The van for our production was reserved for a 7:30am pickup time at the local Enterprise.
For the next four days, starting at 5am and ending just before midnight, the van would serve as Chopsticky’s mobile home, production center, prop house, equipment hauler and traveling lunchroom, for locations as far as 70 miles apart.
Chopsticky planned to be on the road by 8am.
If everything went like clockwork that day, Chopsticky actually might be able to finish just a couple hours behind, and 80% of the 100% Chopsticky needed to accomplish.
What went unaccomplished would of course then create that domino effect on the subsequent days that leads producers to say inevitably, “We’ll fix in post.”
But since Chopsticky was not just the driver of the van but also the producer and director and principal breakfast sandwich maker, Chopsticky knew that safety net was just an illusion.
Chopsticky was shooting a period piece set in 1930, with vintage cars and actors dressed in wardrobe of that era. If Chopsticky didn’t stick to our schedule, Chopsticky was screwed.
Chopsticky was greeted at the Enterprise counter by F (we’ll withhold full names). You’ve probably seen F before. He’s the guy a couple years removed from college wearing a starched white shirt and ill-fitting tie working at every car rental counter and wondering why he didn’t try to start Google or YouTube instead.
Chopsticky provided the necessary reservation information.
That’s when F started tapping away at his computer, with that look of consternation that, if you’ve rented a car anywhere, you’ve also probably seen. The look that says, “I’m having trouble finding an available vehicle to match your reservation.”
F then asked, under the guise of nonchalant chit-chat, “So what are you using the van for?”
At first, Chopsticky thought, what difference does it make? Suppose Chopsticky wants to fill the van with watermelons to sell in front of Chopsticky’s house? What business is that of F’s? Chopsticky knows we’re in the Midwest where you can be the only guy at a row of ten unoccupied urinals only to have another man, with no hidden personal agenda whatsoever, step up the one right next to you, but isn’t asking what Chopsticky is going to do with Chopsticky’s van a little personal? Does Chopsticky look like Timothy McVeigh?
Then Chopsticky realized that question was code for, “We don’t have your van available. Perhaps a sub-compact or bicycle would do.”
F quickly realized from Chopsticky’s glare that Chopsticky needed a F-ing van. That’s when he fessed up.
“We actually don’t have a van at this location. One was supposed to be returned last night, and it was, but we can’t find the keys. We’ll have to take you to our other location. We can do that right away.”
That’s when Chopsticky was introduced to T, a junior version of F.
T would drive Chopsticky to the “other” Enterprise location. Ten miles away.
So at 8am, Chopsticky was indeed on the road as planned, but rather than as the driver of a van headed east toward production, as the passenger of T in an Enterprise rental car (minus the brown paper wrapper seen in the company’s “We’ll Pick You Up” ad campaign) headed south in rush hour traffic to another Enterprise location.
T of course did not know where the “other” Enterprise location was, so when we arrived we were heading in the wrong direction on a road fully in the midst of economic recovery stimulus construction. By the time we got into the building, it was 8:30am.
There T sought out the man with the van, a supervisor who appeared to be F’s doppelganger. We’ll call him F2.
F2 could not have looked anymore harried. He had his phone pinned between his ear and shoulder, and was tapping away furiously at his keyboard. He reminded Chopsticky of the stressed air traffic control supervisor character played by Lloyd Bridges in the movie Airplane who exclaims, “I picked a bad week to stop sniffing glue.” Chopsticky problem was the last thing F2 needed.
Actually, the last thing F2 (and Chopsticky) needed was to discover the problem that was revealed next — that he had the exact inverse situation of F: a van but no keys. Chopsticky had never thought about it but always assumed that it was priority number one for a rental car company to keep its cars and keys together, but somehow Chopsticky had managed to find the company that had not one but two locations within ten miles of one another that evidently didn’t receive the memo. Chopsticky was F-ing livid. Actually, Chopsticky was F2-ing livid. If Chopsticky had been drinking, Chopsticky might have done like that disgruntled Northwest passenger and intentionally shit on the floor.
At this point, F2 explained to T (and Chopsticky) that we would have to go to yet another location for the van. Between bursts of directives on his phone to a subordinate, F2 spitballed directions to Enterprise #3 — seven miles further west — which T scribbled onto the rental contract. As T and Chopsticky got into an Enterprise rental car , Chopsticky asked T if he had written down the address of the “other” location. He had not. Chopsticky’s glare returned. T ran back in to get that critical piece of information.
