My appetite was whetted two years ago when the back of my head starred in "Courage Under Fire" during a pivotal bar scene involving Scott Glenn and Denzel Washington. Enough time had passed since then, and I craved a return to the bright lights.
A blurb in the newspaper sought "interesting faces" as extras for "The Newton Boys," director Richard Linklater's take on 1920s bank robbers. I sent a photo of me with my arm around Larry "Bud" Melman, the odd little man made famous by David Letterman. As an old hand, I knew the secret extras code and included it in a note: "I have a VERY FLEXIBLE schedule."
One drizzly day a month later, the call came. My scene would be at a police station, a bubbly voice said. "Are you free next Monday, barring rain?" No problem. I've got a flexible schedule, I said from memory. "Could you come down tomorrow for wardrobe fitting and a HAIRCUT?" Yikes, I said, one hand instinctively shielding my scalp. No problem.
The rain was pouring the next day as I pulled into the parking lot of a nondescript strip mall. A hand-made sign said "Newton Boys Casting." A parking space was open by the door. I took it as a positive omen and pulled in.
A perky woman at the front desk had me fill out forms and said my role was "passerby." I waited. Maybe being an extra is actually like waiting to go camping, I mused.
Fellow extras leaned against the waiting room walls. A man with a thick New York accent grabbed a few of us and led us to rack after rack of musty vintage clothing. "You're a 46 coat?" he asked me. Right. "What size hat?" Row after row of hats, shoes, neck ties and more spread before us. The smell of moth balls and decay was stifling. My personal dresser filled my arms with aromatic clothing and pushed me along the treadmill.
I crammed into a room with my new extra buddies to dress. "Hey, you look just like Linklater," one guy said. "Are y'all related?" I shook my head and took it as a compliment.
A truck driver with a silver mustache and a movie star smile slipped into a police uniform next to me. He looked so real I was afraid of being arrested for indecent exposure. He was "discovered" at a gas station and told he'd be perfect for the film.
My pants didn't fit. A button popped from my shirt collar and landed on the other side of the room. Back to the racks and more waiting. A trio of washing machines hummed as a wardrobe woman stirred a giant vat of Rit dye. Bubble bubble toil and trouble, I chanted silently.
The replacement pants were baggy, but a pair of blue suspenders held them in check. I tried on my cool twenties hat and wool tweed jacket and began to sweat. I looked perfectly cool.
Next came the haircut. The stylist raised her shears and attacked. The result made me look like Dagwood Bumstead, but my hair was not as razor short as I'd feared. For all of this I earned $15 and the right to wait by the telephone. The first call brought bad news: "Filming canceled on account of rain. We'll get back to you."
Twice more I was asked if I was available. "You're so flexible!" Twice more it rained. This really was like camping.
The fourth call came with record rainfall in the forecast. I got home and checked the answering machine. "We are definitely on for tomorrow. Here's what you do."
Filming was at the Austin State School, and I reported to the chapel there for check in. I was promptly handed the day's script! I didn't memorize lines (I didn't have any), but it was clear that Matthew McConaughey and Julianna Marguiles were hanging out at the police station in Omaha, Nebraska (and I would be too!).
More extras arrived. The ones who had already changed into vintage costumes were eerily correct for their roles, particularly the group of vagrants with their unshaven faces and tattered clothes.
I was led to the rows of trailers that served as temporary offices and dressing rooms. My costume was handed to me and I zigzagged through the trailers looking for a place to change. I spied a sign that read "male extras" and walked in. The radio played in the air-conditioned background as I slipped into another era. The bow tie still didn't fit. I hung all remnants of the nineties on a hanger and went back to the wardrobe trailer. A dresser there miraculously scrounged up an identical bow tie and it snapped into place easily. Another sign from the movie gods?
I was dressed, but my hair had grown back during the last rainy month. This time an electric razor came out and the sides and back became a pile of fluff on the floor. I was 1920s man. The cat's meow, the leopard's spots. I was ready for action and it wasn't even raining.
So, of course, we were called to lunch. Matthew McConaughey sauntered up to the lunch wagon for some fish in pineapple sauce and was just as quickly gone. He looked smaller and more baby-faced than on the big screen, I thought, and gobbled the rest of my tortellini and stir-fried veggies.