I was walking down the hall at the studio, yesterday (as is my wont to do), when one of our producer/writers came out of the bathroom just as I passed it. We did that awkward thing where you’re walking at the same speed to the same place, without actually walking together.
Feeling the need to make small talk, I asked him how things were going down the hall (where our writers’ offices are).
“Pretty good,” he said. “Making progress.”
Then he asked, “Are you on [the expensive, and much better, cable show whose writers’ office is down the hall in the opposite direction]?”
Even more awkward, for me, at least, pause.
“No, I- I work for your show. I’m in the production office” fifteen feet down the hall from your office.
I don’t begrudge him not knowing my name. I can’t remember his, either. To me, he’s just Balding, Socially Awkward Producer Who Wears Flannel Like He’s In An Early Nineties Rock Band, Despite Being Old Enough To Remember When The Beatles Played On Ed Sullivan’s Show.
Hell, I don’t even care if he doesn’t know what position I’m in. There’s at least a hundred positions on a TV crew, and he can’t know who does what. But seriously, shouldn’t he at least remember the face of the guy he walks by every day on his way to writing terrible scripts?