The Beginning of My Bout With Cancer

It’s amazing how your life can change in one day

Friday, July 2nd: I have a painful bug bite on my back, the doctor listens to my lungs since I have such a bad sounding cough. She says “Your lungs are lovely,” and sends me home with doxycyclene and ibuprofine, thinking my 103 fever is from the tic bite and possible lyme disease.
At this point my symptoms are: Bad cough – night sweats, (drenched), stiff joints, achy muscles, high fever, overall malaise.
SATURDAY, JULY 3RD, 2010: The same symptoms: More night sweats, more high temp, more stiff joints.
I have the same symptoms, and have agonizing nights, where each hacking cough sends sharp radiating pain from the center of the right side of my chest, and I am coughing up lots of bright yellow stuff, lots of it. I can’t forget the scout, the precursor, the harbinger, that showed itself to me about two months earlier than these episodes. I coughed up some mucus, as smokers do every day (especially in the morning). I had come from home from work, and hacked up something, and I walked to the bathroom so I could spit it out into the sink, and what I spit out disturbed me, and made me look up, directly into my eyes in the mirror, and wonder what the hell was going to happen next. I coughed up a bloody mass, a little smaller than the size of a dime. I was not able to feel the texture of this mass, as it slithered down the drain, and left only its slimy and glistening bloody red image ingrained on my memory. It may have been bloody mucus, it may have been a piece of cancer that I just coughed up from my lung(s) and witnessed. I will never know, but I think it was a malignancy, a piece of cancer, a warning. One that I did not heed and chose to try to forget. Each time I coughed up something, though, I was sure to get to a sink, and have a good look at what came up. None came up like that first bloody one. That was the first and last.
SUNDAY, JULY 4TH, 2010: I watched the indy car race on my computer in the back yard. I felt shitty, but I felt that a few beers and a car race might make me feel better. I was real tired, like I was dragging around a cinder block, and I felt hot. Ironically, it was pretty hot that July day, and I sat just a bit in the shade, letting the leaves of a tree shade me. I did enjoy the race a bit, but the beer, cigs and heat did not make me feel any better, and I took my temperature. I was 102.4. I knew I was sick with something, and thought maybe the docycyclene and ibuprofine hadn’t yet had a chance to get rid of the Lyme disease that I thought may be making me feel so crappy. I figured I’d give it one more day to see if I felt any better or if my fever subsided. At about 8pm that night, I took my temp again, and told my sister and her husband (Pam and Rob) that I’d see how I felt in the morning. Pam wanted me to go back to the hospital that night, but I assured her I would have Oma, (Rob’s mother) take me in to the hospital if I still felt poorly in the morning. I called my boss, and told him I would not be working that Monday. He didn’t take it very well, as I had expected, since he is the type of person who prides himself in getting up at 4:00 in the morning, taking a shower, having breakfast, and getting out the door by 5:00 A.M. All the power to you, nutcases, but I can only function the way God meant me to function if I get up when (ever) I wake up. Call me lazy; I don’t care. I do my best work after midnight.
MONDAY, JULY 5TH, 2010: I had another horrendous night, filled with really sharp, radiating pain and lots of yellow shit being hacked up from my lungs. I actually had to grab my chest and push back each time I coughed; it felt like my chest or ribs would just break if I didn’t put my hand there. I also drenched the pillow again, so when I finally woke up and went upstairs Monday morning, I knew it was time to go back to the E.R. I don’t remember exactly when I woke up or went upstairs, but Oma was up and reading in the living room when I dragged my ass up those stairs and emerged from the basement. “How are you feeling,” she immediately said. “Like shit,” I answered, and added, “I gotta go to the E.R.” “I’ll get my bag,” she said, with no nonsense in her voice. I told her I had to dress, and moments later we arrived at the E.R. I think I waited about six minutes before they called me back to triage, and I immediately went from there to a bed in the E.R. I was still coughing something awful, and a doctor came in within minutes, and said he heard my cough down the hall and it sounded bad. He listened to my lungs, and sent me for an X-ray. Literally about three minutes after I was rolled back to my room from X-ray, I was rolled out of that room and into another, where everybody that came into that room wore a gown, gloves and a mask. I noticed this and asked the nurse what was up. “You’re in isolation,” she said. “I know that,” I answered, since I had worked in the E.R. years ago and knew the isolation procedure. Sometimes it’s to protect the patient, but usually it’s to protect anyone who comes near the patient. The doctor was right on my case, and he answered for the nurse as he finished donning his gown and walked in. “Have you ever had tuberculosis?” he asked. “No, I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure I would know,” I said. “Oh, you would know,” he said. And thus began the questions; maybe six straight days of questions; maybe more, actually – and thus began my month-long interaction with people wearing masks, gowns, and gloves. I actually didn’t really know what any of these people’s faces looked like, and only realized that oddity when I saw someone’s mouth move as they spoke to me, and remarked to myself how nice it was to see everybody’s whole face again. Interestingly, though, you can tell a shit load about a person by seeing only their eyes and forehead. You most definitely can tell when they are smiling, frowning, pensive, focused, studied, etc.
I still didn’t know what was wrong with me, but when that doctor asked me the tuberculosis question, I knew it was going to be a longer road than I had anticipated. As I write this, it is Saturday night, (actually Sunday morning, 12:30 A.M) April 2nd, 2011, just about ten months from that day I went back to the emergency room. I just put my hand to my chest, and felt the changes that have taken place, and that July already feels like almost another lifetime ago. But this has been the course of my life. I have been many places, done many things, and it sometimes feels as if I have lived many lives. For this I feel blessed, lucky.
I had brought my cell phone, and had let my sister and mother (who I knew would alert everyone else) know what was happening. Soon, I had my family, looking grim, but trying to look nonchalant seated around me. They asked some questions, answered none, and just said that they were as baffled as me at what I could possibly have. When they left, I was alone with my thoughts, and just allowed the reality of the situation to sink in. Nothing hit me like a ton of bricks, but I felt a kind of gathering, a nearing, like the smell of rain coming, or the sound of distant thunder. I sensed something, but didn’t worry, just felt that I would know my fate as it came to me.
I was admitted to the hospital, this pretty large establishment in this pretty small town. It had been 3-4 years since I had stayed overnight in a hospital; that was when I thought I was having a heart attack, but found out it was only a bad case of acid reflux. I was charged 16 thousand dollars for those two days. They ruled out heart attack while I was in the E.R., but just kept me for observation.

