BC Studios and the Teamsters
Bill Cote, owner of the cleverly named BC Studios on West 25th Street in NYC, gave me my first “paid” PA job. He actually called me and offered lunch and two subway tokens to work on a television commercial in his studio, which was a very nicely kept, smallish—maybe a thousand square feet—photo stage.
Bill: “Crew call’s at eight am.”
Me: “Want me to come in before them?”
Silence.
Bill: “This really is your first job, isn’t it?”
Me: “North of Philadelphia, yes.”
Bill: “New York’s also east of Philadelphia.”
Me: “I worked in Atlantic City once.”
Bill: “In production?”
Pause.
Me: “Seven-thirty okay?”
Bill: “Make it seven. Might be some gear to unload.”
Me: “Gear? I—”
Bill hung up, though after him not doing much to assuage my fears that I’d never get to work on a set in New York City. I realized it was about to happen for the first time in my career. I’d been on a set, but as a craft-service gorging dancer, and an unpaid PA
The next morning started as a very cold January day in New York City, 1985. I sprang out of bed and joined the subway commuters on the 6 train at 77th and Lexington Avenue.
For those of you who survived the Follies of the ‘80s game known as the Metropolitan Transportation Authority, you know how much fun it could be sharing rush hour with a bunch of Wall Street yuppies. Given that I was, more or less, sleeping with one of them, I was thrilled to be crushed by humanity as the already packed train pulled into the station where every doofus with an Ivy League degree turned the platform into a rave.
Made a promise to myself after that first morning. If rush hour commuting ever made it back into a daily regimen, I’d head to the middle of as many women as possible. Their clothes at the time weren’t any nicer than the suits the men wore, but they smelled better.
Survived the subway ride. Showed up at six fifty-five am in front of a building with a bell/buzzer that read “X$#&%,” near the main door to Bill Cote’s studio on West 25th Street. I rang. Straight from the scene in FX, a window opened. A set of keys that would have made the managing monk at a Benedictine monastery proud, plummeted from a window. The keyring cracked the sidewalk and bounced. It made several other weekend golfer sized divots nearby. The set included a genuine skeleton key about the size of Johnny Depp.
“It’s the copper-colored one.” A voice that sounded like it had just finished gargling razor blades sliced through the morning chill.
There were six copper-colored ones, not counting Johnny Depp. Tried three before I got in, only to find myself staring at a second door that would’ve helped Ripley hold back the Aliens. I took the bold move of throwing the security bar off the jamb and turning the latch.
It opened, and not a single retractable-jawed creature stood on the other side. Just a hardwood-floored room with several flavors of wall surrounding it. One of brick. One wood-paneled. One with a piece—later I would be told this was “seamless”—of gray paper. And one papered relic from the fifties which held a multipaned door.
In the far corner, directly away from the Aliens barrier, sat a man at kitchen table. He sported an Ozzy Osbourne hairstyle, a dozen empty wine bottles in front of him. He’d folded the lead foil from their necks into neat little blocks.
Me: “You must be Bill Cote.”
Bill Cote: “Why?”
I took it as an auspicious way to start my film career.
Me: “No reason.
Just before this in-depth conversation reflecting German expressionism, or was it minimalism(?) could continue, the Aliens barricade swung open. It slammed into the brick façade of another wall. Shortly thereafter a parade of cholesterol-challenged leg-breakers waddled in.
My first Teamsters.
The one in the lead sported the haute couture of a black T-shirt that read “Mama’s Pizzeria, Because Someone Has to Work in This Family,” a pair of blue jeans which looked like they’d once been worn by Levi Strauss himself, and work boots with bloodstains likely from the body of their previous owner. During the man’s hour-long trek across the studio floor, a sandbag in his left hand exploded, contents spilling onto the hardwood. He stopped, which had the same effect as the QE2 backing up. His colleagues also applied their brakes at the rate of local government. The five of them piled up around the mound of sand. The killer of the bag looked down, dropped its cloth corpse, and turned his head in Bill’s direction. It might’ve been the most exercise he’d done in a month.
Sandbag Killer: “Pffffww.”
Bill Cote: “George’ll take care of it.”
Sandbag Killer: “Who the f#$k! is George?”
Bill pointed his non-wine bottle arts and crafts finger at me.
Sandbag Killer: “Pffffww.”
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