The Extra (4 page)

Warren smiled to himself as he and Bridget moved off.  That went pretty well, he thought.  He owed it all to Bridget, his new friend and protector.  “Thanks,” he said, chuckling lightly as they moved off.

“Any time,” she replied with a smile.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he said and then headed back in the direction of the cement wall he’d hopped over that morning.

“Where are you going?” Bridget called out after him.

“I came in over here,” Warren answered.

“You can go out the gate,” Bridget laughed.  “You’re one of us now, for better or for worse.”

Warren shrugged sheepishly.  “All right.”  He followed Bridget through the lot and out past a guard gate. 

“Goodnight Warren.  I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Bridget once they’d reached the sidewalk.

“Sure thing,” Warren answered cagily.  It wasn’t like he owed them anything.  He could always just spend another day on the street, playing his sax and hanging out with his buddies.  Then again, that’s what he did every day.  Maybe a little change would do him good.  And he couldn’t complain about the lunch. 

Bridget turned left and headed off while Warren went right along the fence until he came to the corner and then continued up the alley.  He found the door to the crawlspace where he’d hidden his saxophone, opened it up and breathed a sigh of relief to see that his instrument was still there.  He pulled it out, inspected it briefly, and then walked back the way he’d come with an unexpected spring in his step.

Chapter Six

The homeless shelter was on a street full of newspapers, empty cups and the detritus of human beings who had given up all hope.  For Warren the shelter was the closest thing he had to a home.  He slept here three or four nights a week, when he wasn’t simply out on the street.  On this evening he stepped over a few pairs of legs on the sidewalk and headed through the door to find a man with a trim moustache, thinning hair and a worn gray sweater sitting behind a front desk reading a paperback novel.

“Evenin’ Warren,” said the man as he looked up.  “You’re lucky tonight.  One spot left.  Number 45.”   He handed Warren a tag with the number on it.  “You better show up earlier, you wanna make sure you get space.”

“Yeah, Bennie, I know, thanks.”  Warren took the tag, walked past the desk and turned right through a doorway into a large room full of cots.  Only a handful of men were in the room, with one or two already asleep; the sounds of their snores mingling with the traffic noise coming from outside the windows.  As for the dank musty odor, Warren was used to it.  The smell of unwashed men was one he lived with daily.  He found cot number 45, placed his hat and his saxophone on top and then walked back the way he had come, out the door and across the hall into the dining room.  This is where the action was as men and women crowded in line to get their dinner and others sat at long rows of tables eating.  Warren got in line behind the man he’d seen on the street earlier in the day, with frazzled grayish hair and the cloudy cataract in one eye.

“How’s it going Smiley?” Warren asked.

“You know, still homeless,” Smiley answered.

“Yeah, still homeless.  What they got tonight?”

“Tuesday.  Salisbury steak with beans and rice.”

“Sounds good.”

“I heard those cops this morning kicked you off the boulevard,” Smiley said.

“Who told you that?”

“Got my
sources
,” he stressed the last word.  “That just ain’t right.  How’s a man supposed to earn a livin’ if they won’t even let you try?  Besides, a guy who plays like you should be allowed to play any damn place he wants.”

“I can’t disagree with you there, Smiley, but don’t you worry about me,” said Warren.

At the food counter, a cook in a white apron and hat asked no questions; he just scooped food onto their plates and handed it over.  Warren took his plate and found a seat at one of the tables.  He looked at the downcast lot around him; men with missing teeth and dirty hair, torn clothes and glazed looks in their eyes.  Women whose dreams of youth and beauty were long behind them.  Warren held a hand to his face and rubbed the dirty beard on his chin.  “A movie star,” he said quietly with the faintest of smiles.  He picked up his knife and fork and cut into his lukewarm Salisbury steak.

Chapter Seven

When he walked toward the studio in the early morning, Warren felt a strange mix of anxiety and enthusiasm.  He worried that his ruse would be discovered.  How long could he get away with pretending to belong there?  At the same time, he was surprised at how eager he was to return.  Was it the camaraderie that he’d happened upon?  Or the mountains of food?  Or perhaps the starlet, who reminded him so much of Ophelia?  No, there was something else.  In the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but think of the girl.  More than anything, it was Bridget who drew him back.  He knew he had no chance with her, not in his present condition, but that didn’t matter.   He wanted to see her again.  When Warren reached the studio’s front gate, a line of cars was waiting as a security guard checked the drivers’ identification and then waved them through.  The guard scowled when he saw Warren approaching on foot.

