My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  “I suppose it is. I think you’re brave to go out on a limb, to invest so much time and effort and put yourself and your work out there day after day. Most people are too scared to even try. Not you. You’ve haven’t given up your dreams. Don’t you see how special that is?”

  My sister and Catherine think I’m brave. Special. That’s something. I haven’t heard the chicken noises in a while. But can you eat brave? Is it enough to make a person happy, even if it takes a dozen more years to achieve some success?

  “I believe your persistence will pay off,” Linda continues. “I believe in you, Marla.” My heart swells. As nice as that is to hear, I know what comes next. I mouth the words as Linda says, “You just have to believe in yourself.”

  Why are so many things easier said than done? And how do you know when you’re being persistent or beating your head against a wall?

  I’m at my acting friend Kim’s place, a vintage walk up (and up). The rooms are tiny, the ancient wood floors unfinished, the boards not completely connected and creaky. She’s brightened things up by painting all the walls and ceilings orange. Considering that her furniture is black, it’s like Halloween every day.

  This morning Kim sent an eVite for an impromptu party in honor of getting the lead in a play at one of Chicago’s storefront theatres. Not a big fan of parties, or at this moment of supporting other people’s success, I prepared to decline. But I’d want people at my party if I got the lead. Not that I’d throw a party. Entertaining is too stressful.

  So I made the effort and put on a pair of designer jeans I got at an outlet for only thirty-seven dollars. Coupled with a sleeveless black turtleneck and dangly silver earrings, I decide I’ve come up with a nice, artsy look.

  Kim has many short notice friends. Her place is packed to overflowing. A line forms at the keg on her small porch. Hopefully her futon won’t collapse under the weight of people piled upon it. Music booms so loud I can barely think. So I drink.

  I’m probably the only one over forty. The guys are probably early twenties, the women all fit enough to wear low rise jeans. It’s a wonder they stay up.

  Kim comes over with a cute-ish guy. She looks great, but then, getting a good part will do that to a gal. “Hey, Marla, this is Antonio. He’s a dancer and plays guitar. Antonio, Marla is a fellow actress.”

  She must’ve been reading her Emily Post. Smooth intro. Kim dances away.

  Antonio has heavy-lidded brown eyes and long, long hair. I love long hair, but not guys who look like they’re about to fall asleep. He says something, but I can’t make out a word with all the noise.

  “What?”

  “Have you been in any shows lately?”

  “Not lately,” I yell. “I got a TV spot for Smithson’s in Ohio. You?”

  “Yeah, I just finished Chess up at Up in Lights.”

  “Great.”

  “Not much pay, though. You know. I really want to get into Hubbard Street, but didn’t make the cut.” Hubbard Street being a pre-eminent, Chicago-based contemporary dance company. “In between dance classes I’m a waiter. Can’t type good enough for temp jobs. Had to take double shifts this week to cover my rent.”

  Scary, living month to month. And what about health insurance and saving for retirement?

  Maybe this is what I needed, to hang out with people who’ve failed even more than I have. Others who realize their dreams are important, not fitting into the daily grind. Antonio makes me feel better about my accomplishments. At least I own a condo. At least I can pay my bills. For now.

  “What about you?” he asks.

  Ouch. This is the first time I’ll tell an acquaintance of my unemployment. I haven’t rehearsed what to say. “I’m currently between opportunities.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been there.”

  I relax. Actors don’t expect you to have a real job. They temp, wait tables, work in theatre box offices, drive for rideshare companies...anything flexible enough to fit in around auditions, classes, bookings and rehearsals. I belong here, with people who think like me.

  He leans closer. I get a sharp whiff of body odor. “Hey, I think I’ve got a condom. You want to have sex?”

  “No, thanks.” I’m not quite that carefree. Plus, he smells.

  “Ok. Maybe later. I’m gonna get more beer.”

  Kim swings by, almost spilling her wine as a hulky guy bumps into her. “So? Cute, huh?”

  “Antonio asked me to have sex with him.”

  “Yeah, he does that,” she yells into my ear. “If he’s not your type, I’ll keep looking for someone who is. Ciao.”