How To Be A Writer By Writing And Selling

I’m finding these days that it’s just as enjoyable to write my stories as it is to send them out to awaiting readers.

I always looked at writing as write now sell later, or write then sell, then write, then sell, like 2 distinct actions, demarcated by some sort of fence. But, now I see that what makes me happy as a writer is just knowing that someone, somewhere, is waiting to read what I have written.

I feel this is a step since I recently held strong to the idea that I as a writer must write, write and write some more, then hit the pavement, and push, push, push.

But now I am sensing a melding of these two actions. I thought I had it all under control until the real world intervened. It seems that now is the time to deliver, for I have FINALLY let a sufficient number of people know what I am all about (writing novels and screenplays) that I am getting requests from publishers, producers, readers, friends, and folks who have joined up on my website to read my book.

How To Be A Writer By Keeping The Faith

I think it’s funny when I tell people about my work. Some sigh and explain how happy or fulfilled or interesting their life could be if only they could tell stories for a living.

I tell them it’s not as easy as they may think.

I find correlations almost everywhere I look.  For most of my working career, I’ve made a living as a home improvement contractor. Looking back on some of my most interesting and memorable jobs – ones that I seem to return to when I describe successes – are the ones where I had no real idea at the outset of how I was going to do the job.

This is not to say that I was flying blind, totally unprepared. I knew when going in that the job was something I was going to be able to figure out. I had done it so many times before, so my faith in these instances was strong.

For me, writing is a lot like that.

