My Life as an Extra

by Ruth Kaufman

  “I saw that on Facebook. What did you do?”

  “Spent around nine hours in that tent. They said they needed me for an upscale lawyer scene and I fell for it. You know how it is. Wound up being a scene in a bar, and they mostly used the extras who’d been there the night before. For the audio, we pretended to be diners in a restaurant, clinking glasses and silverware. Then we made jovial bar conversation and noises. It’s supposed to be Christmas Eve, so I started drunkenly singing “Jingle Bells,” and the people in my booth joined in. The mic was right over our heads. Who knows if it’ll make the movie.” I’m rambling, glad to have a topic to fill the time until he drops me off. “I did see a few stars, briefly. There could be a shot I’m in, but probably out of focus.”

  We’re in front of my building. Finally. “Thanks for the ride. And for a nice dinner.” I open the car door.

  “Marla.”

  I turn to Jeff.

  He reaches over and puts his hand on my neck. His fingertips slide into my hair. Mayhap all is not lost. I lean in for the kiss. The instant our lips meet, my buzz is back. It wasn’t from the Godiva at all, but from Jeff being close.

  He pulls away and looks at me. What is he thinking?

  I’m thinking, “Kiss me again.”

  He does, deeper and harder. Mmm, he is a great kisser. Bucket seats keep our bodies apart, but nothing can separate our mouths. His other hand moves to my shoulder as our kiss intensifies.

  “Ask me to come up,” he whispers.

  “Would you like to come up?” I’m ready.

  After Jeff parks, we hurry into my building. I attack my man in the elevator, like...I can’t recall a movie elevator sex scene. We kiss as momentum sends us crashing into the wall. A metal railing juts out, and smacks into my hip.

  “Ow!” I yelp.

  “Are you ok?”

  “Fine.” That’s a lie. My hip hurts like the dickens and I’ll be black and blue tomorrow. I reach for Jeff, but the moment is gone and we’re at my floor.

  He sits on my couch. I remember the last time he was here and his sudden departure.

  Though I’m eager to pick up where we left off in the car, having grown up in my mother’s house I ask, “Can I get you anything?”

  As with every Motherism, this beverage offering must be made. It’s as if Mom possesses hypnotic abilities when it comes to certain life rules.

  1. “You will write a gracious thank you note whenever you receive a gift within twenty-four hours.”

  2. “You will bring something for the hostess every time you go to someone’s house.”

  3. “You will never go to sleep with dirty dishes in the sink.”

  Etc. How does she maintain this power over me? Ingrained guilt? Pavlov’s dog theory? Even though I’m forty-two and don’t always want to do the things Mom commands, I can’t seem to stop myself from writing thank you notes and bringing gifts. Once I tried to go to sleep having left my unwashed dinner dishes in the sink. I tossed and turned until I gave in and put the stuff in the dishwasher.

  “I could use a glass of water,” Jeff says.

  To cool his burning passion. Ha. I drain him dry. Ha ha.

  By the time I put ice and water in a glass and get a napkin (another Motherism, “You will never serve anything without one.”), Jeff has fallen asleep.

  My date fell asleep. Unbelievable.

  Now what? Do I wake him for more blistering kisses until we reach wherever “too far” is? Cover him with my red mohair throw and let him sleep? If so, do I sit here with him until he wakes? Go to my room and try to sleep, as if there isn’t a cute guy crashed on my couch?

  More options: I’ll shake the glass near his ear and the rattling ice will wake him. I’ll kneel and give him a kiss. I’ll jump on him like my brother used to do to me on Saturday mornings. I’ll write a book called 101 Things to Do When the Guy You Like Falls Asleep On Your Couch.

  All choices are awkward. Dating is awkward.

  This is why living alone is a good thing. There’s no doubt. No insecurities about screwing up. Just enjoying whatever I want whenever I want. Total control over the remote. But many people aren’t comfortable being alone. They’d rather live with someone who makes them unhappy than face the dreaded sentence of a solitary life.

