My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  “Soon. I’ll quit soon.”

  Linda lets me in as I wonder which dining emporium we’ll visit. The contemporary elegance of their house never fails to impress me.

  Something is very wrong. The house is too quiet and feels strangely empty.

  My sister has the look of someone who’s been crying but attempts to carefully mask the effects with makeup. Interesting. I didn’t know she cared passionately enough about anything to cry over it. She always seems calm and collected. So sure of herself.

  For the first time in years, she’s wearing sweats. Pink and very casual, like I always am at home. Though hers are probably Juicy Juice or whatever that megabuck, hip designer is. And, shock of shocks, one of her nails sports a chip.

  A true crisis must be in the offing.

  “Where’s Bubbles?” Their purebred Shih Tzu usually runs to the door to greet me. “Where’s Brad?”

  “Gone. They’re both gone.” Linda collapses on a maroon leather chair laden with so many decorative pillows there’s barely room for her.

  Pushing pillows aside, I sit in the matching chair. “What do you mean, gone? Gone as in, for a drive? To pick up ice cream?”

  “Gone as in gone. It’s my fault, this time.”

  “This time? He left before?”

  “I left. We’ve been having major fights lately,” Linda explains. “Over every little thing. I think it’s because he’s still mad I wouldn’t clear my schedule for Hawaii the only week he wanted to go. One night I just couldn’t take the yelling anymore and went to a hotel.”

  “I had no idea.”

  “I didn’t want anyone to know. I thought it’d all blow over. We made up the next morning, and well, you know what they say about make up sex. It’s true.” She picks absently at her chipped nail. “But now, here we are again.”

  “Is there anything I can do? We could order in. I could stay here tonight if you want,” I offer.

  “Just now I’m so mad I miss the dog more than him. But I’ll get over it, so will he. And we’ll go on as before.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather go on better than before? Not fight so much?”

  “I suppose. Brad and I have been so busy we haven’t spent much quality time together. It seems the less he sees me, the less he cares to see me.” She frowns and shifts position. A fringed pillow slips off the chair and lands near her feet. “He wants to spend every moment he’s not at the bank working on his wine collection. I don’t mind going to the occasional auction, but he’s obsessed. He has to buy the best bottle at the best price. It’s what he lives for these days. We had to put in a temperature controlled storage locker.”

  And they already have a custom wine cellar in their basement. “Maybe you need an avocation. Something you look forward to doing.”

  “Maybe our race has run its course. Most relationships don’t last. Look at the divorce rate.”

  How sad that that’s true. Why can’t more couples who profess to love each other keep that feeling alive?

  “Do you still love Brad?” I ask.

  “That’s the hardest part. I do, but I don’t think he loves me. I’m hoping he’ll go to counseling. But unless I do due diligence and prepare a detailed business plan, he can’t see the benefits.”

  “What?”

  “I’m kidding,” Linda says. “Trying to lighten the moment. Brad refused to consider counseling.”

  I don’t know what to say. Obviously, I’m not the guru of saving or having long-term relationships. Or understanding love.

  Though Linda says she’s not hungry, we order Thai. I’m about to poke my chopsticks into a steaming plate of Pad Woon Sen when Bubbles runs in. Meaning Brad can’t be far behind.

  “I’m gone.” I hand my untouched plate to Brad. “Hey, Brad. Hate to not eat and run but....”

  Would I love to be a fly on their wall.

  That night I dream of a homeless person. She’s on a cement stoop in a doorway I pass on the way to the train. The woman sits on a blue, quilted moving blanket, the kind you can get at U-Haul, her bare feet curled up and out of the icy drizzle. Her eyes are closed and her head rests against the dark green door. Her straggly hair is so matted I can’t tell the true color. Her skin is life-hardened, leathery.

  Suddenly something sparkles. Over stained jeans, she’s wearing remnants of a green sequined skirt. I had one just like it when I was a tap dancing flower in some musical revue.