As we drove to Enterprise #3, Chopsticky told T that they had better have the paperwork ready when we arrived so Chopsticky could just get in the van and go. He called ahead and assured Chopsticky that would be the case.
As we neared Enterprise #3, T appeared to be lost, which turned out to be evidence that he was. That’s when Chopsticky reminded him of that useful address. Five minutes later we entered the parking lot of Enterprise #3, as — cue the harps and choir — a long white cargo van awaited. Too good to be true, Chopsticky thought. “How much do you want to bet the van has absolutely no gas?” Chopsticky asked T.
As he inspected the van for dents and other damage to mark on the contract, he gave Chopsticky the key to check the gas gauge. Chopsticky opened the door, inserted the key and turned it half way to read the gauge. Didn’t budge off of E. Not a hair. It was as if the previous customer had syphoned the last drop of gas from the tank and then coasted into the parking lot. It was now about 9:30am and Chopsticky now faced not only another stop at the gas station, but a $70 fill-up to boot.
At least the worst was over.
Then Chopsticky hopped into the van.
Holy F-ing shit!
Check that. Holy F-ing vomit!
The van smelled like the floor of a freshman bathroom after a keg party. Like the previous renter who had syphoned the last drop of gas from the tank then proceeded to ralph inside from the experience.
No wonder it was available.
There was no way Chopsticky was going to stomach four days on the road in this stomach-turner.
“T, you’d better tell F to get Chopsticky a new van as soon as possible today, or else…”
Or else what? Would Chopsticky hire that guy who wrote “United Breaks Guitars” to sing a song about it? Would Chopsticky hold his breath and stomp his feet until magic van falls from sky?
No, Chopsticky would hold his breath in this van. Until F could get a replacement van downtown to Chopsticky A-F-ing-S-A-P.
In the meantime, Chopsticky drive on fumes across the street to gas station to fill up, then to house to pick up incense and air freshener.
Downtown at midday, Chopsticky receive call. It’s F. F1.
“I have a new van for you,” F1 says.
“Great,” Chopsticky say. ”When can you get it down here?”
“Well, actually, I need you to come pick it up. I don’t have anyone here I can send out.”
MELTDOWN.
“YOU JUST HAD A GUY DRIVE ME BETWEEN THREE DIFFERENT OFFICES AND YOU DON’T HAVE ANYONE YOU CAN SEND OUT?! YOU KNOW THAT YOU’VE PUT ME HOURS BEHIND SCHEDULE AND YET YOU WANT ME TO STOP WHAT I’M DOING SO I CAN COME TO YOU?! IS THAT RIGHT?!”
Of course, there were F-bombs between every word.
“Sir, there’s no need to yell or swear at me.”
“THIS IS ENTERPRISE, RIGHT?! ‘WE’LL PICK YOU UP,’ RIGHT?! THEN WHY CAN’T YOU COME DOWN HERE IN YOUR BROWN PAPER WRAPPER AND PICK UP THIS VAN?”
“I’m sorry sir, that’s the best I can do. Do you want the van?”
All Chopsticky could envision was driving 45 minutes out to Enterprise #1 only to learn that the whole process had started all over again. That Lucy was once again going to pull the football away from Charlie Brown just as he was about to kick it. Besides, Chopsticky simply didn’t have the time.
So for the next four days, over a course of approximately 500 miles, Chopsticky drove with the windows open and incense burning on the dashboard.
Chopsticky tried to tap into Zen training to get through the ordeal. Cast breath out. Reel breath in. (Choke! Gag!)
Chopsticky tried to find the deeper value and meaning. All Chopsticky could think was that the rental company had given Chopsticky a unique visceral and indelible experience, like that of a World War One soldier stuck in a fetid trench or the young Jamal from Slumdog Millionaire’s plunge into an outdoor latrine.
An experience that would build character. That Chopsticky would remember for the rest of Chopsticky’s life. And for that, Chopsticky was truly grateful, just like all of those happy customers are when the brown paper-wrapped car driven by the smiling company representative wearing a perfect Windsor-knot tie arrives.
“Thank you, Enterprise!”
(The Chopsticky remedy for any bad business or brand experience is a batch of sweet Chopsticky pot stickers, like these scrumptious blueberry ones.)