Each day I know I will be writing that night. Each night I find myself a little unsure as to how far I will go, what I will write, or how happy I will be with my work. But each night, I realize that it does come. My intention is strong. My patience great.

How To Be A Writer By Getting In The Zone

by Geoffrey Zimmerman

I’ve had many methods that I used to get me to where I needed to be when preparing to write.

First of all, I would call myself a “ritual” writer. I like to know what to expect from myself. It helps my unconscious juices get ready for what is to come – staring at the blank page or going over my outline notes. The “place” where I want to get myself is almost like a far-away place, a place where the world I create, my characters, their words and feelings are real.

I find it ironic, that although this “place” seems to me to be my optimum state of mind to write -  to say what I want to say the way I want to say it,  takes some real intention,  patience and faith to get there.

Some writers say “Keep your butt in the seat.” Some say “Write eight hours a day.” Some say “turn out at least three, five, nine or ten pages a day (or whatever the number they use.)

I say “Find what works, and keep doing that.” It may take time, but be patient, have faith and realize that you alone know what works best for you.

My First Writing Job Through Elance

Working For Miami Vice: An Education in Teleplays

By Geoffrey Zimmerman

Now and then, I look back at the years and experiences that have brought me to where I am. I take stock – assess past decisions, adventures and fortunes. I recall at the age of 12 years taking a “job” as Assistant Stage Manager in my small home – town’s community theatre group. I distinctly recall the laugh I got while performing a puppet show for my third – grade class. I recall standing in a long line of second – grade kids, where we were all rehearsed and were asked to “portray” a famous line. A rolling stone gathers no moss was my line.

I recall walking down the long hallway on the fourth floor of the Konover hotel in Miami Beach. The year was 1984. I sat for nearly an hour before I was ushered from the production office to the large office of Don Gold, the Production Manager of Miami Vice. Mr. As I glanced around the room, sweating bullets and pretending not to notice, I saw Mr. Gold read my resume. He set my resume down on his desk, stood up, held out his hand and said, “Welcome aboard.”

Thus began my one – year, 24 episode stint as Supervisor in Charge of Picture Vehicles for the show. I was 22.

My mind and imagination were open. I had no impression or daydream of what was to come, but within an hour of shaking Mr. Gold’s hand, I found myself seated at a makeshift desk in the locations department’s office, pouring over the rough draft of “One-eyed Jack,” episode 2 in the life of the famous TV show. Although my purpose was to glean information and descriptions on vehicles needed for the show, I also took note of the writing.

Over the next few days, I was busy gathering photos, sitting in on production meetings and dealing with vehicle owners. But, I realize now, that as the production progressed, I was being educated, subliminally, over time. Perhaps it’s like growing up in a beautifully appointed Victorian mansion, while subconsciously developing a keen eye for interior design. Without realizing it I was learning what it takes to write and create a slick and compelling TV script, a teleplay.

During production, we received 2 to 4 revisions over a five day period as we approached the shooting start date. After about 6 or 7 shows, I found I was able to predict which shows would be good and which would be mediocre.

In the interest of professional discretion, I will omit the episode’s titles, for my opinion and those of my peers and co – workers are just that – opinions – and I wish not to discredit anyone who may have played an integral role in this trend-setting TV show.

When I got a chance to take a good look at the first drafts, subsequent revisions and final scripts, I was awed. Those 30 pages I would take from my “mailbox”, (a manila folder thumbtacked to an enormous corkboard) and use as my to do list contained broad strokes and  little detail. But with these stories, I noticed a cohesion, a decisive beginning, middle and end.

I could also sense the pace of the show as more detail was added. Some episodes were heavy with action. Some were dramatic – and some spent time on questions of international smuggling, or the inverse, Internal Affairs. In the action-oriented shows, the dialogue was short and reactive, like, “Take a left,” or “Call for backup.” This added immediacy to the scene, and wasn’t lengthened as the script expanded to include more character or action detail. With the dramatic scripts, (romances or shows with emphasis on vice’s impact on families), the dialogue took center stage, allowing us a deeper look into the lives, feelings and thoughts of the characters. Looking back now, I see that it was all pretty simple; to speed up the pace and get your heart beating faster, make the cuts shorter. To bring out the hankies, slow down the pace, and let us meet the people. Add to this formula just the right music, and you have mesmerized viewers – and a hit.

