Chapter 63: Location Scouting
The next morning, Bruce—heading out to scout locations—ran into Joey on the stairs. Joey looked like he'd raided a dumpster behind a thrift store.
A skin-tight neon skeleton T-shirt, a grease-stained, torn gray work jacket hanging crooked, and huge camo pants that pooled around his sneakers—waistband askew, shoes mismatched.
He radiated a strained, deliberate shabbiness, mixed with a bewildered "I tried, but nothing works" vibe.
Instead of gritty desperation, the outfit looked like a comedy sketch about a fashion-challenged wannabe criminal—perfect for Billy, who can't even dress himself properly.
Bruce blinked, the corner of his mouth twitched, and he finally said, "Holy... well, at least it's... convincing."
They said goodbye downstairs, got into the car parked at the curb, and the engine rumbled as they merged into Manhattan's early-morning traffic—Brooklyn's abandoned garage, first stop on today's tech scout.
The car wound through Brooklyn's back alleys and stopped in a lot half-surrounded by rusted chain-link fence. A hulking garage of corrugated metal and cracked red brick sat in the center.
As Bruce stepped out, he spotted his anchor—first assistant director Sam Walters' distinctive bald head and broad shoulders—gesturing at a spread map and script beside a pile of rusted car parts.
Around him: DP Carl, a rumpled-looking, sharp-eyed middle-aged guy; Production Designer Emily, wearing gloves, toe-nudging the oily mess; and Sound Mixer David, eyes closed beneath headphones, face reddened by the cold, listening to ambient noise.
"Bruce! Right on time!" Sam's walkie antenna pointed skyward. "Carl's complaining the sun's angle is terrible, Emily wants to keep the grime as set dressing, and David's praying no flight path goes overhead." He tapped the page. "Everyone's here—let's do this?"
Bruce nodded. "Let's do this." He stepped beside Sam and surveyed the cavernous wreck—key scene: the characters realize the deadly shipment's gone. In his head, sharp editing cuts slammed against Brooklyn's raw reality.
"The meltdown scene," Sam said, finger on the script, pointing to a corner piled with broken lab equipment and makeshift benches. "They go from panic to despair. Background needs chaos, danger, drug lab details, plus a quick cut to their hidden stash spot." He glanced at Carl. "You said the light here...?"
Carl jumped in, hands sketching angles. "Ten to two, sun cuts through those broken windows—great shafts, lots of dust. Problem is," he gestured at the sagging roof and twisted beams, "too many shadows, too messy, not enough depth.
I'll go high, wide lens, maybe sneak some low-intensity soft fill in the dark areas to fake natural light, or their faces go muddy." He looked to Bruce for approval.
Bruce narrowed his eyes, picturing dust-lit beams cutting across tense silhouettes. He stepped onto the sticky floor, looked up at the roof opening.
"Wide lens, slight barrel distortion—adds pressure. Fill's fine, but hide it; no obvious lighting." He turned to Emily. "Emily, what about the wrecks and equipment?"
"A ready-made goldmine!" Emily's eyes lit up as she pointed at the mountain of rusted engines, tires, and scattered wrenches and chains in the corner.
"Quick cleanup, a water spray to boost the reflections, then add some oil—perfectly grimy and authentic! The door of that wrecked office needs reinforcing or the actors will break through it. Also—"
—she kicked the thick sludge underfoot—"we have to clear most of this. It's too thick; actors will slip and the dolly track won't roll. Leave just a thin layer, we'll enhance the grime in post."
"Agreed. Safety first." Bruce nodded, turning to the sound mixer, David.
David removed one earpiece, brow furrowed. "The ambient noise is loud. The Brooklyn–Queens Expressway gives a constant low rumble—acceptable urban background. The problem is the intermittent noise—"
—he pointed upward—"JFK Airport's flight path. Every fifteen to twenty minutes we get major plane roar. And—"
—he knocked the rusted metal wall—"when wind picks up this thing rattles like crazy. We need to shoot between aircraft windows; the metal wall needs bracing or temporary sound blankets inside, otherwise the dialogue recording is unusable."
Sam pulled out his notebook and wrote quickly. "I'll get the flight schedule. Metal wall—Emily, your crew handles it, done this afternoon. David, how many blankets? Give me a number and I'll have production rent them today."
Bruce listened as the core team identified and solved problems rapidly; the tension inside him eased slightly. He followed Sam from point to point—the corner where the dim-witted Billy and his crew would clumsily hide among discarded tires;
the narrow back-alley door leading to the scripted confrontation; the rickety second-floor platform overlooking the whole scene. At each location a discussion erupted. Carl obsessed over light angles and camera moves, arguing over a single inch of height, even lying on the ground to demonstrate the low angle;
Emily and her assistant walked through oil and rust with tape measures and color cards, debating which piece of fabric looked "authentic" and which pile of debris stayed or went;
David, alert as a watchdog, caught every stray sound that could ruin the recording, proposing isolation and ADR plans;
and Sam, script and breakdown in one hand, walkie in the other, juggled opinions like he was balancing art, safety, schedule, and budget, then made the call: "That vent pipe gets acoustic wrap—cost comes from my line!"
"This camera height works, but the dolly crew pre-rigs track two hours early!" "Break more junk-car windows! Emily, get someone on it now!"
Bruce stood half a step behind Sam, the most focused observer. Rarely did he issue direct orders; mostly he watched, listened, absorbed.
Only at crucial artistic moments did he set the tone with sharp precision: "Billy's tire pile—messy chaos, like a rat buried in garbage."
"Back-alley door: a single shaft of light cutting through the dark, glinting on metal."
"Second-floor platform—handheld, shaky." His directions were clear, precise, instinctive; the arguing room fell silent and moved.
Time flew in the dust-filled warehouse. Bruce pulled a cold sandwich from his bag, eating while Sam and Carl argued over the Queens bar exterior's route and traffic timing.
He scribbled quick notes in his pocket notebook—an inspired camera move, a character's emotional state in a given space. Oil and cold numbed his fingers, but his focus intensified.
When he finally climbed out of the grease-and-rust smell into the crisp outside air, it was already 1 p.m.
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