My Life as an Extra Read online

  Table of Contents

  MY LIFE AS AN EXTRA

  Praise for Ruth Kaufman’s Books

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Excerpt from MY LIFE AS A STAR

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Other Books by Ruth Kaufman

  Copyright

  MY LIFE AS AN EXTRA

  by

  Ruth Kaufman

  www.ruthkaufman.com

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  Table of Contents

  MY LIFE AS AN EXTRA

  Praise for Ruth Kaufman’s Books

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Excerpt from MY LIFE AS A STAR

  Author’s Note

  Discussion Questions

  About the Author

  Other Books by Ruth Kaufman

  Copyright

  Praise for Ruth Kaufman’s Books

  Must-read romance: “Kaufman can certainly write an entertaining suspenseful romance and brings us a happy sigh-worthy story in Follow Your Heart.”

  —USATODAY.com

  “Kaufman writes well-developed and sympathetic characters with clear motivations. The Bride Tournament is a page-turner of a historical romance that will have readers rooting for a happy ending.

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The story is beautifully written and chronicles their adventures as well as their romance. It was a great read from start to finish.”

  —The Romance Junkie, 5-star Amazon review of My Once & Future Love

  For everyone pursuing creative goals and dreams.

  Chapter 1

  My life’s upheaval begins on the Ides of March.

  If you’re a Shakespeare buff, like I am, or know your Roman history, you’ll recall what happened to Julius Caesar on that fateful day. He was betrayed and assassinated. The Soothsayer warns Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March.” Not once, but twice.

  Nobody warns me as I stand in the kitchen of my two-year-old semi-custom home cooking stir fry for my husband.

  “I think we should go our separate ways. I’m sorry, Marla,” my soon-to-be ex says.

  My heart and world disintegrate.

  Two weeks later, I’m driving home from the train station after work. A FOR SALE sign protrudes from my front lawn, impaling the green, carefully mowed serenity and proclaiming to the world that my seven-year marriage is over. A stake of failure in my chest.

  Days pass in a blur. I’m grateful that I feel more numb than devastated. Walking through my house for the last time, I linger at the entertainment center I’d helped design. The red accent wall I’d painted. Ceramic tile I’d chosen. All to make this four-bedroom house our home.

  I’m sitting on one of my two of the four lawn chairs waiting for the movers, wearing sunglasses to hide eyes puffy from lack of sleep. A car drives up. A vaguely familiar woman climbs out. She’s pretty, tall, with shoulder length brown hair. I recognize the new owner of my house. The last remnant of my American Dream.

  “Hi. When do you think you might be out?” she asks.

  “The movers are late,” I reply. “As soon as they come....”

  “I am so happy to be moving into this house, I have tears in my eyes,” she says.

  “I’m so sad to be moving, I have tears in mine.” Not blinking keeps said tears from falling. “But I’m glad you like the house.”

  “Well, I’d better be going.” The happy mid-thirties brunette with a husband, two kids and one on the way returns to her car, a ubiquitous SUV.

  I, a forty-one-year-old redhead with an aching soul, have no house. No spouse. No peace of mind.

  During lunch at my desk at WZRJ-FM a week after the divorce, my throat is so tight I can’t drink my steaming coffee, despite the enticing aroma. Entertainment news distracts me from reality. Chicagoland Daily says the feature film Superhero IX, directed by renowned award-winner Adam Markham and starring several of my favorite actors, seeks extras of all ages.

  I perk up. Just what I need to jump start my new life.

  I’d worked as an extra on more than fifty movies and TV shows filmed in Chicago before getting married, but only a few since. You can see me on and off for several minutes in an episode of The Chicago Code as a city official at a press conference. Unfortunately, only my shoulder made it into Public Enemies, even after I had to cut off most of my hair to be a secretary. But I did get to see Johnny Depp up close.

  Yes, I have a Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, the game based on the play Six Degrees of Separation, where everyone is linked to Kevin via six steps of connection. As one of his neighbors in Stir of Echoes, I can be spotted when he’s on his street.

  The universe is saying, “Do what you’ve always wanted to do. What you enjoy. Then everything will work out for the best.” Or maybe, “This is a red herring. Don’t waste your time on a fool’s errand.”

  I visit EXTRAvagant Casting’s website before I change my mind and get back to selling radio advertising time. My fingers tremble as I type my contact information, clothing sizes and measurements, and upload a current snapshot. I click submit. I want to do this, don’t I?

