Once Upon a Panic

Once upon a panic I worked in a one girl office, caged up like a lion at a second rate zoo, melancholy wearied by breathing time away and answering telephones for copier machines and calculator orders, equally as tiresome. The view outside my window was the parking lot and I formed phrases and words from acronyms on license plates; DHE 691 became "dirty, horny, easy, 69 once", amusing myself to drain the hours away in niggardly wages and unsolicited boredom.

I'm in my early twenties have decided to become an actress, or a screenplay writer, or a director, anything that will keep me from playing scrabble in my head, and I've signed up for an acting class from a man claiming to have directed many episodes of Danger Bay, or some other dull Canadian show produced with government tax credits for the National Film Board of Canada.

He conducts his class in his high rise apartment situated on the north shore of Vancouver, close to the ski hills and the constellations, and he plays up his connection to Hollywood so that we're all feeling tingly inside, anxious to become the next it factor. Vancouver has become a boomtown in the film industry, with many Hollywood productions coming north for the range of scenery, doubling as many U.S. cities or international landscapes, all in the comforts of a cheap Canadian dollar and flavourful beer.

Our acting teacher informs us of a production currently in need of extras and how this would be an ideal experience to witness a big movie production first hand. I attend the casting call and wait in the long lineup to meet with the casting agents, and soon learn the movie headlines Daryl Hannah, who is well known in the industry by now, especially after her role in "Splash" with Tom Hanks.

The movie is "Clan of The Cave Bear", a story of a young cro-magnon woman raised by neanderthals, and it's adapted from Jean M. Auel's novel, which I would read many years later on the sky train to work. Daryl plays the tall, blonde, blue-eyed Ayla, who is adopted by a bunch of dark, pudgy, short homo sapiens, and I fit the clan perfectly, except for my eyes which are eerily blue against the painted body tan I receive each morning before film rolls.

I am allocated to the Desert Clan, amongst many clans who gather at a ritual meeting, where others will meet the character, Ayla, who herself meets the only other person with blue eyes. It's not me, of course, as I am sent to the backdrop by the director himself, a notoriety I proudly pomp having been told, "you, get out of my shot", and I saunter off to stand with the likes of Creb, Broud, Droug and Zoug.

I wanted to stand up close to Daryl Hannah, James Remar and Thomas Waites, having grown up with celebrity fascination and adoration, to watch them perform, to watch them be real. I am familiar with James Remar and Thomas Waites, both were in one of my favorite movies, "The Warriors". James had a leading role, Thomas' appearance was momentary and unaccredited, but he previously starred with one of my favorite actors, Al Pacino, in "And Justice for All", little tidbits of information that somehow managed to trickle down to the peons.

Of course, I really couldn't recognize them at first because we're all dressed up like cavemen, but in time we'd ascertain the ones wearing the really nice fur skins were the big movies stars, and the ones wearing the thin cow leather, weren't. We film for three days on Bowen Island, a forested retreat just 20 minutes away by ferry from Horseshoe Bay, which is a perfect secluded location, without the bloopers of modern man mistakenly showing up on reel by poor editing.

It's cold when we film, we stand around most of the time waiting for the camera 'B" yell, and eat marvelous meals dispensed by the caterers on site, steak and baked potatoes, fruit salad, anything we wanted appearing out of the blue from the puny confines of a metallic trailer, like Houdini from a chained up trunk.

On one of the breaks I become aware I am standing near Thomas Waites and strike up conversation, asking him what it was like to meet Al Pacino. He is with a couple of other actors, and I will never understand why he did this, as he drops his hand down to grope at his crouch from beneath his fur skin and asks me "how would I like to meet this?"

There's a time and place for vulgarity and I'm not expecting it in the remake of the caveman epoch, nor am I expecting it from a movie star, as I glare at him disdainly. I believe he felt awful the second he blurted his words out at me, pausing in disbelief, wishing he could take the words back and chat up a storm about Al Pacino tomfoolery instead. But it's too late, I'm disenchanted by him and I've already turned away, blaming the cold for my gritting teeth. I have found a fire to stand by, to allow the rising smoke to flog me and cleanse the dirtiness off.

The next days would be the same, repetition of scenes and direction, watching all the little people scurry here and there, production staff rushing with purpose, then the bear comes out and we watch the trainer make him stand up and act grizzly. Upon the third day I am feeling weak and tired, having to wake up at five in the morning, racing to catch a ferry, having hair and makeup applied, only to wait around for hours skimpily dressed, soaked in morning dew.

I immediately recognize it, the hesitation of breathing, the heaviness in my chest as I gasp for air, untutored breath. I am having a panic attack and I'm feeling paranoid, trapped on a tiny Island without a doctor, without a hospital or a defibrillator nearby, which worsens my panic. People beside me have brought my predicament to notice and I am quickly escorted off to a dressing area, which is a large tent hoarding the street clothes of all the extras. I have decided to leave, now, because panic creates an urgency, no matter how mentally absurd it is, I am dying.

I have reached my car and have laid myself on it's hood, just to stop for a minute, to arrest my heart from imploding, when I am unexpectedly approached by a man wearing a huge fur coat, a coat of bear skin. I hold my head up and he cups my face, checking me over for injury, and agrees it has been a long day. It's James Remar and I will never forget his kindness, the embarrassment and awkwardness of myself, not knowing which pair of eyes to look into, his or the ones on the bear hood crowned on his head.

Today, when I see him in a television show, I am reminded of Bowen Island, the grunting dialogue, the hands rendering words and gestures, and how "Ajax" restored my adoration to actors and the movie productions.

I stand by the ferry dock, watching for it in the distant waters, a solitary figment swelling into a hull and superstructure as it sails closer, then the main deck encased in storm rails become visible, and finally the crew who will take me home, safe.

I stand on the banks of Bowen Island for one last time, and she comes to shake my hand and conveys it was nice working with me, though we never met on set. It may have been in my eyes, the fear, the isolation, the regret, the happy ending, as the panic disolves away into the horizon.

Daryl Hannah is going home, too. She walks away, so tall, so skinny and beautiful, like a Mermaid.