My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  I can surmount these barriers to entry. Why did I wait so long? Because Ex didn’t encourage or support me? Or my fear of failure?

  I talk to a couple of demo producers, both of whom seem convincingly qualified. Is one really worth five hundred dollars more?

  Many actors have websites where they post their demo reels, resumes and client list. I try doing my own to save money, but after a few frustrating attempts, I don’t like the result. Designers charge well over a thousand for the kind of site I want. I’m worth it, right?

  Total investment to start my new acting career on what I hope is the right foot: around four thousand dollars.

  I’m tired after all of this work in addition to my real job, but each step completed widens my smile. I’m on a roll. I’m taking charge of my life in a way I couldn’t with Ex, in part because we always wanted to do more for our amazing home. And like my parents, he believed in corporate work, not creative. I still miss him, though. Even more, I miss being part of a couple.

  What would it be like to be in a great relationship? To come home each day to someone who really cared about what you had to say and wanted to be your partner in pursuing your hopes and dreams?

  Focus on the present, Marla. Soon I’ll have my marketing materials.

  I won’t think about what I’ll do if I don’t get even one agent.

  Have you too known this painful dichotomy: desperately wanting to quit your day job to devote more time and effort to your passions, yet not knowing how you’ll earn the money you need to support yourself in the lifestyle to which you choose to be accustomed?

  Which for me means freedom to shop at T.J. Maxx and Nordstrom Rack, and the ability to pay my small one-bedroom Lincoln Park condo’s mortgage and high property taxes. And to buy the occasional nice piece of jewelry because I adore jewelry and may never have a man to buy any for me. Not that I need a man to buy jewelry for me. Not that I need a man at all.

  I wish I could be brave and trust myself to achieve my goals and survive without my day job. If only I could believe what John Burroughs and others advise, “Leap and the net will appear.” Every time I think of executing this wonderful motto, I shrivel. Loud “bra-aack brak braa-aa-ck” noises fill my head. Chicken.

  Somehow, I have to find the strength to face my fears.

  My day job is at Barnaby Broadcasting, a media conglomerate owning ninety radio and TV stations. My clients are advertising agencies, retailers and corporations. I’ve been a radio station account executive for ten years, always seeking the perfect time to move on.

  I’ve tried to appreciate having gainful employment in these uncertain economic times, and especially now that I’m on my own. I’ve tried to not want to be an actress. While married, I read piles of self-help books, visited a costly but enlightening life coach and even sampled EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing therapy) where headphones playing beeping sounds combined with buzzers in my hands were supposed to remove distress over bad memories and prompt positive changes. Unfortunately, the results of this self-exploration were that another sales or corporate job wouldn’t make me truly happy. I allowed worries over financial security to triumph over my true desires. Said worries still nag me.

  If you’ve never been in sales, you’ve been spared the importuning and servitude that can accompany the potential for great money. We’re told we’re partners with our clients, not mere vendors. I often believe that, except when I must do whatever they want to retain their business and good will. Even if I must bite my tongue because I feel I’m being taken advantage of.

  My days are filled with clients saying: “I expect a bigger discount off your rates than that,” or, “Throw in some free internet spots. And some on weekends. Your ratings are low then, anyway.” Both of which yield lower commissions. But if I don’t get the sale and my boss hears their commercials on another station....

  Unfortunately, my personality is more suited to being the one making requests, not responding to them, so my tongue is often sore from biting it. Imagine what ten years of this has been like.

  The first time I got that sour, panicky ‘What do I do?’ taste in my mouth, I was fairly new to WZRJ.

  “Where are the donuts, Marla?” a senior media buyer asked at the start of a meeting.

  “I didn’t bring any today.” I tried not to sound or look sheepish.

  “There’s an Au Bon Pain downstairs. Go get some croissants. My favorite is raspberry cheese.” She folded her hands, tilted her head and had an expectant look on her face.

  There I stood, a professional ready to share my media knowledge and help them succeed, told to fetch baked goods. Should I get them, or stand my ground that today is a no donut day?

