Overnight or Else

On Friday evenings at 6 p.m. in this dilapidated Hollywood neighborhood, the fading sunlight manages to soften only the harshest stucco of rundown apartments and boarded-up bungalows. From the bowels of neighboring post-production labs emerge the assistants to the assistants to the assistants, who have exactly 15 minutes to reach the FedEx office at the corner of Lexington and Cherokee avenues before the East Coast cutoff. They’ve got film to deliver, and if they’re a parking space away when the security guy’s key turns the bolt, whatever ascent they might make in the industry will be compromised. If stress has an epicenter in Los Angeles, this is it.

David, with a black beanie on his head, serves as the Dante to this peculiar Hollywood hell. “Everything has to wait ‘til the last minute,” says the former production assistant. “And you’re fired if it doesn’t get there by Monday.”

In fact, the North Carolina native, who’s now a screenwriter, is in line at the antiseptic white office this late afternoon not to send out dailies, but to accompany his pal Brett, a budding actor who’s wrapped a supporting role in the yet-to-be-released remake of “Lolita.” In the film, Brett plays a gas jockey who comes on to Lolita while Jeremy Irons, as Humbert Humbert, looks the other way at a pump. Brett’s FedExing the clip, and a script he’s reading for a director on Monday, to his friend in Georgia, who’s “not in the business, but a genius.” They’ll be plotting Brett’s audition strategy via phone.

The production assistants and the development girls, in their Chevy Blazers and souped-up muscle cars, form an improbable parade down the seedy street, never breaking stride as they slam doors shut and activate car alarms in the deadline sprint. David gazes with pity as they jostle through the glass entryway with their stacks of videotapes and piles of head shots. “Everyone looks as harried as I did,” he says. “We all had one too many espressos.”

At 5:45 p.m., the line is getting long and the mound of dropped-off packages just inside the door is rising; by 6 p.m., an air of barely controlled chaos fills the small lobby as frenzied assistants shove canisters of film into the confines of FedEx boxes; at 6:15 p.m., the security guard turns the bolt. Luke, in green flannel and requisite goatee, frequents the Hollywood FedEx at least three times a week. “Some people turn nasty,” he says. “You get to see these yuppie guys all stressed out. It’s really a crisis.”

George, the security guard, has the undesirable task of locking the door. “People will be pointing at their watches yelling, ‘It’s only 6:14,’ ” he says with a sweet smile. “I say, ‘No, it’s 6:17.’ They yell, ‘You’re an ass- - - -! FedEx should fix its clocks.’ ”

So what happens if you’re an assistant to an assistant to an assistant and the Hollywood FedEx doors are locked? There’s always the airport. You’ve got 45 minutes to get there before those doors close at 7.