ISO Production Assistant

Ava scrolled through her Instagram stories, a sigh escaping her lips. The little clock icon in the top right corner of her screen mocked her; a whole day of nothing. As a freelance production assistant, a day without a gig was a day without pay. It was on one of those silent days, but buried deep in a Freelance Workers Insta stories, a post caught her eye. It was a simple white text on a plain black background, asking for a Production Assistant with a van and a ladder. The post was vague, but to Ava, it was a lifeline. She had a van, and she had a ladder. Easy money. She hit the “message” button without a second thought.

The reply came almost instantly. “Hey,” it read. “We’re doing a quick art piece and need the van and ladder. It’s a performance. We’ll send a partial payment now and the address to meet.” Moments later, her phone buzzed with an odd deposit and a pin to a quiet downtown street.

She pulled up to the location and saw them immediately. A woman in a dark trench coat paced back and forth, muttering to herself, and a man was setting up a small camera on a tripod. The backdrop was an old, grand-looking government building, its stately stone facade marked with a few rusty streaks. The first-floor window seemed to be their target.

The woman approached the van as Ava got out. “You’re the driver?” she asked, her voice hushed but intense. “We need you to set up the ladder against the window. We’re doing a piece on public protest. It’s all performance art.” The man chimed in, “We need you to hold it steady. We’ll be quick.”

Ava, used to the strange requests of indie artists, nodded and went to the back of her van. She pulled out her production ladder, the one she used to get shots from high angles, and extended it up to the first-floor ledge. The man switched on his camera as the woman began to climb.

“The truth is out there!” the woman bellowed theatrically, her voice echoing in the silent street. The man, with his camera pointed up, yelled back, “They can’t silence us!” Ava watched, a bit confused but focused on keeping the ladder stable. The woman entered through the window, her loud protests muffled as she disappeared inside.

Fifteen minutes later, she was back. The man was still holding his camera steady, but the woman was carrying a large duffel bag that looked incredibly heavy. As she came down the last few rungs, the bag slipped from her grasp and hit the ground with a soft thud. The zipper had been loose, and the impact sent a few stacks of bills spilling out onto the pavement.

Ava stared. A single glance was all she needed.

“Cut!” the man yelled, loud enough for a whole film set to hear. He calmly rushed forward, grabbed the duffel bag, and efficiently stuffed the money back inside. “Great work, Ava. Just what we needed. Thanks for your help.” He handed her a wad of cash that was far more than she expected. “For your time.” They grabbed their camera and tripod and walked away quickly, leaving her alone with her van and the now-empty street.

The next day, as she drove to a new, legitimate job, the radio was playing the morning news. “…a successful overnight robbery at the historic downtown records building,” a reporter’s voice stated. “…Thieves gained access to the first-floor vault through an unsecured window, making off with an undisclosed sum of money. Police are asking for any witnesses…” Ava’s hands gripped the steering wheel, her eyes locked on the road ahead. The words “unsecured window” repeated in her head. She had witnessed everything. She had been the lookout. She had held the ladder.