  If only life gave you commercial breaks like soap operas and other shows so you’d have time to come up with the next zinger.

  I stood my ground. No croissants.

  The client asked to be reassigned to a different AE.

  WZRJ, also known as “Z-lightful Rock,” has Weekly Morning Office Meetings to review sales projections, ideas and goals. I’m preparing a list of suggestions for improving our order placing process, but it’s not ready for this week’s WMOM. Which is fairly uneventful.

  Shortly after, an e-mail from station management arrives, the urgent kind with an exclamation point next to the subject. They’re calling an impromptu meeting, with lunch to follow.

  Other account execs and I pop up from our tiny gray fabric cubes and gather near the kitchen. Clearly, they too smell the tension in the air, as if someone had sprayed it out of a can.

  “What’s up? Why do we need another meeting?” Liz Burnside asks. “Will someone get fired?”

  Liz, a slim thirty-something with dull brown hair that would benefit from artful highlighting, is the office Nervous Nellie. She never wears anything but the olive greenish suit with a cream shell and knee-length skirt she has on today. In all the years she’s worked here, no one has gotten fired. Yet?

  “Why call a meeting after we just had one?” wonders Catherine Henderson. She’s a good friend, a few years younger, married with two daughters and a traditional home in Arlington Heights. She’s also my biggest fan.

  “Maybe we’re getting sold,” John Jacobs offers.

  The group gasps.

  “Sold? Oh my God, that’ll mean a format change.” Liz takes off her jacket, as if uncertainty makes her hot. “Bound to wreak havoc with our clients.”

  I say, “I just read in Broadcasting Today that a medium size Chicago station would soon be sold.”

  “Maybe they’re finally going to combine sales staffs, and have us sell both AM and FM. That’d be a disaster. Hardly anyone listens to AM these days.”

  Our sister station, news/talk format WZBJ-AM, can’t hope to compete with powerhouse WBBM-AM, which in any case simulcasts on FM.

  We slink back to our cubes. I doubt anyone gets anything done.

  At high noon, we march like prisoners going to their execution. Local management sits in a row in a white-walled conference room with the station logos on the wall: my boss, sales manager Brenda Digiorno; her boss, station manager Janet Edwards; and her boss, regional group manager Sue Pasqual.

  It’s easy to tell who’s who by the quality of their clothes. Sue wears high end designers, Janet usually favors upscale mall brands, and Brenda is a fast fashion devotee.

  As we take our seats, Sue stands. Obvious power play. “Thank you for coming.”

  Like we had a choice?

  “We’re going to be making some changes around here and we wanted to tell you about them in person.” She opens her laptop, but doesn’t look at the screen.

  I hope she’s going to save me the trouble of talking to her about job improvements, but I can tell from her pinched lips I’ll have even more work ahead of me.

  “Is someone getting fired?” Liz bursts out.

  John adds, “Are we going to be sold?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Sue shakes her head. “We’re moving t
he outdoor division into your cubicles. Younger demos just love digital billboards with LEDs and videos. So, you’ll all be working from home.”

  Liz’s mouth drops open. I have a smidge more restraint, but can’t conceal a small gasp.

  “I live in Aurora,” John Jacobs says. He has squinty eyes and a whiny voice whether he’s talking about his ditzy girlfriend, whom he worships, or is upset, as his florid face indicates he is now. If I had to listen to him all day, I’d need earplugs. “Forty-two point six miles from the city, where most of my clients are. Am I supposed to go to a coffee shop between appointments? Can I expense the money I’ll need to spend on coffee?”

  “Good questions, John.” Sue favors him with a rare smile. “During the next couple of weeks, the storeroom will be rebuilt into ten spaces where you can use your laptops to check e-mail, make phone calls and the like.”

  “Nineteen of us have cubes,” I can’t resist pointing out.

  I do not receive a smile. “First come, first serve,” Sue says with a shrug. “It’s called hoteling, which many companies institute to reduce costs.”

