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The Bullfigher

by Nick Cole

“Am I an accordion player who owns and can play the accordion or am I an Armenian folk dancer?” Mike said as he hung up the phone after listening to the taped message that the casting company had left on their business line requesting actors who could fill either of these requirements. The refrigerator hummed and clicked loudly. Outside a car honked as its owner raced by to an important meeting. The room smelled of paint and dust. A cat slept quietly on a plaid sofa, oblivious to the aired question. The clock moved one second further toward eleven.

“Oh yeah, that’s right. I’m a white guy of Irish descent who can’t even hum the theme to the Twilight Zone or find Armenia on a map.” He screamed silently, shook his head, rolled his eyes and strangled the air. The cat did not raise its head or even twitch a whisker. But, to acknowledge the daily outburst the man gave, it did acquiesce and raise its eyes in tandem, as if to convey, “Again, I wish you would book a job for the both of us.” A moment later it was back to where it is that cats go when they sleep.

Mike opened the fridge only to be confronted by a lone and very defiant crock of macaroni and cheese. The fridge had been cleaned in anticipation of Mike being able to work as an actor, and thereby purchase groceries. But alas, no work and hence a Spartan- like refrigerator with one soldier, bravely standing its ground, rebuffing each daily assault. Time was running out for the crock and for Mike.

The dreaded crock. He shuddered at the thought of another ration of macaroni and cheese and shut the door, opening it a minute later hoping that somehow something had materialized. Nothing had. If only he were on a movie set. Then he could eat. He thought for a moment about all the well- laden craft services tables he had encountered: Bagels, lox, cookies, nutrition bars, fruit, sodas, juice, milk, and at some point in the day, a meal or maybe even two. Maybe the lunch meal would be a rich Beef Stroganoff with a dollop of sour cream and garlic bread. Or the fish selection might be charred Copper River salmon with a shallot and butter sauce alongside roasted rosemary potatoes. Without giving the fridge a moment to react, he flung open the door in an attempt to catch whatever else had been hiding in there. Once again, nothing other than the crock.

“If I were on a set...” he mused. “If I were on a set, I could eat. If I were on a set, I could eat fruits and nuts and breads and maybe even meats. If I was on a set, and my belly was full and my actor bag empty, I could bring home goods and treats to fill this empty fridge of mine. If I were on a set!” In his mind, he danced to a bouzouki, moving left to right and snapping his fingers in time to the rhythm in his head. He plucked at the invisible treats with his fingers, selecting first a bar of fudge, then a ripe Fuji apple, followed by a hunk of sharp Wisconsin cheddar. For every three bites he ate, he placed one in the imaginary bag at his side. At the end of his song, he rubbed his full belly and patted the cornucopia his imaginary actor bag had become, stepping forward and taking a grand bow. He arose, opening his eyes to the desperate reality that was his life: a small, one-bedroom split rental on the south side of Melrose, no food in the fridge and no money in his pocket. He said quietly, in a grimly determined voice, “I must get onto a set.”

“I can play the Accordion.” After calling the booking line several times, he had finally gotten through to Dan at the Extras’ Casting Company. He had given his identification number and name, and now in the silent pause over the phone as Dan tap- tap-tapped his computer to call up Mike’s picture, he knew that Dan must be weighing what he saw in the photo versus what he needed to fill the position.

“Oh really? How long?” asked Dan.

“Forever. My Mom got it for me in the eighth grade, and I was in the school band. Back at the University of Minnesota, I was in a polka band. We played a lot of weddings and stuff. Since I’ve been out here, I’ve...”

“Enough.” Dan cut him off quickly and petulantly.

“You’ll need to play when you get there. You’ll also need a pair of lederhosen and two other changes of clothing; upscale casual. It’s summer in New York. You’ll be filming at Vasquez Rocks. Be there at six o’clock in the morning. The name of the production is ‘The Bullfighter’.” Dan hung up the phone without waiting for any acknowledgement. He was off to book another position for another production in an endless stream of productions.

Michael O’Reilly, formerly a student in the Dramatic Arts program at the University of Tucson, and recently relocated to LA to pursue a career in acting, had just booked a job as a featured extra in a film called ‘The Bullfighter’. He would need to bring an accordion, he did not own one; play an accordion, he could not play one; wear lederhosen, if you don’t have an accordion, what’s the chance you have lederhosen? And he’d have to make it to Vasquez Rocks, 30 miles north of Los Angeles. He did not own a working car. It was five minutes to noon. He had eighteen hours to arrive at the set with an accordion and lederhosen.

“If I can find an accordion, chances are there will be lederhosen somewhere nearby,” he reasoned, leaning against the counter in the kitchenette and staring out into the street. Busy people passed by going quickly from somewhere to somplace.