  On her lap, she’s holding the headpiece from that costume. Once a beautiful, Las Vegas showgirl style purple iris with tall, shimmering petals, now half the glitter is gone and the petals sag, limp as wet tissue paper.

  The woman starts singing a haunting tune I don’t recognize. She opens her eyes. They’re empty as the winter sky. A tear glimmers. Or maybe it’s just the rain.

  “Where did I go wrong? How do I get back on track?” Her voice is scratchy, unused. She catches sight of me and sits up. Faint hope lights her gaze. “Tell me. Tell me. What is the right thing to do?”

  I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to help her, which makes me feel frustrated, ineffective and sad. My heart aches for her.

  Then I realize the homeless person is me.

  Chapter 16

  The next morning, Audrey calls. “Got a print looksee for you today, for an HMO,” she says. “At Mary Milton’s at 10:30. Pays twelve hundred for a full day, six for half, non-union buyout for a year.”

  “Thanks. Audrey, can I ask a question? What do I need to do to get called in for Chicago Fire, PD, Med or Justice?”

  “Only four or five actors are called in for each speaking part on the episodics. Marla, you’ve only booked one commercial, and not even a national one. Which doesn’t count as far as episodics are concerned. Get a few on-camera credits, like indie films or even student films, though most don’t pay. You’re competing with people who have reels. I think you should take another on-camera class before I submit you. Or do some theatre, and maybe the CD will see you in a show.”

  “Thanks, Audrey.” More money going out combined with working for free. But she’s given me concrete steps to take. I should’ve thought of the on-camera credit idea.

  I research acting schools. Unfortunately, the class I want, TV auditions focusing on scenes taught by the well-reputed Janice Kingston of JK Casting, isn’t offered until later in the year. Maybe she offers private coaching. I join a few Facebook groups for Chicago actors and keep an eagle eye out for films to submit to. I regret not paying more attention to student film auditions I’ve seen on Actor’s Access.

  There’s a lot more to acting than just acting.

  Looksee means exactly that. You show up wearing whatever they’ve asked for, some casting person and/or photographer looks at you, takes a few pictures, usually a couple of closeups, a full length and one of your hands, and you leave.

  The waiting room at Mary Milton’s is filled with women of all types. I sign in and sit down.

  A pretty twenty-something blonde from the casting office comes in. She’s wearing high, high heels and low-slung jeans that reveal her pierced belly button. How flat her stomach is. “Hi, everyone. They’ll take a closeup and a waist up. Then you’ll take off your shirts and—”

  “What?” I say, echoed by a couple of the others.

  Pretty blonde frowns. “They didn’t tell you?”

  A brunette pipes up, “They told me one of the shots was of our backs and to wear a sports bra.”

  “Me too,” another says.

  Obviously neither I nor the others with consternation on their faces were informed of this. Whatever. The ad is for an HMO, after all.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t shave my underarms this morning. Or yesterday morning, for that matter. How was I supposed to know someone might see them? What kind of bra am I wearing...semi-ratty or semi-nice? I resist the urge to peek.

  When my turn comes, I go into the casting room. Two young women await. A tall brunette takes the first two pictures.

  “Take off your shi
rt and turn around, please.”

  It sounds very strange hearing that from a casting agent.

  And feels stranger doing it. I turn around and pull my lavender sweater set over my head. My back sports various moles. Can they see them from across the room? Do they care?

  How can you cast a back?

  “Thank you.”

  I do not get the job.

  Next.

  Next is being an extra a new medical pilot, Doctor Danger, which they say is along the lines of ER. I still can’t say no, plus the shoot is on a Saturday.

  Maybe I’ll be a patient swooning from virulent symptoms of some rare disease and the handsome doctor star will catch me in his lab-coated arms. We’ll do the scene over and over....

  At 9:30AM, I arrive at the assigned holding area, a large room in a school. Eventually the someone comes for us and leads us to the real holding area several blocks away, like the Pied Piper and her flock, as we schlep our garment bags and suitcases stuffed with possible wardrobe.

