My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  And Linda calls. She has someone she thinks I should go out with. “His name is Steve. He went to Indiana and is in TV.”

  TV is good. “Where? Is he cute? Interesting?”

  “He’s pretty cute, but he writes sports news. Now don’t clam up and say no because of that.”

  Linda knows I don’t appreciate sports. Another thing that makes me different. Almost every Chicagoan enjoys spectating even when our teams lose, which seems to be most of the time. To me, attending ball games is a waste of precious free time, even in 2016 when the Cubs finally won the World Series. Why would I want to pay a lot of money and sit in the crowd either freezing or sweating, depending on our ever-changeable weather, watching overpaid grown men chase after some ball?

  Do they ever get anywhere? No, they just run back and forth or around in circles. Half the time basketball players miss shots even when they’re standing still. Football players miss passes right and left. All while earning millions of dollars. Corporations would fire employees in a heartbeat if they dropped the ball that often.

  If people took the time and money spent watching sports and volunteered for something instead, the world would be a better place. I’m not that into politics, but I believe there should be a cap on sports players’ salaries. Why aren’t teachers valued as much as men who play games for a living?

  “So?” Linda prompts.

  “I’ll go.”

  Steve and I meet at Tucci Milano in the restaurant-saturated West Loop.

  He’s sort of cute, with remnants of light brown hair and blue eyes, but wears a Lacoste alligator shirt with the collar up. It’s hot pink.

  We sit amidst the clatter of the crowd and mouth-watering garlicky tomato aromas and order drinks.

  “I spend every day doing what every guy on Earth wishes he could do...live and breathe sports,” Steve offers in an oddly high voice as we put our napkins in our laps. “I get free tickets to any game I want.” He pauses long enough to shove bread in his mouth, then names several people he’s interviewed. I haven’t heard of any of them.

  This is supposed to impress me? Why did my sister think I’d like this guy, just because we’re both single and breathing?

  “Are you a Cubs or Sox fan?” he asks.

  In Chicago, this is a highly significant question. Most people support one baseball team or the other. I take a deep breath, prepared to spew my true view of sports, but change my mind. I will do my best to make this date work.

  “Cubs, definitely. Particularly back when my mom and I went to tons of games.”

  This is true. I confess to a brief period of being a voracious baseball enthusiast, proudly wearing my Cubs cap studded with pins of my favorite players. I kept a scorecard replete with numbers and symbols, meticulously writing down every play. The Cubs were doing well that season, and like most Chicagoans I got caught up in the excitement. I list my favorite players of that day, their positions and jersey numbers.

  Our drinks arrive.

  “That’s cool,” Steve says with a nod. He takes a slurpy gulp of his red wine. Then he lists every Cubs player since then. He reads the menu and chews more bread. “What’s pollo?”

  I sigh. The Tucci Milano menu list types of food in Italian, like Insalate and Pollo & Carne. But the first line below that reads Chicken in Garlic Sauce.

  His turned-up collar brushes his chin as he reads. “What’s ‘pesto?’”

  Seriously? First, this is only the question he’s asked me except for the ones about the Cubs and pollo. Second, at this stage of life, is it wrong of me to expect some cultural literacy in a date?

  Steve has failed my just invented Pesto Test.

  Audrey’s office isn’t as well-decorated or big as I’d expected. Pages from magazines, catalogues and newspapers paper the walls, tear sheets of her clients’ work. The entry area is crowded with tall black file cabinets and four mismatched chairs filled with fellow aspirants: a balding man, a twenty-something woman pretty enough to be a model, a bleached blonde around my age and a gangly teen with pimples. They all look up at me, hope reflected in their eyes.

  There’s barely room to slide past them to reach the desk facing the door. It looks like something you’d get at a garage sale and is covered with precarious piles of headshots. Two closed doors line a short hallway behind the desk.

  The phone rings. As soon as the guy who answers transfers the call, it rings again. And then again. He indicates a clipboard with a sign in sheet. I add my name, e-mail and phone number, and move as far to the side as I can.

