My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  Ex made me feel like warm beer.

  Am I capable of having a real relationship? Part of me is bound to wonder if I can trust that the guy is happy with me, really cares for me, or is just biding his time until he meets someone better. Or until he can find a way out. A way certain to be least painful for him and most painful for me.

  You may be thinking, “Why don’t you ask Dr. Smythe?” I’m not going to see him again. And I don’t have the energy to find and start over with someone else.

  Perhaps not the wisest decision since I’m still sad. I got what I could out of our six visits. The last four weren’t worth mentioning because I didn’t learn anything new. He took copious notes, nodded a lot, but instead of offering more advice or finding ways to help, repeated what he’d said before. Maybe he thought his pearls weren’t sinking in.

  I’d paid a sizeable chunk of change just so I could talk and have someone listen.

  And that made me feel worse, not better.

  Chapter 9

  Audrey calls again. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t handle a big bite of muffin.

  I love having an agent. Especially because attempts to find paying acting jobs online haven’t yielded much.

  “I have another audition for you, a non-union buyout. It’s for Smithson’s, an Ohio grocery store chain, and will be at CCG this afternoon at 2:45. Can you make it?”

  A commercial for an Ohio grocery that casts in Chicago and shoots in Indianapolis. Makes sense.

  “Great, Audrey, thanks.” I’ll make it work.

  I get the copy, again only one page. I’m to be a businesswoman having lunch with her friends in the park. But I get all the lines, pontificating about Smithson’s everyday low prices and fresher than fresh salad bar, of which we are all partaking.

  The Red Line train takes me to CCG. I arrive at 2:30 and add my name and information to the sign in sheet. The waiting room is filled with women sitting on mismatched couches. They look exactly like me: attractiveish, late thirtyish, slimish, with reddish, chin length straight hair. Most have side parts like I do, but I’m one of the few with bangs.

  We’re all wearing the ubiquitous upscale casual ensemble: sweater sets or fitted sweaters with black pants. My sweater set is deep teal.

  A clone comes out of the room. They call another one in. Then it’s my turn.

  My hands are cold. Butterflies in my stomach are dive bombing, not fluttering. I can’t remember when I was this nervous. The more you want something, the more is at stake, the more you care.

  “Hello,” I say with a confident smile.

  Two slim, young women in black with their hair twisted into top buns sit on a couch. A third stands behind a small video camera on a tripod. I should’ve remembered the blue wall, thankfully not the same shade as my sweaters. One of the women on the couch says hello and extends her hand with a smile. I give her my headshot with my resume stapled to the back.

  They don’t introduce themselves. Or wear name tags.

  There’s a folding chair behind a line taped on the floor. I don’t have to be told to sit. I wish I could have the copy in case my memory fails me, but the instructions said to memorize.

  “Please slate, then go when you’re ready.” The camerawoman cues me.

  “Hello, I’m Marla Goldberg.” Then with my best businesswoman expression and attitude, I say, “We love having lunch from Smithson’s. Smithson’s salad bar is fresher than fresh. And what a wide selection of lettuces, vegetables and toppings...all at Smithson’s everyday low prices. Smithson’s. Let’s do lunch.”

  “Thank you. Can you do it again, please, a bit slower this time. And not quite as big. More real. As if you’re talking to your best friend.”

  Drat. They didn’t like that take. Well, at least I get another chance. I take a deep breath. I can do this. I have to do this, to show myself and Audrey I’m worthy.

  Imagining that the black, reflective camera lens is Andrea, I say the lines again. I desperately want my dear friend to know how fortunate we are to be having Smithson’s ever so fresh salad bar for lunch in this lovely park.

  “Smithson’s. Let’s do lunch,” I finish. The sides of my mouth quiver as I hold my smile.

  The two couch women nod and smile at each other.

  “Thank you,” the one holding my headshot says.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I walk past my carbon copies in the waiting room and wish I could be a fly on the casting room wall to see how they decide between all of us.

  Two days later, Audrey calls.

