things. Like neon signs in the shipping Purgatory of a television network. And like any good experienced PA, he took both back-ups to the Big City Films studio, fighting rush hour traffic from midtown to East 19th Street, the home of the company. Waiting for him, and the sign, an entire crew, the worthless latest chubby agency, and Lewis Galoob’s junket-enjoying parasites.
Gregg hustled out of the van carrying one of the carefully wrapped neon signs. He charged through the studio door with the sign wrapped in his arms.
Sideways.
His innocent action snapped off the “Mr.” and “Show” leaving only “Game,” which any client would have considered an incomplete way to pimp the product. Gregg, ever upbeat, announced to the entire studio, which now stood in shocked horror, the brilliance of his forward thinking to bring both back-ups from the network and a tension relieving scream of abusive recrimination died in the throats of every member of the latest chubby agency and Galoob parasite.
Exit Gregg after removing the formerly beautiful sign from the studio, which now leaked a poisonous gas. He hustled back to the van, and adjusted it in his arms so that it would not disintegrate at either end, East to West, as he had done on his previous attempt at delivery.
No, Gregg carried the sign in North to South, but just North enough to separate “Mr.” from “Game Show” as he passed underneath the door, but not underneath enough. And once again, Gregg’s innocent uber-care of the sign didn’t allow quite enough of it to survive to consider changing all the branding and packaging of the board game to accommodate his knack for physical comedy.
After a near re-enactment of the pitchfork and torches scene from ‘Frankenstein’ finished, Pat Dorfman, always wanting to fix the problem and not the blame, offered this gem.
Pat: “Isn’t there one more hanging on the wall at the network?”
Stunned silence.
Gregg attempted to escape the horde of Transylvanians who had bound him up in lederhosen and an ill-fitting twill jacket.
Gregg: “I’ll get it and be right—”
The beatings picked up where they left off and while that was going on in the equipment storage area next to the studio, Galoob Uber Parasite did something I’d never seen before and haven’t seen since. He singled out one of his charges, who he identified as the responsible person for shipping the neon signs from the South San Francisco Headquarters to everywhere but Big City Films, and insisted that this Unter Parasite retrieve the sign and not lapse into an imitation of The General upon his rapid return.
A client taking responsibility for one of their responsibilities! A unicorn if I never saw one again, and a case could be made for canonization. The Unter Parasite, looking like he had just been given command of an Imperial Cruiser by Darth Vader, evaporated from the set; hopped into a cab; and lit out for the network. The Uber Parasite called the network and cleared the way for the last of the hot house flower version of the “Mr. Game Show” sign to be released into the care of someone who looked like they hadn’t even been to their senior prom.
Pat Dorfman got to within a half inch of my face. Since she stood 5’10” tall, we were not even figuratively nose-to-nose.
Pat: “Send Chris outside to wait for that kid to come back, and
help him into the studio. Chris should have seen enough by now
to know the only way that sign moves in from the street is by
pointing it straight ahead.”
Me: “Got it.”
Pat: “And park yourself in front of the door. No one breaches that threshold until that friggin’ thing is up on the wall.”
Me: “Understood. Anything else?”
Pat: “Yes. Get some body bags just in case.”
Me: “In case of what?”
Pat: “Are you JOKING?”
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