  That funny, twisty feeling fills my chest. No matter how many times I audition, it shows up. I need to find a way to turn it into excitement instead of allowing worry and doubt to sneak in. So much more is at stake now. Money. My future. My dream.

  I’m mentally running my Miss Prism monologue from The Importance of Being Earnest by Oscar Wilde when a tall blonde in a business suit enters from the hallway. Behind her is a slim brunette a bit taller than I am. She’s wearing so many large-beaded necklaces I can barely see the fabric of her sleeveless blouse. Her air of authority tells me she’s Audrey.

  “Thank you, Audrey,” the blonde says. Her voice is rich and resonant, like a long-term smoker’s. She’ll probably book all kinds of voiceover jobs, but I wonder if her skin is good enough for on camera work. Maybe these days they just use Photoshop to remove all imperfections.

  “You’re welcome.” Audrey picks up the clipboard and glances at it. Rings sparkle on her fingers. “Simon?”

  The balding man stands. He follows her into an office.

  One in, one out. I’d hoped being an actual actor would make me feel different than when I’m just a replaceable body serving some minimal purpose as an extra. I’d hoped I’d feel like a person with talent and uniqueness to contribute. Not so far.

  Simon leaves, the others come and go. Finally, it’s my turn.

  Reminding myself that I’ve been waiting for this opportunity for years quells the churning in my stomach. Remembering all that’s at stake sends it surging back.

  I enter a small room. A jumble of colorful knick-knacks covers a short cabinet and narrow desk. A massive computer dwarfs the space. Audrey’s squeezed behind a video camera on a tripod wedged into the corner by the window. My headshot with a resume trimmed to size and stapled to the back is in one of her hands, what looks like a few pages of a script in the other.

  “Here.” She hands me the pages. “Please slate, then go directly into your monologue followed by your cold read.”

  No ice-breaking, get to know me conversation.

  “And. Action.”

  Heart pounding, I smile into the camera. “Hi, I’m Marla Greenberg.”

  Time passes in slow motion when I do a monologue. As part of me concentrates on my character and what she wants, another part senses Audrey’s watchful gaze and judges her reactions. The cold read, a short yogurt commercial followed by the opening of a jewelry company training video, is easier. Probably because I have to focus more attention on saying and interpreting copy I’ve never seen before.

  When I’m done, Audrey says, “Thank you.”

  I hear, “And don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

  Since the David Goldbergs dates, Andrea has been harping on me to go to temple with her to check out the pickins. Temple uncomfortably reminds me of having to go to both Hebrew and Sunday school, participating in far more services than most kids attend while singing in youth choir, and attending classmates’ big bashy Bar and Bat Mitzvahs at their country clubs while, for most, dollar signs danced in their eyes rather than religious achievement or satisfaction of taking a step on the path to adulthood. This is why I chose not to have one, though I’d already completed some of the preparation. It wasn’t because we didn’t belong to a club or I didn’t think enough kids I invited would come. Or that I feared my parents might start arguing and embarrass me.

  I pile into the SUV with Andrea and her family. They bicker all the way. I can’t wait to see how the
kids behave in the quiet, restful synagogue.

  Aha. The kids join other kids who stay with babysitters hired by the temple.

  The adults go to the sanctuary and sit on the hard wood pews. While the choir sings a melancholy tune in Hebrew, I surreptitiously check out who else gives up a Friday night after a long week of work to embrace spirituality. What do I see? Couples. The men, duly wearing yarmulkes, are seated beside women with diamonds so huge I need sunglasses against their sparkles.

  Self-pity moment: What did all of them do right?

  The me of a few weeks ago would stop there. The working-toward-happiness me adds: You don’t know that they’re happy. They could be here praying for divorce. Or their secret lovers.

  Chapter 7

  I’ve been studiously silent about developments at work. Here’s the latest.

  I’m paid via a commission plan based on increasing sales in my accounts. The plan has grown so complicated and full of incidental incentives none of us can decipher exactly what we’re getting paid for. The most recent payday resulted in a blizzard of e-mails between account execs trying to figure out our pay stubs.