  I resume my post near the door. In the middle of the room, a group is dancing. A couple is going at it in a dark corner. Major tongue. The guy’s hand is actually on the woman’s breast. I’m all for PDA, but that’s taking things a bit too far.

  I join the dancers. At least I’ll get some exercise and steps. After a few minutes of random bouncing about, a guy puts his arms around me from behind and draws me close. Not quite like Baby and Johnny in Dirty Dancing, but you get the idea. His hips gyrate against mine as the beat pulses into my boots. This guy smells great and has lovely, well-muscled arms.

  He whips me around so I’m facing him, then dips me backward. I don’t know his name or anything about him, yet I’m tempted to kiss a stranger. The music, if you can call this noise music, stops.

  “Thanks.” He releases me with a smile and disappears into the crowd.

  “Wait. Come back,” I want to cry into the welcome silence between songs, but of course don’t.

  The next time I see him, he is kissing someone else. A guy.

  An hour and a beer later, sweating, head throbbing and temporarily deaf from blasting hip hop, I gratefully take my leave.

  Sometimes when I’m out, I wish I’d stayed home. Sometimes when I’m home, I wish I’d gone out. How do I get the most out of wherever I am?

  Chapter 22

  “Where did we leave off?”

  We. Has a nice ring. “We were at honesty. The whole truth.”

  Jeff and I are back at Dinnertime. On a Saturday. Amberly Advertising managed to secure the Greenery Gardens account, which kept him swamped the rest of the week. He finally called late Friday afternoon. I know, I know, too late to book a Saturday. But I couldn’t play games and cry busy when I wasn’t and when I wanted to see him.

  We’re sharing another bottle of wine, sitting inside this time because it’s pouring. Rain beats on the windows, creating a snug environment. Chatter from the bar area and fellow diners keeps the volume high. We have to lean forward to hear each other or talk very loud.

  I’m on top of the world. I don’t have inner peace or what I consider success, but I’m on a good date wearing an extremely cute ensemble. I’m glad to be out with shiny, happy people instead of cooped up at home with my computer and my worries. No more WZRJ miseries and demands to suffocate me. I know I’m smiling more and sleeping better. As long as I don’t look too closely at my bank account balance, I’m good.

  “Honesty,” Jeff says. “Here’s the truth. I see now that when I asked you out the first time, I wasn’t ready. Too soon after Maggie leaving me. I felt awful...stir crazy because I couldn’t find a job, savings running low, then my girlfriend dumped me for someone else. But I thought, ‘I’m a man, I’m not supposed to be depressed.’ I went on as if everything was ok. I couldn’t let go. I stupidly asked Maggie to get back together when she came over to pick up the rest of her things.”

  I’m a mishmash of emotions. Happy he didn’t sleep with her again, sad that he wanted to, sorry for his suffering.

  Jeff pauses. “This is hard to say, but I want you to know all of it. After that, my brother Patrick came to visit. He saw the shape I was in and suggested that I go see a therapist. I didn’t want to, didn’t think I needed to. He made an appointment and got me there by telling me we were visiting a friend of his. The next time I went on my own. My shrink’s helped me see so many things about myself. I wish I’d gone sooner.
But it’s tough to admit you need help.”

  “It sure is.” No one but Linda and Andrea know about Dr. Smythe. I don’t want this evening to turn into a maudlin confessional, but I understand completely and want him to know. “I went to a therapist, too. After my divorce. I felt so aimless, so stunned.” No one but Dr. Smythe knows this awful part, but I bet Jeff will get it. “So unwanted. Not good enough.”

  Jeff takes my hand. “Exactly. That’s exactly how I felt.”

  We sit silently for a few minutes, reflecting on what we’ve shared. The waitress interrupts by serving our dinners.

  “I know I’m over my ex,” I continue as I twirl my steaming pasta. “But I don’t know if I can trust a man again, long term. Relationships get so confusing. How do you keep love alive? How can you be sure your significant other is really yours, and isn’t waiting for the next best thing? How to you change the same way so you don’t grow apart?”

