My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  I still haven’t thanked Josiah for the nice (if a bit weird) lunch. I want to e-mail, but if I follow accepted protocol I should e-mail Brenda who’ll forward it to Sue and so on and so on. Maybe if I cc Brenda? Write him a card? As I ponder the best approach for this daunting task, all AEs get an e-mail from Josiah forwarded by his assistant. All managers are cc’d. The subject is COMPENSATION PLAN.

  Now what? The thing is hard enough to figure out already, and they’ve made several changes this year.

  Josiah (or someone on his behalf) writes: “The fiscal position of Barnaby Broadcasting’s Radio Division has been reassessed. As a result, your management team has repositioned your compensation plan.”

  My mouth drops open as I keep reading.

  He has increased each AE’s yearly sales goals by nine percent! Goals that were already increased in January twelve percent over the year before. The @#$&* is really going to hit the fan now. We’ll all earn less, because no one, I repeat, no one, not even a top performer like me, will be able to meet these goals. Which will allow management to look down from their lofty perches and say, “Why aren’t you meeting your goals?” even though they raised them too high.

  The final paragraph reminds us how well the company has been doing this fiscal year thanks to our hard work. Typical. Barnaby Broadcasting does well while we slave, yet they took away our office space and gave us unattainable goals.

  The cube room has gotten preternaturally quiet. The hairs on the back of my neck itch. Am I’m being stared at? As I scratch, I look up to find nine people peering over the walls and glaring.

  At me.

  Never have I been the focus of such intense anger. I want to recoil, but they’re all around me. Like the lynch mob in To Kill a Mockingbird.

  “This is your fault, Marla,” Liz Burnside accuses, her face red. In her ever-present green suit, she resembles a martini olive. “What did you tell Mr. Barnaby to make him do this to us? If I was top performer instead of you this never would have happened.”

  I’m Demi Moore as Hester standing in front of the townspeople in The Scarlet Letter when she got her red A. “Nothing. I wanted to, but I didn’t have a chance to say much of anything. He talked almost the whole time.”

  Well, I made that one comment about being a good time manager, but surely it wasn’t significant enough to convince Josiah we could all work miracles and trigger such a huge change in our plan.

  “Did you make it sound like we didn’t have enough work to do or weren’t ‘functioning at our full potential?’” Liz makes finger quotes as she recites one of Sue’s favorite productivity phrases. “Does Mr. Barnaby think WZRJ is an easy sell because of our great programming strategy? What?” She rounds the cube wall and points a finger at me. “You must’ve said something. This is too much of a coincidence. He has lunch with you one week, the first time he’s ever talked to one of us, and our goals go up astronomically the next.”

  “I know what happened. I’ll bet Marla refused to sleep with him.” This from Stan Tackaberry. His clients are mostly in the burbs, so he rarely comes to the city. Stan is tall and lean. He makes me think of Jack Sprat, but sounds like Pee-wee Herman. I’ve met his wife. She clearly eats all the fat in their house. Several AEs find Stan pushy and sleazy.

  “I can’t believe Brenda or Sue didn’t warn us,” Catherine says. She has dark circles under her eyes. Her kids have stomach flu and have been keeping her up the past few nights. She’s worried that one of her biggest clients will decide to use another station next year. I wonder if this will be the last straw in her camel’s back. “But then, they probably didn’t know.”

  “I’m busting my ass already, working sixty hours a week and I’m only at ninety-six percent. There is no way, NO WAY, we can make these new goals,” John Jacobs rants. He shakes his head. “They can’t do this to us.”

  “Yes, they can,” Catherine says. “Remember two years ago when they upped our new client quota by twenty percent? We all moaned and groaned. But the quota didn’t get reduced.”

  “And no one hit one hundred percent that year. There’s nothing we can do about these increases.” Liz might have tears in her eyes.

  “Nothing,” Catherine agrees.

  Christi Davis, resplendent in a short white pleated skirt and gauzy blue blouse, applauds. “They shouldn’t be able to treat us this way. This is ridiculous.”

