Recuerden Sus Marcos Por Favor

People,

Jimmy is at it again.


So yesterday I had to drive to Carson for an extras job. Now, whenever I’m booked for one of these things, I have to call some hotline that tells me where to go, what to wear and who to ask for to check in. I almost never know the name of the project, whether it’s TV, film; I have very little to go on. For this job all I knew was that I was supposed to be dressed hip and trendy and was being paid in cash on
site. Already it's sketchy.

I was directed to go to the Home Depot Sporting Center in Carson, which is basically a baseball and soccer field extravaganza. There were no signs directing me where to go, and I didn’t know the name of the project anyway, so I had to drive around a bit to find ‘the crew’.

Apparently everyone in Carson drives an early 90’s Toyota Corolla, lowered, with a spoiler and several decals to remind you that the car is, in fact, a Toyota. Also, they are all painted colors which I’m sure were not offered by the dealership, colors like highlighter lime and orange.

I found the group I was looking for, a large contingency of Latin men and women standing on a soccer field. Everyone was dressed, per instruction, ‘hip and trendy’. This clearly means different things to different people. I stood near the group, within earshot of anyone who looked important and pulled out my book.

Rule of non-union extras work #38
Always take a book.

Suddenly I heard someone talking to the group of Latin persuasion in an authoritative tone. Obviously this person was in charge. She was telling us what we were going to be doing that day. I cocked one ear, leaned in and gave it my all, but I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. I moved closer, took a few steps nearer my ‘hip and trendy’ associates. Still, I couldn’t quite get what was going on. And then it hit me. It was like a bolt of lighting.

She was speaking Spanish.

I looked around and realized that everyone was listening intently and nodding with agreement, laughing occasionally at her Latin jokes, and already practicing what I’m sure were dance steps she was conveying orally. I was at a total loss. I quickly came up to here and said I didn’t speak Spanish. She said:

Como?

So for the rest of the day, I felt like I had been dropped in the town square in Argentina with no guide. I listened with mock understanding when the director shouted over and over:

Muy importante recuerden sus marcos primeros.

I knew whatever it was I was supposed to be recuerding was very important, but that was about it. I never did figure out who this Marcos person was, or why he was so pivotal to the shoot, but I took it all in stride. By the end of the several hour ordeal, I gathered that I was in some kind of Latin commercial, probably to air on Univision, selling something. That is really all I got. I know it had to do with an envelope that the lead actors were passing around in front of the camera, but even if I had seen what was written on it, it would surely have been in Spanish. Elusive as the product we were pitching was, I felt by the end of the day a certain kinship with my dark-skinned compadres. We were made to shout ‘Unate!’ over and over as a group, and by the final shot, I really felt like I meant it. Whatever it meant.

Jimmy the Background Artist

People,

Good morning, one and all. I know it has been some time since I wrote to you. Some have said, 'what happened Jimmy? We want to know what is going on with you.' Well, the sad truth is, porn was too small a world for me. The megalomaniacal boss who couldn't spell also couldn't afford to pay me a salary. So rather than stay and be tortured for free, I decided to go in search of another field of work.

Boy did I find a gold mine.

Not an actual gold mine, as in, a job that pays, but rather an untapped mine of riches beyond my wildest imaginings. It is the world of background actors. Atmosphere. Extras. Or as I like to call them, 'All-About-Eves-In-Training.'

I have been looking for work for two months now so I have been forced to take it when it comes by. This means occasionally driving to Malibu to work for 8 hours for minimum wage with people who you wouldn't let baby-sit your dog. Just yesterday I was in Malibu working for some prank show we'll call 'Girls Behaving Inappropriately.' It 'stars' a gaggle of stupid bitches that run around pulling pranks on late teenage people who are on welfare or just out of prison. The people they find for this show are real winners. Laureates. But the prize is not with the 'stars' or the people being gagged.

The money is in the extras.

I have never met scarier people. They are so serious. They are all talking on their cell phones unceasingly, as though they were trading time sensitive stock. They talk very loudly at all times and always tell people on the phone in a rehearsed offhanded tone, 'oh I'm on set.' They are keen on starting conversations with such winners as:

'How many shows have you done?'

'This is my 35th time working.'

'You may be wondering what 'slate' means. You'll hear it a lot on set. If you need me to explain that and other terms you need to be familiar with, just let me know.'