The next morning, at two minutes to six, a chocolate brown van with a modified racing engine, belching and grumbling, nosed its way through a dirt parking lot and stopped behind a long line of people standing in front of a folding desk. For a moment, the van rumbled and shook as its engine raced higher and higher. The crowd began to awaken from its collective morning coma and regard the van with distaste, as blue smoke began to saturate the still, pre-dawn air. The side door flung open for an instant to reveal a black-lit interior that resembled more dance club than passenger vehicle. The raw bass thump of hardcore industrial trance assaulted the virgin ears and cotton candy brains of the morning line people. A dark figure emerged, carrying a case and a large heap of something in its left arm. The van door slammed shut, the brakes released, and the nightmare vehicle disappeared from the reality of the morning. Rising parking lot dirt and dust filled the air along with van exhaust, and sandalwood incense. In the clearing gloom of the morning and the wake of the van, Michael O’Reilly, actor cum accordion player stood revealed in green lederhosen with matching cap and feather. He carried a case which contained an accordion. A large canvas actor bag was slung over his shoulder, the contents of which were a couple of shirts and one pair of pants, but whose true purpose was to carry as many goods away from the craft service table as possible.

He took his place at the end of the line. The girl in front of him gave him an annoyed look and returned to the important task of staring ahead at nothing. He noticed a few other accordion players in line, along with a lot of other people carrying overnight bags. After a moment, one of the production staff sitting at the folding table at the front of the line announced loudly that he was going to form a separate line for union extras. Great, thought Mike, this would be one of those productions where union extras received better treatment than the non-union rabble. This meant that union would have a different craft service table which would undoubtedly be better than non-union, otherwise why the difference? Unfortunately, he would be receiving a non-union voucher. The Production Assistant making the announcement kept droning on with rules and threats and how the day would go and what consequences would befall anyone who violated all his rules. At the end of his pedantic speech he added, “Accordion players go to the union line; you’ll be getting union vouchers since you’re playing today.”

Mike hefted his cased accordion, shouldered his bag, and departed for the union line as if he had been born solely for this purpose. Low comments and muttering trailed the departure of the union extras as they formed a new, somehow better line. Mike was in no hurry now. It would be smooth sailing from here on out. Now that he was union for the day, he would be one voucher closer to being admitted into the guild; and therefore, a legit actor. Also, he would be getting the good treatment today, which meant: better food.

It had been a very long eighteen hours to acquire the accordion, lederhosen and car ride to get here, but now that he was on the threshold of eating and obtaining the prized union voucher, it had been worth it.

He began to dream of the first muffin he would select; blueberry or honey bran, that was the question. He could almost smell his cup of hot, freshly brewed French Roast coffee. These thoughts washed away the sweat and work of the previous hours. He forgot all about Greta Horschensweis, his German neighbor whom he had gone to see in the pursuit of anyone who owned an accordion and lederhosen. He would borrow them for the day, he told her. She had said that she did know someone, and while she racked her eighty-seven-year-old memory for the owner of these things, she also managed to give him the life history of her twenty-eight cats, starting with Oskar and moving on to Heinreich, whom she called Heiny. This caused her to emit a bashful, girlish laugh that made her seem sixteen and back in the Bavaria of her youth. She said that her Husband Franz, who was dead, had a friend named Horst, and wasn’t that odd because she had two more cats named Horst and Franz who didn’t get along very well at all. Well, Horst had been a tuba player in an oompah-pah band and she could call him. She then began the hunt for an ancient phone book and continued to recite the life stories of her other cats: Maier, Gunter, Wilhelm, Kurt, Josef, Heidi, Eva, Ilsa, Reinhardt, Kempner, Klaus, Werner, Hermann, Johann, Stegler, Richard, Gerhardt, Karl, Friedrich, Gretel, Annchen, Ortrud, Hans, and Mr. Mittens. In the end, she found the book and dialed the number. She conversed in German, and it was clear that the person on the other end of the line was deaf because she had to repeat everything and repeat it loudly. She ended the conversation with “tschüs” and said that Horst had given her the number of the band’s old accordion player, Herr Von Sturm. A short phone call to Herr Von Sturm and a long goodbye to Mike, which involved a generous slice of cinnamon streusel to take with him, and he was off to Herr Von Sturm.

He turned the corner at the end of the block, just out of sight of her curtained windows, and looked longingly at the piece of streusel. His mouth began to water and he hated himself for what he had to do next, but he knew that he would regret it later if he didn’t do it now. How long it had been since he had enjoyed such a delicious treat as this. In college there had always been money for cake and coffee during mid-afternoon study sessions, but that was a long time ago, and lately, it seemed altogether another life.

He stared at the cake. There were no obvious cat hairs. But still, he recalled that the entire time she had talked to him, she had stroked the cats, rubbed them, and been very attentive to them. She had even cleaned two of their litter boxes before going to cut his slice of cake, during which her frail and arthritic hands had dropped the knife to the kitchen floor where the cats loved to roll and play at her feet. She had picked up the knife and wiped it on her white apron, which became a resting place for a cat anytime she chose to make it a lap. She did all this with a love and care for all living creatures. She was a treasure to this earth; to people and cat-kind alike, and she had not washed her hands once in all the time between the petting and stroking and litter box cleaning, not even when she sliced and placed the streusel in his hands. He gazed upon the cake with desire and finally, with a small sigh, threw it in an overstuffed trashcan on the street corner, a cheating lover cast off and not forgotten. He was a self-avowed germ-a-phobe; it was his only option.

Herr Von Sturm lived in a one-story house with white peeling paint and an open screen door. As Mike approached the front steps, the heady scent of the magnolia surrounding the front of the house overwhelmed his senses like untrimmed sails in a sudden wind, but he forged on, tacking his way to his goal. At the top of the porch, he realized the blossoms were engaged in a losing battle against acrid and stale tobacco smoke that wafted out from the darkened screen door. Cautiously, he peered through the screen door into the murky twilight. Inside the dark chocolate interior, amongst the cream-colored papers and antique portable typewriter, were large overstuffed leather chairs, and rising from the back of one, he could see the snakelike blue wisps of a cigarette, swirl and dissipate.

