I have such a different type of job than most people. I work all the time, pretty much every waking hour of the day is work. Even the hours just sitting, waiting for planes and cars, for cameras and audiences, that is all on the clock, on someone’s watch, getting to a job, leaving a job, the transit time is still the job.
I leave one workplace today picking latex shreds off my head and am en route to the other workplace where they’ll use solvents and remove the prosthetics properly, as I was in a rush when I left to get there, and was willing to look like a semi-sunburned peeling stage vacationer in order to save the time while traveling.
One wild action film I did in the 90s had me covered in sugary fake blood and bloody real pig intestines, sliding all over my body and face. The smell was of cough syrup and a slaughterhouse, fairly incredible and unbelievable in its wretchedness. I had a long night shoot and drove back in the morning to report to yet another job. I hadn’t had time to wash the blood, fake and real, off me, and so I sat in my car in morning rush hour los angeles traffic, immobilized by other cars, slowly drying and sticking to my leather interior.
I sat for over two hours on the freeway, and even though I was covered in blood and guts, no one took notice. The eyes in the cars next to me passed over my splattered visage without stopping or catching on a hint of curiosity. No one cared, but I guess I didn’t either. The bloodied handprints stayed in my car the length of my lease, and they would stick my hands to the wheel whenever I drove.