  Most movies need hundreds, if not thousands, of extras. But anyone who fits the physical specifications for a given scene, has a modicum of coordination and can resist the urge to look at the camera can be an extra and earn $84 for an eight-hour day. Is that enough for me? Maybe the time has finally come to move on to something bigger. Like a speaking part.

  Risking failure right now seems intimidating. Better to find somewhere I fit in and stick with something I’m good at. Like my job. I should see what I can do to enjoy that more and earn a living to pay for my sadly singleton condo.

  A week later, Diana from EXTRAvagant Casting calls. I’m going to be an extra in Superhero IX! The universe is smiling upon me. I smile back.

  Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary, Deluxe Edition, defines “extra” as: “1: beyond or more than what is due, usual, or necessary; additional 2: larger or better than what is usual” and then “7. Motion Pictures, Television. a person hired by the day to play a minor part, as a member of a mob or crowd.”

  In reality, the meaning is closer to “extraneous: not belonging or prope
r to a thing.” Synonyms are nonessential and superfluous.

  This is the essence of my life. Were I a country singer, my signature song would start like this, accompanied by sounds of a melancholy guitar strumming:

  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.

  This morning I’m packed into an old building in downtown Chicago’s Loop with two hundred other extras. We’re sitting on folding chairs in long, close together rows in a large room with taupe walls.

  “You, you and you.” A young guy wearing a baseball cap and green parka with a small microphone attached to the front points at people.

  I’m the third you. I’ll be going to set.

  “We’re doing outdoor shots,” he explains. “You’ll be watching a train speed by. In the movie, Superhero and his nemesis will be fighting in the train, but today is special effects only. Follow me, please.”

  Darn. No stars will be in my scene. Part of the fun is seeing A-listers or even B-listers up close and watching them work.

  About twenty of us are led into another room, where wardrobe people sew on our scarves and hats with fishing line.

  Extra work is rarely glamorous, and can be quite grueling if you’re on your feet for hours. But I enjoyed being picked for a small scene like this, as opposed to a crowd scene, when extras can be treated more like cattle than people. And seeing myself on the big or little screen near or interacting with a major star is wonderful. Not so wonderful when my scene landed on the cutting room floor.

  “You’ll be standing in front of wind machines to simulate the rush of the train speeding by, and we don’t want your clothing to blow away,” the guy says as he leads us up to one of Chicago’s elevated train stations.

  It’s so cold. Glad I’d thought ahead and brought hand and toe warmers that supposedly last for hours.

  The crew and the camera track fill the back half of the narrow wood platform, while the edge nearest the train harbors a row of large, circular wind machines.

  The North Face must make a mint off movie crews. Most of them wear puffy down coats with the familiar logo and massive snow boots.

  If I didn’t know better, I’d think I was in New York. New York maps and a Metropolitan Opera poster have replaced Chicago maps and signs. A bunch of travelers—commuters, students and tourists based on their clothes and things they’re carrying—get off an incoming train and look around in confusion.

  A short guy also wearing a baseball cap and parka lines us up in a row facing the wind machines. I’m already shivering. And doubting my decision to be here as I’ve often doubted my choices since Ex ended our marriage. Just because he didn’t love or want me doesn’t mean no one else will. Just because he didn’t love or want me doesn’t mean no one else will. Just because he didn’t love or want me doesn’t mean no one else will. Third time’s the charm to get me to believe that. Today.

  “The train will come by as the camera rolls on its dolly track behind you,” he says. “As violent winds blow, imagine you can see Superhero and his nemesis in the train. We want to see lots of surprise. Now, please turn your backs to the machines so you can get used to the force of the wind.”

  We turn our backs to the round, dark red machines resembling huge spotlights. With a noisy whoosh, they spew air. Laughter ensues as powerful gusts buffet us. I fight to stay upright. My curly hair blows straight up.

  Another group of extras boards the train, and will likely spend a few hours riding in circles around the city’s Loop. At least they’ll be warm.

  “Rehearsal’s up!”

  We rehearse without the train. The end of the shot focuses on me looking at the woman to my left, with the camera lens directly behind us. Will my windblown hair won’t block my face?

  “Reset!”

  After another rehearsal, my hand and feet warmers have already failed and are bean bags weighing down my mittens and crowding my boots. How much more freezing can I take?

  Adam Markham gets off his high canvas chair with the movie logo embroidered on the back in bright yellow and his name on the front, and comes over to us.

  My surprise is real, because usually the director talks to the assistant directors, or ADs, not extras. The second AD, or sometimes the first, passes on what we’re supposed to do. Almost everyone wears earphones and microphones, so you don’t always know who’s telling what to whom.

