My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  Catherine says to Jason, “We have to go to the High Achiever awards banquet tonight, but we’ll be getting together for drinks after, if you’d care to join us.”

  Drinks before, drinks during, drinks after. Work is tough.

  “Sounds good,” he says. “I’ll be in my room. Call or text me.”

  Call or text me. Lovely words coming from Jason, even when not directed at me.

  We walk toward our rooms. Catherine’s is in a different wing, so she leaves. Jason and I are alone. At last.

  I will not clam up. “It was great talking with you.” Not the cleverest line from someone who studied improv for more than two years. “Hope to see you later. If not, here’s my card.”

  What I wanted to say was, “Jason. I think you’re gorgeous, interesting and fun. I’m attracted to you. If the feeling is mutual, tell me when to go to your room.”

  How could I say that? Ah, communication between the sexes. What would’ve happened if I had said that? Next time, I’ll be brave. Maybe not brave enough for the “go to your room” part, but brave enough to mention I’m attracted. Maybe I’ll go with, “interested in learning more about you.”

  He gives me his card and goes down his hall. A reflex, this exchange of contact information...or does he hope to see me again?

  During the endless surf and turf dinner, last year’s National High Achievers are lauded and rewarded with cash and a fancy trip. This is supposed to motivate the rest of us to work harder. Why, I have no idea. There’s no way to guarantee I’ll be in the Top 10 no matter how much time I sell because we’re ranked regionally, not on achievement of individual revenue goals.

  I’m on tenterhooks—love that term since hearing one of Scarlett’s beaus say it in Gone with the Wind. Will Jason join us for drinks? After we’re dismissed, Catherine calls him on the house phone.

  “He’s on his way,” she says.

  We go to the bar, a vast, high-ceilinged expanse with palm trees overlooking the pool area, and get a table and the first round. I’m not feeling original, plus I had that beer before dinner and don’t like to mix, so I order a Corona with lime. Another Chicago account exec, John Jacobs, and Christi, who’s drinking something pink in an oversized martini glass, sit at our table. Christi has changed from the suit she wore to dinner—business attire was required—into some shimmery, low cut top, but it didn’t occur to me to change. I’ve got to get into a sexier clothing mentality.

  Conveniently a seat on my left remains, as if waiting for Jason.

  There’s a folksinger, the same guy who played ’til midnight last night, clearly audible in my room several stories up and who kept me from sleeping.

  Christi says, “So what’s up with you and Jason? You two really seemed to hit it off.”

  We did, didn’t we? I resist the urge to smile a cat has got the cream smile even as I wonder if she wants to lap him up herself.

  “We were just talking. Nothing’s up.” Not ’til he gets down here and we discretely go to his room.

  “I wonder if he’s dating anyone,” she says.

  Me too.

  Time passes, drinks go down, music plays. No Jason. The bar noise is giving me a headache.

  Catherine orders another round. “I wonder what happened. I’ll see if I can find him.”

  My hopes have dwindled like a balloon with a slow leak. Catherine can look all she wants, but I know he’s not coming. I fear it’s because this has happened to him before: he’s been under attack by women such as myself who are incapable of dating subtlety. He saw how much I liked him, and was afraid that after a few beers I might actually start to drool.

  At 1:00AM, long past my bedtime, I give up and go to my room, certain that Jason hasn’t been hovering in the lobby several steps above the bar waiting for me to leave so he could join Catherine and the remaining gang.

  Disappointment won’t get the best of me. We exchanged cards. He said he enjoyed our conversation.

  After the conference, I heave my positive attitude high as if it were a 385-pound stone from the World’s Strongest Man Competition. I watched some on ESPN the other day, which is how I know what they heave, and found it surprisingly compelling. I tell myself at any moment the phone will ring. It will be Jason, saying he’d like, scratch that, love to get together.

  The phone rings. I jump. My heart races. Am I clairvoyant? I answer.

  “Hi, I’m Jack Adams and I’m running for Senator. I hope you’ll vote for me....”

  I vigorously hang up on the recorded voice.