  “I wish I knew. All I do know is I’m finally over Maggie. I’m bonsai free.”

  “You got rid of your trees?” And all the accompanying emotional baggage?

  “Every last one.” He slices into his chicken with vigor. “So are you ready to have some fun?”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  We clink our glasses.

  After I sip, I say, “I’ve got nothing but time for fun these days. I quit WZRJ.”

  He stops before taking a bite. “You did. Why?”

  “I never really enjoyed my job, but I made good money. Since I haven’t been able to decide what else I’d rather do for a living, I couldn’t bring myself to leave. Upper management has been making so many strange changes lately, I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Leaving a job takes courage when you have bills to pay.”

  “Courage to some, foolishness to others. That’s why I stayed so long. When so many workers, like you, can’t get a good job much less one in their field, how could I just walk away from mine?”

  “It was frustrating to put major time and effort into an unsuccessful job search. And filling my unemployed days with productive activities was a challenge.” He stares at his glass, as if remembering. “I hope you don’t sink to my level, willing to take any job just to have one again. I was lucky the position with Amberly came along when I most needed it. I owe them a lot for taking a chance on me when I’d been out of the marketplace for so long and was so down in the dumps. What will you do now?”

  When my parents asked that, my hackles rose. But Jeff asks like he really wants to hear the answer, not as if he’s judging every word that flows from my mouth.

  “I haven’t decided. I don’t want to sell more radio or any other product. I’d be happy focusing on acting and writing, but at some point I need to earn a living. I mean, I hope to make money acting and writing but so far....” I shake my head. “Wait. I’m sorry. We were going to have fun and I’ve been going on about career traumas. Let’s—”

  Jeff takes my hand again. “This is fun, too. Being with you and having a real conversation...there aren’t many people I choose to let down my guard with. Or that I want to learn more about and spend time with.” His eyes crinkle. “What about continuing our talk at my place?”

  I must really like this guy because I don’t even want to see the dessert menu. I’d skip a chocolate opportunity for him. “I’d like that.” Inspiration strikes. “I’d like it even better if we could incorporate chocolate.”

  He laughs. “You’re on.”

  Jeff’s loft in the West Loop is amazing, with exposed brick, high timbered ceilings and walls of windows with city views.

  “Your loft is great.”

  “My decorator deserves all the credit.”

  A black leather sectional with bright red and blue pillows to coordinate with the red, black and blue area rug faces the flat screen TV and takes the focus of the living area.

  I follow him into the kitchen, a festival of cheery blue and frosted glass cabinets with a vast cookies-and-cream granite island and Sub-Zero fridge. There’s a large Peter Max on the wall.

  I could live here.

  Wonder what the bedroom looks like. The thought sends anticipation and terror zooming through me.

  “Fresh flowers? Nice touch,” I say.

  Did he get them because he assumed I’d be coming over? Presumptuous or flattering? Hmmm.

  He gestures toward the Kosta Boda vase sprouting orange gladiolas. “Cleaning lady. She brings new ones every week.”

  Oh.

  Jeff opens a cabinet and pulls out two Orrefors crystal glasses. The pattern is similar to mine and Ex’s. A cabinet beneath the island opens to reveal his liquor collection.

  “Godiva Chocolate?” He holds up the bottle.

  I can drink my chocolate. “Sounds delicious. I’ve heard of it but never tried it.” I sit on one of his bar stools, featuring a fanciful blue swirly pattern. There’s no footrest, so my feet dangle.

  “Straight up or chocolate martini?”

  “Straight up, please.”

  After pouring generous portions, he hands me my glass. His fingers slide over mine. Our eyes meet.

  At least I prepared and wore my best underwear. But I shouldn’t have eaten so much at dinner. My unattractive stomach protrusion might dissuade him. Is there a way to have first-time sex without our midsections ever touching? I’ll cringe if he touches my belly. Maybe I can cover that up with a giggle, pretending I’m ticklish.

  What about the rest of me? Ever-spreading purple spider veins meander around my thighs. What kind of lighting is in his bedroom? Does he have candles?