  I’m going to wake Jeff up and send him packing. I don’t need a man who tells me to go home one minute, mounts a sensual assault and invites himself to my home the next and exhibits narcolepsy the next.

  He is adorable though. Sleeping and awake.

  I pick up my throw. As I gently cover him, he wakes up. For a split second, Jeff looks confused. Then absolutely embarrassed.

  “I fell asleep? I am so sorry. There I go, apologizing again.” He sits up, yawns and stretches. “I was dreaming about you.”

  “Oh?” There’s a good comeback. I sit next to him. “What was I doing?”

  “This.” Jeff kisses me once more. I’m running my hands over his back when he breaks into a yawn.

  Puh-leeease.

  Shaking his head, he says, “Too much work has taken its toll. I haven’t gone without this much sleep since I was in a movie at night and worked during the day. Marla, I promise I’ll make this up to you. Next weekend. And Superhero IX is coming out soon. We should go.”

  I don’t get the sense he’s being sincere, but just saying these things like so many guys do when they don’t how to avoid a more honest but also more uncomfortable date ending. When they don’t know how to say, “Gee thanks, I had a nice time but I’m not all that interested.”

  “Thanks for stopping by, Jeff. Call me.” Also rote responses. Wait a minute. Not saying what I think won’t get me anywhere. But I mustn’t sound whiny or needy. “Do you mean you want to get together next weekend or are you just saying the nice thing when in actuality it’s worse than saying what you feel?”

  “Honestly, Marla, I’m not sure. My job is so all-consuming right now, I’d hate to be this exhausted again when we go out. It’s not fair to either of us. I’ll see how my week goes, all right?”

  Whatever.

  Jeff pecks my cheek and leaves.

  Alone again, naturally. But I’m fine with that. This time I mean it.

  Chapter 23

  7:00AM Welcome to pamper Marla day. I’m allowing myself the utmost indulgence, doing whatever I want without worrying about anything. I will squeegee any dripping concerns out of my mind. I am worthy. I deserve enjoyment.

  Here’s my itinerary:

  8:00 massage

  9:00 spa pedicure

  10:00 late breakfast at Ann Sather’s where I won’t think about the calories or fat grams in the amazing, gooey cinnamon rolls

  11:00 shoe and other shopping downtown

  2:00 brownie ice cream sundae at Janzery’s...it’s the best

  3:00 movie marathon including medium popcorn (well, I skipped lunch)

  8:00 pick up Chinese, go home and read

  9:00PM What a wonderful day I had after following my itinerary to the letter. I’m replete and relaxed, reclining on my soft sofa with a good book and perfectly painted toes. I bought two pairs of shoes on sale, saw two good movies and enjoyed great food. Everything is right with my world.

  This is the solution. I sit up so fast my book tumbles to the floor. At last I understand the true meaning of “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  Why have I been searching so hard when the answer is so easy? Pure hedonism until the cash runs out. No rejection, no stress, just joy, pleasure, fun and acting on whims instead of over thinking and what-iffing every decision. You may recall I’d considered a similar option before, but from a quitting and giving up angle. Now I perceive this as the ultimate choice...getting out there and partaking of everything the world offers beyond my normal, narrow purview.

  Since running into Ex, I’ve wondered why I haven’t taken a trip in so long. My new life calls for major travel. Where will I go? Why, to New York to see all the shows I’ve been dying to see. Then on to
Europe where I’ll stay in the finest boutique hotels and see the sights. I might even go to New Zealand.

  How lucky am I, with such freedom at my disposal and such amazing experiences to look forward to? Time to stop focusing on things over which I have no control, like dating and acting. Areas where others get to decide if I’m good enough. If I’m worthy of being chosen. I’ll take control, by gum. Be the pampered princess, where what I desire is all that matters.

  “What’ll you live on when you get back, you soon to be well-traveled fat cow? What if something actually comes from those letters you sent to agents?” VIH has to toss in its two cents.

  I don’t care. Being a responsible striver hasn’t gotten me where I want to go. Hello to the new, carefree me.

  New York, here I come.

  Via phone speed dial the next day, I inform my personal circle of my plans.