“Excuse me. Hello?” called out Mike, pressing his nose against the musty screen door.

A mephitic old man appeared next to Mike on the same side of the screen door, giving Mike a start.

“Ja,” said the old man. “You press so hard againsht der screen and you gonna break it. Den you vill be sorry.” The old face seemed to relish the thought of someone being sorry.

Mike presumed this was Herr Von Sturm and indeed it was. Von Sturm was a wiry old man with thin, liver spotted muscles ropy and visible with the absence of a shirt. He wore charcoal gray cotton trousers, two sizes too large. Unused suspenders hung at his side. On his feet were maroon-colored work boots of an age long surpassing Mike’s first birthday. Herr Von Sturm had his fingers open and ready, as if to gouge out Mike’s eyes with his large splayed thumbs if needed. Mike made no sudden moves, his only defense was agape silence until fear caused him to launch into his story.

“Mrs. Horschensweis said you might have some lederhosen I could borrow and perhaps you might also know where I could get an accordion for the day. I have a job.”

“Do you zink I am German or sometzing?” interrupted the old man with a bark.

“...Or not.” continued Mike feebly.

“Because only a German vould have zeese things. I am not a German. I am from Pasadena.” Herr Von Sturm lit a cigarette and looked Mike up and down while spitting bits of brownish-black tobacco from between his teeth.

“Who are you to come here asking for zeese silly things? Lederhosen unt an accordion. Vhat are you, a little girlie boy? You vant to play zee music and dance and makes ze people happy. You are not man enough to fight for ze fatherland.”

“I’m an actor. It’s for a part,” blurted out Mike.

“Oh. You are not from ze War Department.”

“No I’m not,” said Mike quickly, Herr Von Sturm had backed him up to the edge of the porch and now he was quiet for a long moment, his verbal tirade over, though a storm still raged behind his frosty blue eyes.

“Ve shall see. For now, I am from Pasadena.” With a quick motion, faster than anything Mike would have expected, Herr Von Sturm produced a gardening scythe, holding it next to Mike’s eye. “And while I am from Pasadena, you vill cut der lawn in back and I vill think about these things you ask for. Sie Verschte?” Mike took the blade slowly, glad to it was no longer in the hands of this lunatic.

“Follow me.” Herr Von Sturm turned with a precise snap-like movement and walked across the porch, down the steps, and around the side of the house. Mike stood still, transfixed on the blade and trembling ever so slightly.

“Come on you lazy verking fellow American. Now ve cut der grass.” Herr Von Sturm laughed and waved genially.

Mike followed.

Throughout the rest of the long, hot afternoon, Mike moved across the backyard, hacking his way through thigh-deep grass, half angry and half fearing what he might discover in the undergrowth. For a long time, Herr Von Sturm disappeared inside the house. When he returned, he was carrying an unlabeled bottle of clear liquid and a tray. He sat on the back porch at a picnic table and poured two fingers from the bottle into a tumbler and swallowed the liquid with an eye-closing gulp. He then began to cut thick pieces of greasy salami with a wicked looking hunting knife. As he cut, he would leave the salami on the knife and bring it to his mouth, chewing it deliberately and all the while watching Mike. Every few minutes he would pour another two fingers from the bottle and drink it with shuttering abandon.

The day progressed, and even though the calendar said fall, still it was hot and sticky as all manner of flying or crawling insects made assaults against him. He hacked at the grass and felt the hate of Von Sturm at his back.

“Let me ask you something, eh?” said Herr Von Sturm, standing directly over him.

Mike stood, wiping the sweat from his face. He was still wearing his sweater for fear he might need to leave in a hurry.

“I vant to ask you...” The old man’s eyes were watery and unfocused, and his breath reeked of licorice with a hint of salami.

“I vant to ask you if you have ever been to Augsburg?”

“No. I haven’t,” said Mike cautiously.

“Me neither. Das ist gut, eh?” Herr Von Sturm smiled expectantly at Mike.

“Yeah it is?” ventured Mike

“Den you have never tried der Pan Kuchen from der baker in Dusseldorf?”

“No?” said Mike cautiously. The old man breathed deeply, closing his eyes as he mustered strength for the next question.

“Den der crow does not fly at midnight does it?” challenged Herr Von Sturm, his eyes now open and wild with blue fire.

“No it doesn’t. I think?” offered Mike both hopefully and fearfully.

“Sehr gut. Ja,” said Herr Von Sturm to himself. He nodded as if taking a mental inventory of all that had just occurred.

“Den you are indeed who you say you are? Just some boy who vants to make mit der dancing unt singing. Ja?”

“Yeah that’s me, I just want to dance and sing. In fact, I think I’m late for it.” Mike started to inch away toward the back of the yard, mentally calculating the jump over the fence.

“Stop!” ordered Herr Von Sturm.

“You are finished. You vill vait right...” He barked. Then he pointed to a spot right before Mike’s feet and said softly, “There.” With that, he turned and entered the back of the house.