But, the kicker was the cohesiveness, the central thread that kept the show together. The show’s look. This came from the powerful and decisive hand of Michael Mann. Although he wasn’t on set or in the production meetings, his word reigned.

The dogma he set forth for the details of the show made its way through the ranks. He understood how to get his ideas to the (small) screen.

Lights, Camera, You're BUSTED!

THE SEARS SHOOT

This is kinda neat. You could probably surmise that the fella with the sunglasses, (the guy with his fist balled up) is the Director. The pictures, although taken hours apart from each other, match, since the Director,( and all interested parties) are watching the video play back of the stuff we shot. The Director told Arnold Palmer to make that balled up fist gesture when he got the putt. He’s showing him what he wants on the putting green, and he mimics it as he watched Arnold on the video playback.

The people in the photo on the putting green are:

Arnold Palmer, holding the putter. To his right, the Wardrobe Mistress. In the middle, the Director, Dennis Glenn. Seated with the white visor, The Hair and Make-up lady. With his back to us, (holding a light meter), the Gaffer, (lighting specialist).

Behind the camera, a rep from Sears, and behind her, taking it all in, having a cig, is me. By the way, that’s a Panavision 35 millimeter camera, the kind they make movies with.

I didn’t have much to do on these shoots while we were shooting since I was the Transportation Coordinator of the three day long, three commercial shoot in Orlando. I believe we did this during the winter of 1985, when Miami Vice was on hiatus, (taking a break). I did a few commercials at that time, and out of the blue, got a call from a Producer in Chicago. The job of Transportation Coordinator is straightforward, but not the most simple, or easy. My job was to make sure that all people, stuff, (cameras, lights, props, etc.) and vehicles got to the place where they needed to be when they needed to be there. This entailed making detailed maps of everywhere we had to be, and making sure all drivers got the maps. Since we had no Mapquest or GPS direction systems “back then”, I drove from the hotel to the locations, and from location to location, noting routes, distances and times. I also had to knock on quite a few doors to get people up and out, so we could all be on location at the right time.

The people in the photo with the golf cart are:

Me, the handsome guy in the sorts with the cool aviator sunglasses. To my right, the Wardrobe Assistant. Seated in the cart, one of the Electricians, who also set up the video playback system. The fella in the glasses with his arms folded was a rep from Sears. The fella in the beard behind the Director was a Grip, an electrical and lighting equipment helper.

You might find this a funny side note:

During one of these slow times, (when they were shooting), I left the set, (the golf course) for something. I had probably run out of cigs. The road from the golf course fed into another road, and there was a stop sign. There was a teeny raised island of asphalt in the shape of a triangle to my left, and some slow driver was getting his act together before entering the converging road. I went around him to the left, and went the wrong way, (to the left of the triangular island) for about eight feet, and proceeded on my way. But just briefly, for in about ten seconds, I heard a siren, and looked in my window. It was a cop. He must have come out of nowhere. I pulled over. I tried to reason my way out of the ticket, and he said “No.”

But then he told me I couldn’t just pay the fine by mail, that I had to come back to Orlando, and go to court. Oh, my God I said to myself, with a couple of other words thrown in.

Here’s when the fun starts.

I had a court date about two weeks from when the shoot wrapped. I lived in Miami, and had to be in court in Orland, probably a four hundred mile drive. If I recall, it had taken about six hours each way when I did the commercial.