  Linda: “You’re going away for almost a month?” I hear a slurp, her morning coffee.

  “Isn’t it great? Here’s the plan. In New York, I’ll see six shows in four days. Then off for a week in London where I’ll go to three more shows, followed by a week in Paris, and five days in Switzerland. I was up almost all night planning on the web.” And made myself quite dizzy with all the scrolling, too. No New Zealand, it’s just too far and expensive.

  “How much will this journey cost?”

  “Well, a lot, with nine orchestra theatre tickets, hotels and airfare. And of course, food and miscellaneous shopping.” Actually, around $6,000. “But hey, you guys are going on your Danube cruise. Like you, I’ll make memories to last a lifetime. All I have to do is finalize the reservations and pack my bags.”

  “You don’t think this is a little sudden? Maybe you should think this through.” I don’t answer. “Have a good time,” Linda says after a long pause. “Send me a postcard. Or post on Instagram.”

  I can tell from the way she says “good time” my sister thinks I’m making a mistake. Why is a costly European vacation ok for her and not me? Because she has someone to go with?

  Parents: Dad says, “You’re irrational. What kind of unemployed person wastes her savings on a travel spree? You’d better not be cashing in your 401(k).”

  “I’m not calling to get your approval, just to tell you of my plans. Linda will have my itinerary.”

  “Bring me a loaf of crusty French bread. And a dozen croissants,” Mom orders. “Don’t forget some Swiss chocolate. Not Lindt, we can get that here. Unless they make it differently there.”

  Andrea: “I wish I could go with you.” She sighs with gusto. “Even if we could afford it, Dan would never let me. Unfortunately, the glow from our evening hotel getaway has faded. We won’t be able to schedule another for months, with all the kids’ activities. I’m trapped, and you’re free. Enjoy your freedom.”

  Catherine: She whoops. “You go girl! I’ll be with you, vicariously that is. Too bad stay at home moms can’t gallivant off to Europe just because they feel like it. I wish I could do fun things like you.”

  As I hop on the internet to finalize tickets and make reservations, doubt creeps in. I attempt a mental squeegee, but it doesn’t work. I don’t need VIH to tell me I’m not only going on an extravagant, extended vacation.

  I’m running away.

  Chapter 24

  It’s late night of Day Five. I’m engaged in random TV flipping, something no creative, intelligent person should ever resort to doing, especially nowadays with so many streaming options.

  I feel I’m near to finding life answers. I’ve kiboshed the world tour, my practical side finally dominating my capricious one. And I don’t miss work, except for interaction with co-workers and clients. WZRJ offered great camaraderie. I didn’t know how much I’d miss that.

  A commercial proclaims, “For this world’s best Psychic Readings, call now! First five minutes free!”

  Psychic assistance. Could that help me find out if I’m making the best choices? I know better than to call one of those 900 numbers. But I remember Catherine telling me about a good friend of hers who went to Madame Zarinda, a local psychic who writes a column for the popular site What’s What, and got amazing results. Her whole life changed. Her dreams came true.

  Madame Zarinda, here I come.

  Though an hour will set me back two hundred dollars (!), by three the next afternoon I’m in Madame Zarinda’s office, if you can call it that. It’s more like a mysterious lair, dark and draped in rich, glimmering fabrics. The ubiquitous crystal ball sits on her cloth-draped table. A gold-framed placard in elaborate script reads: “Be where you are.”

  Is that the sign I’ve been waiting for, another reminder to live in the moment and enjoy the day? A practice that sounds easy, but is also easy to forget.

  Her assistant leads me to a soft velvet chair.

  “I suggest you clear your mind, then focus on three questions you wish Madame Zarinda to answer,” she says.

  I only have one. What should I do with the rest of my life?

  Spooky music plays, sending a chill up my spine. Catherine’s friend swears by Madame Z, I remind myself.

  Madame Zarinda doesn’t dress the part. No jingly gold earrings, head wraps or full skirts. She’s older than me, with dark blond short hair, wearing faded jeans, a blue tie-dyed sweatshirt and Birkenstocks. Moonstones dangle from her ears. She wears a silver ring on every finger. And her thumbs.

