My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

She sits. “In the movie, Glinda tells Dorothy the shoes could have sent her home at any time, but she wouldn’t have believed it. She wasn’t ready to hear the truth. Is there some truth you’re not ready to hear?”

  I thought I’d been ready after I stopped seeing Dr. Smythe. Then after I discovered the hidden meaning in the Don Juan de Marco gold retirement watch. Apparently not. Well, as they say, third time’s a charm.

  Madame Z steeples her fingers. “You might want to read The Zen of Oz by Joey Green. He says the ruby slippers represented Dorothy’s inner spark.”

  “I need to write this down.” I scribble furiously in the back of my calendar. “Inner spark. Are you saying I’ve misplaced mine?”

  “What do you think?”

  Dr. Smythe all over again.

  “Yet another reading could refer to Dorothy’s yellow brick road. It wasn’t always strewn with roses. But she kept going, no matter what, until she got what she wanted.”

  Suddenly I understand the real message of the shoes.

  I hand the check back to Madame Z. “Thank you. You have helped, more than you know.”

  I’m halfway out the door when she calls, “Marla. Tell me what you mean. Then I won’t feel like I’ve failed you.”

  New career opportunity: clairvoyant?

  “You’ve helped me realize I’ve been spending too much effort and time questioning others. And relying on others for answers, from a career coach to a therapist to friends to my sister to self-help books to you. The way Dorothy sought advice from everyone she met. But there’s only one person who can tell me what’s important to me. Only one person I need to listen to. Me.”

  Me.

  “I see now that I hoped my advisory team would talk me out of what I really want.” They’d help me come up with a more practical, more socially acceptable solution that’s less of a gamble. “But no matter what others think or what others advise, no matter how silly or unimportant or even wrong my choices may seem to them, I’m the one who matters.”

  I must remember that truth in the face of all the naysayers and rejections. Amidst the nagging of VIH.

  Madame Zarinda smiles. “Thank the Goddess. My gift hasn’t failed, it manifested in a most unusual way.”

  “Thank you again.” I smile, too. “Dorothy knew what she wanted, but didn’t believe that was enough. She loved her Auntie Em’s black and white farm and all the jolly farm workers. Like her, I’ve let other people influence me too much. I thought they knew best, but got more and more stressed when I wasn’t happy following their advice. I felt I was disappointing them. When all along the person I was disappointing was me.”

  Chapter 25

  I knew what I meant in the cozy confines of Madame Z’s lovely lair. Now that I’m back in my never quite satisfactory condo, things seem less clear.

  My life has to be about what I want. Nothing else, no matter what. I’m finally sure and no longer chicken. Even so, it’s very difficult to resist forty-two years of parental and societal discouragement and skepticism, years awash in powerful doses of common sense and reality.

  I’m going to be a duck. All will be well if I can let criticism, short-term disappointments and setbacks roll off my back the way water rolls off a duck’s feathers, instead of allowing them to sink in and upset me.

  Enjoy the day. Trust my instincts. No expectations. Persistence pays. Persistence pays. Persistence pays.

  These are my new mottos. These will lead me to inner peace.

  My first chance to test my newfound method comes that very day. I get an e-mail saying Chicago City Opera will be auditioning actors for a new opera called A Family, directed by one of my favorites, Matthew Holzer, based on his movie of the same name.

  They’ll be hiring five women to play daughters and maids. I’d love to be a daughter in A Family...there must be a lot of time on stage, a key factor in my enjoyment of any production.

  The pay is more than $400 per week, with four weeks of 11:00AM–6:00PM rehearsals. Now that I’m unemployed, I can do this.

  More icing on the cake are the stars, among my favorites. How incredible it would be to work with them, and hear them sing from mere feet away day after day, as I did when in The Great Gatsby.

  My heart is racing, I’m so excited. This is a perfect opportunity. I hurry to my closet and throw open the doors. What does one wear to show this renowned director what a most excellent daughter I’d make? A skirt I think, something bright so I’ll stand out. Shoes...cute sandals or character shoes in case we need to walk around a lot? Curly hair or straight? Up or down?