As Mike stood rooted to the spot, he knew that any minute Herr Von Sturm would exit the house, probably uniformed in the regalia of a full Nazi Colonel, salute, and shoot him straight between the eyes with a Luger. Instead, moments later Herr Von Sturm exited the house carrying an accordion case with some folded forest green clothing on top and a feathered cap under his arm. He approached Mike and thrust the items toward him.

“You vill bring zem back by next veek,” ordered Herr Von Sturm.

“Yes. I will.”

“These vill fit you or maybe zey are tight, eh?” smiled Von Sturm luridly.

“Maybe you vant to try zem on and dance and sing for me, eh?”

Later that night, sipping a free coke from the bar of the Polka Dot Lounge on Trans Industrial Night, Mike shuddered again as he recalled his narrow escape from Herr Von Sturm. But that was old business and now, as the people throbbed and pulsed to pounding music, new business was at hand. The only way to get a ride to the set the next morning had been to contact a friend of his who worked as a club DJ. In exchange for the transportation, Mike would help ‘roadie’ his equipment to this club and then another after-hours gig until five in the morning. Once that was over, he would help break down the equipment, load it into a van, and the DJ would drop him off at Vasquez rocks in time for his set call. He shuddered again and sipped his free coke, all the while watching the clock move closer to ‘call time’; six in the morning at Vasquez rocks, signed in and free to raid the craft service table with impunity. THUD THUD went the music around him. FLASH STROBE went the lights, and deep within him was a hunger for other things, some of which were food.

In the morning, the sun was just breaking to the east of Vasquez rocks. It began to reveal them no longer as strange crooked alien beasts of the desert nightscape, but now gave them texture and form, and promised to paint them beautiful pastels for the day. Mike stood in the union line waiting to collect his union voucher, the last hurdle before the finish line that was the union craft service table.

And now something new happened, when everything he had worked for seemed moments away, something even more wonderful happened. In another line, across the sea of faces, was a girl. She was thin and small with large dark eyes and a face the mixture of olive and alabaster, and for just a moment, she turned the deep pools that were her eyes and looked at him, her full crimson lips set in a perpetual pout. When it rains it pours, thought Mike. She looked weary and it was obvious that it was too early for her, yet through the morning haze she was the most beautiful creation he had ever seen. Even though she was here, she was not here. She was someplace else, some place better, some place with music. Classical music.

“Name?” asked the PA at the table. It was more a command than a question. Mike snapped back to the present, wiped the stupid look from his face, and replaced it with a broad grin. “O’Reilly,” he said. He glanced at the girl in the other line briefly. She had taken her voucher, speaking her name in an almost pearly whisper as the sun began to flood across the rock-scape, painting the stone bright oranges, wild reds, and swirling ochre’s. He had not caught her name, but her voice would stay with him forever. She picked up her clothing bag and makeup case, and wearily yet gracefully moved off in the opposite direction, away from him. He had to lock his muscles to stay in front of the PA to get his voucher and not rush to assist her with her burden.

“Here you go. All musicians form up over there and Henry will be over to make sure you can play before we release you for breakfast,” ordered the PA.

“Great,” said Mike, waiting until the information that applied to him was given. A moment later, to his growing horror, he realized he was considered a musician. He moved off toward a group of men in similar costumes, each carrying a cased instrument. He forgot the object of his desire and concentrated on the mission at hand. The next step was crucial. When it would come time for him to play, he would tell them that the bellows in his accordion were broken and that he had only discovered it this morning. He would then ask for a spare instrument and they would tell him it did not matter because he would just need to stand in the shot and pretend to play. So often, extras were given all kinds of threatening information and standards when they booked a job, only to show up and be told most of it was unnecessary. Anyway, thought Mike, films always record music afterward in postproduction.

Once they bought the broken accordion routine, he would then be free to hang out on the union side, stand when the camera was rolling, and simulate playing an accordion, which he could do because he was a trained actor. Then he would be free to spend his day eating and raiding the craft service table that had grown, in his mind’s eye, to a bountiful and buckling table filled with endless possibilities of sustenance. Maybe there would be goose liver pate, he thought, or some such extravagant luxury. He listened with half an ear to Henry ask each of the musicians to play their instruments, and continued to dream of possibilities.

Mike went through the motions of strapping his accordion on, testing it, and beginning to warm up. Then, with an earnest and his best approximation of an honest effort, Mike attempted to play the thing. At once, it made all nearby musicians wince and then remember that yes, it was an accordion, and maybe that was how it was supposed to sound. At hearing the noise, Mike gave his performance; at first expressing dismay and then concern, slowly increasing the level from confusion to anger. Henry would notice this, thought Mike, and would be even more willing to buy his story. He waited until Henry had cleared all the musicians, sending them off to a piping hot breakfast of steaming scrambled eggs, maple smoked bacon, and buttery muffins.

“Alright, let’s hear it,” demanded Henry, clearly oblivious to Mike’s recent dumb show.

“I think there’s a problem. My...” began Mike.

“Can you fix it?” said Henry, cutting off the excuse.

And here is where, thought Mike in hindsight later that day, he had made his crucial mistake. He should have said: “I’ll work on it.” That would have given him time to get lost in the shuffle as Henry went on to another task, of which there are an endless supply on movie sets. Instead he decided to close the deal right then and there.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to play it today,” he said sadly. “Do you have a spare?”