  “You’re right, Christi. I don’t need this shit.” Stan throws up his hands. “I’ll bet WGN or WBBM would be thrilled to have me.”

  “I wish I could get a new job. But I’m in the middle of buying a condo and it would screw up my mortgage,” John says.

  Stan taps his pointy noise. “I’m going to call other stations right now. And be out of here in no time.”

  We watch, enthralled, as Stan grabs his laptop and starts typing. He grabs his phone and punches in a number. “Hello. What is your sales manager’s name? Local, not national. May I speak with him, please? Thanks.”

  With baited breath, we wait. No one moves.

  “Hello, I’m Stan Tackaberry. I’ve been an account executive at WZRJ for several years. I’m interested in working for your station and would like eight minutes of your time to discuss how I can increase your sales.”

  Eight minutes is Stan’s trademark line. He figures asking for ten could sound like too much of an imposition, while five might sound like too short a time to accomplish anything.

  Stan looks at us and gives the thumbs up sign. “Tomorrow at eight-thirty would be fine. I look forward to talking with you. Thanks.” He hangs up and whoops. “I’m Stan the Man. Last one to the phones is a loser.”

  John and Liz dive into their cubes. Christi stomps away without wobbling on her heels. Catherine shrugs her shoulders and mouths, “We’ll talk later.”

  Resolutely, I pick up my phone.

  I set it back down. The last thing I need is to start at another station and be just as unhappy there. What I need is a plan. Because I, too, want to escape.

  I escape with Catherine to a quick lunch at a nearby food court and a sweep through Nordstrom Rack. We’re on our way back to cubeland when I say, “Maybe I’ll try the classical station. At least I’d love the music.”

  “Good idea. No one else at WZRJ would think to apply there, having no interest whatsoever in any music written before 1970.” Catherine stops walking and I stop too. “You know they don’t really blame you for our goal increase.”

  “I hope not.” We start to walk, slowly, like little kids putting off a trip to the dentist as long as possible. “Well, if I’m going to call, might as well do it now.”

  I don’t feel very motivated.

  “Good luck. I’ll miss you, though.” What a good friend, acting as though my new job is already in the bag.

  “What about you?”

  “Rick and I have talked about me being a stay at home mom. Our oldest has been having trouble at school, and our house would be in better order if I had time to run errands. I’m tired of sales, anyway. This’d be a good time for a change,” Catherine says. She holds up her canvas bag with a sigh. “I guess I should return these pants. No more shopping for me.”

  “They were forty percent off. Think of them as a parting gift. Besides, even stay at home moms need to look cute sometimes.”

  “You’re right. Off to call Rick and tell him the news. He’ll be thrilled.”

  I want to be thrilled.

  Will the classical station have an opening? Could I even work there, wanting to be a program host a zillion times more than I want to sell air time? Would jealousy suck me under like quicksand? On the other hand, what if I could at least be a fill-in host? I’d even work the night shift. If at first you don’t succeed...persistence pays....

  I look at my phone as if it holds all the answers. It says nothing. Neither, for once, does VIH.

  I call and reach the sales manager. The “eight minutes of your time” works like a charm. He’ll see me tomorrow afternoon.

  All i
s well. Until he asks as we’re about to hang up, “Wait a minute. What’s going on over there? Why does everyone want to jump ship? You’re the third AE to call me today. We only have one opening.”

  People are more desperate to escape than I’d thought.

  “And I’m the one to fill that opening,” I reply smoothly. “Because I’m the only one who knows a lot about, listens to and even sings classical music.”

  My heart isn’t in my words. In fact, I feel a bit nauseated. What am I doing? I wish I had an obvious choice like Catherine. Except I’d never have the patience to be a SAHM.

  What am I going to do with the rest of my life?

  I see the inside of the gold watch from Don Juan de Marco. Today may be the first day, but they sure don’t tell you what to do with it.

  I’m back in my dreams with the homeless me. This time she’s wearing the suit I’d worn Divorce Day and given to the Salvation Army so I wouldn’t have to see it ever again in my closet.

  “Things are looking up,” she says with a smile. “I let someone help me and now I can help myself.”

  The phone rings, startling me awake.