  What fun.

  The next day there’s an article in the Chicagoland Daily about the audition, right there for everyone to see. I selfishly wish I could rip the page out of every copy in existence. More people showing up means less chance for me.

  I receive another e-missive from the opera with additional details, which I peruse repeatedly as if it’s the gospel. Mr. Holzer’s daughters and maids must be “interesting character types with diverse physical qualities,” must be able to move well and all will be “heavily integrated” into the opera.

  Perfect. Lots of involved time on stage, not some random spear carrier who stands way in the back. I can be the short, chesty one. For once being short might be good. I reconsider my wardrobe selection. Which sweaters highlight my cleavage? Definitely low heels if we’re playing up diverse physicality. I couldn’t sleep last night for thinking about this. Again, my heart starts to race. I feel so alive.

  Do you ever want things this badly?

  I can’t wait. I love my new life.

  The big day arrives at last, but each minute ticks by one slow second at a time. I get to the opera house twenty minutes early. Just going in the Stage Door entrance is exciting.

  A dozen or so people are already waiting inside.

  Being in this building, even in the indistinguishable office area, is a wonderful experience. I sense the power of creative energy from all the talented, world-renowned performers who’ve walked these halls as I take the large freight-type elevator up.

  By six, there are twenty-eight of us in the cavernous rehearsal room. And only nine are women. Nice odds. We’re a mix of ages, shapes and ethnicities.

  Matthew Holzer comes in. Everyone claps. He joins eight people from the opera at a long table facing us.

  Tension fills the air. Whatever their reasons, everyone here wants this gig.

  They ask the men to cross the room in pairs as if they’re servants. After each pair saunters while holding pretend trays, they promptly whittle down the nineteen men to nine. The rejectees leave.

  It’s our turn. We line up facing the table. My heart is pounding pounding pounding as I wait in my striped skirt and short-sleeved red sweater. Each woman walks to the table when instructed and introduces herself. I can barely hear what the others are saying. I’m last.

  I am two feet away from Matthew Holzer. He is looking at me. And judging me.

  “Hello, I’m Marla.” Calm, confident outside. Swirling nerves inside.

  The woman to his right asks, “Were you ever in an opera?”

  “No, but I’ve attended many performances and sing with a chorus.”

  “Men, please join the women.”

  Two tall young ones are given “dates” and told to dance. Those remaining are told we’re the working types, and to dance amongst ourselves while watching the others. A man goes to the piano and plays retro dance music.

  I dance for all I’m worth.

  When the music stops, the woman stands and says, “Thank you all for coming. This is the hard part. I’m going to ask some of you to stay and the rest of you to go.”

  I can’t breathe.

  Chapter 26

  The woman moves quickly down the line. “Go. Stay.” This to a young skinny tall blonde. “Go. Go. Stay.” This to a younger, tall reddish-blonde.

  She gets to me.

  “Go.”

  I am crushed to my very core. Like the other rejects, I
scurry back to my chair to gather my things. I don’t want to know who else they keep.

  Outside, bright sunlight makes me squint. Pain lodges in my chest. Remember: I am a duck, I am a duck. I close my eyes and imagine the pain rolling off my back and disappearing.

  Miraculously, it does.

  Did you think I’d get a part? If so, thanks for your support. But as you know, things don’t always work out the way you want them to. The way you dream.

  You might think another rejection would make me quit. But the ache in my chest has already gone. Another opportunity will present itself, my chin will lift and I will hope for the best. I will succeed.

  Next.

  The day after, Audrey calls. “Marla. Great Scott is coming here next month to direct a commercial. Then he’ll stay to shoot a feature film. Just wanted to double-check before I submit you for the spot. Your resume says you tap dance. How good are you?”

  “Very good,” I say. “I studied for years, most recently at Lou Conte.”