  Monday. No call. Tuesday. No call. Wednesday. No call.

  I’m going to have to call him. Because I am the new me who says and does what I want, I will. His card in hand, I dial. I whisper a silent prayer I’ll get voicemail so I can leave a cheery message and not get shot down live but instead suffer extended rejection, the kind I’ve gotten after a date when the guy says he’ll call and I wait in vain until I finally accept that he won’t.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  I’m safe. Voicemail here we come.

  “Jason Thomas.”

  I’m tempted to hang up, but this is the brave me. And what if he saw my name on Caller ID? I take a deep breath.

  “Hello? Jason Thomas.” He sounds annoyed.

  “Hello, Jason? This is Marla?”

  Silence.

  This is bad. I wish I could hang up now. “We met in Miami last week?”

  Why can’t I stop the upspeak? This is a tendency I hate, because as I learned long ago in sales training it makes me sound nervous and unconfident.

  “Oh. Yes,” Jason hedges. As in, “Oh. Yes. I’ve already forgotten you.”

  “I, um, well.” Very smooth. “I enjoyed talking with you and wondered if you’d like to get a cup of coffee sometime. Or a drink. Or whatever.” Stop, stop already.

  More silence.

  “Thanks for calling, Marla, but to be honest, I’m not interested.”

  Ouch. Not so gentle, the Simon Cowell of dating, but I’d rather have the truth. Even so, molten misery swirls through me.

  “Oh. Ok, then. Bye.” I’ll get over it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Next.

  Since I’m not doing so well in the dating department, I feel even more fortunate to have my aforementioned passions of acting, movies, Broadway musicals and opera. Any of these bring joy to my day. So I’m surprised how many people I meet lack even one. Webster’s defines passion as 6. “a strong or extravagant, fondness, enthusiasm or desire for anything: a passion for music.”

  I also enjoy reality TV shows such as America’s Got Talent, The Voice and the defunct American Idol which so resonate with my desire to perform and have my talent recognized. I get chills when the best people sing. I cry when someone good gets sent home.

  These passions help fulfill me, though I wish I had more time and energy to devote to their pursuit. Some people simply work, go home and watch TV or go to bars. They aren’t driven like I am. Do their lives lack purpose, or are they happier because they think they’ve accomplished enough already and can live in the moment?

  I think some people choose to have children for this reason: they hope their kids, a socially acceptable measure of achievement and success, will give their lives purpose and help them avoid the struggle of attaining other dreams.

  “Well, I’d love to fill in the blank, but Johnny’s got a soccer game and then a guitar lesson. I wish I had the time to whatever I used to enjoy doing, but....”

  Is involvement in their kids’ activities a choice or an excuse for why parents are too busy to do anything else? How many parents are so immersed in their kids’ daily tasks they’re oblivious to their own needs and the world around them?

  Case in point: my friend Mary Brooks. I attend her daughter’s first birthday party.

  Mary’s the only woman I know who in this day and age prefers to go by Mrs. Husband’s Name. She still uses stationery, from Mrs. Jonathan Brooks.

  The Brooks family lives in a pleasant, new f
our-bedroom home in the far northwest burbs. I thought I’d soon hit Iowa as I drove there. No wonder they never come to the city.

  If you’ve been to a first birthday party, you can imagine the huge heap of presents piled on the Berber carpet. Like a one year old who has a bedroom already stuffed with toys needs or will even realize she has acquired so many more.

  “It’s very strange,” Mary says as we sit at her dark wood dining room table to eat cake and boring Neapolitan ice cream. “Elizabeth drinks milk out of a cup, but she’ll only drink juice with a straw. I wonder why that is.”

  What do I say? Why does it matter?

  Not once during the party does Mary ask about my divorce, condo or move. I get that the focus is on the gathering, but she could’ve pulled me aside just to say she was thinking of me.

  So. A child’s method of beverage consumption is more important than a friend’s change of life and residence. Mary and other friends with children might find me less interesting and think we have less in common these days. I don’t know whether Target, Wal-Mart or Amazon has the cheapest Pampers, nor am I well-versed in the apparently infinite varieties of the disgusting stuffs deposited into them.