  My heart thuds hard as I fumble for the receiver. Who died? Who lies bleeding in a hospital? The bright green clock numbers say 2:26AM.

  I knock my cell off the nightstand and grab for it. Maybe it’s a wrong number. Several nights in a row a few weeks ago, some woman woke me to ask for Rocky. I think she wanted to buy drugs. I couldn’t go back to sleep.

  “Hello?”

  “I need to come over. Is that ok?”

  “Andrea. What’s the matter?”

  “Can I come over?” She sounds stuffy and hoarse, the way I do after a lengthy bout of crying.

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be right there. Sorry to wake you.”

  “Wait...what about the kids?”

  “They’ll be fine, they’re asleep. Dan is home. No one’ll miss me. Until they run out of OJ or the milk spoils.”

  Ouch. I throw on a comfy pair of sweats with a silver sequined hoodie and hurry to the kitchen. We’re going to need sustenance and supplies. Pantry: not looking good. The only worthwhile item is ever-present microwave popcorn. Fridge: worse. I have just enough time for a quick run to 7-Eleven.

  Not caring (much) that my hair’s afrizz, my eyes are baggy and I don’t have any makeup on, I literally run to the store. Into my plastic basket go Ben & Jerry’s low fat Phish Food frozen yogurt, a large bag of peanut M&M’s and Andrea’s favorite salty snack, Sun Chips. Might as well get a bag of my favorite as well, Baked Ruffles. You never know.

  I pay and race back home. My intercom buzzes as I’m dishing out the B&J.

  Andrea stumbles in, looking worse than I do. Her eyes are puffed slits, her skin blotchy. She’s got her PJs on under her raincoat, with a gray New Balance sneaker on one foot and a blue and white Nike on the other. There’s a huge brown stain on her top. Not like her at all. I hand her a full bowl and a spoon.

  “Oh.” She takes them, bursts into tears and plops onto my couch without taking her coat off. “This is the only thing that might help.” Mouth full, Andrea continues to cry. Tears slither down her face as she chews. “I just love the chocolate fishies. Chocolate fishies. I still love something.” She sobs harder.

  I’m afraid she’ll choke or spew chocolate specks all over my cream rug.

  Suddenly, I’m gripped by remorse. Andrea seemed upset the other day when we had lunch. Should I, as her close friend, have been able to sense how bad she felt and offer to help? Taken note of clues she dropped and followed up somehow?

  But then, she wasn’t really there for me during my divorce. Well, I didn’t ask for her help, and friendships aren’t tit for tat.

  She’s still sobbing.

  What if Andrea needs more help than B&J or I can offer? Dr. Smythe is still in my contacts. That’s reassuring. I could have his service on the line in two seconds.

  “Do you want to tell me what this is about? Not that you can’t come here any time, for any reason.”

  “I’m not ready.” More B&J goes in her mouth. “Not yet. Do you have more?”

  I can barely understand her around the ice cream and crunches of fishies.

  “Sure.” I get the Phish Food from the freezer and scoop more into her bowl. “How’s that? I’ll put on some music, ok?”

  She nods and sniffs loudly.

  What fits a crying jag, particularly one you don’t know the reason for? I busy myself with my CD collection. I can’t look at Andrea just now. She’s so forlorn, so lost, I’m swallowing back tears of my own. Her hiccupy sigh makes my throat tighten.

  Do we need something cheery, an inspiring musical to lighten her mood, or something soothing like Philip Glass? Something sad to underscore her sorrow? I decide on her favorite musical, Les Miserables, and put the second CD in my player. As the first strains of “In My Life” float into the room, I turn to look at my friend.

  She’s quieter now, leaning back against the pillows. Her eyes are closed, but her lashes are clumped and wet with tears. A few melted drops cling to her spoon but the second serving of froyo is gone.

  Time to bring out the M&M’s. I pour them into a Nambé bowl, partly because I need to keep busy. I can’t just sit on the couch and stare at Andrea. Also, I have a nice selection of Nambé pieces I got as wedding gifts but rarely use these days.

