So apparently having a drivers license in the film world, is like being a pirate who can swim. It's useful, but that means you get sent out for shit. I was just sitting at my table, waiting for the printer to be free so I could print out some signs, when Steve (not the internet) asks the fateful question, "Hey, do you have a drivers license?" That was when I knew I was about to swim. Before I knew it I was with the Bob (identifiable "chestnut-brown haired motherfucker") at the parking garage across the street getting into a Prius. I'd never driven a Prius. I'd never driven in New York. I was scared. Then I hit the freeway. Yay! Traffic. Ech... The speed limit: 50 mph; my average speed: 25 mph. Something is messed up. I'm from Virginia, where you go 50 in a 2. Now I'm here where you go 25 in a 50. Doesn't make sense. I also had no idea where I was going. Luckily the Bob sent me off with his Garmin, so I didn't get lost, but I drove to YONKERS.
I eventually got there, about 20 minutes after the GPS had originally estimated. I found the place, and the Man to whom I had to give my package. I saw the stage where they fake the scenes with a green screen, 'twas trés cool. As I got into my car, the Man taps on my window, so I roll it down. "You want some cheese?" Who says no to free cheese?Later, the poor intern returned to the office, accidentally walking up the back stairs before she realized there was no door handle (I found this out on the seventh floor), so she had to go all the way back down, outside, to the front door, and up seven flights of stairs, only to find that she had to go 13 blocks to drop off a scarf to the French producer. Really? Just label me "Delivery Girl" why don't ya? Ah well, I still got free mozzarella cheese out of it, even if I had to drive in the rain, then walk in it all the way home because there wasn't a near-enough subway to make the trip worthwhile.
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