  “Marla Goldberg.” Her voice is mellow, hypnotic, kind of like Cate Blanchett as Galadriel in The Lord of the Rings.

  Maybe Madame Z has a good reputation because she hypnotizes her clients/victims on the sly and programs them to speak highly of her.

  She laughs, the sound a tinkle of bells. “You aren’t my first visitor to think that. Only you can decide if it’s true.”

  I cover my mouth in surprise. I should’ve covered my ears, obviously where my thoughts are leaking out. Can she read my mind? Probably a lucky guess.

  Madame Zarinda tells me a bit about herself as she moves gracefully around the room lighting a slew of candles. She adds, “I’m a clairvoyant. I see images from which we can discern literal or figurative meaning. I do not read Tarot cards or palms. Or scry with my crystal ball. It’s merely for decoration. Atmosphere.”

  Hmmm. Maybe I should have investigated more carefully before scheduling an appointment. I believe in Tarot cards, and have a deck stored in a special box. I don’t know much about clairvoyants.

  I smell lilies of the valley. The sweet flowers grew in profuse bunches at my childhood home, leaving me with fond memories of picking and sniffing them. Does the clairvoyant know they’re my favorite?

  “They’re mine too,” Madame Zarinda says as she sits in her high-backed chair.

  This is disconcerting. I’m afraid to think. Of course when you tell yourself not to do something, that makes you want to do it even more.

  “What brings you to me?” she asks.

  Shouldn’t Madame Mind-reader know?

  Madame Z leans forward and stares at me. Her gaze is piercing. “I could intuit your reason, but doing so takes longer. And more importantly, drains some of my energy away from reading your energy.”

  Oh. Well then.

  “So? Why have you come?”

  “I need to know what to do with my life. What path to take. I’m happy I quit my job and am enjoying the freedom, but something’s missing.”

  “I see.” She takes my hands. Warmth spreads from my fingers up to my elbows. Creepy. “You’re nervous. There’s no need. You’re safe here.”

  Madame Z’s right. I am afraid of what she might see. I’d better stop thinking things like this if she can read my mind.

  “Good idea,” she says. “Focus on your question. Release your inner self. Try to relax. Breathe in slowly and deeply, then out slowly. Three times.”

  As I breathe, Madame Zarinda closes her eyes and rests her head against the back of her chair. For several long moments, the only sounds are the eerie music and her deep breathing.

&nb
sp; Then, “Marla Goldberg. Here is what I see for you.” A pause.

  Well? Well?

  “I see... I see...nothing.” Madame Z sits up and shakes her head as if to clear cobwebs. “How bizarre. I never see nothing.” She seems truly perturbed, not like she’s making it up. “You have such strong energy and your thoughts come through so clearly I expected to envision many things for you.”

  She gets up and changes the music on iTunes. Less eerie, more soothing. “Let me try again. Please, focus on your question.”

  I focus as hard as I can. WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH THE REST OF MY LIFE? WHAT SHOULD I DO WITH THE REST OF MY LIFE?

  “Marla Goldberg. Here is what I see for you. I see...ah. I see shoes. Red shoes with bows. No, they’re ruby red slippers.”

  She had me at shoes. I thought she was seeing inside my closet. Or maybe sensing my joy of shopping. Or that I should own a shoe store. But ruby red slippers? Who am I, Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz? The movie, of course, not the book. The shoes were silver in the book.

  Madame Z’s eyes are closed. She’s frowning. If she adds, “And she clicks her heels three times,” I’m outta here.

  “I see...nothing more.” She jumps to her feet. “This has never happened. I hope I’m not losing my gift.” She puts her fingers to her temples, then pulls my check out of her pocket. Her hand shakes as she gives it to me. “Here. You didn’t get your money’s worth. If you choose to return and try another session, maybe next week, I won’t charge you. I’m truly sorry.”

  “Thank you, Madame Zarinda.” I’m freaked out. Why am I the only person for whom she can’t see the future? Do I not have a future? “Do you mind if I ask you what you think the slippers meant?”