When I got back to Miami, I booked a flight to Orlando. The court was in Winterhaven, and the time of appearance was 9am. My flight was scheduled to land in Orlando at 11:30 pm, and would depart at noon the following day. I was pretty slim on the cash, and couldn’t afford to stay in a motel, so I figured I’d hitch hike or take a bus into Winterhaven, and somehow sleep somewhere en route. The distance form the airport to Winterhaven was about eight miles. There were no buses at that hour, and no one gave me a ride. I walked from the airport and hit the road, a semi highway, loaded on each side with gas stations, body shops, Chinese restaurants and a Denny’s. I probably walked for three miles before I saw the Denny’s. Being alone, four hundred miles from home, at two o-clock in the morning, on the highway is a strange and unnerving feeling. Especially when you have to be in court the next morning, and catch a flight by noon. Also, I didn’t know where the hell the courthouse was. In my twenties, I winged it quite a bit. I walked into the Denny’s restaurant, and one dear of a waitress must have seen something in my eyes, for she gave me lots of attention. I told her my plight, and asked her if she knew where the courthouse in Winterhaven was. She didn’t, but when she had a moment, she called and woke up her boyfriend, and he told her where it was. She let me sleep in a booth in a darkened banquet room. I didn’t sleep well. At 5am, her shift was over, and she woke me and wished me luck. She told me another gal who was taking over her shift would wake me at about six, and call me a cab. I thanked her.

The pretty morning waitress did wake me, but I had to call the cab. He showed up a half hour later, and got me to the courthouse at about seven. I waited outside in the cold morning until they opened the doors at eight. At 9:15, I pled guilty in front of the judge, gave the clerk a check for sixty five dollars, and walked out of the courthouse. But, I was broke. I had spent all my cash on the cab to the courthouse, and had two dollars to my name. I knew of no bus stations. I used some spare change to call a cab company, and about 10:30, a cab showed up at the courthouse. It was about a twenty five minute drive in that cab, and we passed by the distance I had walked the night before. I was a little stressed out about making the flight, but even more nervous about how to tell the cab driver I couldn’t pay him. I figured that if I told him I was broke when he picked me up, he would leave, and I’d miss the flight home. I see now why back then collect phone calls from pay phones and Western Union were popular. The driver did take it pretty well, and I did end up sending that cab company a check in the mail. I made the flight with about twenty minutes to spare. Scott, my friend and roommate, who we got to know in my short story, “Lorraine”, picked me up at the airport, and brought me home. I slept away that entire day, and the next day, all was normal again. At least for a little while.

Trailer Blows Up on the Set of Miami Vice

In the photo of the several guys standing around, and Paul Michael Glaser “directing traffic”, the real “star” of the photo is the trailer behind everyone.

In this episode, Trudy, (the black detective, played by Olivia Brown) will be kidnapped and held hostage by a drug lord. The script calls for Trudy to be tied up in a trailer, and soon after Sonny Crockett sees her silhouette in a trailer window, the trailer will blow up. Honestly, and ironically, I don’t recall the outcome of the episode, (that is, if Trudy survives or not)  but I do recall that the trailer will be blown up.

Yes, the one we stand in front of will go KABOOM! On this episode, Paul Michael Glaser, (from Starsky and Hutch fame) is the Director. Michael Mann, the show’s executive Producer, loved old seventies TV shows, and hired George Stanford Brown, (from The Rookies), and David Soul, (Hutch from Starsky and Hutch) to direct some episodes.

The gentleman in the far right of the photo, holding the strip board, is the First Director. His job was to schedule each shot and camera move in the filming of each episode, so that the filming went as efficiently as possible. If I remember correctly, the two gentlemen to his right were higher-ups from the Special effects Department. They needed to know all details with regard to where and when the dangerous stuff was going to happen. I believe the woman leaning on my car was a wife of one of the Special Effects guys. And, that’s me, the guy who found and “purchased” the trailer, (with Universal’s money) and hired a trailer mover to get it to its location, (final resting ground).

I remember that day. The guy who came to move the trailer was just like a tow truck driver. He had a big truck, all the towing equipment, and knowledge of vehicles. The trailer had sat on someone’s land for several years, and feet of grass had grown around the wheels. The guy looked at the trailer’s tires, and was worried that one or two of the wheel hubs might be rusted tight, and could burn as we moved the trailer the seven miles through the streets of Miami to the set DOWNTOWN, in an empty lot.