  We couldn’t, so I asked my manager, Brenda. I haven’t heard back, because she doesn’t know either. Maybe her manager does.

  Last year was my worst numbers-wise, so bad that in one of the two main ways we’re ranked, I was second from the bottom nationwide. How demoralizing. The poor showing isn’t a reflection of the effort I put into my job or how good I am at it. You’ll see this in a moment. I know the woman who held the dubious honor of last in the country. Long ago we had sales orientation together at corporate headquarters in Miami. I called her to thank her for sinking further than I.

  Now it’s a new year, with new goals. Last December I clung to 80 percent of yearly quota so hard my fingernails hurt. A bad place to be. This year so far, I’m at 107 percent. The highest in the Midwest region, according to the High Achiever Ladders posted on BB’s intranet. I could say a surge of hard work or major sales brought me to this point, but that’s not the case. Simply a function of new goals that for the moment are working in my favor. Conversely, one of the guys who won a High Achiever award last year is mired in the doldrums this year. The same thing happened to me the years after I won an award.

  Corporate America can be fun. Especially when AEs fly in from all over the country for Barnaby Broadcasting’s annual productivity conference in Miami. Senior exec after senior exec flash through colorful PowerPoint graphs and charts, tell us how great the company did even in challenging economic times and how we must grow revenue even more in the fiscal year to come as competition from satellite and streaming services and even video increases. The presentations are the same at every meeting and aren’t as motivating as the execs intend, but going to Miami on company money and not having to make sales calls for a few days is fun.

  At night, food and alcohol flow. Late at night, I’ve heard the hot tubs overflow. I’ve never checked them out, because I don’t like being wet, my abdomen doesn’t look so good in even a supposedly-slimming bathing suit, spider veins weave their purply webs all over my outer thighs and I’ve no need to see co-workers in their bathing suits.

  Management often brings in guest speakers from major clients to give insight into their points of view, with a reception afterward. A great idea. I like it even more when I see how gorgeous one of the speakers is. I normally prefer dark hair, particularly if it’s a bit curly, except when it comes to Viggo Mortensen. This speaker reminds me of Viggo in A Perfect Murder, but with shorter and lighter hair.

  The exec introducing him reveals that he is Jason Thomas from Chicago, Director of Advertising at MUNCHERS, a fast-growing chain of low-carb submarine sandwich stores.

  Jason has a nice voice, not the best. He’s hot enough it doesn’t matter. Love that square chin and confidence in wearing a bright orange sweater, until I realize that’s the color of the MUNCHERS logo. What he says about reaching his target audience and not being afraid to try new advertising options is interesting. But then, he’s one of those guys that could probably have women drooling if he recited his grocery list.

  I must find a way to meet him. Instead of listening to the rest of the session, I start plotting. He’s sure to be at the reception. I’ll tell him I enjoyed his presentation and he’ll smile that great smile and ask if I want a drink....

  Voice in Head, argues, “You can see that he’s striking. You can hear he’s smart. You can’t see this far back if he has a wedding ring. If not, he must have a girlfriend. Even if he doesn’t, why would he want to date you?”

  I must fight back. It’s time to take a stand. No more giving in to that nagging VIH, the source of all fear, self-doubt and insecurity. Dr. Smythe helped me see that. It’s just so difficult to put into practice.

  I thought I’d learned to ignore my self-defeating voice when I studied improvisational comedy at Second City. The famous venue that spawned many Saturday Night Live cast members offers many classes. I completed the multiple levels and performed in an original show with my class. No, my parents did not attend.

  One of the first things you’re supposed to learn in improv is how to leave your judgmental voice at the door. Otherwise, you do what I did at first.