All of these things have actually been said to me by a 'background actor'. I should clarify that these jobs I have been relegated to are non-union. This means that the person who is going to explain what 'slate’ means also has no idea how to get into SAG and probably never will. The particular girl who gave me the jems above mistook our day together as perfect strangers at a cocktail party for a session with her therapist. As we are forced to have real conversations to appear 'realistic' for the gag, I am forced to hear anecdote after anecdote about this girl's pitiful existence:

'I started out in Vegas helping a casting office cast RUSH HOUR 2. We cast all the background actors. It was real exciting, probably the most exciting thing I've ever done. So when I got to the set, people were asking me all sorts of questions, needing direction or help with their characters. It really made me realize what fame must be like for people like Al Pacino or Tony Danza. People just coming up to you asking for your input, or wanting your photo. I don't think I could ever do it. It's just too much. I do, however, know that I'm going to be super rich somehow. I'll probably have like 6 homes. And Jet skis. I love jet skiing. Although I only just got into it because I have a real allergy to milk which causes my legs to break out in horrible rashes. So I usually wear really thick tights. It was hard as a child but I just got used to it being a part of me, part of who I am. I'm the girl with the welts on her legs, and if you don't like it, then you can go fuck yourself. I'm not gonna change who I am for you! So yeah, once I went off dairy, the welts went down a little, so I figured I'd take up jet skis. Wait hold on, that's my cell. It could be my agent with another job....


So Jimmy has a new title.

Jimmy the Background Artist

The Bus in LA

My car is broken. It ground to a halt a few weeks ago and ever since I have been forced to find another way to get around Los Angeles. I considered my options:

1. Walk – Out of the question. Even places that are close are too far.
2. Teleport – Impossible, though not for long. I’m very up on all the technological advances. Once it’s available though, it’ll probably be out of my price range.
3. Public Transit – Demeaning yet feasible.

So the bus it is. It took me a few days to figure out the best routes to get to and from my office, but I’m fairly adept now, and I’ve learned a valuable lesson: the busses in LA are not like the busses in San Francisco or New York, or even Beirut for that matter. The cross section of people on the LA bus is rather, well, upsetting. All people on the bus in LA fall into one of the following categories:

1. Old People
2. Crippled People
3. Poor People
4. Crazy People
5. Me

Now wait, you’re saying. That’s impossible. Surely there are other kinds of people on the bus. How can EVERY rider fall into such a small list of descriptors? Unfortunately, quite easily. If Capitalism were a swamp, the people on the LA bus would be the scum at the edges, the sludge on the bottom. Let us take these groups one at a time to further understand the horror.

Old People

Elderly people who use mass transit are basically hip replacements waiting to happen. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but it takes a busload to save a grandpa from impending surgery.
Number of elderly people I have caught in my arms as the bus lurched forward or stopped suddenly: 7
Number of times I have seen an old person actually fall on the bus: 2
Number of elderly riders who have sat right next to me while smelling like mothballs and formaldehyde: 1

Crippled People

This category may seem mean-spirited or unnecessary, but I assure you, the crippled community is a well-established subset of bus riders. If you are on crutches, use a cane or are missing a limb you will surely be on my bus. Blind people, people in wheelchairs, and even a person in a total body brace (swear to god) have all been on my bus. The level of hatred one can build up against such a person is directly proportional to the amount of time it takes for a crippled person to get on the bus, reach into a pocket, fish out change or dollar bills and feed said money into the bus meter. This process can sometimes cause other riders to cry out, “COME ON!’ as they watch some middle-aged woman with a red-tipped walking stick rubs coins together to determine how many quarters she is holding.

Poor People

This category is really just a nice way of saying Latino and Black people. Really. All the white people on the bus are either old or crippled, and all the Asians are clearly visiting from out of town. The poor people often get on the bus and then fish around for change long enough to ride at least 3 stops for free. It is at this point that the driver will invariably have to kick them off, usually with much fanfare.

Crazy People

Do you have conversations with yourself? Outloud? In public? Do you like to swear at old ladies? Do you spit ferociously? Do you have a pension for throwing up and then staying put? Have you recently brushed your teeth with something like Ajax or Tide? Then you just might be crazy enough to be on my bus. It is the sure mark of a crazy person when one hears uncontrollable laughter coming from the back of the bus and one turns to find a tiny Latina woman staring at her shoes and cackling. If she glances at one, one would be wise to pick a point on the horizon and focus. Meeting the gaze of a crazy person is not a meeting that should be taken lightly.

Me

I am usually sitting next to the most extreme variety of passenger imaginable. I do my best to keep my headphones on and the music loud. This produces a curious effect: the environs are scored to whatever I happen to be listening to at the moment. Therefore, occasionally, a little old lady loses her footing and tries desperately not to die of a nasty fall to the tunes of Evanescence’s “Wake Me Up Inside.”

By this time, you might be thinking, “some of these categories seem as though they could overlap. What if you had a crippled old person or a crazy cripple?” The answer is, of course, that people certainly can and do cross categorical lines, but certain descriptors trump others. If you are old, and crippled, I deem you old, as that seems more liable to kill you. If you are poor and crazy, I deem you crazy as crazy will get you beat up much faster. If you are poor and me, I deem you to be me as poor is boring.