I wasn’t Locations. I was Vehicles, so I was a little sketchy about where I was supposed to have the trailer delivered. So, with me in the lead, and the truck pulling the trailer through downtown Miami behind me, I saw an opportunity. I was at a streetlight, and happened to see a cop on the side of the road talking to someone. I opened my door, yelled across the street, and asked him where to go. I was so nerved up, I had forgotten to put my car in park, and after the cop gave me the directions, said matter of factly, “Hey, your car’s moving.” And it was. I got back in, and we proceeded down the road. One of the hubs on the trailer’s wheels did burn up, and it was red hot and smoking as we finally brought the leviathan into the empty lot and positioned it… IN TALL GRASS!

The driver hopped out of his truck and ran to the trailer’s wheels, and began yanking away the tall dried grass. I helped him as sweat poured from me.

“Could have easily caught fire,” the driver said to me over his shoulder. But it didn’t. Just another day at the office.

How I Got Hired Onto The Production Staff of Miami Vice

For years, I had always gotten involved in theater production in my hometown of Glastonbury, Connecticut.

Sometimes I was on stage. Sometimes I was back stage as Assistant Stage Manager or Stage Manager. Danny, a friend I had always done shows with, knew some local musicians. They had played a few small bar gigs and wanted to do a music video.

They hired me as Production Assistant on their video. We shot for two days at a small amusement park in Connecticut. We had moving camera shots, high angle shots, roller coaster shots and even a ride along shot in a boat in the tunnel of love. It was all a little low budget. We shot on video, not film. Video in the late seventies was not as slick as the stuff we use today.

The producer of this video knew some folks who were shooting a commercial. I got on that project and took on more responsibility than the music video. Other acquaintenances of the rock band needed some film work, and I wrote some copy for them. Slowly but surely I was building a resume that included writing and video and film production.

By the way, I just realized that the stuff I include here will be fleshed out in more detail in a memoir book I’m compiling called A Trip Down The Well, an in-depth description of my adventures and experiences. God knows if that story will ever be done. It seems every time I turn around I’m embarking on a new venture where “who knows what” will happen. And usually I get involved with wild people and experiences.

Every year that passes seems to bring a new chapter or two.

Getting back to Miami Vice…I moved to Miami in 1982, three years after graduating from high school. At first I lived in Kendall, (a suburb of Miami) with my brother and his girlfriend. I slept on their couch in their living room. My brother told me, “You have thirty days. You’re out in thirty days, so get a job and a place to live.”

I spent lots of time sending out resumes, making phone calls and looking for the job of my dreams… to work at a commercial production studio. I have anecdotes about those first thirty days in Miami, babes in thongs by the pool, the trip to the nude beach, the Village Inn bar, but those can wait for the memoir book.

Suffice it to say that as I neared day thirty I began to think a little more practically. I dropped my brother off at his bartending job, borrowed his VW bug with no air conditioning and went job searching.

I drove to strip malls – walked into Radio Shack, a hair salon and a few restaurants. No chef jobs were available. August in Miami was tough – humid as Hades, so I decided to get out of the heat and walked into to a Ruby Tuesdays and applied for a job as dishwasher. I filled out the application, spoke to the manager and got the job. I had eleven dollars to my name. I was so despondent that I spent four dollars on a large beer.

I sat in the bar assessing my own worth, and feeling sorry for myself. While I sat there, wondering what I was going to do, (knowing in my heart I was well past the washing dishes stage in life, knowing I would probably never show up for this job) I eavesdropped on some pretty girls having afternoon drinks at a table near me. The girls mentioned a place called The Grove several times in their conversation. I listened closely and learned this place they talked about was near, just up route one. I envisioned a Bohemian paradise, a place where girls only wore bikinis and all hangouts were under thatched huts, and most drinks were served in coconuts. I wasn’t far off. But I digress…

I decided to get back into the sweaty and sweltering VW and head up US 1 North.