He knew they didn’t and this would be the moment that Henry said, “That’s okay. Just act like you’re playing and we’ll record it later.” He imagined a heaping pile of fluffy scrambled eggs, delicately marbled with cream-white yolk. He was so hungry and for a vague moment he wondered if he should bypass setting his gear down before he went to the chow line. He quickly dismissed that thought, remembering that he would need both hands free for all the eating he was going to do.

“That’s okay, we’ve got enough musicians. Take your other change of wardrobe and get back in the background check-in line. We definitely need more crowd. They’ll give you another voucher.” With that Henry turned and walked away, grabbing Mike’s union voucher as he departed.

Mike pumped the accordion desperately, hoping the miracle of music would somehow bellow forth. It did not.

He slumped back into the non-union line, explained his situation to the PA, and went to the holding tent. He was numb as he stood in the dark closeness of the tent. The tent was already full. Its gloomy interior smelled of dust, cologne, and unwashed bodies. For every chair occupied, another was piled with clothes and bags in an effort to keep belongings off the dirt floor. He found a corner and abandoned his bags with a dejected thud. He had been so close, he thought. Then he remembered what he had come here for: food.

Outside the tent, was a long line of trucks towing star trailers and portable restrooms. They were all parked closely together in a line as if to erect some giant metal barrier preventing the background performers from seeing the rest of the production. He found a break in the tightly parked trucks and ducked through. On the other side, a catering truck was parked with its doors open, and a small line of people were standing and waiting to either order or pick up. A cook leaned out from the pick-up window and called out “breakfast BLT with hash browns.” A Grip in a tee shirt and shorts with an impossibly overloaded utility belt reached up to grab the heaping plate. Before he was two steps away from the truck, he had already picked up the sandwich and examined the two toasted buttery slices of bread which contained fresh white turkey, ripe avocado, melted cheese, fluffy scrambled eggs, and two impossibly thick slices of bacon, and taken a bite upon passage of inspection. A brief moment of delight washed over the dirty face of the grim grip. A few feet from the truck, a row of tables struggled beneath the weight of a buffet. On one table, a rainbow of fresh-cut, vibrantly colored fruit leapt out at him. Another table loaded with trays, not just of scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns; but also richly-layered egg strata and a steaming vat of basil béchamel sauce. Row on row of French toast, browned and golden, lined up like so many soldiers awaiting a sweet and sticky death from the five different flavors of syrup and melted butter that shadowed them in steaming pans of water. The last table contained milk and a multitude of juices in chilled carafes, seated in great tubs of ice.

At last.

He wiped the joy and accompanying drool from his face, and started toward the truck, serious. That sandwich was just the thing to get going, he thought.

“Hold on there young fellow. Are you cast and crew?” The voice thinly veiled its true intentions with wry inflections.

“Uh huh,” grunted Mike. His mouth had already started chewing the soon-to-be- had food.

There was a chuckle. Mike turned around to face a broadly smiling man in white shorts and a matching white polo shirt. His face was freshly shaven, his teeth pearly white and flashing against his golden skin. His hair cut was fashionably short and expensively disheveled. He had an earpiece with a wire that disappeared into his pocket. Mike had a name that he applied to all men of this type and that name was ‘Palmer’. It signified everybody who was on the inside; every guy who came from the upper class and was not afraid to go to great lengths to remind you of it.

“Are you background?” Palmer asked again, though his perma-smile seemed to dim and flicker when he pronounced the word ‘background’.

For a long moment Mike did not answer; it was his best defense. But Palmer maintained his gaze and concentration, almost willing the nod of confirmation from him.

“Your craft services table is behind the holding tent.” He smiled and stood his ground. Mike turned, and with one look at the eggs that seemed even more yellow, and steamier than before, turned and disappeared from the land of bounty through the steel curtain of trucks.

Cast out.

At the back of the holding tent was a large bare field full of sand, dirt and thistles. A small folding table rocked back and forth in the morning breeze, its contents boxed and lidded to protect them from the grit and wind. A stack of white paper cups sat next to an orange jug, in all probability containing tepid, chlorinated water. The cups blew off and rolled across the dirt. The table contained some instant oatmeal packets, a box of breakfast bars, a tub of licorice, and some instant coffee packets. A crow landed near the paper cups and began to astutely examine each one individually.

Breakfast was served.

In the holding tent, the routine of waiting had settled into the group like an ill- fitting, too-small blanket on a cold winter night. One could feel the words “Well, it’s better than nothing,” emanating out from each person. Now began the long slow process of waiting: waiting for the crew to be fed; waiting to go to wardrobe, hair, and make-up; waiting to go to props to get toys; waiting for them to set up the shot; waiting for the shot; waiting for the next set-up; waiting for lunch. Waiting. Waiting to be cut for the day, waiting to go to wardrobe and turn in props and any borrowed clothing, waiting to have your voucher signed, waiting by the phone and the fridge for the next job. Waiting.