“I’m here for the movie,” said Warren.

“Sure you are,” said the guard, having none of it.

“I was supposed to come back,” Warren continued, plaintively.

“Said who?” asked the guard, obviously annoyed.

“I don’t know.  Some guy yesterday told me to come back.”

“You better move along.”

Warren stood where he was, looking around in frustration.  He watched as the guard continued to wave cars through. 

“Look, move it or I’ll call the police.  This is private property,” the guard said.

“I know I look a little worn out, but… this is just my costume.  I mean my wardrobe.  It’s my wardrobe,” said Warren.

“Right.  What’s the movie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s the director?”

“I’m not sure.  Some guy with glasses.”

The guard scoffed in disbelief.  “I’ll bet they told you not to bathe for a week, too.  Is that right?”

“Kevin!  His name was Kevin.  The guy who told me to come back.  Can’t you call someone?” Warren asked.  He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, determined to stand his ground.  He felt the folded piece of paper he’d shoved in the same pocket the day before.  He pulled out his voucher, took one quick look and handed it over.  “Here, see!?  This is the movie!”

The guard took the voucher with a skeptical air.  He looked it over, noting the production number and the signature at the bottom.  As much as he hated to admit it, the document was legit.  “Why didn’t you say so earlier?!” said the guard accusingly.  “Stage fifteen.”

“I know where to go,” Warren replied, snatching the voucher from the guard’s hand.  He folded it up and placed it in his pocket once again.  The guard begrudgingly took one step back and Warren walked on past, doffing his fedora as he went. 

As he strolled across the lot, Warren passed stages bustling with activity.  He saw a group of dwarves in green Martian suits scuttle through a door to his left.  On his right two crewmen wheeled a giant spotlight across the tarmac.  Ahead of him was a truck with a steel cage strapped to the back.  Inside, a Siberian tiger rested with his chin on his crossed front paws.  Warren came to a halt as he and the cat watched each other.  He considered putting a hand through the bars to give the animal a pat, but then decided against it.  “How much they payin’
you
?” he asked before continuing on his way.

As he approached Stage 15, Warren’s heart picked up a beat.  Amongst the group of extras he spotted Bridget standing with Charles near a table of donuts, bagels and coffee.  At the far end of the table, a crew member sat handing out daily vouchers to each new arrival.

“Warren, my man!  You made it!” said Charles, once again in his policeman’s uniform.

“Hello,” said Warren.  Any anxiety he’d felt faded away when he saw their smiles and a sense of ease passed over him. 

“I told him you’d be here,” said Bridget flatly.  “He didn’t believe me.”

“Well, I’m happy to see that I was wrong,” said Charles.  “Grab a new voucher and then get yourself a bagel and some coffee.  It’ll warm you up.”

When he’d picked up his voucher, Warren wasted no time helping himself to some food.  He took a cup and filled it with steaming black coffee.  “What’s this movie about, anyway?” he asked.

“Gangland Chicago in the 30’s,” Charles replied.

“You mean like Al Capone?” said Warren.  “
The Untouchables
?  That sort of thing?”

“Something like that,” said Charles.  “We just do what they tell us.  Don’t worry, you don’t have to know what it’s about.  Stand where you’re told to stand and walk where you’re told to walk.  That’s all there is to it.”

“As long as they keep feeding us,” said Warren happily, “I’ll do whatever they want.”  From the door to the soundstage, a thin, ungainly man appeared.  He hurried past the extras without giving them a second glance.  “Who was that?” Warren asked as he watched the man go.

“Roger Craddock.  Producer,” said Charles.  “Don’t worry, we’re
way
below his radar.  He doesn’t even know we exist.”

“The man is a lecher,” Marjorie replied knowingly from behind her playing cards.

“And how do you know that?” asked Charles.

