My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  I used to know. What will Jeff think when I tell him I’m now the unemployed one and have nowhere I need to be tomorrow morning? Or any morning, for that matter. Maybe he can give me some tips on how to keep your chin up when you don’t have a clue what comes next.

  The waitress brings our steaming plates of food.

  This date offers a glut of good timing.

  “Can we get these to go, please?” Jeff asks as he hands her a gold credit card. “No reason good food should go to waste. Thank you.” The waitress shakes her head and carries our dinners away. “I’ll eat mine at the office and....”

  I can eat home alone. Like I usually do. Why don’t I just finish off the bottle of wine by myself, too? I can’t help wondering if people have to be bleeding to be more important than work.

  Doggie bag in hand, the bottom hot on my palms, I get in a taxi.

  “I am sorry,” Jeff says. “I’ll call you as soon as I can, Marla. I really want to talk to you. Spend time with you.”

  “Hope you get your work done. And that you win the account,” I call out the window as the cab pulls away.

  Jeff is already hurrying to his car.

  When I get home with my still-warm container, I notice that I have voicemail. A message from an agent? Probably a telemarketer.

  It’s Linda. “Two things. First, wanted to let you know Brad and I are back on track. He agreed to try counseling, which for him is a significant step and shows me he’s committed to us. And I’m taking some time off so we can take a trip to reconnect.”

  That’s great. Maybe there is hope for couples willing to work as hard on their relationships as they do on their careers.

  “Second,” Linda continues, “what did you get Dad? I’m out of ideas so if you have one to spare or if I can go in on your gift, let me know. Bye.”

  In all the turmoil, I completely forgot tomorrow is Dad’s birthday. Maybe for some a family dinner is enjoyable, but to me it means hours of irritation.

  On the bright side, being unemployed, I’ll have all day tomorrow to shop for a gift. What better time to share my news?

  Some birthday present that’ll be.

  The sun shines on the first day of the rest of my life, my first full day of unemployment. Day One. I should start a blog to document my journey from successful but unhappy businesswoman to, well, something much better, then sell it for a million dollars and go on the talk show circuit....

  Automatically I head for the bathroom to take a shower. What for? It feels peculiar to have nowhere I need to be. No one who cares where I am. I climb back in bed, but the sleepy magic is gone. I flip, I flop.

  The first flashes of regret are yellow and hungry to burst into flames of distress. Work, even awful work, gives you a purpose. I am superfluous. Extra. Again.

  Like hours after receiving Novocain, euphoria starts to wear off as I make coffee. Trickling into my veins is in its place is unease. I’m on a roller coaster of indecision. As I wonder if I did the right thing, I’m creaking up the huge hill. When I’m sure I did the right thing, the car is poised at the top, overlooking the world. I’m convinced I made a huge mistake as I zoom screaming down the track to the ride’s nadir. Now off I go, swirling into the dark curvy cave of the unknown, clinging to the bar for all I’m worth as my head whips from side to side.

  I’d hoped I’d feel more at peace without the pressures of corporate America. But I guess I’m not even able to relax for a day or two.

  I wander around my condo, out of sorts, singing my little song:

  I’m the extra not the star.

  I am close, but no cigar.

  Though I yearn to be the best,

  Can’t seem to rise above the rest.

  I’m A minus not an A

  Some may think that grade’s OK

  Still I always strive for more

  Why do I need the highest score?

  Enough of that. Time change my tune. I will learn to be happy even if I don’t rise above the rest. First, I need a plan. Some structure.

  TO DO ON FIRST DAY OF REST OF LIFE

  1. Call former clients who might care.

  2. Pull self together, get dressed.

  3. Treat self to mani/pedi.

  4. Get Dad b-day gift. Ideas: a. ?? b. ??

  5. Go to parents’ house, plaster smile on face. Wear earplugs?

  By the time I return with perfectly manicured nails from buying a gift certificate from Dad’s favorite sports emporium that’s graciously large enough to cover Linda, there’s another message.