  Am I addicted to being an extra? No. I keep doing this because nothing better has come along. The eutrophication of disappointment, the runoff of criticism and erosion of faith combine to contaminate my vast sea of hope that something better will.

  “Pollution is killing my sea,” I tell Linda on my cell as we keep walking and schlepping.

  She laughs, but stops abruptly. “Where are you? Are you feeling ok?”

  “Just fine. Still wondering what my life purpose is, is all.”

  And why the risks of quitting outweigh the possibilities. Pursuing your dreams can be an unrewarding pain. Or is it that some people are never satisfied?

  “Ah.” I hear keys clacking. Is she even listening? “Wait a second. Ok. Do you hear yourself? I thought you’d found your purpose. Each day is the first day of the rest of your life?”

  “Oh. You’re right. Find the bright side. I had a relapse for a moment there.” I take a deep breath and reconsider. “Everything is great. It’s a beautiful day to be out walking. I’m getting paid. Soon I’ll get a tasty, free lunch. My sea is blue-green, full of healthy underwater creatures and the sun is shining on it. Talk to you later.”

  I feel better. It’s all in the attitude. It’s a lot of work to remember that.

  We end up in a small room with chairs packed together in rows. Around sixty of us sit and wait/read/talk on cell phones.

  Eventually someone with a headset rushes in. “Who’s supposed to be in scrubs?”

  Hands fly along with mine. I wonder if more hands are up than the number of people who were told to wear scrubs because like me they think it’s cooler than being in their own clothes.

  “Ok, follow me.”

  We walk outside.

  “Scrubs, we need you on set right now!” a man yells.

  We’ve been sitting in there over an hour and all of a sudden they need us. That’s the life of an extra: hurry up and wait.

  My group scurries to the white wardrobe trailer parked amidst trucks and other trailers on the busy street and forms a line. Lights, filters, carts and movie paraphernalia are all around.

  Wardrobe people glance at each person and hand down a set of scrubs on a hanger. Mine are blue.

  “You’re a nurse,” Wardrobe says.

  “We’re losing the light,” a man yells.

  “Scrubs, hurry! We need you right now.”

  There’s nowhere to change.

  One woman drops her pants right in the middle of everything. Luckily my scrubs are big enough to fit over my clothes. I pull on the pants. They’re miles too long. I roll and roll the waistband. I yank on the baggy shirt and fix my ponytail.

  I do not look as cute as they do on TV.

  “You. And You.” A headset-wearing guy points to me. “Stand over there. Then cross the street on ‘background action.’”

  My partner is a thirtyish man, also in blue scrubs. Our backs are to the camera.

  We’re outside what’s supposed to be the University of Michigan but is the courtyard of a university here in Chicago. One of the show’s medical students, played by a stunning up and coming starlet I haven’t heard of, will be getting out of a car as we cross.

  She looks great, with her hair done up, wearing a suit and oh-so-high heels.

  Other extras are assigned to walk back and forth along the sidewalk as she passes through.

  My seemingly simple task gets complicated. More extras will be driving their cars down the street while we’re crossing it. A police officer stands out of camera range to wave the drivers on.

  “I feel like I’m the frog in that Frogger game,” I whisper as we dodge between moving harbingers of death.

  My partner laughs. When we reach the other side, we turn right and keep walking.

  “Cut. Back to one.”

  We cross several more times, me trying not to trip on my pants or get hit by a car. If I get hit, will someone rush me to the ER?

  They turn the camera around, move it across the street and do the whole shot again from that angle.

  Suddenly I hear, “That’s a wrap!”

  For once we’re sent home early. A mere five-hour day, though we still get paid for eight, with two measly shots for extras, really just one for me.

  That’s showbiz.

  There are various levels of torture, and torture means different things to different people. I adore the opera, and pay quite a sum to subscribe and sit in the eleventh row, while any classical music makes my friend Catherine nauseous. She loves to remind me of some news story of zoo animals supposedly jumping to their deaths after their keepers played Mozart, though she could never tell me exactly where she heard this.

