My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  No, the gorgeous Adrian does not catch sight of me and ask me out. He doesn’t begin an animated conversation that could have gone on for hours if we didn’t have work to do. He doesn’t notice me at all.

  I don’t take offense. Stars are there to do a job. If he took time to speak to every extra every day, nothing would get done. In fact, on many movies we’re told not to approach or talk to the stars or we’ll be sent home. We can respond if spoken to. On more than one occasion, a major star’s bodyguard or representative visited holding to make this very clear. Once we were even told not to look two A-list male stars in the eye. I won’t name names, but I could.

  After we finish that shot, I’m so cold I can barely feel my toes. Why do I subject myself to this? Why do I have such a strong need to be captured on film? To be noticed?

  We learn the rest of the two days will revolve around an ice sack race. We’ll be cheering spectators—read: frostbitten fools. I mean that literally. Except for a short lunch break, we stand outside all afternoon until darkness falls. I’m frozen through and through.

  “I’m not coming back tomorrow,” a woman says.

  “Me either. This is torture,” another replies through chattering teeth.

  “You got that right. Not worth the money. Might miss out on some good shots, though.”

  The potential for good shots. And TOS: time on screen. Gets me every time. The rare opportunity to be upgraded to featured or get a line. Such is the life of an extra. Even true suffering can’t squelch the hope of future reward.

  Day two, dressed in of course the same clothing since in movie time it’s the same day, brings a weather delay from the sun. The ice is so melty and puddly not only won’t it match its appearance yesterday, they can’t skate on it. We stand there, forever it seems, waiting for the sun to drop behind Michigan Avenue skyscrapers so the ice can refreeze.

  I’m at the rink railing, manning my post though they don’t care if we stay in the same place or not, which gives you an indication of how important we are to this shot. I try not to think about how much popcorn I’ve consumed. Props people keep bringing me full boxes to hold. Who can resist the smell when they make new batches?

  A guy comes over and asks the people smunched next to me if he can join us. They move aside and he squeezes into the gap.

  He looks vaguely familiar. Maybe I recognize him from yesterday or we’ve worked together before. Sort of cute, thick, wavy brown hair—though a dreary shade, like a cheap brand of coffee beans—interesting and intelligent dark blue eyes. Not too tall, black cashmere coat, boring camel scarf. I think every shade of beige and camel should be eliminated from life. Nothing screams bland and uncreative more loudly.

  He’s holding a plate with a desiccated beef and pepper sandwich. “Didn’t you do Superhero IX?”

  Nice, nice deep voice.

  Suddenly I know who he is. “You’re the scarf guy. I wore your scarf.”

  That day I’d been so engrossed in the director talking to me I’d barely noticed from whom he borrowed the scarf.

  “I was standing next to scarf guy,” he says. “So you do a lot of movies, then.”

  “All quiet!” someone on the crew calls. Frequently they introduce the big wigs, but so far they haven’t. “Remember, ladies and gentlemen, we’re miming this one.”

  “Rolling.” a voice calls.

  “Rolling!” several people echo.

  “Picture’s up.”

  “Sound speed.”

  “Background action!”

  Silently we wave and cheer.

  “And…action!”

  They really say that for every take. And “cut,” too.

  “Cut! Checking the gate.” Meaning they might be finished with this shot and ready to move on to the next camera set up, called a new deal.

  “Yes,” I answer as if he’d just asked the question. “This is my thirty-sixth movie.”

  I’m sure I’m looking most attractive, having been out in the cold and wind for hours. My nose must be red, my skin blotchy, my eyeliner, which tends to run no matter what brand I use, is probably smeary. I hope I don’t have popcorn in my teeth.

  “Impressive,” he says in that lovely voice. “This is only ten for me. I’m Jeff, Jeff Swanson, by the way.”

  Jeff. My favorite guy’s name.

  We shake gloves.

  I’m convinced my teeth are jam-packed with popcorn. Repressing the urge to pull out my compact and check, I look away for a minute and run my tongue over them. Can’t tell.

