My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  Andrea and Dan’s house is kid-trodden and tired. The hardwood floors are scratched and gouged, the once-off white walls became a mass of fingerprints and marks, the great room and dining room carpeting (why they chose sea foam green I’ll never know) is stained in several places. Only their furniture is safe, the true fabric hidden under a barricade of washable slipcovers. Toys, games, and unidentifiable child paraphernalia are stacked on every surface. They’re in desperate need of one of those decluttering, organizing HGTV shows where they add storage space and spend vast sums on containers and shelves. I couldn’t live like this. How do they?

  Andrea comes down the stairs, nearly tripping on a Bratz doll.

  “Wow,” I say. “You look amazing!”

  In a black halter top and a short red skirt, with her brown hair curling softly, Andrea looks like she had a salon makeover. Her finger and toenails are bright red. She’s carrying a stuffed tote bag.

  “I ignored all previously scheduled errands and enjoyed a day of beauty. Took forever and cost a fortune,” she confesses.

  “It worked, though.”

  “I don’t know how some moms do it. They look this good all the time.”

  “Maybe they don’t have day jobs or spend as much time with their kids as you do. I saw Emily. Where’s Dan and the other kids?”

  “Playing out back. I’ve ordered their favorite pizza. Numbers and things you may need to know are posted on the fridge.”

  Forty-two and a babysitter again. And I’m not even getting paid. Nice career trajectory.

  “Davy is supremely allergic to bee stings. He’ll swell up like a balloon. I’ve got an EpiPen Velcroed to the wall by the phone.” She must have seen my shocked expression, because she adds, “It’s scary, but not undoable. You jab him and then you take him to the ER.”

  Great. That kid is not staying outside. Nor getting stung and imploding on my watch. I may just line all three of them up on the celadon couch and make them sit there until Andrea and Dan get back.

  “Where are you going for dinner?”

  “We’re not going to dinner, exactly. God, what this day will cost us. Dan got a hotel room....” Andrea blushes. “We haven’t done anything like this in...I can’t remember. We’ll try not to stay out late. Hope they don’t give you too much trouble. Thanks so much, Marla. I’ll get Dan and be off.”

  I’m Cinderella. I want to go to the ball. I can’t even find a date, much less a Prince.

  As Andrea and Dan leave, the pizza arrives. I pay the delivery guy, making sure Princess doesn’t slip out.

  I’m in the kitchen, about to call the kids to help set the table when Nathan waddles in. He sits on the faux stone ceramic-tiled floor, pulls off his shoes and socks, then stands to remove his denim shorts and Spider-Man undies. The kid is now naked, his little thingy dangling. He picks up his clothes and hands them to me. They’re cold and wet.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Emily and Davy run in.

  “Nathan had an accident!” Emily crows.

  “Baby,” Davy scoffs.

  Eeeewwww. I’m holding pee-soaked clothes. I grab a garbage bag and dump in the soggy mass. Andrea can deal with this later.

  Time to dispatch the troops. “Emily, will you please take this to the laundry room? Davy, will you wash your hands and set the table?”

  They undertake their assignments without complaint. I don’t know what I’d have done if they refused.

  I squat to Nathan’s level. He’s standing there, still naked, tears in his eyes. This must be pretty embarrassing at his age.

  “Do you want to take a bath?” He shakes his head. Should I make him take a bath? “Would you go put on some dry clothes before dinner?”

  He nods and runs off.

  I wash and wash my hands with antibacterial soap, like Lady Macbeth, except there are no spots. Then I wipe the floor and wash my hands again.

  Dinner proceeds without major incident, unless you count Nathan’s melty ice cream spilling all over the place and Princess rolling in the mess as she tried to lap it up. Scrubbing chocolate chips off grout is not fun.

  Finally, it’s time for them to go to bed. Then I can watch TV...they have a satellite dish and get many more movie channels than I do.

  “My mom always lets us have a bedtime snack,” Emily says. She’s in her pajamas, white with glittery hearts. Her little chin is in the air, like she’s daring me to defy her.