  At this moment, I’m suffering a form of the worst personal torment, one step up from the dentist.

  I’m at a Cubs night game.

  Baseball is infinitesimally preferable to hockey, football or basketball, but as aforementioned sports seem like a waste of time. So why am I amidst screaming fans, blaring organ music and men wearing tank tops despite the cool night air?

  This is client entertaining, another unenjoyable part of life at WZRJ. We’re supposed to wine and dine our clients, out of our own pockets. Sometimes the station gets tickets to concerts or events and gives us those for free. The problem is, the client gets to call the shots, and nine times out of ten they choose a ball game or rock concert even if I offer a theatrical option, which I’d prefer and for which I could probably snap up discounted tickets. And I resent, resent, resent the intrusions into my evenings, my personal time. What could be my writing or continuing to seek a relationship time.

  I sit, deafened and chilled, my butt already aching from the hard seat, sandwiched between two burly men from CBAP, Chicago’s Best Auto Parts. Bentley, the guy on my right, elbows me every time the Cubs make a good play.

  “Eh? Eh?” he says, each ‘eh’ accompanied by a sharp jab. “Gotta love them Cubbies.”

  I’m determined to mix business with pleasure and get them to sign their first contract with my station. “Bentley and Royce, about that CBAP promotion on WZRJ and its sister station....”

  “Beer? Who wants beer?” a vendor cries.

  “We do!” Bentley calls. “Yo, over here!”

  No, not again. Resolutely I pull out my wallet. Did I bring enough cash? Each small beer is $8.75.

  “Three, please!”

  “Three!” the vendor agrees with a toothy smile.

  “Thanks, Bentley. I’ve had enough.” I don’t want to drink another beer or pay for one. It’s only the top of the fifth and, because they keep badgering me to join them, I’ve had two beers and visited the restroom twice.

  “Oh, c’mon.” Another painful elbow.

  The things we do for our clients. I’ve just spent more than seventy-five dollars on nine beers, plus fifty per ticket. Of course prices went up after they won the World Series.

  “If we could just spend a few minutes discussing the promotion I’ve come up with....”

  Royce, by fa
r the handsomer of the two, says, “We can’t. We’re at a Cubs game. We’ll set up a meeting next week.”

  Great. Another chance to haul myself all the way out to Itasca where their offices are. Another week to wait for an order.

  Bentley adds, “You’re not drinking.”

  Midway through beer three, the world is looking better. So what if Bentley and Royce don’t sign anything tonight? As we rise for the seventh inning stretch. I sway and sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” at the top of my lungs with the rest of the crowd.

  Baseball is fun. By the beginning of beer four and the bottom of the ninth, I’m sleepy. My head bobs. I shake myself alert, sneaking glances at R and B. They’re so into the game they don’t notice.

  “Shit! What the hell did you do that for?” The guy in front of me stands and glares as he wrings out his soaked shirt.

  As I fought to stay awake, I must’ve dropped my latest beer. Guess where it landed.

  “Down in front!” someone behind us yells.

  “I’m so sorry, Sir, it was an accident.” The wet guy makes a face and swears a couple of times, but sits back down. I feel awful, because I spilled my beer and because I’ve consumed too much. Not like me at all.

  “Goddamn women who can’t hold their liquor,” the guy mutters.

  Bentley and Royce laugh. What a positive, professional impression I’m making. But they’re the ones who encouraged me to keep up with them and kept insisting I drink. Is there a feasible way to say no to a client without paying for it later?

  The interminable game ends. My eyes want to close and my feet keep sticking to the ground. Bentley and Royce exchange glances, then each put a body builder sized arm around me. I dangle between them as we make our way down Addison Street. I hope I don’t throw up.

  God, I hate this job. I will quit.

  Chapter 17

  A week after my ChiMi lunch, I’m sitting amidst the usual cubist hubbub. The PAC-MAN theme song plays on John Jacobs’s cell phone. People whisk past on their way to use our single photocopier, pick something up from our two printers, or get a beverage from our teensy-weensy lunchroom.