  Back to Jeff. On the plus side, we’ve got: great voice, nice eyes, cashmere coat. On the minus: lackluster hair. I’ll forgive him the scarf; we were told to wear bland colors and—

  I realize what I’m doing and how ridiculous it is. Every man instantly becomes a potential dateable male, or DM, instead of just a man I meet...who could become an acquaintance, maybe a friend, maybe more. I’m so busy cataloguing pros and cons, so busy judging before we know anything about each other.

  This could be because, per the Myers-Briggs personality test, I’m an ENTJ. Extrovert, iNtuition, Thinking and Judgment. When the media company I worked for before WZRJ had us take the test to learn our strengths and weaknesses and help us assess those of our clients so we could work with them more effectively, my J score was way off the charts.

  Perhaps I should’ve worked with my life coach on this tendency to be judgmental. I shall be more accepting, starting with Jeff.

  “So what do you do?” He looks at me like he cares. He’s not just making conversation to pass the time.

  “I’m an account executive for WZRJ.”

  Our breath comes out in white clouds. The next time you watch a movie and it’s supposed to be cold, check if you can see the actors’ breath. Are they wearing gloves? Once you’re an extra, you’ll never watch movies, TV or streaming shows the same way again.

  “Oh, Z-lightful rock. Do you like working there?”

  It sort of sucks. “Not really. What do you do?”

  “I’m between jobs at the moment. I got laid off.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that.” The critical voice in my head whispers, “Meaning he’s unemployed and probably has no money. You’d have to pay for everything or feel guilty if he paid. Who wants to do that?”

  Me to the voice in my head: “Stop that. Many people get laid off. Accept him as he is. Don’t push, just see what happens. No wonder I don’t have good dates if thirty seconds into a conversation we’re criticizing the guy.”

  Jeff continues, “I was creative director at a big ad agency.”

  VIH: “And how long ago was that?”

  Stop. Stop. I need to learn how to be in the moment like when I did improv, not analyze every word and gesture.

  “I’ve had a few offers in other cities and in social media, but I’m not sure I want to move or focus on that. I may start my own agency if I don’t get an appropriate opportunity soon.”

  “Well, if you do, and you need talent, let me know.”

  “So you’re a real actress?”

  I grin, and he grins back. Nice smile, with crinkles beside his eyes. He understands that in most cases extra work isn’t really acting.

  Worth investigating? I’m not going to ask him out. I’m just not.

  “Three strikes, you’re out,” warns VIH.

  Exactly.

  VIH offers, “Third time’s a charm.”

  What? The once self-judgmental voice that improv classes tried to teach me to ignore is offering dating advice. Confusing, contradictory advice. How do I turn the damn thing off?

  “Yes,” I reply, “and always looking for more work.”

  “Can’t you voice some of the commercials at your station?”

  He’s hit a sore spot. “Unfortunately, no. Though I ask every year or so. At the first station I worked at, I wrote and voiced a bunch of spots for a dry cleaner and other local retailers.” How fun it was, too. Fed my creative hunger for writing and performing and kept a toe in the performin
g pool. “Barnaby Broadcasting pigeon holes its personnel rather than offer opportunities to do contribute to the company in other ways.”

  “I’d never inhibit my employees like that. Why not utilize all their skills?” Jeff looks into the distance, as if remembering the salad days when he had employees.

  “Quiet on the set! We’re rolling.”

  “And…action!”

  More jumping, more cheering follows.

  For several hours, Jeff and I chat as we battle brutal winds blowing off the lake. Sometimes I have to hold my hood to keep it on. He keeps clapping his hands and rubbing them together. I stand on my purse to keep my feet off the chilled cement.

  Every so often, we interrupt our conversation to jump and cheer, verbally or not, as instructed via megaphone. At one point, we abandon speech altogether as a shot focuses on our section of bystanders. The camera slides along the ice as we cheer. Will this make it into the movie?

  After a long bout of yelling, my voice is hoarse. So is Jeff’s, which makes him sound sexy. He keeps smiling at me in a way that makes me want to smile back. Does he like me or is he just being friendly?

