Say Cheese

When you wander the streets of New York, you're always under somebody's control. Most of the time it's overzealous policemen who are in charge, knowing they can throw us in jail if we so much as look at them crosseyed. But every so often a major movie studio tosses a suitcase full of cash at Mayor Bloomberg to buy the right to shove us around for a day or two. Evidently our tax dollars aren't enough to keep the world's financial center afloat: we need rental fees from Woody Allen too.

Approaching Seventh Avenue on 27th Street I see the warning signs. I'll forfeit every human right by entering the area, they declare, making me wonder if there are pirates or transplant surgeons crouched in the bushes to take advantage of this lawless tract. They're filming a chase scene from "The Bourne Ultimatum," and any soul foolhardy enough to venture into the vicinity agrees to dance to the studio's tune. I blithely stumble ahead: like most Americans, I'd trade my civil rights for a glimpse of Matt Damon.

The Seventh Avenue set looks like a war zone. There's a four-car pileup down at 26th and -- even more out of the ordinary -- a phalanx of cars patiently idling. I gawk for a couple seconds before an officious woman with a walkie talkie approaches. "You can't stand there," she says. "We're filming."

"Oh," I reply. "Okay."

I back up a couple feet and we stare at each other. "Not there either," she snaps.

I take few more steps back but her accusing gaze doesn't falter. Another step. She shakes her head. I keep retreating until she nods, but now I'm closer to New Jersey than Matt Damon. While she turns her attention to a stroller-pushing couple who stupidly think they can wander the streets at will, I assure myself that it's not humiliating to take orders from a woman in fleece who looks like she should be handing out samples of peanut-butter pretzels at Trader Joe's. The deafening sounds of a monster crash resound from Seventh Avenue and my opinion solidifies: no lowly Production Assistant is going to push me around.

By the time I get back to Seventh Avenue, she's ready. She blocks my path, with two other PAs providing backup. My eyes dart left and right, and when I spot a burrito restaurant with a wall of windows next to the crash site, an excuse pops unprompted into my brain. "I'm going to Chipotle," I announce. "Surely a guy's got the right to eat lunch."

She reluctantly lets me pass when filming pauses, and minutes later I'm inside Chipotle, a burrito in my hand and my nose pressed against the glass. The place is jammed: when you question authority in New York, odds are you won't be alone. We're congratulating ourselves on our ingenuity when another PA barges in. "You can't all stand in the window!" he shouts. "It looks ridiculous. I want everybody sitting at tables, facing different directions, and not paying any attention to the shoot!"

Now, maybe in Kansas people would jump to this man's tune, but in New York it doesn't wash. We blithely eye him over our burritos. "Move!" he snaps. "To the tables! And don't look outside!" Without waiting for an answer, he storms out.

When the action starts, there are eighty people in the window, all snapping pictures with their cellphones. A police car screeches a U-turn, ricocheting off a parked car. Snap. An SUV gives chase, steered by a driver on the roof. Snap. As the fleet disappears around the corner and we take our final shots, Angry PA returns. "Just so you know," he says, dripping disdain, "you guys ruined that take. And the director says it's all my fault." He settles onto a stool and runs a hand through thinning hair. "People, my name's Paul, and I'm a nice guy. I just happen to have a lousy job." He's trying to break into filmmaking, he says, so he needs work experience and connections, and this is the only way to get them. He delves lightly into his cinematic history, waxing poetic about his love for movies, and by the time he gets to Saturday matinees with grandpa our tortilla chips are soggy with happy tears.

"Okay," a chubby guy assures him. "Do it again, and we'll be good."

Paul gazes at the man with gratitude, then turns to us. We nod sheepishly, realizing how selfish we'd been. "We'll pretend we're interested in each other," a man says, like he's agreeing to wear suspenders to work.

We watch as they move the cars back into position, but the minute somebody shouts "ACTION!" we look away. We pretend to be sociable. We eye our food like we've never seen burritos before.

The extras meander past our window, and the counter help go quiet. "It's MATT DAMON!" one whispers, but that doesn't break our resolve. "What are all these little green flecks?" I ask, shoving my burrito in my neighbor's face. "Could that possibly be cilantro?"

She nods and forages into her own food. "Mine is certainly replete with beans."

From the corner of my eye I see cars hurtling by. Still, I resist temptation. "The rice is so . . . white," another woman declares. "None of that brown rice here."

There's a screech, then the crunch of metal. "And the cheese," someone calls. "It's tangy, but not so sharp it'd scare the kids."

The room fills with an acrid cloud of burnt rubber, but that doesn't break our concentration. "You don't often find so many disparate things in a burrito," a Diane Keaton-lookalike muses. "It's like a pound of illegal immigration in a big foil square." Pause. "Somebody kill me before I have to talk again."

We take up individual study of our lunches until it goes quiet outside and Paul returns. "Guys," he declares, limp with relief, "that was amazing. Spectacular. We got a fantastic take."

We smile and put down our burritos, then wander outside to check out the scene. The crew high-fives, making us all feel proud. After all, like Paul said, we'd make or break the movie. And I can honestly say that when it finally opens in theaters, when that chase scene starts and viewers watch spellbound from their seats, people all over the world will look in the window of that humble Chipotle and think, "What in God's name is wrong with New Yorkers that they won't look up from burritos when all hell is breaking loose outside?"