  As I set the candy on the coffee table, I ask, “Are you ready to talk? If you just want to sit, that’s fine too. If you want privacy, I can go to another room.”

  “I just want to sit.” Eyes still closed, Andrea starts singing softly along with Marius and Cosette. More tears drip slowly down her cheeks.

  What tragedy brought her here in the middle of the night? The suspense is agonizing. I can’t help but think the worst. She caught her husband cheating on her. Her husband wants a divorce. She cheated on her husband. She wants a divorce. What?

  She gains volume. Fortunately, my walls are well-insulated.

  By now I too want to cry. To keep myself from bawling or shaking Andrea to get the scoop, I join in. The song ends, me on the high note, her on the lower one.

  The CD whirs on to the next song. I use the remote to skip to our favorite, “One Day More.” Much more uplifting than the song we just finished.

  We sing along at the top of our lungs.

  I rush to the pantry to grab a mop and my orange lambswool duster. Andrea takes the mop with a small smile. We assume our positions on the only part of the hardwood floor that isn’t covered by furniture. She’s in front of me, I’m at her right shoulder.

  In time to the music, we march, right feet forward, then left in place, then right feet back...the way we’ve seen them do many times in the show.

  As the chorus swells to one of the best chords ever (though my personal all-time favorite is in “Make our Garden Grow” from the finale of Candide), she waves her flag-mop and me my gun-duster.

  After holding our final pose for imaginary but thunderous applause, we collapse on my couch.

  “We haven’t done that in a long time. Too long,” Andrea says.

  I relax a little. She seems calmer. I’m calmer, and pleased that instinct led me to the right way to help. I didn’t panic, didn’t freak out...just trusted myself and went with the flow.

  Andrea sets the mop on the floor, takes off her coat and digs into the M&M’s. “I guess you want to know what’s up. Not that a middle of the night Les Mis session isn’t good for the soul.”

  The magic of the moment is gone. We’re no longer members of the revolution singing our hearts out, waving a flowing red flag. We’re two friends searching for answers in my small but high-ceilinged living room/dining room/kitchen.

  “I can’t take it anymore,” Andrea says. Her voice is calm, no tears threaten. “Being a working wife and mother...it’s horrible. There’s never a minute for fun, for me. The kids are always nagging. When’s dinner, when’s dinner. Then the minute they finish, when’s
dessert, when’s dessert. They have so much, yet it never seems to be enough. I didn’t mean to raise them to be so spoiled. My life revolves around driving them to gymnastics, ballet, piano, birthday parties, soccer, softball. Last weekend there were six games between them. Now Emily wants to add another instrument because her best friend Ashley did. Dan and I are too swamped to take a moment for ourselves. Even though I have a nanny and a weekly cleaning service, the house is never clean. I can’t find anything.”

  She eats her M&M’s, one by one. I eat some, too.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Andrea continues. “Even little things are freaking me out. Today I was about to leave for work, late as usual because the kids are never ready on time. Nathan opened the fridge because the juice box in his backpack wasn’t cold enough. A dozen eggs fell out and smashed all over the floor.” She takes a deep breath, as if she’s reliving the incident. “I lost it. I started screaming. Over broken eggs.

  “Xanax isn’t helping. I’ve tried Zoloft, too. I don’t have the patience to try some other drug and wait for it to kick in. So I packed a bag and bought a ticket to this spa in Aruba. I was going to leave my family. Get away from it all.” She grabs another handful of M&M’s but doesn’t eat them. “The scary thing is, my ticket is one way. I wasn’t going to come back.”

  Wow. I don’t know what to say. Thank goodness I can only imagine the pressures she’s under, how the constant demands of kids can wear down one’s nerves. I always knew I didn’t want to be a mom, though mine seemed to enjoy spending her time making lunches and driving three kids hither and yon to lessons and rehearsals. “So why didn’t you go?”

  “In the end, I couldn’t leave my kids. But I don’t know how I’ll stay, either.”

  She doesn’t mention Dan. Does she want advice or only someone to listen, I wonder as the Les Mis finale plays.

  We sit in silence, perhaps because the deeply personal subject matter of our conversation requires some thought.