  Let it be Jeff. He said he’d call. Can he still be so immersed in work he can’t even find a second to say hi? To send a cheery text? Hope he hasn’t changed his mind.

  “Hello Marla, this is your mother calling.” Like I don’t recognize her after the first syllable. “I need three lemons, not too hard, not too soft. They’re ten cents each this week at Jewel. And a pint of whipping cream. Not the heavy kind, get light. Later, alligator.”

  Only two things? My mom must’ve been prepared for once.

  “Oh, very important,” Mom’s message continues, “Strawberries. Two containers. But if they’re more than four dollars each, get frozen strawberries. Two bags. Later, alligator.”

  Before doing Mom’s shopping, I check Facebook. I can’t believe my eyes. There are more than a hundred comments on my wall. Some from friends, but most from strangers. All congratulating me on telling off Josiah, from, “You go, girl!” to “I wish I was brave enough to do the same,” to “My company sucks bigtime.”

  My smile grows and grows as I scroll. I can’t believe so many people were moved to find me and write to me. More than one person asks if I’m going to start a movement along the lines of Occupy Wall Street to encourage companies to treat employees more fairly. New goal: spearhead a revolution?

  One comment sends a chill up my neck.

  “People like you make me sick. America is the best country on Earth. You ungrateful bitch.”

  I’ll appreciate the enormous support and not let the sole naysayer get to me. But I consider changing my privacy settings all the same.

  The family is eating Mom’s frozen strawberry and whipped cream cake on her best Villeroy & Boch. Except PG, who has plastic dishes. Their dining room is very Italian, all mustardy golds and earth tones. They even had a mural of cracked bricks and a sky painted on one wall, with a cute little bird in the corner. I feel like I’m in Under the Tuscan Sun.

  Linda and Brad have regaled us with their plans for a two-week Danube River luxury cruise next month. Larry told of his latest surgery success rescuing some famous basketball player’s knee, then he and Monica made sure we cooed over every sound, gesture, food particle and bodily function PG, aka Zachary, has experienced since we last saw him. We’ve eaten salad, brisket with potatoes and broccoli, sung “Happy Birthday” and disbursed Dad’s gifts.

  “I have some news,” I announce.

  Mom, Dad, Linda, Brad, Larry and Monica turn to look at me, spoons in hand. Zachary is too busy playing with his whipped cream. There’s some in his hair.

  “I quit my job.”

  Everyone stares, then bursts out laughing. Zachary giggles.

  “More coffee, anyone?” Mom indicates the insulated carafe.

  “I’ll have some.” Dad holds up his cup as Mom pours.

  “I mean it. I quit yesterday.”

  “Why? Do you have a better job lined up?” Dad, with an expression somewhere between confusion and disappointment.

  “Not yet.” Me. Wondering why I brought this up at all.

  “What will you do all day?” Mom. Maybe retirement bores her. How sad is that.

  “Have you saved any money?” Linda. Worried that I’ll need a loan?

  “YA! Derp.” Zachary. Trying to change the subject.

  It works. All attention turns to him. For once I’m glad.

  Zachary’s whipped creamed hair has dried, straight up, reminding me of Cameron Diaz in Something about Mary.

  I c
arry an armful of plates and glasses into the kitchen.

  “No china or sterling in the dishwasher,” Mom reminds me, as she does at every single family gathering.

  Helping clean up means I get to avoid a lot of family blah blah blah. Tonight, this approach backfires. While I’m figuring out the most economical use of dishwasher real estate, Mom and Dad corner me. Literally, I’m trapped in the corner of their kitchen.

  He’s wearing navy shorts and a navy and red striped polo. She’s got on pink and green plaid shorts and a lime green polo. It’s a miracle any of us kids learned how to dress attractively with them as fashion examples.

  “Marla, we’re worried about you,” Mom begins.

  “What your mother means is that we don’t think you should have quit your job.”