  Then there are the friends who can’t seem to find a time to call when their kids aren’t screaming in the background. The conversation goes something like this:

  “Hi, Marla, how’s it going? Haven’t talked to you in a while.”

  I hear through the phone, “MOM!”

  “I’m on the pho-one,” Friend calls.

  “I can’t find my backpack,” Kid yells.

  Friend yells back, “Emma, I said I’m on the phone. I’ll help you in a minute.” Friend sighs. “Sorry. Joshua sprained his ankle playing soccer and Mike’s off on a business trip. This morning I’ve been to the doctor, with Emmi crying the whole time because she thought she was going to get a shot, Target and Jewel. Something spilled in the back of my SUV and no matter how many times I wipe it down it still smells like rotten milk. I did find an ancient bag of Scooby-Doo Fruit Snacks back there. What have you been up to?”

  “MOM! I need my backpack now.”

  “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU I’M ON THE PHONE.”

  “Well, I went on this date....” I begin.

  “Ooh, a date. I remember those,” Friend says.

  “Mo-om!”

  “...with this guy...”

  There’s crying in the background.

  “Listen, I’ve got to go. Call me.” Friend hangs up. And doesn’t call back.

  Why do kids seem to rule the roost...are parents afraid to say no or discipline these days? It’s like most parents feel the need to make everything easy instead of giving kids chances to learn and grow. To make mistakes.

  What about parents who sell their daughter’s Girl Scout cookies by leaving order forms at their offices—maybe you’re one of them—instead of letting them learn the rewards and defeats of sales by selling the cookies themselves? Learning life skills as the Girl Scouts’ website says?

  I assume there are truly happy parents and hope the love they get in return is worth the effort. Mostly I see those subsumed by guilt spending time away from their kids so they can work to earn money to buy stuff for their kids. One reason I didn’t want them: I was afraid I’d devote all my love, energy and time and wind up with an adult child who’s too busy or doesn’t like me enough to spend as much time with me as I’d want. Like in the Harry Chapin song “Cat’s in the Cradle.” Like I am with my parents.

  This brings me to another reason. Doubt. What would make me a better parent than my friends? How does a parent ever relax, with all the bad things that can happen in today’s world?

  Many people seem to think because I don’t want children, I don’t like them. I do, and spent many high school evenings babysitting. Might as well make some cash since I didn’t have dates. I just don’t like their joyous reverie for long periods of time. Bring me before a two-year old and we’ll have a jolly old play date. Perhaps because of my theatre background, I can make silly faces, create little games and sing funny songs that bring a smile to any toddler’s face.

  Despite all the above I feel different, an outsider, even weird, for not having had children. Choosing to remain childless still carries a tangible stigma, a sort of, “What’s wrong with you?” wonderment, or “Why can’t you be like the pod people?” curiosity as in the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers.

  And isn’t belonging, being accepted one way to achieve happiness?

  “Join us. Be one of us. Have kids,” they say.

  Though they don’t say it, I hear, “Or you’ll be a failure.”

  Chapter 8

  There’s an e-mail from Audrey. She wants to offer representation! And says she’ll call later in the morning with details about an audition.

  I did it. I got a talent agent.

  I do a happy dance. My heart hasn’t felt this light in months. What a huge step on my way to becoming a working actress. A respected industry professional thinks I’m good enough to be on her roster and is willing to put her name and reputation on the line for me. My voiceover demo will soon be on her site, proclaiming to the world that I belong with her other female VO talents. Soon I’ll go on my first big audition. Door after door opens in my mind.

  I e-mail my acceptance, then assign Audrey the ringtone “Popular” from Wicked. After e-mailing my site designer to post the news, I call Catherine, Andrea and a couple of others I know will share my enthusiasm and joy. Who will wish me well. And they do.

  I’m not looking forward to telling my family.

  My phone rings. The ringtone I assigned to Audrey. I suck in a breath.

