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The Executives.

The married couple no longer have a working landline in their Hollywood home, and they are positive it’s because of the dead leaves I put on their front lawn.

“Our phones went down right after you put those leaves in our yard last week,” they yell. “You need to fix this situation immediately. This is completely unacceptable.”

To clarify, I did not personally place the dead leaves on their lawn. That was done by the set dressers, at numerous homes throughout the area, in the interest of making the neighborhood feel like autumn for the movie we’re shooting.

To further clarify, they were not actual dead leaves. Rather, they were artificial leaves attached to a netting for easy removal. However, I was the one who arranged the agreement allowing us to place several piles of fake dead leaves on their front lawn, and thus they consider me to be solely responsible.

I agree with the couple that the timing of the landline failure is suspicious, but say that I just can’t conceive of how our brief presence could have possibly caused it.

“Don’t give us that bullshit,” they say. “We work in Hollywood too. Do you know who we are?”

I do know who they are. They are both top executives at major production companies in Los Angeles. They both make incomes in the tens of millions of dollars. A quick Google search for their names results in an endless stream of publicity pictures from award shows like the Oscars and glitzy red-carpet premieres.

For some reason, whenever I call, both husband and wife get on the phone with me.

“Here are the facts,” they say. “You set foot on our property. Our landline stopped working. End of story.

“So you need to fix it,” they say. “Because that landline connects our home security system to the central company that monitors for any alarms. Without a landline, our house is now unprotected.

“And we’re about to take our kids on vacation next week, the first fucking vacation we’ve had time for in three years. Now we have to worry the whole time about whether someone’s breaking into our house?

“Don’t call back until you have a solution.” They hang up.

And I realize that I don’t have a choice. We were on their property when the phone lines died, and as unlikely as it may be, there’s still an outside chance we were responsible. At the very least, it merits an investigation.

Shortly after, their assistant calls to provide information about their Verizon account, including account numbers and passwords. I call Verizon and explain the situation.

“Wait a minute,” says the technician. “Are you not the homeowner?”

“No,” I say. “This is a bit unusual, but I’m a location scout who worked on a movie that filmed at their home and potentially damaged their landline.”

There is a confused pause. “Well,” she says, “I’m sorry but we can only talk about this account with the homeowner.”

I call back the assistant. I explain what happened and suggest that maybe he should call, since he is actually employed as their representative. I assure him that if there are any charges for the repair, he can just bill them to our production company.

“Oh no, no,” the assistant says, his voice suddenly shaking. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get in the middle of this. You don’t understand how they get when they’re unhappy. I can’t take on anymore than I’m already dealing with.”

I tell him that I’m sympathetic, but I’m not sure how to proceed if the phone company literally won’t discuss the issue with me.

“I know. Why don’t you just call back and say you’re him?” the assistant says, referring to the husband. “We give you full permission. Let me give you his social security number and mother’s maiden name in case they ask. Do you have a pen?” He reads me off both the husband’s social security number and mother’s maiden name.

I call Verizon back and again explain the problem.

“And what is your name?” the technician asks.

I introduce myself by the husband’s name.

“What is your social security number?”

I read it off. The situation has begun to take on a surreal aura.

“And what is your mother’s maiden name?”

I give the name, wondering what my fraudulent mother looks like.

“Well, there’s definitely an outage at your home,” says the technician. “I’m sending a signal and not getting any bounce back. Our next available appointment to come out and repair it is in two weeks. Will that work?”

I ask if they have anything sooner.

“Unfortunately, no,” says the operator.

“Well, it’s just that they…” I quickly correct myself. “It’s just that my wife and I are about to go on our first vacation in three years. It’s something we’ve been looking to for months. And now our home security system will be down the entire time we’re away.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” says the technician. “But that’s the best we can do.”

I ask if I can hire a private company to inspect the line.

“No, sir,” says the technician. “It’s illegal for anyone but our technicians to service it.”

I ask if I can pay for expedited service.

“I’m afraid it’s first come, first serve, everyone equal,” the technician says.  

And then I realize something. This is the moment where, if I actually were the executive, I would raise my voice and let them know exactly who I was and how important I am. I would demand to jump the line for an immediate repair. I would threaten them with severe ramifications if they didn’t acquiesce.

Instead, I say “I understand,” and schedule the service appointment for two weeks from now.