  “Nice. Nice. Too many actors list skills they don’t actually have and we’re all screwed when they can’t do them on set,” Audrey says. “Bye.”

  What a great day. A chance to audition for Scott Sampson, dubbed Great Scott by the media. The gorgeous, popular director whose star is on the rise.

  Before I regain my equilibrium from that news, my phone rings again.

  “Hi, Marla.”

  Jeff.

  “I know I haven’t called in over a week,” he begins. “I have been thinking about you, though. Work is too overwhelming for me to do justice to a relationship. It’s not only Greenery Gardens. I was brought in mainly to grow new business, no pun intended, and as you know, each pitch takes massive amounts of time. I hope you know I’m very attracted to you. But I can’t expect you to sit around and wait for me while I’m immersed in my career. I’d like us to be friends. I know that sounds lame, but if it works for you....”

  There’s a gentle let down for you. I visualize my duck with shimmering green plumage. The pain rolls off the feathers and is gone. This is working.

  I think things between Jeff and me were intense yet awkward because at this stage of our lives we’re ready for things to work out. We want to be done with the hassles of dating and settle into boyfriend/girlfriend roles. Manfriend/womanfriend?

  If I’ve learned one thing from my miscellaneous dating efforts, it’s that you can’t force a relationship even if attraction abounds. I still hope to find a meaningful one, but I’m no longer in such a hurry. The desperation I’d felt has faded, maybe because other areas of my life are on the upswing.

  But you can never have too many friends. “It works.”

  “I’m glad. So. You know what tomorrow is.”

  “Of course. 12:01AM, first showing of Superhero IX.”

  “What if we go to a late afternoon matinee at Webster Place? I’ve put in so many hours I can take off a little early for this special occasion.”

  “Sounds great. There’s a showing almost every half hour.” I’d already checked the website. “What time? Being gainfully unemployed it doesn’t much matter to me.”

  “Four-thirty ok? I’ll meet you there.”

  Jeff has already bought the tickets by the time I get to the movie theatre. I pay the outrageous, complete rip-off price for a medium popcorn, no butter, and we take our seats.

  The movie begins as we munch. Eventually the train scene we worked on with the wind machines comes on. As one, Jeff and I lean forward. I stare intently at the screen for extras sightings. We see some people inside the train...but no one outside.

  Where oh where is my shot?

  Whoosh, the train speeds by a group of extras. But so fast you can’t make out a single person. Inside the train, Superhero saves the day. Scene over.

  I flop back against my seat. My hopes of being glimpsed in this blockbuster are dashed. I’ll watch it online when it’s available to make a closer examination, but it doesn’t look like any of the shots we did that day made the cut. Maybe I’ll have to check DVD to see if we show up in the Special Features, under Deleted Scenes, or The Making Of featurette.

  Be a duck.

  Jeff and I look at each other and smile. He shrugs his shoulders and takes my hand. We start to laugh.

  People behind us hiss, “Sssshhhhh!” Which, though it’s rude, makes us laugh louder.

  Superhero IX continues. Our hero wrestles with difficult life decisions. Things aren’t always easy, even for a superhero.

  Softly, the sense of calm I’ve been seeking washes over me. The random pieces I’ve collected drop into place until my puzzle is complete. I knew what I wanted most, but like Dorothy wasn’t willing to completely accept it.

  I want to act and eventually write, no matter what. Come what may, like the song in Moulin Rouge! that Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor sing. No matter what other people think or how long it takes until I get where I want to be.

  As I told my parents, I had a blast when I performed in the chorus. Even though I was happy then, something kept nagging at me.

  I worried I wouldn’t be good enough until I was the star. Society, friends and family, everyone, respects and admires those with leading roles. The extra, the chorine, no matter how talented, hardworking and diligent, is a mere afterthought. Most audience members never know our names. No one gawks and says, “Look, isn’t that Marla Goldberg?” the way they’d say, “Wow, that’s Hugh Jackman!”