  “She didn’t say anything about that to me. What would you have if she were here?”

  “Some ice cream.”

  They just had ice cream after their pizza.

  “And cookies,” Davy adds.

  “Milk too,” Nathan pipes up. He’s been quiet since his pee incident.

  The boys are also in matching PJs.

  “Hmmm. That sounds like too much for a snack.”

  “It’s what we have. Every night,” Emily insists. “Don’t we?”

  The boys nod.

  “Well, this night isn’t like every other night, is it?” That’s what we Jews say on Passover but it applies now, too. “Mommy put me in charge. If you want a snack you can each have two cookies and a glass of milk.”

  Emily runs to the kitchen and grabs the Double Stuf Oreos out of the massive, jumbled pantry. She stuffs a cookie in her mouth.

  “That’s one,” I say.

  “Mmo iss nah.”

  I reach for the bag. She scampers away.

  Now what? I pretend to turn toward the fingerprinted stainless fridge but spin around and grab the cookies. The new-fangled bag tears. Oreos tumble out and roll across the tiles. Princess bats one and sends it skittering toward the dining room.

  The boys stomp on the sandwich cookies and shriek at the top of their lungs. Before I can draw breath to yell, the floor is a mass of crumbs.

  Emily’s laughing. I think at me for lacking the capacity to control her and the boys.

  “STOP.” I yell. “Nobody move.”

  The sheer volume of my voice, trained to reach the last row of a sizeable theatre, freezes them in their tracks. Even the dog.

  VIH: “Think, Marla, think. Look at the mess you let them make. They’re going to take advantage of you unless you beat them to it.”

  “Ok. We’re going to play a game.” I grab three bowls from the clean dishwasher. “Whoever can pick up the most cookie crumbs wins.”

  “How will you tell who wins?” asks Emily.

  “What do we get?” asks Davy.

  “We’ll weigh the bowls on Mom’s food scale. But no trying to put in anything but Oreo crumbs, I’ll be checking. And the winner gets...to stay up an extra hour.”

  “Two,” Emily bargains.

  “One and a half.”

  We shake on it.

  Is this allowed, extending bedtimes as a bribe? Will Andrea be mad, or happy I prevented a riot? Lucky me, I get the joy of spending quality alone time with a kid instead of watching grownup movies.

  As one, they drop to their hands and knees, grinding Oreo crumbs into their pajamas and the grout. More laundry for Andrea. At least most of the mess will get cleaned up.

  In minutes, three bowls are jammed into my face. The kids have Oreo crumbs and white cream filling all over their hands.

  With great solemnity, I say in my best British accent, “Da-da-dada! The great Oreo weigh-in is about to begin! Contestants, please place your bowls on the counter.”

  They comply.

  “Before the great weigh-in, what must all contestants do?” I intone.

  “What?” all three ask.

  “Why, wash their hands and change their pajamas, of course! First one back gets—” Help! What do they get? “To assist with the weighing.”

  They race off as if their lives depend on being the first kid cleaned up.

  Davy returns, victorious, but Emily has collected the most crumbs.

  She joins me as I read to the boys from a Harry Potter book. I’m not sure where in the series this one falls and can’t keep t
he titles straight. All three laugh uproariously as I use a different voice for each character and act out parts of the scenes.

  Hmm. Career opp? Audio books are popular...maybe I could find a way to do those, thought recording short auditions has proved challenging enough so far.

  Emily falls asleep on the couch as we watch The Princess Diaries. I sigh in relief. My job is done.

  I’m enervated.

  The kids are cute and smart, but how do you keep your patience day in and day out? How do you stay a step ahead?

  I must’ve dozed off, too, because I wake with a start when I hear a door squeak open.

  Andrea is glowing bright as Rudolph’s nose. “We had the best time,” she whispers with a smile. “This was exactly what we needed. I feel so much better. Dan says he wants us to have date night every week. I’m not sure how we’ll fit it in and we’ll have to find less expensive adventures, but our relationship has to be a priority.”

