I am, in industry parlance, the LMO, The Last Man Out. The production is completely shut down, the facility sterilized, the rentals all returned, the accounts closed, the crew and staff all given their t-shirt and final paycheck and sent on their way. The gig has played out and all the things most people think of as 'making a movie' are done with.
Only I am left to sweep the floor, shut off the lights and lock the door behind us.
Normally I find this to be cathartic, a bittersweet moment, an exhalation and a congratulation after a job complete. I drive away from the empty production office on my final day, secure in the knowledge that all of the loose ends are tied and that I may confidently add a line to my resume and IMDB. Usually I take a week to watch old movies, re-read my favorite book and overindulge in Japanese beer before striking out to find the next gig, before seeking the chance to do it all again.
Not this time, though.
With two days to go on this show and naught but the dumpster and the copy machines to be picked up, I was offered a slot on a new show that starts Monday. Moreover, this new show is moving into the production space that my old show just vacated. I took it, of course. This business is just too fickle to turn down work so I'll just have to make it without the usual decompression. I'll have to forgo the release of saying that I'll never be back this way. I won't get my tidy personal coda of a cigar and a stroll into the metaphorical sunset. And, that's just the way it's going to have to be.
Once more, unto the breach.