The groups had formed and now people settled into their routines. The professionals had their special folding chairs, large books and sack lunches. They dug into themselves and put their minds elsewhere. Groups of smokers and ambitious extras, new to the profession, gathered at the edge of the tent to discuss the crew, the production, past productions, great actors, bad actors, wicked actors, actors they “knew”, PA’s and First Assistant Director’s to be avoided, good productions, bad productions, opportunities, the films of Quentin Tarentino, and finally, politics. When they had finished the menu of conversation, they started from the top, this time having weeded out the weak of opinion. Pretty girls pretended not be among the great unwashed, often times waiting to catch the eye of any crew member to begin the day’s flirtations in an attempt to get a union voucher, a bump, or even to be made part of the regular group of extras who would be called back. Groups formed up to play raucous games of cards, growing more boisterous as time and hands passed. They slapped the cards on the table and bragged or complained loudly, living and dying on each hand.

Mike took a walk outside the tent once again to peek through the curtain of trucks. The crew had finished their breakfast and now the caterers began to break down breakfast and set up for lunch. They washed large pans with hot steaming water and began to set up a barbeque for lunch. The rising wood smoke sent his mind off on frustrating tangents of brisket and spare ribs and char-grilled salmon with mango chutney. He went back to check the background “craft services table.” Nothing else had been set out; no leftovers, instead discarded packets of coffee had been opened and tossed to the ground. The table was littered with a fine mixture of powdered creamer and sugar along with used stirring sticks that someone had been thoughtful enough to leave for the rest. The disturbing thing about the evidence was that there were about fifteen discarded packets of sugar and one used creamer packet, possibly indicating that one person had made one very sweet coffee.

He continued walking down the long line of trucks, where well-fed teamsters slept in cabs awaiting the conclusion of the day. At the end of the trucks stood a horse trailer and a small corral that had been erected. Three young Hispanic cowboys in brightly colored shirts, jeans, and cowboy hats were working at and around the horse trailer. They looked more ready for Saturday night in Nogales than an early morning of work. An older Hispanic man leaned against the corral, his attire much simpler and more in keeping with an actual rancher. Mike sidled up to him, leaning his arms on the rickety pipe assembly that was the temporary corral.

“Using horses today?” asked Mike.

“El Mancho,” replied the old man.

“Is he a horse? A stallion or an Andalusian?” Mike knew a little about horses, having been forced to work on a ranch his mother’s sister had owned.

“No horse. Toro.” The old man looked at him and then stuck his index fingers out from the top of his head. Mike looked at him, bewildered. Now the old man began to paw the ground with his booted heel, he lowered his head and snorted.

“Oh, a bull!” exclaimed Mike.

“A bull. Si, yes. Toro. El Mancho is a bull,” said the old man proudly, pronouncing heavily the ‘B’ in bull and spitting while he did.

“Why a bull?” asked Mike. “I thought we were supposed to be in New York in the summer, which for that matter, why Vasquez Rocks?” The old man shook his head. He did not know.

Now there was a commotion at the trailer as the young Hispanic cowboys began to chatter and exclaim. A metal bar dropped with a loud metallic clang, the back of the trailer burst open, and out came the bull. He was huge. His ebony hide glistened like polished black armor as it heaved and rippled in the morning sunlight. His eyes were alive with fire and anger as his chest rose and fell with surging raw power and hate. The cowboys scrambled from the corral and dangled from the doors of the trailer, doing anything to stay away from the bull. The Bull stopped in the middle of the corral, his four legs splayed out into a fighting stance as he moved his great triangular head back and forth looking for an enemy. He paused to sniff and snort the cold morning air, turning it to steam. He shook his head, slowly lowering it to look at Mike, or mainly, Mike’s maroon sweater. The bull lowered the two wicked sabers that were his horns. His front hoof stamped forward and began to make a slow determined furrow behind him.

“El Mancho,” whispered the old man reverently.

Meanwhile, Mike backed away from the corral. Looking at the bull, its size, its posture, and its attitude, he knew that El Mancho was just moments if not seconds away from a charge, and there was no way the thinly constructed pipe corral would hold the great beast.

From out of nowhere, a rock sliced through the air, passed Mike’s ear, and hit the bull squarely between the eyes. For a long second the bull stared into unfocused nothingness. Then the beastly terror blinked and became interested in the ground as it pranced around the corral, snorting the dirt.

“Cayete whey.” said the old man to the bull.

The old man turned to Mike and said, “El Mancho is a stupid bull. Beautiful, but very stupid, eh?” The old man laughed a wheezing cackle, revealing a mouth full of rotten teeth, made even more hideous by the one gold tooth in his mouth. The old man made a gesture to Mike for him to come closer.

“Come here Pepito. I tell you another secret about El Mancho the great and beautiful bull.” Mike came cautiously forward. The old mans’ breath reeked of onions, garlic and tobacco. “El Mancho’s left horn is shorter than his right horn.” The old man began to cackle and wheeze. “But don’t tell him that.”

This last part caused the old rancher to bend over and laugh so hard that he went into a coughing spasm that Mike feared would have killed most people. The old man then wandered off, coughing and laughing.

Mike looked at the bull now standing still in the center of the corral; lamely the bull returned his stare in a dumb and uncomprehending manner.

“Stupid bull,” said Mike to reassure himself.

Another look through the iron curtain of trucks showed that Palmer was gone, and now large slabs of rose-colored baby back ribs were grilling on a large iron grate. Wisps of woody smoke were beginning to rise from beneath them. He still had not eaten.