  “That’s so great, Andrea,” I whisper back.

  “How were the kids?”

  “Fine, except you have more laundry than when you left.”

  All the hissing above her head wakes Emily up. “Hi Mom,” she says, sleepily adorable. “Marla’s the best sitter ever. She can do all the people in Harry Potter.” She gets off the couch and yawns. “When can she come back?”

  Andrea’s brows raise as she looks at me.

  I don’t know what to say except, “Time for me to leave! Talk to you soon.”

  As I walk home, I make a vow to only babysit again in the direst of emergencies. Breaking vows, even for good reasons, usually leads to misery.

  I was asked to be a driver for a movie. Meaning I’d use my car and get a bump in pay. We filmed after midnight. I had to drive down a narrow, dimly lit street with cars parked on either side. After each take, I had to back up all the way to my starting position. Over and over. They gave me a Walkie Talkie, via which they kept telling me to hurry up. I was sure I’d hit something as I zoomed backward in the near dark.

  “Never again will I tell a movie that I have a car,” I said when I was ready to throw up from carsickness and fear of crashing.

  This vow broke when I worked on a film that had two stars I really wanted to see, and so agreed to be a professor. Not only were neither of them there that day, but the minute I arrived, they asked me to drive. Too chicken to say no because I didn’t want my refusal to keep them from choosing me for something good later, I climbed back into my car.

  I spent ages sitting with my engine running waiting to drive through an intersection. After a hand signal from a PA across the street, I finally drove forward, and stopped before hitting an equipment truck parked in the middle of the street. Then I backed up, and drove again. And again. And again. I did get to ignore the stop sign.

  This contribution to the motion picture industry didn’t help my cause.

  After a half-hearted workout, I find see the voicemail notification. The highlight of my day.

  “Hi, Marla.”

  It’s Jeff!

  “It’s Jeff. The past two days have been crazy, nothing but non-stop meetings trying to save Greenery Gardens. I haven’t slept, it’s been that hectic. I think we’ll land the account, though. I wanted to wait to call you until I could make time to talk. Sorry I missed you. I’ll try again tomorrow. Hope to see you soon. Good night.”

  I hear Shirley Jones singing “Goodnight, My Someone” in The Music Man. How satisfying it is to have someone say good night to you.

  Shirley’s Marian the Librarian eventually got her someone. Will I?

  Chapter 21

  Day three.

  Review finances: savings, checking, 401(k), etc.

  7:00PM choir practice.

  Thank goodness for an actual commitment.

  The rest of today and tomorrow looms ahead. As does the rest of my life. I could call those reporters. No. I don’t want fame for that.

  My mind swarms with too many options...full-time jobs, part-time, what field to choose.

  What do I want to be when I grow up?

  Why is that question so easy for some and so difficult for others? I envy those who’ve known what they wanted to be ever since they could remember or who are so gifted at something their career choice is a given.

  Deep in my soul, I know I really want to act. I can see my dad shaking his head in dismay.

  I’ve made progress, but don’t yet have what you’d call a career. Imagine what I can accomplish now that I can devote all of my efforts to pursuing my dreams instead having a day job draining my energy, leaving mere remnants for my passions.

  VIH: “You’ll collect lots more rejections and use up all your savings, that’s for sure.”

  Shut up.

  No more excuses, no more buts. I need to get moving.

  I need more acting agents, because you know how often Audrey calls. I research agents I didn’t consider my first go round. One wants a snail mail CD. I burn one and put it in a bubble envelope. Drat. I’m out of stamps.

  This took longer than I thought...I’ve got twenty minutes to get it in today’s mail. Can’t I wait one more day to get my life on track? No. I want this off my plate now.

  I grab my keys and run to the elevator, then hurry to my car and drive to the post office as fast as I can without speeding, park and hop out. I flip through my wallet. There’s a line, but not too long.

  Behind me I hear, “Marla, is that you?”

  Oh. My. It’s Ex.