  His furry hood covers most of his narrow face, but I glimpse light blue eyes as he looks at me.

  My heart starts to race. A famous, award-winning director has noticed me. Will he pluck me from obscurity? Will I be upgraded to a slightly better role and higher pay, or will he even give me a line, a boon bestowed on rare occasion?

  “I don’t like the way her scarf is blowing.” The director walks down the row of extras and borrows a dark green, fringed wool one from some guy. For a second the guy’s face perks up. I know he thinks he’s going to be moved to a better place in the shot, my place, but Adam, if I may be so bold, just wants his scarf. I put it on and a wardrobe person safety pins it to my coat.

  “Rolling....” a voice calls.

  “Rolling!” several people echo.

  “Picture’s up.”

  “Background action!”

  Leaning over the wind machines as the train rolls by, I and the others brave icy blasts. My hair and the borrowed scarf blow straight up. The cold has pierced my coat and layers, so I’m shivering harder. I know my nose is bright red. The woman beside me jumps up and down.

  We endure a few more takes.

  Adam comes toward me again. My heart starts pounding again. Why an intelligent person such as myself gets nervous because a famous movie director approaches is beyond me, but I can’t seem to help it. I hope I’ll get to do something good and fear I did something wrong at the same time.

  “Will you step out of the shot, please?” he asks.

  My stomach drops. I do fear I’ve done something wrong. That even as a train-platform-standing-in-the-freezing-cold extra, I’m not good enough. I move to the side and watch forlornly as they do more takes, all these people crammed into such a narrow space doing their best for Superhero IX. Except me.

  A few minutes later, Adam comes over. I can’t help it, I perk up just like scarf guy. The director of a major motion picture actually left his chair to find me.

  “You can come back now,” he says. “It wasn’t the same without you.”

  A wave of joyous warmth washes over me. How nice is that. My day is made.

  Later, we’re working on a different shot on the other side of the platform. Adam comes over yet another time. I suck in a breath. My icy hands get icier.

  “Great reaction.”

  My face is probably so red from the cold he can’t tell I’m blushing. It’s the wind making my eyes tear up.

  The Adam Markham probably won’t remember me or those shots, for him just two of many in one movie of many, but I’ll never forget how nice he was. The way he knew how to make an extra feel like an actor. Feel talented and special.

  On the drafty train platform, inspiration hits me hard as a wind machine gust. If Adam Markham thinks I do a good job on camera, maybe others will, too.

  The once-familiar urge to perform, to entertain and move an audience, unfurls in my chest in a fiery burst like a phoenix spreading its wings. My first lines in a Kindergarten play made the crowd laugh and inspired me to be an actress...someday. But everyone knows acting is a risky, unreliable career. Would I be good enough? Find the elusive mix of right place, right time, right roles?

  Except for extra work, improv classes with student shows and a few community theatre musicals, I pretty much gave up after college. Plus, I couldn’t bear hearing, “I told you so,” from my dad with every rejection. Then Ex and I agreed I should have a “real job” so we could afford our house.

  Today made me realize how much I’ve missed acting. I’d repre
ssed the bug, but it still bit. I’d lost two dreams: a successful, loving marriage and gorgeous house. I would find a way to make this dream come true.

  Someday is now.

  Chapter 2

  “I want to be an actress,” I say out loud.

  I’ve put it out there. Scary, yet I feel better.

  I’m home at my desk with a cup of Trader Joe’s coffee, shoving doubts and what ifs aside to make a list of the steps I need to take. Like getting a headshot and resume so I can submit to talent agents and casting notices.

  Internet searches inform me that headshots cost several hundred dollars, plus more for a hair and makeup person. And though most agents submit their talent online via two main casting sites, some printed headshots are essential. I was a classical radio announcer in college, so I should have a voiceover demo, too. Which I learn can run up to several thousand dollars for a good one. Ouch.

  You have to spend money to make money. But I wish I hadn’t spent quite so much making my condo a cheerful, welcoming place. Which soon, I hope, will feel like home instead of just the place I put my stuff.

  After choosing a photographer, I schedule a session for next week. I listen to dozens of VO demos on several talent agent websites to assess what’s required. I may not sound as good as this woman, but I’m pretty sure I’m better than that one.

  I’ll also need a home studio to record and edit MP3 auditions and probably some jobs. That’ll set me back hundreds more dollars for a mic, headphones and something called a preamp.