  Imagine me standing on a small, scratched up black stage with two fellow students, aka scene partners, Jon and Sara. Someone provides suggestions of place and who we are. I’m a mom at home with my two kids. VIH joins us, a little devil pricking me with his pitchfork, so instead of focusing on the scene and just being the kids’ mom and doing whatever she’d do in the context of the moment and environment, this is what goes on in my head:

  “OH, MY GOD. JON SAID SOMETHING REALLY CLEVER AND NOW SARA’S TALKING AND HER CHARACTER IS BETTER DEVELOPED THAN YOURS AND YOU HAVEN’T COME UP WITH ANYTHING TO SAY IN A LONG TIME AND YOU CAN’T JUST STAND UP HERE IN FRONT OF EVERYONE DOING NOTHING OR THE TEACHER WILL NOTICE, BUT WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO SAY THAT’S AS GOOD AS WHAT JON AND SARA SAID? IF YOU CONCENTRATE ON A PHYSICAL ACTIVITY SOMETHING WILL COME, BECAUSE OF COURSE WE AREN’T SUPPOSED TO TRY TO BE FUNNY BUT LET HUMOR DEVELOP FROM CHARACTER AND SCENE BUT YOU CAN’T REMEMBER IF YOUR’RE IN THE KITCHEN OR THE BEDROOM SO SHOULD YOU BAKE COOKIES OR FOLD CLOTHES?”

  Back in the ballroom, everyone around me is standing. Plan needed. Immediately.

  At the front of the room, execs of all levels instantly surround Jason, from my boss’s boss’s boss on up. I can’t intrude upon that exalted group. Catherine Henderson is the lowest on the pole, but MUNCHERS is her account.

  Suddenly I know what I need to do. A bit high school, but I’m determined. Destiny has brought this man all the way to Miami to meet me. I hurry to the exit.

  “Wow, Jason’s hot,” a woman whose nametag reads BETH Johnson says.

  “I’d toats do him,” another replies.

  Leave him alone. He’s mine.

  I hover outside the door as people stream past on their way to the reception, surely making a beeline to the free alcohol. Do I look nonchalant or ready to pounce? I resist the urge to glance inside every five seconds to see if he’s on his way out.

  The crowd thins. Standing by myself in the corridor for no apparent reason is awkward. At last Catherine and Jason walk toward me.

  Wow. Is he good looking. Toats.

  I think, “What can I possibly say to attract a guy like that there’s no way he’d be interested in me I have nothing to say is his suit Armani nice shoulders uh oh they’re right in front of me smile and say something.”

  Obviously, the voice in my head is winning our war. I must fight harder.

  My mouth opens. Nothing comes out except, “Hi.”

  Catherine introduces us. Quite naturally, I fall in to walk with them to the reception.

  I can do this I will do this he will like me.

  Yes. I can turn that nagging voice into a positive influence. It’s in my head, after all. Dr. Smythe said we control our minds, they don’t control us. Easier said than done.


  “Come sit with us?” Catherine asks.

  Excellent.

  The three of us talk for over half an hour and drink a beer. I savor the fact that other women, married and single alike, look at me and Catherine with obvious envy.

  I learn that Jason’s—no wedding ring—passion is computer gaming, which some might think is juvenile or weird but I think is creative. He has Bears tickets. He doesn’t seem arrogant like so many handsome men do. Best of all, he laughs at things I say. Whether it’s in a good way, as in, “She’s such an adorable, witty thing,” or not so good, “I’m really laughing at her,” or, “How quirky she is,” I’m having a wonderful time.

  Danger approaches in the form of the most beauteous account exec in Chicago, Christi Davis. Men’s mouths have dropped open when she entered a room. Christi earned her way through college as a model, which shows in every move she makes. She’s tall, flat-stomached of course, with glorious wavy blond hair, green, green eyes somewhat enhanced by colored contact lenses and wears the cutest outfit from dangly earrings to high-heeled sandals.

  Suddenly my pink silk sweater set seems dowdy and boring. Why didn’t I pack something trendier? Because I’ve been coming to these conferences for ten years and until now had no reason to look anything but basic business casual.

  “Hey, Jaaaay-son,” Christi oozes as she joins us, the only person who has dared interrupt my joyous interlude. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your presentation.”

  She’s eye to eye with Jason. Physically they make a perfect pair. Barbie and Ken, since they got back together in Toy Story 3..

  Eventually she leaves, sashaying on to other prey.