  She means, “which many companies institute to squeeze the last drop of blood from their employees’ stones.”

  “Are there any more questions?”

  “What about our files and promotional items?” This from swag hoarder Liz. Instead of giving out WZRJ pens, T-shirts and coffee mugs to clients like we’re supposed to, she keeps them in case we run out.

  “You’ll each get one locked drawer in the new space. Anything that won’t fit you’ll have to keep at home. We’ll pay for a home filing cabinet or small desk.”

  “Sue, I have a one-bedroom apartment. There’s no room for a cabinet or desk,” Christi Davis, the youngest and prettiest AE, says.

  If I’d said that, it would’ve sounded like a complaint. But Christi is so attractive whatever she says wows everyone and makes them want to help.

  Brenda says, “I made a business case against these changes. But they wouldn’t—”

  Sue and Janet glare at her.

  Brenda shuts her mouth. She has three kids, and her husband was laid off six months ago. Janet is a single mom of a nine-year-old boy. They can’t afford to lose their jobs any more than we can.

  “Our new arrangement will take some adjusting. I’m sure you’re all up to the challenge.” Janet makes this sound like a question. She purses her lips in the most annoying fashion.

  “To address any concerns and the like you might have, we brought someone in special to talk to you,” Sue says. She sits and buzzes the receptionist. “Send her in.”

  An average-looking gray haired woman carries in a stack of books. I smell mothballs as she goes by. As she passes out the slim volumes, her red suit jacket pulls across her chest and back.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m Terry Jones, here to speak to you about the challenges of dealing with change. Later you can read this remarkable, bestselling book I wrote, Change Can Be Fun. CCBF tells the tale of three colleagues who must learn to adapt when their jobs change in different ways. One changes a little, one an average amount, and the other quite a bit.”

  What is this, The Three Bears in corporate America?

  Obviously, I don’t ask that.

  “Let me share my personal story of change,” Terry begins. She clasps her hands and squinches her shoulders, reminding me of a mouse perched on its hind legs, tiny paws in the air. “Before I became a motivational speaker, I worked at a large corporation. I had an office with a skyline view. One day I was told I now had a cubicle with no view. Then one day I was told I’d have to share a cube. Then one day I was told I no longer had a job. I’d been let go, forced to scurry to find another job. And so I did.”

  “Oh my God!” Liz cries. “We are getting fired!” She jumps to her feet and glares accusingly at the managers. Tears shine in her eyes.

  Sue’s, Brenda’s and Janet’s puffed cheeks make them look like they’re about to explode. The AEs exchange shocked glances, fearing we see the writing on the wall next to our logos.

  I don’t think Terry Jones was supposed to tell that story. Clearly, she forgot one of the first rules of public speaking: know your audience.

  Is hoteling one step from unemployment?

  “No, no, you’re not,” Janet says. “No one is getting fired. We can’t do our jobs if you don’t do yours.”

  How can I work on ways to enjoy my job more now? Maybe Destiny is offering me a way out. Then again, how do I trust myself to make better decisions? I chose Ex, after all. Chose to live in the suburbs because that’s what he wanted, chose to add his last name when I didn’t want to. Who’d want to be Marla Goldberg Greenberg? I chose to compromise. Look where that led. Sometimes not doing anything is easier, and seems less risky. Though nothing is a decision in itself.

  Terry explains about the colleagues. Then we watch them in an animated video. They actually ate porridge, well, oatmeal, for breakfast. We’re losing our cubes, are being forced to work from home, and management wants us to watch a cartoon.

  “Thanks, everyone,” Terry says. “Enjoy the books. And remember, change can be good!” She leaves.

  Sue looks up as if waiting for more questions, but I know she’s hoping no one will ask any.

  As if she’d said “dismissed,” we file out in uncustomary silence, prisoners who’ve escaped execution to return to their cells. Which will soon be downsized to spaces barely big enough for a mouse. Such value Barnaby Broadcasting’s brain trust places on its AEs.