  Before I continue, let me share what I look like at this moment. Not a speck of makeup. Hair piled haphazardly in a purple, sparkly butterfly clip Emily gave me. Bangs curling all directions in a most unruly fashion. Hideous gray roots exposed. Ugly, old glasses, because I see better for working at my computer in them than in the trendy, newer pair. Noxiously prominent zit perched on right cheek. Faded red sweatpants and an ancient sorority sweatshirt.

  VIH: Ha ha haaaaaaa!

  I can’t bring myself to turn around. I don’t care how over we are. Who wouldn’t want their ex to see them at their best? Never ever will I leave the house again without preparation.

  “Adam, hello.” Clutching my pile of envelopes, I turn, exposing my makeupless zit face to all the world.

  Worse and worse.

  He’s looking good. Adam’s wearing one of the designer suits I’d forced him to buy when he was interviewing for a new job. And one of the ties I picked out for him. Looks like he lost some weight, too.

  He’s with a woman. Not just any woman, but Alicia Barclay, the rather plump accountant who has the office next to his.

  They’re holding hands.

  I may vomit.

  Alicia and her supposedly serious significant other had been to Adam’s and my house a couple of times for dinner. We’d gone to the movies.

  When did this happen? What does he see in her?

  VIH: That he didn’t see in you?

  “We’re renewing my passport for our rock climbing trip to New Zealand,” Alicia oozes as she clings to Ex’s negligible bicep. “Rock climbing. In New Zealand. For three weeks. Isn’t that abfab? And Adam just got promoted.” She looks up at him and bats her eyes. Puh-lease. “He was so helpful when I broke up with Stephen, then one thing led to another. You know how it is.”

  No, I don’t. “No, I don’t.”

  “The best part is when we get back from NZ, we’re going to move in together! We’re buying a huge, brand new three-bedroom condo in Andersonville. AbFAB.” She giggles. “How ’bout you? Dating anyone?”

  Grrrrrr.

  There’s so much pressure in my head my zit might burst. Serve them right if they got splatted. I cannot tell Adam and Alicia I have no job and there’s nary a date in sight, much less someone with whom to enjoy an exotic journey across the continents and live in abfab condo splendor.

  I’m dredging up some creative spin when a postal worker calls out, “Anyone need a passport? I can help you over here.”

  “We’ve got to go,” Adam
says. “Bye.”

  They leave. I seethe. I am jealous that Ex has already found both career success and personal happiness. Particularly when I have neither. Why do the Fates seem to smile on some and not others?

  This had better be the nadir of my roller coaster. I can’t bear to go any lower. Self-pity tears sting. I shouldn’t care what they think, but I do.

  Finally, I reach the front of the line. My future is in my hands...in this envelope eagerly awaiting its journey across the city.

  With the day I’ve been having, you know what the clerk is going to say.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

  “Linda! Pickupickup.”

  “Marla? What’s the matter?”

  “Adam is moving in with a woman I know from his office and they’re going rock climbing in New Zealand and he got promoted!”

  “Amazing. Truly amazing. As is New Zealand. But you’re better off without him. He never was the most viable company in the portfolio. How’d you find out?”

  “Saw them in the post office. Holding hands.” The tears return. I swallow to gather my equilibrium. “Linda, do you ever feel like a loser?”

  “Everyone does.” I can tell she’s hedging.

  “When was the last time you felt like a loser?”

  “In junior high when I had pudgy arms and kids called me Plumpy.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “You never told me that. But junior high was ages ago. You haven’t felt like a loser since growing up?”

  “Not really.” There’s a moment of silence. “Momentarily stupid or forgetful, maybe, but never a loser. It’s cliché, but everyone makes mistakes. You’re not a loser, Marla. The things you choose are among the most difficult to succeed in. You’re on a different path. Just because Dad says my career is the right one doesn’t make it so. Don’t give up.”

  “Easy for you to say.” As you rake in success after success. As you loll in your massive mansion mixing martinis for your equally take-all-you’ve-got-for-granted friends. People who don’t want to do anything more interesting with their free time than debate which Lexus model they should buy or compare their Prada purses.