  “I said what I meant,” Mom insists. “Don’t tell me what I mean. She didn’t like that radio job, but just to up and quit?”

  “The job made her enough money to live in Lincoln Park.”

  “No, she got the money for her condo from the sale of her and Adam’s house.”

  “What did she want to work at that station for, anyway? Nobody I know listens to it,” Dad says. “And she never got promoted, not in all those years.”

  “Maybe now she could work for a better station.”

  “You don’t mean that. It’s past time for her to come to her senses and start her own business.”

  And they’re off.

  I used to say something like, “Hello, I’m still in the room.” But once they get started, there’s no stopping them.

  Do other families have real conversations? Help and listen to each other? How nice that would be.

  It’s time to leave. On my way out, I bid farewell to the happy ones sitting and watching Zachary play with blocks in the living room. I stop in the driveway, and stand there for a moment, undecided.

  I know now I can’t change my parents. Or make them approve of me. But I can let them know how I feel. Confronting my parents for the first time won’t be pleasant, but it’s something I need to do. For the new and stronger, though unemployed, me.

  Pivoting, I lift my chin and march back inside with determination.

  They’re still going at it.

  “At least she’s not on drugs or something.” That’s the best thing Mom can say about me?

  “How in God’s name do you know that?” Dad demands. “What kind of adult quits her job without having a new one? She’s going to fritter her days away. How many auditions has she had this year, and how many did she book? What in God’s name makes her think she can earn a living being an actress?”

  “Stop!”

  They both shut up, mouths open. The shock of me yelling at them has frozen them solid as our birdbath in winter.

  Linda and Larry hover in the doorway.

  “We need to talk,” I say.

  “We were talking,” Mom replies with a small frown.

  “No. I mean really talk.” I take a deep breath. “Mom, Dad, I need for you to know how much it bothers me when you talk about me like I’m not even here. And how uncomfortable I get hearing you pass judgment on me all the time. I feel like you approve of Linda and Larry but not me, never me. That really hurts. In the future, I’d appreciate it if you could keep your disapproval to yourselves.

  “I never, ever again want to hear you criticize or make fun of my acting efforts. Acting is my dream. What kind of parent trashes their child’s dreams at any age, much less when the child is an adult? There is nothing I enjoy more than performing. I love every part of it...from auditioning to rehearsing to those anticipatory moments before I step on stage or set.

  “Maybe no one in the audience noticed me in the chorus of the musicals I did. But contributing to production numbers, getting to sing and dance my heart out, was glorious. Have any of you known elation like that? Like there’s nowhere else in the world you’d rather be, nothing else you’d rather be doing?”

  Silence. Then Monica whispers, “I did, when Zachary was born.”

  No one else says a word.

  “So what if I haven’t been in a musical for years. That doesn’t mean I won’t be in another, or that I’ll stop trying to get other acting work. Mom, Dad, you can’t shield me from failure or rejection by steering me toward something safe and secure. You can’t help me attain happiness or contentment by pushing me to do what you want. I’m a good, valuable person even if I don’t own my own business or have kids or practice medicine. I’d love for you to accept me as I am.”

  I couldn’t bring myself go so far as to say, “love me as I am.” My favorite song from Sideshow runs through my head.

  I’m so proud of myself. I said what I meant with real, not feigned, confidence. My voice was low, measured and not whiny. I wish Dr. Smythe were here to see how far I’ve come. I guess he did help, after all.

  But my parents’ faces have crumbled. They look crushed. I wait, suffering through strained silence. Neither of them says a word.

  Oy. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just need you to know what mine are.” I blink away tears. Am I crying because I’ve shared my innermost thoughts, because I might’ve hurt them, or fear they’ll never change? “If this means you don’t have anything more to say to me, we can talk about something else. So, do you think the right woman will snag the bachelor?”

  My mom sighs, clearly relieved this awkward situation is over. “I do, but your father doesn’t.”

  “I prefer the tall nurse from Detroit,” Dad says. “What a looker. Linda, Larry, what did you think?”