  “Hi Marla, I have news for you.”

  “I got a callback?”

  “No. You got the commercial. Congratulations.”

  I want to jump for joy, but force myself to listen as she explains the details of the upcoming shoot. When I hang up, I do jump for joy.

  What a huge accomplishment. Persistence does pay. I have the lead role in a commercial. It’s not national, and won’t air in Chicago where almost everyone I know could see it. Just a local grocery chain. Maybe it’ll also be on their website or YouTube.

  You have to start somewhere. I’ve taken the first giant step toward success.

  I share my good news. Here are the reactions I get:

  1. Work friends: Genuine enthusiasm and requests to post online if I can.

  2. Sister: “An Ohio grocery store? Not Jewel or Mariano’s?”

  3. Friends: “Congratulations!” “Can’t wait to see it.” Etc.

  4. Father: “One commercial...and it took you how long? More than forty years? At that rate....”

  I haven’t been seriously pursing acting that long, actually, but I don’t say so.

  5. Mother: “Your cousin Liisa always wanted to be an actress. Such a smart girl. And so pretty. I remember when Liisa was eight she....”

  Yes, Liisa is spelled correctly.

  A few days before the commercial shoot I get a 317 call on my cell. Indianapolis.

  “Hi, Marla. I’m Alice, wardrobe supervisor for your Smithson’s shoot. I need more information about your sizes and colors that look good on you so I can go shopping for you.”

  My own wardrobe person, choosing clothes for me. Sweet. “I usually wear 4 petite on the top and 4 or 6 on the bottom. And jewel tones look good, but of course whatever works for the spot...” It never occurred to me they’d ask my preference.

  “Ok, thanks. That gives me something to go on. See you Thursday.”

  I’m in Indianapolis. Waze got me here safely.

  The next morning, I’m waiting in the hotel lobby at 6:30AM to be picked up and taken to set. This is another perk for talent. Extras fend for themselves, talent gets fended for.

  The set is a real park. Lights, big white screens and other equipment are already in place. Early morning sun filters through the trees, but the air is chilly.

  A tall, thin bald man comes over, hand outstretched. “Marla, I’m Tony Stevens, the director.”

  Another man and a woman join us. I’m shivering. Not sure if it’s the cold or nerves creeping in.

  “Marla, it’s nice to meet you,” the woman says as she shakes my icy hand.

  “This is Angie Baker and Mike Clarkson with Smithson’s.”

  The clients. They study me through narrowed eyes, as if to make sure I look like my headshot or to confirm they made the right decision.

  “Let’s get you to wardrobe and makeup. Alice, we’re ready for you,” Tony calls.

  I hope Alice bought me a thick sweater. My hands are shaking and I’m sure my teeth will chatter if I try to say my lines. This thought makes me shiver all the more.

  Alice, who is tall and thin, has spiky artificially red hair and wears all black, leads me to the wardrobe area she’s created near a busy street. Clothes hang on a rack. A row of huge plastic bins lines the sidewalk. She opens the first bin. It makes a slight pop.

  “Sweater sets and blouses are in here. This one has pants. I’ve got a few suits, too, in case they decide to go that way. L
et’s see...how about this?” She holds up a deep blue merino wool sweater set. I take it, and she dives into the other bin. “I bought some khakis, but I think they want a dressier look. Here, try these.”

  I take the grey pants and go into the small trailer to change. The bathroom is too narrow for maneuvering, so I go into the bedroom. The sweater set is scratchy but fits fine. I try on the pants. Will the zipper zip? Too tight.

  I step outside to show them to Alice.

  She takes one look at me. “Hmm. Let’s see what else we have. How about these?”

  Eventually I’m clothed in the sweater set and black pants.

  Margaret the makeup lady takes over. A smorgasbord of eye shadows, blushes, concealers, lipsticks, pencils, brushes, puffs and tubes covers the trailer’s kitchenette table. Margaret is one of the most wrinkly, shriveled people I’ve ever seen. I wonder how old she is and how she manages to stay upright long enough to do people’s makeup.