  I’m thinking he likes me, because he seems so interested in what I have to say. But he turns to talk to the woman on his other side, a tall wench in a beaver coat. She could use a lesson in blush application, but otherwise she’s attractive. Out of the corner of my eye I see Jeff smile at her, too. She laughs at something he says.

  Jeff doesn’t like me in that way. I imagined it. I’m good for a few hours of conversation, then found wanting. Boring. Undesirable.

  Someone should remove that word from the English language.

  I sigh, only to realize my eyes are tearing. It’s the wind, just like during Superhero IX, of course.

  How do you tell if a guy likes you? It’s been so long I can’t remember. If I ever knew. I will need to do some consulting on this.

  “That’s a wrap!” someone calls.

  The end of the day, at last.

  “C’mon, we’d better hurry,” Jeff says.

  Ah, a man who understands the fine art of being an extra. He, too, wants to race to holding to be near the front of the line and avoid a long wait as the staff checks our vouchers and signs them. Something about endless hours of filming makes me extremely impatient to go home the instant wrap is called.

  We cross Michigan Avenue and run down Washington. Others follow. Jeff runs ahead, then holds back so I can keep up. A few people pass us.

  “Would you like to get together sometime?” he asks.

  Excellent.

  “Sure,” I say when I catch my breath. Since I mean it, I smile and add, “That’d be great.”

  Jeff texts me the next day, Friday. With a small gasp of delight, I open the message: Hope u’ve warmed up! Nice talking w/u.

  That’s it. Should I respond in the same vein, or ask if he still wants to get together?

  Braa-aa-ck.

  You, too! I don’t have the guts to ask him or anyone out. Yet.

  Chapter 5

  To avoid another Saturday night alone imagining everyone else is out having a wonderful time, and to have something to tell my mom when she asks if I’m using my birthday gifts, I embark on another family-sponsored adventure: speed dating. Putting myself out there in meat market fashion makes me cringe.

  The $35 but free to me event is in a neighborhood bar, The Pub. Checkered-cloth covered tables are scattered about the dimly lit room.

  Despite semi-darkness, pre-date mingling lets me scope out the offerings, seltzer with lime in hand. Most of the women look great in dressy jeans, trendy tops and cute boots. Though one woman wears one of those oversized T-shirts you get when you run a marathon, with advertisers’ logos splashed about. The men have made an effort, too.

  The leader, Susie, calls us to order. Susie has short red hair and wears a bright flowered scarf over a dark blue pantsuit. She’s so sweetly upbeat she reminds me of maraschino cherries. I do not like maraschino cherries.

  “After each of the twelve five minute dates, mark on your sheet whether he or she is a ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ then we’ll move on to the next date. If both datees mark ‘yes,’ I’ll facilitate an e-mail address exchange. The rest is up to you. Make the most of your time together,” Susie crows. “Have a good attitude and take good notes.” She has a sing-songy voice, so the word “good” came out very high-pitched. “Go beyond the usual ‘what do you do for a living’ questions. And be sure to smile! The women will move. Gentlemen, take your seats.”

  I imagine her waving a flag and calling, “Gentlemen, start your engines.”

  Susie blows a whistle. Women scramble to find a guy with an empty chair. There’s no method to this madness. As you might imagine, there are more women than men, so my first date becomes a double date as two of us plop onto a chair at the same time.

  I get a hint of what it must feel like to be an aspirant on The Bachelor. He, Tom, looks young and has a nice smile. She, Agnes, is short like me, but many pounds heavier. She swoops me aside with her bulk to claim more of the seat. The edge of the chair cuts into my rear.

  “What’s your favorite movie?” I ask. Favorite films reveal a lot about a person.

  “Finding Nemo.”

  I’ll bite. “Why?”

  “Because Nemo doesn’t give up.”

  Good answer. I’ll remember that.

  “What do you do for a living?” Agnes-the-other-woman asks, going against Susie’s advice.

  “I’m in graduate school.”