  I wish I remembered how you got to that part of a relationship where you’re both comfortable yet still attracted to each other. When you come home at the end of the day with a smile on your face knowing someone wants to kiss you and looking forward to kissing them back.

  “Marla, are you ok? You look a little pale.”

  “Oh, fine, thanks.” Great, thinking about sex makes me look ill.

  I can do this. Assuming he wants to. I have to, or I’ll remain a post-divorce-virgin forever.

  “I probably shouldn’t have invited you over, but I wanted to spend more time with you while I have some. When I’m not consumed by work,” Jeff says. “The thing is, my shrink recommended I not jump into a serious relationship. I hope you don’t think I’m weird. But I think making love is serious. And even though I want to, I don’t think we should, uh, go too far tonight.”

  Wow. My mind admires his determination to follow his therapist’s advice despite the irresistible temptation I’d like to think I present. My body is pissed. But at least he wants to be with me. That means hope for more dates. For the future.

  It also means many more sit-ups for me.

  “How far is too far?” I sip my liqueur. So delicious. I want to kiss him and taste Godiva on his lips. Unfortunately, I’ve never been the aggressive type.

  What if guys prefer women who take the lead? Maybe that’s why I’ve been dateless most of my life, because I’m usually reluctant to make the first move. Don’t want to risk being laughed at or rebuffed.

  How does a woman learn to be sexy? At my age?

  “This is absurd,” Jeff sets his glass down hard on the granite. Luckily it doesn’t break. “We’re not in junior high...I can’t set boundaries on what base we should go to. We should be free to do whatever we want. You can’t put a relationship on a timetable like an ad campaign.”

  “I think we both think too much.”

  An elegant buzz permeates my mood. I’ve sucked my Godiva down and hope he’ll offer a refill. I want some more. Like Oliver in Oliver!

  He finishes his drink. “You’re probably right. Look, it’s getting late and I haven’t gotten much sleep lately. Maybe we could go to a movie or a play next weekend.”

  The buzz vanishes. No more Godiva. I’m not even going to get a kiss out of this? I won’t see him for a whole week? It’s not late, it’s 10:23PM on a Saturday.

  I don’t like this
vicious circle of dating...the waiting, thinking about the guy and wondering if you should contact him and when he’s going to call, e-mail or text. Then the burst of elation when he does. Then the waiting starts all over again for the next time.

  You see what happens when you start liking someone more than he likes you? When you want more than he’s willing to give.

  “Yeah, I’ve got to be going,” I say decisively. Like I lead such a busy, meaningful and important life I must rush home immediately or the world will collapse.

  “I’m sorry, Marla.” A pause. “I seem to say that a lot to you.”

  I pick my purse up off the island. “Thanks for dinner. And the Godiva. I’ll have to get some.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  “That’s ok. It’d take twenty minutes each way. By the time you got back it would be really late, like eleven.” Instantly I regret my sarcasm. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “No. Thanks.”

  Do I expect too much? He recently started a high-powered job and ended a serious relationship. I’ve quit my job, obsessed about what to do with my future and waited for him to call. I’m ready, he’s not.

  He smiles. I cannot resist his most adorable smile. Kind of like Hugh Grant’s, but, no offense to Hugh, even better. “Is this our first fight? C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

  We’re in his Lexus. Cushy, quiet, great stereo. Jeff listens to WBBM, the main news/talk stations. An Anderson’s Auto commercial comes on.

  I sit up. Isn’t that Liz’s account? I’ll have to tell her they’re running. Oh. I guess I don’t have to care anymore who listens to what station or who runs which ads. Learned instincts will take a while to ignore.

  The drive north seems especially long when no one in the car is talking. You may recall that I can’t abide strained silences.

  “Have you worked on any movies lately?” he asks.

  We’re back to square one. At least I know what to say. “I did one night on all the way up in Waukegan. They kept us in a tent, and for the women there was only one honey wagon.” Read: toilet in a trailer reached by climbing a flight of rickety, open-worked metal stairs eager to capture and ruin your heels, but has a sink and is cleaner than and doesn’t smell like a Port-a-Potty.