  In a smoker’s voice, she says: “Look up, please.” “Close your eyes.” “Open.” “Oops,” when some powder spills.

  How can her rheumy eyes see what she’s doing?

  But ten minutes later, when she hands me a mirror, I admit I look great. Subtle shadings have accented my better features and smoothed my skin.

  She sets to work on my hair, applying various lotions and gels to smooth the tenacious frizzies haunting my carefully blown dry and ceramic-ironed locks.

  “Hmmm.” She digs into a bag at her feet and pulls out a tube of something blue. “This is the best product, but only professionals can buy it.”

  Margaret has already applied two gels and a spray. Now she glops on some blue stuff. I wonder if my hair will move in the breeze.

  When I go outside, someone says, “We’ll be with you in a minute, Marla.”

  It’s odd that they all know who I am, but I don’t know who they are.

  A group of about fifteen people carrying suitcases or garment bags stands a few feet away. They look just like....

  Alice calls out, “Extras, I’m ready for you. Please form a line over here and have what you’ve brought ready.”

  All those people are extras. Ha! For once I’m not one of them.

  I am the star.

  I feel great. Important. Special. Talented. This is the life.

  Someone directs me to a bench with two women seated on it. One looks a little older than me, with swingy, shoulder length dark blonde hair, wearing a tan jacket. Next to her is a brunette in a maroon blouse. My friends.

  “Marla, this is Jennifer and Anne,” Tony explains. “They’ll be enjoying their salads while you say your lines. You can look at them once or twice to include them, but please keep your focus straight to the camera.”

  When he leaves, Jennifer asks, “I hear you’re from Chicago. Like there isn’t anyone here who could do the lines?”

  I have to agree. Why would the client rather pay my travel expenses and per diem than hire a local?

  “We’re almost ready for rehearsal.”

  I run the lines in my head, glad I remember them. I left my script in the trailer.

  Props people bring us plastic forks and containers brimming with colorful vegetables from mini carrots to red and yellow peppers, cheese cubes and several kinds of lettuce. I’m glad I don’t have to eat mine. I can just see the broccoli florets flying.

  “Oh, Marla, after your last line, be sure to take a bite of salad,” Tony says. “Please make sure you have more than lettuce on your fork.”

  Great.

  I pre-load my fork with a piece of lettuce, a smallish cheese cube and a tiny broccoli clump. Hope someone has a toothbrush or floss for the green bits that are sure to inhabit my teeth.

  We sit for a while the crew does what crews do, moving lights around, arranging filter screens, planting bunches of yellow flowers here and there. It’s so cold and I’m shivering so hard my lettuce leaves flutter.

  What do I do? Ask them to turn up the sun?

  “Let’s do a rehearsal.”

  This is the moment I’ve waited for. Now that it’s here, I wonder what I wanted it for. Is the imagining of a thing better than the reality? A flood of pressure courses through me. My stomach clenches. A carrot tumbles to the ground. I reach to retrieve it, but someone runs by and scoops up the orange disc fast as a ball boy at a tennis match.

  I’ve never felt such stage fright, not during musicals and plays in front of far larger crowds, even when I had a solo or big part. Hours and hours of rehearsal and direction instill comfort and confidence.

  So many eyes judge me: the crew, the clients, the director, the other actresses, the extras, the passers-by hoping to catch sight of a famous star. Their gazes burn, but do not warm me. I’m the only one with lines, the only one who can really screw things up.

  “Marla, whenever you’re ready.”

  My plastic fork snaps in half.

  In two seconds, someone hands me another fork. I stab it into the salad and come up with half a cherry tomato, a few field greens and a square of yellow pepper.

  I look into the camera with my most confident executive smile, though my hands shake. “We love having lunch from Smithson’s. Smithson’s salad bar is fresher than fresh. And what a wide selection of lettuces, vegetables and toppings...all at Smithson’s everyday low prices.” I glance at Jennifer and Anne. They nod, smile and chew. I feel them assess me even as they smile. “Smithson’s. Let’s do lunch.”