–

“Nick, this answer is unacceptable,” the executives say when I tell them the news, voices low and dripping with fury. “It’s clear you have misunderstood this assignment. Did you stress how important a client you are? How this is going to completely fuck up your upcoming vacation?”

I tell them I mentioned it.

“You let them walk all over you,” they say. “Don’t call back until you have a clear and concise solution.”

Ultimately, I do find a solution. It turns out that for $400, their home security system can be changed to run off the home’s WiFi instead of the landline. Though it has still not been determined that we were at fault, it seems a small price to pay to make the problem go away, and potentially buy some good will if we ever return to the neighborhood.

The security system is installed. The executives go on their vacation.

–

Two weeks later, I receive a call. “This is Verizon repair,” says the voice. “We have an update on your landline. There was a major grid failure two weeks ago that knocked out basically all the lines in your neighborhood. Our apologies, but it’s going to take a bit longer to repair.”

“I see,” I say. “Out of curiosity, I had a film crew on my lawn doing a shoot at the time the line went down. Is there any way that could have played any role in what happened?”

“No, absolutely not,” says the technician, clearly confused. “No, this was a major technical failure a few blocks from your address. But not to worry. We’ll have you back online soon enough.”

–

A few days later, I receive a call from the executives. They have just returned from their vacation, and are upset to find that their landline still isn’t working.

“I finally have some news,” I say. “It turns out we didn’t have anything to do with it.” I relay my conversation with the Verizion technician. I tell them I’ll let them handle the repair from here, since it would be improper for me to continue. And I say that even though we weren’t fault, we still want them to keep their new WiFi security system as a thank you for allowing us to use their property.

There is a long pause.

“This is unacceptable,” they say. “The phone line hasn’t been fixed.”

“I know,” I say. “And I’m sorry about that. But we’ve now officially confirmed it had nothing to do with the production.”

“But it went down while you were here,” they say.

“I know,” I say, “but if you call Verizon, they can explain that it wasn’t our fault.”

“It’s not our job to call Verizon,” they say. “It is your responsibility to provide a solution. Do you know who we are? Do you understand what it means to complete a task?”

I hang up the phone. They call back. I let it to go to voicemail. After a few days, the calls stop.

–

Sometime later, I happen to be talking with an old friend from my days in New York City film production. I relate the strange story of my run-in with the married executives, and the surreal depths it reached.

“Well, here’s the funny thing,” my friend says. “You know the wife. Back when she was a PA in New York. Don’t you remember?” I tell him he must be wrong.

“No, for real,” he says. “You probably just didn’t realize it because she now goes by her married name.” He reminds me of her maiden name. And all of sudden, I realize I do know her.

Or rather, I knew her, for a brief moment, over fifteen years ago. It was on one of the first film productions I ever worked on, a movie that few people ever saw. We were both recently out of college. I was a PA assigned to the locations department. She was a PA assigned to assist the producers.

When I think back to the few months we were on the production, I remember her constantly being hounded by the producers for the most ridiculous of requests, day in, day out, each presented as though it were the most urgent task in the universe. She seemed perpetually on the verge of collapse, her exhausted eyes rarely more than half open. She seemed to subsist on a nonstop diet of coffee and cigarettes.

And yet, she plowed through it with a ferocious determination. Every once in a while, she’d notice me listening in as she was given yet another absurd request, and she’d shoot me an eyeroll to acknowledge she understood full well how ridiculous her bosses were acting. She struck me as someone who wanted to play the game without succumbing to it.

–

I happen to see her on the last day of our shoot. “I hope everything worked out with your phone line,” I say.

“My assistant is handling it,” she says coldly.

“You know, we worked on a shoot together once,” I say. “Back in New York. You were a PA then.”

“Did we? ” she asks. “That seems so long ago now.”

I name the movie, and remind her of the many crazy tasks the producers constantly dropped on her shoulders. How they were rude and demanding and never gave her a moment to breathe.

“Oh yeah. That’s right,” she says. “It’s been a while since I’ve thought back to those days. I guess we forget the times that weren’t so great.”

But as I walk away, a thought occurs to me. That maybe the world is divided between the people who forget, and the people who don’t.

–

This one didn’t make the final issue, but you can read many more stories like this one in the just-released "Show Business” issue of Scout Stories, available for $12 at nickcarr.com!