My mind was blown.

I had been on the road just 20 minutes, had ventured a direction and into a place I’d never been… and when I pulled of US 1, drove about a mile through rot-encrusted tenements and made the main drag of “The Grove”, I knew I had arrived. The place was like I had envisioned The Bahamas in America. I took my foot off the gas and rolled.

I parked the car and got out. I happened to be standing right next to some walled outside terrace, where large umbrellas shielded the tables. I walked through the terrace, into the restaurant and up to the bar. There were a few guys sitting at the bar, but one fellow was on his stool, leaning back against the wall and talking with the bartender. That’s where the cash register was. The bartender came over to me.

“What can I get you?” he said, setting a square napkin down in front of me.

“I wanted to see if you were hiring…” I said. The guy leaning against the wall turned to me.

“What can you do?” he asked.

“I’m a cook,” I said.

“When can you start?” he asked.

“Whenever…” I said.

“Tonight?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“See you at five o-clock?” he said.

“You betcha,” I said. He held out his hand. I shook it.

“I’m Geoffrey,” I said.

“I’m Tony,” he said. “ I run the place.” I smiled.

And that was that. Tomatoes restaurant. I did come back. I did cook.

That first night I met a waitress who needed a roommate, and the very next day I moved in to her place. Day 30. I had a job and a place to live. There are other details regarding Tomatoes restaurant. Some fun times, some not so fun times. But, after a few months, I moved on and found work at Steve’s Ice Cream, where I would stand in front of the customers, slap down their favorite flavor of ice cream, and mix into the ice cream all manner of “mix-ins”, stuff from nuts to crumbled Oreo cookies, to coffee. I was earning seventy dollars per week, barely enough to keep on top of my two hundred dollar rent I was paying Karen, the waitress from Tomatoes.

I was still interested in getting a job in film or TV. Miami had a group called the FMPTA, The Florida Motion Picture and Theatre Association. I borrowed my brother’s car and went downtown to a small motel and listened to Mary Lee Lander, the Film Coordinator from Florida give a talk on all the projects that were shooting in town. She knew who was doing what. She’s the lady you contact if you’re either in Florida or coming their from another state and want to find 35 millimeter cameras, processing labs, Winnebago’s, make-up rooms, lights… All that filmmaking stuff.

I took some notes and phone numbers. She said a few projects had come to town – Mundo Real, a Spanish TV show was in a studio downtown shooting weekly segments. A few other folks were in town shooting commercials.

And then she said that Universal Studios had just wrapped a two-hour pilot, (like a TV movie) and NBC had purchased three more episodes of a cop show called Miami Vice. She gave the production office number and then told some stories about other movies she had worked on, famous people she had met and answered questions from some of the twenty of us who were present in the room.

I had an ideal. I had decided that I would work at a TV commercial studio – that I would work 9-5 Monday through Friday- at a stable job – and make good bucks. So after I got home I called all the studios Mary Lee Lander, (the film coordinator) had mentioned, left messages – and waited. I went back to work at Steve’s Ice Cream – slapping down soft ice cream in front of customers and mixing in all kinds of goodies.

Then, after about a week, I took another look at the contact list I had made at the FMPTA meeting. There was one item on my list I had yet to check off as “done”. NBC Studios seemed like a real stretch to me. But what the heck I said to myself as I dialed the production office number and asked to speak with the Production Manager. After a moment, an older fellow got on the phone.

“Hello. This is Don Gold,” he said. I told him who I was, what I wanted and he took my number.

I got back on my bicycle, rode to Steve’s Ice Cream and resumed my menial job. The next day, I came home from work and my roommate, Scott, told me I had received a phone call.

“Don Gold called,” he said, and handed me a piece of paper with a number written on it. It took a few seconds for the name to register, but as I closed my door, picked up the phoned and dialed the number, a tingle ran up my spine and I sensed I was about to enter a new realm.

“Miami Vice production?”… “May I please speak with Don Gold?”
“Who’s calling?”