  I eat my salad bite and hope Tony sees “mmmmm” in my face and not some ghastly freezing-chomping-woman-on-a-park-bench grimace.

  “Cut. That was great, Marla. Can you look a little happier when you eat your salad? Thanks. We’re ready to do this.”

  Several feet away, the AD gives instructions to the extras. “You two need to start a little sooner and walk slower. You, on the bicycle, wait until I cue you, and this time try not to get in the couple’s way. Cell phone guy, don’t talk out loud. Mime. That means no volume. Guy who crosses in front of the camera, don’t cross while she’s talking. Time it so you go during a pause.”

  Ah, what fond memories his words conjure up.

  Then a homeless man wanders by, all shaggy hair, ground-in dirt and ragged clothes. He’s wheeling a wire cart. Rolling in the bottom of the cart is one item.

  Oh. My. Of all things.

  It’s one of WZRJ’s stainless steel coffee mugs. The bright lemon yellow background and red swirly logo are unmistakable.

  How weird is that? This must be some sort of sign. We have a few corporate clients here, but why would a homeless man stroll by with my station’s coffee mug? To remind me that stardom is only temporary and tomorrow I must return to reality. “Keep your day job, this is all you’ll ever get.” Warn me, “Be careful, or this could be you?”

  I can’t help but stare. A production assistant gently asks the man to move out of the way. He rolls his cart out of the shot.

  My shivering must be obvious, because someone brings a blanket and drapes it over me.

  “Th-th-thank you.”

  Just before cameras roll, the warmth is whisked away.

  I try to keep count of how many takes we do, but lose track after twelve. Each time the blanket comes and goes. Extras walk, jog and ride bikes in front of the bench and behind it. Jennifer and Anne eat their salads. Every few takes, more salad fixings are added to our containers. We were offered spit buckets, but so far we’ve declined.

  Tony pokes his head from behind the camera. “Marla, next time be friendlier. You need the tone you had when we started. That’s exactly what we want.”

  Who can remember back that far? “Ok, sure.”

  After lunch, it’s time for closeups. The extras must keep doing exactly what they did earlier because parts of them may appear in the shots. Jennifer and Anne wait off to the side in case they’re needed again.

  “Hold your smile longer, Marla.”

  “Look happier when you chew, Marla.”

  “Emphasize ‘Smithson’s’ more, M
arla.”

  “Lean forward like you did before, Marla.”

  “Make sure there’s more than green on your fork, Marla.”

  I hold, look, emphasize, lean and make sure, trying to remain calm on the outside. But inside, I’m freaking out. Is this par for the course, or am I doing a bad job? What if they fire me? Perish the thought.

  I’m amazed I’m not sick of salad or Smithson’s. The repetition and getting ordered about don’t bother me. Just like being an extra.

  “Margaret, fix her hair. The sun is shining on some frizz.”

  Let’s just announce for all to hear that I have frizzy hair.

  Margaret runs over and smoothes on more blue goop.

  Tony disappears behind the camera. “Umm. Not good.”

  More goop gets applied.

  “Better, but not good enough. Mike, let’s get a filter on that.”

  Crew members scurry, putting said filter into place.

  I want to cringe. My frizzy hair is holding up the shoot.

  “Again, please. Back to one, everyone.”

  We go again. And again.

  I’m tired but happy. No one says if they like my performance. Just as with extra-ing and WZRJ, they only tell you if they don’t like something.

  Being the star of a commercial is exciting, but more work and stress than I’d expected.

  I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  Audrey sends me on my first in-studio voiceover audition, for a popular local chocolatier.

  I can’t describe how amazing it feels to go into the recording studio lobby and tell the receptionist why I’m there. How important I feel being led into the booth, putting on headphones, and awaiting instructions from the engineer and producer. I admit to a bit of trepidation, too. Will I ever get used to being judged in person?