  “Marla. I have an audition for you tomorrow, a non-union buyout spot.” Sounds great to me, though that means no residuals. “It’s for USA Muffins. You’ll be a customer sampling a new flavor. Two forty-five at CCG, Chicago Casting Group. Can you make it?” She speaks as fast as I do, as if she’s always in a hurry. “Hold on a minute.”

  My first on-camera audition. Very exciting. My dream is coming true. How long will it take before I’m called in for one of the Dick Wolf shows filming here? Or Empire? Don’t get ahead of yourself, Marla.

  Fortunately, I can make it, and without rearranging any work appointments. When she gets back on the line, I say, “I’ll be there.”

  “Great, we’ll e-mail you the copy and all the info.”

  I’m prepared for food auditions, thanks to an acting class I took a few years ago on commercial performance. One week was bite and smile. You had to come up with various ways to eat, say, a cookie. After you bite your cookie one way, the person running the audition might ask, “Can we see something else?”

  Plus, you need to know how to convey what you’re thinking as you sample the food, bite without making the cookie or potato chip crumble and/or leave crumbs all over you. You must also learn how to hold the product to keep it in the shot, chew attractively, swallow, and have an expression on your face that reads, “Yum. The best ever.” All in a few seconds.

  Try this at home in the mirror. It’s much harder than you think.

  I now have ten ways to eat my cookie, from the “Ohmygodthis is the best thing I’ve ever eaten!” to the “Hmm, what is this? Why, it’s quite tasty.”

  What to wear? The e-mail said nice casual, which usually means a solid color top and nice jeans. Even with today’s technology, patterns, stripes and black and white are frowned upon because they’re distracting and/or can look funny on camera.

  The commercial involves nodding and reacting as a USA Muffin employee asks how good the muffin is after I take a huge bite. Then I’ll say one short line at the end.

  Joy fills me as I check in at the casting agency. This is where I belong.

  Until I scope out the competition, a room full of attractive women of a certain age. When my turn arrives, I go into the small room with blue wall, a stool on a taped X, a camera, table with a computer. Several people with laptops sit on a loveseat.<
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  The casting person, who didn’t introduce herself or the others in the room, hands me a bagel as I sit on the stool. “Here’s your bucket.”

  “Bucket?” I take the Styrofoam cup she gives me. We didn’t cover that in class.

  She makes a tsk sound and rolls her eyes, clearly conveying that she thinks I’m an amateur. “To spit out the muffin so you can say the line at the end.”

  “Thank you.” I smile sweetly.

  Great. Now I have to figure out how to spit quickly and attractively while the casting people and, I assume, the clients, watch. Maybe it’s kind of like a gynecologist, they’ve seen so many they’re not grossed out anymore.

  “Slate, please.”

  I know what that means. I smile into the camera and say my name, then pause as she zooms out for a full body shot. She points at me.

  I take a bite of muffin as the young woman seated by the computer reads the lines about how yummy it is. My cheeks puff out. I nod, smile around the muffin and make “mmm hmmm,” sounds with what I hope is appropriate enthusiasm.

  The reader is on her last line. I need to spit so I can say mine. But my mouth is too dry. Mushed muffin bits cling to my puffed-out cheeks. I can’t summon enough saliva to expel them. Panic widens my eyes and steals my breath. I squeeze the cup so hard it snaps.

  The time for my line comes and goes. There’s complete silence. People look up from their laptops. Everyone stares at me. But the muffin is still stuck in my mouth. I’m going to choke. In front of the client and casting director.

  Though my life may depend on it, I simply cannot spit.

  “Thank you,” the casting person says.

  Thank me? For screwing up. I feel like an idiot.

  In the waiting room, I grab a tissue from my purse and manage to expel the disgusting mash. My hands are shaking.

  I hope this debacle doesn’t change Audrey’s mind.

  Jeff finally calls. It’s been two weeks, why didn’t he call sooner?

  “I would’ve called sooner but I had a family emergency,” he says. “How are you?”

  A likely generic excuse. Not sure if I should ask about it...prying vs. friendly concern? “Fine, thanks.”