  My stomach churns. I’ve already endured many changes recently. This will not be a good one. I don’t want work to invade the comfort I’m trying to create in my new residence.

  Though I’ve lost my appetite, I follow the others to check out the buffet.

  Why are they serving oatmeal for lunch?

  That night, I get an e-mail from my headshot photographer. I go to her website and enter the code she gave me. My new headshots are fabulous. I’m smiling with my eyes, as I learned via America’s Next Top Model, and look confident and capable. The hair/makeup woman earned every penny of the $125 she charged by managing to make my curls less frizzy. My greenish eyes look more green and less brown.

  My new website is full of purples and blues and features my resume, such as it is, and a bio. Tomorrow, I’ll record my commercial demo, a voiceover talent’s calling card made of snippets of different kinds of commercials with music and sound effects.

  The pieces of the what it takes to market myself as an actor puzzle are coming together. Buoyed by my progress, I research talent agents. A few still insist upon snail mail submissions, others have online application forms. As soon as I choose my final images and have my demo, I can apply. So much hope fills me, I could float like a helium balloon.

  I’ve done most of the things I can control. Which are even fewer than at WZRJ, where my excellent persuasive speaking skills combined with facts to overcome objections help me get the sale. My materials will have to speak for me. It’s not easy, but I must accept that the rest is up to the agents...and then, if I get representation, casting directors and clients.

  After I submit, how long will it take to get responses?

  Chapter 3

  Today is my forty-second birthday. Mine falls shortly after New Year’s, when fresh starts, resolutions and celebrations abound. I have no comment on new wrinkle sightings. Is that a gray hair sticking out of my left eyebrow?

  My family gathers to celebrate at one of my favorite restaurants, Antipasti, in Little Italy. After we weave through laughing, noisy diners to reach our table in the back of the narrow, rectangular brick-walled room, I end up with an empty chair to my left. Like the one left for the prophet Elijah during Passover seder. But no one’s going to show up by my side on this first birthday in years without a husband or significant other. Being the only unattached sibling takes away some of my appetite and reminds me of just how alone I am.

  Linda is to my right. She’s four years younger, though if I may s
ay, these days it’s hard to tell. We’re the same height and of similar size. She dresses more conservatively than I do and doesn’t talk as much, both of which could make her appear older. And she gets blonder every time I see her. Did I mention that recently Chicagoans magazine selected her as one of the Top 20 Women in Chicago business?

  She lives with Brad, a lean investment banker with a full head of hair and a penchant for collecting contemporary art. They take amazing vacations to places like New Zealand and Fiji. They’ve been together nine years. Longer than many people, including me, stay married.

  Next is Larry, my brother, whose antics never fail to amuse. He’s an orthopedic surgeon. And he owns a model train store he runs on weekends and on e-Bay. And he has produced the only grandchild, with another on the way. Thankfully Zach isn’t here tonight. His stay-at-home wife Monica is sweet, pretty in the way of a delicate flower, and doesn’t say much.

  Mom and Dad are medium height, medium plump and medium gray-haired. They always dress as nicely as if they’re going to temple. I don’t think they own jeans. They’re retired—Dad was an orthopedist, Mom an interior decorator—and don’t seem to have hobbies or interests whatsoever beyond arguing with each other.

  Everyone raises glasses to toast my happy day. We order. I choose zucchini risotto.

  Linda: “I finally closed that deal with the furniture company, for eight mil.”

  Congratulations ensue.

  Larry: “I replaced a state senator’s knee yesterday. Now he’ll be able to press the flesh without standing in pain.”

  Congratulations ensue.

  Monica shares how Zach, aka PG or Perfect Grandchild, picked up a crayon and made a mark on a piece of paper. At least she didn’t call it a drawing.

  Congratulations ensue.

  It seems anything PG does is more interesting, more important than anything any adult can do. Like back when he started eating solid food. We all had to stop eating Thanksgiving dinner to watch said kid consume his diced whatever.