  Linda shakes her head. I know I see her wipe away a tear before her mascara runs. “Brad and I don’t watch shows like that.”

  Larry says, “We watch Sponge Bob Square Pants. And Teletubbies.”

  I’m drained as a squeezed Sponge Bob.

  My first day of unemployment comes to an end.

  Chapter 20

  Day Two.

  The unemployed lifestyle is harder than I’d thought.

  After reading the paper, I make and consume a tasty blueberry smoothie. My recipe: 1/2 cup frozen whole blueberries, 1 cup nonfat plain yogurt, 1/2 banana, two ice cubes, and a splash of milk. Try it.

  I check Facebook. Hundreds more comments, and comments on the comments. I’m going viral. And there are more creepy comments, too. Like, “I know what you look like.”

  I change my page from public to friends and friends of friends only.

  After all that, it’s only 8:30AM. My calendar is empty until 6:00PM, when I’m supposed to babysit Andrea’s three kids so she and Dan can have their night out.

  I can’t believe I’m going to do this.

  Not faring all that well myself when I got home from Dad’s b-day gathering, I’d called to see how Andrea was doing post near mental breakdown.

  “I’m holding my own,” she said. But I could hear the strain in her voice. “May need to hop on the Xanax train again, though. Everyone else seems to be popping pills and feeling better, why not me? What’s up with you?”

  “I actually did it. I quit WZRJ.”

  “Congratulations, I think. What happened?”

  I filled her in. “It’s already weird to have so much time on my hands.”

  Andrea replied, “Then I won’t feel as bad about taking you up on your offer. Would you come over tomorrow night for a few hours?”

  How could I say no?

  My blank calendar taunts me. I used to have to cram so much stuff in I could barely read my writing. I must find many important tasks to accomplish. I think for a moment, and begin to write.

  9:00 clean pantry.

  10:00 thorough housecleaning.

  12:00 well-deserved lunch.

  1:00 purge closets.

  Once everything I own is in order, my mind will surely be clear and I’ll be able to focus on my future.

  3:30 much needed coloring of hair.

  By 12:30PM, I’m already behind. Pantry cleaning took longer than expected. I’m far too exhauste
d now to houseclean or purge. Nice. Now a few things are already on tomorrow’s schedule.

  VIH: “You’re supposed to be gainfully employed. Who are you to sit home tossing expired cans and condiments? There are people desperate for a job, any job, and you just walked away from one because it was annoying.”

  What have I done? The right thing for me.

  After lunch, I check e-mail. I haven’t gotten any via the contact form on my acting website, but today I have five. Chicagoland Daily. Two local network affiliates. Even a national talk show. What gives?

  They all want to interview me. Part of me wants to agree, so I can stand up for what I believe in. But I’m no Norma Rae. And though I want to build my social media platform, another part holds back. As much as I enjoy recognition, I’ve seen how some people in the public eye are treated. There’s too much trashing on social media these days. Being called a bitch after my voice’s unintentional appearance on TV was bad enough. What haranguing would befall me if I chose to be on it?

  If by chance I happen to become famous, I want it to because of my talent. Not fifteen minutes of flash in the pan reality TV star type fame.

  Respectfully and truly regretfully, I decline.

  Here I stand, outside Andrea’s front door.

  By the way, there’s been no word from Jeff. Not even a text. Guess it’s too much to think I’d hear from him two days in a row. The whole dating business is, pardon my language, a pain in the ass. Shouldn’t it be fun, exciting? It’s so not that I’m babysitting.

  I sigh and ring the bell. Only a few hours, right? To help a friend in need.

  Emily opens the door. She’s wearing a pink embroidered peasant shirt, jeans and rhinestone-encrusted pink flip-flops. “Mom, Marla’s here!”

  “Be down in a minute.”

  Emily flaps away as I close the door and greet their Lhasa Apso, Princess. She’s happy to see me, but then, she’s happy to see anyone who’ll scratch her tummy and give her a treat.