Afraid we'll miss something we'll kick ourselves for later, we shoot in the dim light. But Tarzan's not there either. Back we go. Webb City is starting to look awfully familiar. The back corner of the lot is occupied by a dozen semis in various stages of loading and unloading.
Guys stand around drinking coffee, giddily insulting each other.
Glittering circus-ring curb is hauled out of one truck and into another. Racks of heavy stage lights are wheeled in. A burly man in a denim farmer's jacket barks out orders as the daylight begins to fade. This is Tarzan. We propel ourselves into his world, shift our gear to one side and stick out our hands.