  Agnes smiles, revealing a vast gap between her two front teeth. She shoots a glare at me that seems to say, “This one’s mine.” What she says is, “What are you studying?”

  “I’m in mixed media. My thesis combines wildlife sounds from the natural habitats of all of the countries where Survivor was filmed with dialogue from a random sample of the Big Brother house inhabitants.”

  Artsy, even weird artsy, is good, but too young is not. Agnes can have him.

  Another whistle blast, and off we women go to find our new men. Utter chaos ensues. People bump into each other and giggle awkwardly. There’s an adorable guy in the corner, but some large-reared brunette, who nonetheless wears horizontal stripes, snaps him up.

  Most everyone has found someone, but I’m still standing. This whisks me back to choosing teams in grade school gym. We’re in our red and white polyester uniforms, those red rubber dodge balls are lined up by the bleachers. I hear the squeaky wood floor, smell that ancient-air gym smell. Inadequacy washes over me. I wasn’t good at sports and was one of the last, if not the last, picked. How embarrassing is that.

  I spot an empty chair, but realize my misfortune as soon as I sit. This guy is a textbook rendition of a complete and utter nerd. He has on a short-sleeved dress shirt, replete with plastic pocket protector full of pens and markers. His glasses are thick, black plastic with thicker lenses. Not the trendy kind hipsters wear. Not even a hint of endearing cuteness shows in his face. He looks down at the table.

  “Hi,” I begin. “I’m Marla.”

  “Hi. I’m Ted.”

  Silence.

  I’m nothing if not talkative. “What made you want to come here?” I force myself to focus on my “date” and not check on how other couples are faring.

  “I spend, um, lots of time alone and don’t meet many, um, women. So I came here, um, where women would have to talk to me. Um,” Ted says.

  I will not resort to asking what he does for a living. “What’s your favorite movie?”

  “I, um, don’t watch movies. In theatres or streaming or on cable.”

  The clock can’t tick fast enough.

  “What do you do for a living?”

  He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I, um, work in a lab and, um, chart the life span of, um, species of fruit flies after exposure to various chemicals.”

  Poor fellow.

  Amazing how long five minutes can be when you’re not having fun. Think of a drill digging into your too
th, that eerie whine making you want to scream. I give up. Next.

  Little did I know all I’d get out of speed dating is another collection of tales with which to entertain my sister and Brad during our Wednesday dinners. How easy it is to be smug when you’ve been off the market for years.

  Highlights of my next speed dates include:

  “My mother made me come here.”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but my divorce isn’t final yet.”

  “Jesus told me this would be a good idea.”

  Harry never would have met Sally via speed dating.

  As the evening progresses, competition intensifies. Women who seemed convivial during pre-dating have morphed into stalkers. At each whistle blast, they zoom forth and dive into their targeted chairs with the intensity of Jack Nicholson prowling the halls in The Shining.

  I still haven’t been able to get to the adorable guy in the corner, but fend my way—barely escaping physical harm from a hook-nosed harpy clearing her path—to a dapper man likely in his early fifties. He’s attractive enough, wearing a nice wool suit. Extra points for good quality fabric.

  “My eldest is fourteen and has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do,” he volunteers after sipping his coffee. “My youngest gets straight A’s and is already in varsity band. She plays the....”

  Sigh. Dapper Dude has “you’re over forty and don’t have kids of your own so you must want mine” syndrome. Not one guy asks my thoughts on having children. They presume I want some, because my clock must either be ticking louder than a time bomb or has already stopped, and now lies broken, unused and fallow. The man becomes part of a package deal.

  I’m glad there are so many good fathers whose kids are so important to them. If a man happens to be a father, fine. Just sell me on the man first.

  “Now my youngest, she skipped a grade and....”

  I tune him out. Next.

  Susie blows again. “That was your last date! Thanks for coming! Hope you all found lots and lots and lots of yeses!!”

  Where’s adorable guy in the corner? Maybe I can catch him on the way out.

  He’s gone. I sigh again.

  Next.