  For me, that’s ok. Just working on a musical or movie, being a part of it, no matter how small, means a lot. I no longer care if anyone else understands. Because I understand.

  Too bad it’s taken me forty-two years to reach the point where I’m brave enough and confident enough to live my life the way I want and not care what others expect of me.

  I can finally allow myself to enjoy my experiences and not fret about what’s missing or what I haven’t done, and have as much fun in the doing. I’ve told myself that before, but I didn’t believe until now.

  Even though I’m not seen in the movie, a famous director talked to and complimented me. I had a delicious lunch, earned a few bucks, hung out with interesting people and had another opportunity to watch famous stars and directors at work. I’d love to have a line in a feature film someday, and will work toward that dream.

  I’m not just good enough, I’m great. I’ve known this in my heart of hearts, but ignored my personal truth because the braack braack chicken noises in my head drowned out my faith in myself.

  More movies will come to town. More on camera auditions will come my way, including, I hope, the one for Scott Sampson. I’ll go on more good dates.

  Is this process taxing? Oh, yes. I think Ben Franklin was the first to say something like, “No pain, no gain.”

  I’m fortunate that I’ve found the guts to follow my heart. While I pursue my dreams, I can enjoy my life as an extra because it’s a wonderful one.

  Keep your eyes open, because soon you’ll be seeing my name. And me.

  Marla’s journey continues as she learns “be careful what you wish for” when her career and feelings for hot, famous director Scott Sampson skyrocket. Enjoy this sneak peek of

  My Life as a Star,

  coming soon!

  Chapter 1

  The sacrifices I make for my art.

  I’m encased in a suffocating, ankle-length costume. Perspiration rolls down my face and slithers down my body, adding miserable fodder to the worst yet most potentially promising job I’ve ever had.

  I am a tap dancing zucchini. But a zucchini filming her first national TV commercial.

  Step shuffle ball change, step shuffle ball change. The phallic costume entraps my arms and makes me list to the left. Don’t lose your balance, Marla. My hands grip the now-slippery handles to keep from tipping over.

  My face, the only part of me you can see except for my size six feet in sparkly tap shoes, is painted dark green. I and the other produce performing for the American Farmers’ Market Associat
ion (a carrot, ear of corn and an ever-so-fat and shedding lettuce) aren’t laboring in the cool seclusion of an air-conditioned production studio.

  No, we’re exposed in all our vegetous glory...in the middle of Michigan Avenue on a humid, ninety-three degree August afternoon. The crew converted one of the cement planters, usually bursting with flowers and tall grasses this time of year, into a tappable surface. The cameras are on the street.

  A sizeable crowd has gathered, as it does wherever there’s filming in this city, in front of the Tribune Tower on one side and the Wrigley Building on the other.

  Several former WZRJ-FM co-workers are laughing so hard they may expire. My sister Linda, flawless in her this-week-blondish hair and upscale worker bee ensemble of a sheath dress and high heels, shakes her head. Why I told them about this gig, I have no idea. I’d never tell my parents about any performance. They’d only say something like, “Are you still doing that? Get another job and do real work.”

  Perhaps it’s for the best my brother Larry and his wife Monica aren’t here. They’re as always one thousand percent engaged in the care of PG (Perfect Grandchild), aka Zachary.

  Hold while carrot cavorts, two-three-four. Abundant greens on Carrot’s head flounce and cover his orange face. He sneezes, but doesn’t miss a step. Kudos to Carrot.

  What I wouldn’t give for towel to mop up some of my sweat. Or a tall glass of iced tea.

  “Cut. Cut! Take it from before the time step. Carrot, keep that stuff out of your face.” This from the assistant director.

  Our director, Scott Sampson, has not yet deigned to speak to us. The trades and bloggers have dubbed him Great Scott, and repeatedly rank him in the top ten of current film directors. Several tweens in the crowd carry signs saying things like, “We ♥ Scott!!” and “Great Scott ROCKS.”