Back at the tent, he found an unoccupied folding chair after an extensive search of those being used as resting places for bags and clothing. He moved the chair to the darkest part of the tent, leaned over, put his hands in his face, and tried not to think about food or the hunger headache that seemed to come and go with increasing intensity. He reflected on his failed attempt for food earlier in the morning and decided he would need to be a little cooler next time. The next opportunity for nourishment would come either at lunch or during shooting. If he could maneuver himself close enough to the craft service table to load up his bag, all would be good. If not, he would have to wait up to seven days for the paycheck from this production to arrive.

Minutes dragged into hours and the lunch break was rapidly approaching. All over the tent in the darkness, he could hear people beginning to murmur and calculate arrival times, adding the appropriate amount of hours to arrive at the maximum allowable time before the production would need to pay a meal penalty. Then came the invariable comment that the production did not have to pay non union workers a meal penalty, followed by the rebuttal that the production was not concerned about the extras’ meal penalty, but the technical crew’s, which could be quite significant. That brought forth the inevitable groan about being docked for an hour of pay.

The afore-calculated hour arrived, and a PA appeared with what was hoped to be the dining instructions, which usually consisted of a series of threats about when extras could eat, which was always last, and where, which was usually away from the crew, and often times from separate lines which ended, for the extra’s, in bins of prepared food designed to be fed to masses of people. But bin-food was food and at this point, thought Mike, it was better than no food at all. He promised himself that he would not start complaining until his belly was full.

“Alright folks, we’ll get to you after lunch,” began the officious PA. “You get an hour for lunch.”

“Where do we eat?” ventured a small, purple scarf-wearing, middle-aged black woman from the crowd.

The P.A. then uttered the two words that all extras secretly dread and fear. “Walk-Away.” And with that they were damned to perdition as the wise P.A. fled out the tent to his waiting hot meal.

A “Walk-Away” is called when the production chooses not to feed the background, and instead lets them have an hour to hunt for food on their own. The extras stood in stunned silence. There was no murmuring. No hue and cry. Just the resigned defeat of the great unwashed as they either sank back into their chairs or formed up into groups to drive back to the main road, then down the freeway to the convenience mart to purchase over-priced food.

Mike fell back into his chair, placed his head in his hands, and fought violently with visions of Palmer tearing away tender pieces of slow-cooked pork from the dainty spareribs. The spareribs were glazed a dark chocolate and contained a smoked honey taste. Little sesame seeds crusted their tops, and as Palmer ate, he laughed with his white teeth, white clothing, and shining life. He laughed and sucked and ate behind those sunglasses, and not one speck of sauce dirtied that whiteness, just as ‘want’ did not touch his person. Mike groaned and waited.

The hour passed slowly, and the extras began to return from their lonely lunch excursions, either taking walks around the production or opting for the long jaunt to the store. Eventually, the smug and well-fed PA, holding a big fat waxy red apple, came into the tent. He announced that some of the background would be going to the set and to get their things ready. Mike was part of the group selected, and he quickly emptied his threadbare canvas bag, brushed the dust off of his clothes, and lined up with the others to be walked to the set, like so many wicked school children.

As they approached the set, the crew was busy moving a camera and resetting the lights around it. Two stand-ins seemed to be the focus of attention, and they could be heard remarking and joking with the crew, extras no longer, and in fact if anyone had asked them if they had ever been extras, they would have shrieked at the indignity of being associated with the filthy rabble. Really Puh-lease!

The little line of extras wound its way through the cables, carts and star chairs finally passing the set’s craft service table, Mike’s target. Instead of being left near the table they were led purposefully to the far side of the set, which seemed to bear no resemblance to New York, other than the authentic circa 1950’s yellow cab, parked behind the stand-ins. Mike noticed Palmer standing on the far side of the set, near the star chairs, chatting up the main actress. He listened intently to her story with all his focus and attention. For him, there was no one else in the world. She made a joke in the course of the story, and from Palmer came the most sincere, hearty, and appreciative laugh ever to be recorded in the history of suck-up laughs. Mike shook his head with disgust.

The craft service table on the other hand, was much more fun to watch. It was thirty feet from Mike and the other extras’ small, and very clearly assigned, holding spot. They were standing at the rear of the set in the hot sun, waiting to be placed in the shot. The P.A. left the chosen group of extras, telling them he was going to find out where they would be placed, but even he didn’t seem to believe his own words. His feeble charade crumbled as he laughed and joked with the other grips under the shaded canopies provided for the crew.

Mike ignored him and tried to scan the craft service area for possible bounty, readying himself to maximize his time over the target. He could see three coolers, probably loaded with soda, diet soda and water. On the table were trays of iced fruit and cheeses. Baskets full of chips, crackers, and other individually bagged snacks rested at the rear of the red table-clothed spread. A large round tray held specially baked, post-lunch snacks that Mike could not clearly identify from this range. Instead, his mind closed the loop and screamed “Brownies!”

As he continued to scan his victim and await the crews’ instructions, planning his assault all the while, ‘she’ appeared again. She was dressed differently now, but her face, the most beautiful face in all the world, was still the same. The girl from the line was now dressed as a Spanish Doña in a vintage black lace dress with a shawl. Her hair was arranged in an intricate bun that seemed to barely contain the luxurious bounty beneath. She carried a brilliant red scarf as she walked across the set and stood next to the craft service table quietly. After a moment, she reached down underneath it, pulled out a book, and began to read. Now Mike knew he was deeply, madly, and truly in love with her. Not only was she beautiful and liked to read, but she was in close proximity to food, and these were Mike’s top requirements at this moment for the woman of his dreams.