“Geoffrey Zimmerman.”

“Hold on.” I waited for a few seconds, taking an account of my meager surroundings, wondering if soon I would be riding in a…

“Hello? This is Don Gold.”

“Mr. Gold. This is Geoffrey Zimmerman. I called and left a message.”

“Yes… can you come in for an interview tomorrow…?”

“Yes. What time?”

“Ten AM.”

“Perfect…”

“Do you need directions?”

“No, thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thanks. Bye bye.”

“Bye.”I hung up and exhaled. I balled my fist and struck the air. “Yes!”, I shouted. “Fucking yes.” I left my room and danced, skipped, hopped and nearly did back flips in front of Scott.

“I have an interview tomorrow at Universal fucking studios,” I sang. Scott smiled. For some miraculous reason, I was actually able to sleep. All was conjecture; nothing was set, so I suppose the whole deal was a big “maybe”.

I arrived at the Conover Hotel at nine thirty, took the elevator to the fourth floor and entered a new world. There was no big commotion. There were no cute babes dashing around, holding scripts in their hands, but I knew, I sensed that what happened on this floor was cool, mighty cool. All doors on the entire fourth floor were open. Folks were leaning over desks, sitting at desks, smoking cigs, and talking “movie talk.”

I stepped into a few rooms, got some raised heads with furrowed brows and learned the production office was just down the hall, room number something. I stepped into room number something, met all six curious eyes and told them I was there to see Don Gold.

“Have a seat,” one tall, thin blonde gal told me as she whisked by and stepped through an adjoining door. There were no mags to read. There was nothing to look at, except the few folks who sat at small desks before me, smoked cigs and typed, read or answered the phone. I sat. And sat. And sat some more. People moved around me like bees. At half an hour I was uneasy. At forty-five minutes I was twitch and fidgety. At an hour, I was just about ready to pick up something and throw it. At one hour and fifteen minutes, the adjoining door opened and a kindly-looking man stood there, eyeing me just a bit, a half-smile on his lips.

“Come in,” he said. I was barely able to rise, but followed him as he turned from the door and headed back into the room. He took his place behind a large desk, sat down, and lifted a few sheets of paper, my resume. He looked at the pages intently for a few moments, set them down and looked to me.

“We have a position. We need someone to acquire the cars, boats and planes for the show…”

I was stunned. But I kept my composure. I had no real concept of what this job meant for me.
“Yes,” is all I could think of to say. He slid his chair back, stood, held out his hand and I shook it.

“Welcome aboard,” he said. “It’s your job to get the cars, boats and planes for the show. See Tim in the production office for a script. You share the office with locations. …” He looked down and searched around his desk. He found a piece of paper and handed it to me.

“Fill this out. Take it three doors down to payroll. You’ll be making seven hundred dollars per week salary… Is that all right?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” I said.

And that was that. I have lots more details I can add and lots more anecdotes of my twenty four episode stint on the show – but suffice it to say that I was pretty nobbly-kneed and grinned from ear to ear as I left Don Gold’s office and first walked down those halls on the fourth floor of the Konover Hotel on Miami Beach.

How Did I Get Into The Business?

You just talk up stuff when you’re working on a project.

For example – I was working as Transportation Coordinator for about two weeks on location in Winter Haven, (a suburb of Orlando) on a few Sears commercials. I got to know most of the production staff and crew because when we shoot on location, we all stay in one motel or hotel and we are ALWAYS around each other.

You get to talk in the hotel bar – at the breakfast buffet – at the ice machine – meeting with the Director or Production Manager over a few beers at nine thirty at night. So, you get lots of time to just chat.

On this Sears shoot I learned that the hair and make-up lady had a contact back home in Detroit who was looking for material for a feature movie of the week and knew some investors.  I kept in touch with her for months after those commercials wrapped. The idea is that you can never know when something is going to pan out.  You must always stay in touch and always keep plugging away… keep pushing… keep trying. That’s the key.

So keep trying no matter what others tell you.
Geoff

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