“How indeed…” Marjorie countered with a sly smile.

“Come on, now,” said Bridget. 

“Ok, maybe I haven’t seen him in action myself, but I’ve heard the stories,” Marjorie continued.  “The casting couch is alive and well in this town.  How do you think Miss Jessica Turnbull got to where she is today?”

“I don’t believe you,” said Bridget in disgust.

“When the devil comes calling, you make your choice.  Jessica Turnbull made hers, and it seems to be working quite well,” said Marjorie.  She cast an eye on Bridget.  “I’ll tell you, if I were a cute young thing I’d watch myself around that man.  The quest for fame can do funny things to a person.”

“My morals will remain intact, thank you,” said Bridget, feigning offense.

A young production assistant poked his head out the soundstage door and shouted to the extras.  “Let’s go, everyone!  On the set!”

“Magic time,” said Charles.

When they walked into the soundstage Warren expected the city scene from the previous day, but those sets were pushed off to one side.  In their place was the seedy interior of a nightclub, with wooden tables, a stage up front, and a long wooden bar along one side.  Sitting at one of the barstools was the sexy starlet from the day before, clothed today in a tight black dress.  Warren was still captivated by her figure and the long, slender legs dropping down below her hemline.  Her dark hair gleamed in the studio lights.  Her breasts seemed ready to burst from their confines.

“Jessica Turnbull,” said Charles quietly when he saw Warren staring.  “Just don’t try to talk to her.”

Warren didn’t answer.  Instead he found himself lost in wistful reverie.

“Yo, buddy, you in there?” Charles added.

“Yeah, yeah,” Warren snapped out of it.  “I heard you.”

“You wouldn’t want to get yourself in trouble.”

Stewart Kaplan approached his lead actress with a sense of urgency, eager to get started.  “Are you ready darling?” he asked.

“Yes, dear,” she replied with a certain smugness.

Kaplan nodded and turned to his First AD.  “Get this background in place!  I want customers; some at tables and a few people at the bar!”

Kevin ushered the extras onto the set, leading Warren and a few others to a table at the rear.  When he was seated, Warren watched Jessica as she stood alone at the center of attention, waiting for the cameras to roll.  This was a woman who knew her power, sexual and otherwise.  She was the one who brought the crowds out.  At the end of the day, she sold the movie tickets, and she was the one that every man in the room desperately wanted, whether they let on as much or not.  Warren had to turn away, unable to look without feeling terribly lonely.

Chapter Eight

The waiting really was the hardest part, Warren was beginning to learn.  While the rest of the crew hustled about inside the soundstage rearranging the sets, the cameras and the lighting, there was nothing for the extras to do but sit outside in the holding area.  He was used to having nothing to do.  That went with the territory for someone like him, but at least on the street he could come and go as he pleased.  He could wander off to play his sax, or hang out with his buddies, or even buy himself a bottle of something if he had enough money in his pocket.  Here he felt trapped.  He supposed this was what most people went through in life.  People with jobs.  Respectable people, who traded a little bit of freedom for security.  If he ever wanted to climb back out of the gutter, he decided, he’d better get used to it.  That didn’t mean he had to like it.  “There’s a lot of sitting around in this job, isn’t there?” he said to Bridget, who was reading her book in the chair beside him.

“I tried to warn you,” she answered without looking up.   

“You have something better to do?” asked Charles from across the table.

Warren chose not to answer.  From the door to the soundstage he saw Kevin walk out and meander through the holding area.  The First AD looked from one person to another as the extras peered back at him hopefully.  This was the man who could make their dreams come true.  At least they seemed to think so.  Kevin finally stopped in the center of the tent and lifted one hand in the air to make an announcement.  “Attention, everybody!” he called out.  “How many of you people are union?” 

A few of the extras raised their hands.  Kevin looked them over one at a time but scowled slightly.  He was obviously unenthused.  When he turned toward Warren something seemed to catch his eye and he stopped to take a closer look.  He tilted his head sideways as he gazed at Warren’s chin.  Even under the beard there was something promising about it.  The eyes, too, seemed to have a certain shine to them.  “How about you?  Are you union?” Kevin asked.