Mike began to move very slowly toward her. He wandered, trying to appear aimless, hoping to transform himself from extra to crew by movement, nonchalance and intention in the short space between him and her. He had not gotten more than ten feet, when Palmer departed the company of the lead actress, and came striding across the set. He was purposeful and determined, and for a moment, Mike was sure Palmer was about to very publicly, and literally, put Mike in Mike’s place. But Palmer had spotted the Most Beautiful Girl in the World –Mike’s soon to be girlfriend, or so he hoped- and locked on to her much like a shark would when defenseless baby kittens are thrown into the water with it. Palmer walked past her, eyeing her with a vulpine intensity, as he slowly turned and walked back to the craft service table. He pretended to be interested in the food, but instead opted for a bottle of water. In the short moment it took him to do that, he managed to make small talk with her and invite himself into a conversation. Mike burned with rage. He forgot for a moment that he was hungry, and replaced that with a desire to drop something heavy and cartoonishly large on Palmer.

Mike watched with growing frustration and anxiety, plotting all the while how he might get a better life and win her affections. She seemed to look quizzically at Palmer as the wolf trotted out his practiced banter and perfectly crafted, faux- sincere laughter. After a moment, it was clear she was not his type. She was too serious and too good a listener for his taste. Palmer was used to his prey doing all the talking; that way he could gather information and plot his next scavenger-like move. After a moment, Palmer excused himself and left. She made a face of exasperation behind his back, and wrinkled her forehead earnestly as she watched him go, then a moment later she was lost in her book again. Mike resumed his slow dance forward. An instant later, all his former musician buddies dressed in lederhosen, came roiling out from behind the crew and were soon bubbling all over the craft service table. They did not display the customary hesitance and respect of an extra near a crew craft service table, their behavior implying that they were featured extras and had been enjoying the luxuries of the crews’ bounty throughout the day. The same would also apply to his Doña, he thought wistfully. It would not do for him to be caught out and exposed by them and so he continued to wait. But while he was waiting, they placed him in the shot, brought in the actors, did three takes, and then ushered him and the rest of the extras back to the holding tent. So close yet so far.

Back at the holding tent, Mike began to fear that he might not see any food on this set whatsoever. Outside, the cooks were beginning to load their trucks for the evening. Their meals were finished and now came the scrubbing of pots, the folding of tables, and the all the other tasks involved in moving a field kitchen. At any moment, Mike expected the PA to come in and tell them they were wrapped. Then after a series of long lines, turning in clothes and props, and having his voucher signed, he would need to bum a ride back to Hollywood, foodless and hungry.

He went for a long walk and mercifully he wasn’t even hungry anymore. There was only a dull ache in the back of his head to remind him he had not eaten in two days. He thought about acting and Hollywood. In every other profession in the world, there is a course. There is an assurance that at the end and along the way you will make this much money and do this much work. Not so with drama. Not only were their no guarantees of how much money you would receive, but it was completely the contrary: there were people along the way telling you how much you would not make, and the fact that if the laws of probability and statistics held true, combined with the intent of the inner circle to keep their numbers small, you would never make it. There were no guarantees, not even for food, and he felt the crushing weight of it all at this moment, in the late afternoon amongst the painted rocks where the legendary Captain James T. Kirk fought the evil lizard creature in a desperate television battle to the death so many years ago. Here among the scrub and the wind and the pastel painted rocks that commanded one to look at them and consider ones universal importance or lack thereof, he cradled his throbbing head in outstretched ever-hungry fingers. Here, on a movie set, there was not even acting to feed the hunger not filled by food, but by passion and work and the unquenchable thirst to ask the masses to stop what they’re doing and watch.

He had come to the end of the line of production trucks, and at this late and desperate hour of the day all was vacant and deserted except for the bull.

Broken from his reverie, Mike had come to the corral that held The Great Bull. In all the time since Mike had last seen him, El Mancho the bull had not moved. He still held the same great, splay-legged pose, his ebony hide barely moving. The only thing betraying the fact that he was not ready at a moment’s notice to smash through the barricade containing him and wreak havoc with apocalyptic intent, was the incredibly vacant look on his face. And though he was beautiful, he was indeed a stupid bull. Mike looked at him for a long moment, and finally with all the disgust for Hollywood and its strange class system, told El Mancho that he was a stupid bull. El Mancho did not move, did not blink, did not flick his tail. He just continued to stare at Mike. Mike turned and walked back to the holding area.

For about five minutes El Mancho did not move. Then with a shudder and a shake, he seemed to return to this plane of existence. He shivered and began to aggressively trot around the corral, angrily moving his tail, which in truth, began to seem more like a whip than a tail. He was thinking in his slow bull-like way, and the more El Mancho thought, the angrier he became. Who knows what train of logic a bull needs to justify its action, but El Mancho grew even bigger now as his huge obsidian chest began to heave and bulge like some hellish bellows from Dante’s Inferno, swelling with rage and expelling misery and suffering in trade. He lowered his head, and with almost no effort, smashed the barricade that contained him. El Mancho was free and he wanted revenge; but more about that shortly.

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