The Extra (8 page)

Bridget was nervous walking into the shelter.  She felt out of place entering the domain of a class other than her own, as though she were walking in on some sort of exclusive country club where she didn’t belong, only in reverse.  She expected uncomfortable stares at the least and was surprised when she got none.  Nobody seemed to pay her any attention at all.

Behind a reception desk sat a middle-aged man with short grey hair.  He wore glasses and a brown cardigan sweater, and hardly even looked up from his newspaper as Bridget walked on past.  She entered an expansive dining room with high ceilings, a kitchen on one side, and long rows of tables on the other where people ate from trays of food.  Everything about the place was worn, much like the people themselves, as though no matter how much they were scrubbed, neither would ever be completely clean again.  But then there was Warren, sitting at a table eating his dinner, wearing his same old grubby clothes but looking like a new man within them.  A man with a shave and a shampoo, and a glint of hope in his eyes.  Bridget walked up to the table and stood across from him.

When he looked up, Warren nearly choked on his soup, coughing uncontrollably before putting down his spoon and holding the table with both hands to steady himself.  “Don’t tell me you’re here for the food?” he gasped.

“I was just sort of in the neighborhood,” she replied, uncomfortably.  “Is this where you live?”

“Sometimes,” he said, the color draining from his face as a sense of shame crept over him.

“Mind if I join you?”  She pulled out a chair and sat before he could answer.

“You could try the gruel if you like,” he managed.

“No thanks, I’m not so hungry,” she answered.

“Yes, well it’s not as good as it looks.”

Bridget smiled politely as each of them looked for clues in the eyes of the other.  “I saw your audition today,” she said finally.

Warren didn’t answer.  Instead he cast his eyes downward and took a sip of his soup, trying to pretend that she wasn’t there.  Yet why was she?  Had she followed him?  He didn’t like her seeing him here.  He didn’t like her knowing what his life was really like.

“I snuck in.  To the stage.  I wanted to see how you did.  Curiosity, you know.”

 Warren waited for her to continue but she just sat there, staring at him.  “And?” he said finally.

“What?” she answered, realizing that she’d been fixated on the slight indentation in his chin.  And the rugged cheekbones.  And the hair, clean for the first time since she’d known him.  She’d never looked at him in quite this way before.  She’d never felt the trembling emotions that swept over her now.  She’d told herself she was here to help him, out of a sense of responsibility, but there was more to it.

“How did I do?” he asked.

“You were amazing,” she replied.  “I could hardly believe my eyes.”

“Come on,” he answered dismissively.  “I only read a couple lines.”

“Sometimes that’s all it takes.  Believe me.  I’ve been acting a long time.  I know raw talent when I see it.”

Warren shook his head and took another sip of his soup.  “I’ve never acted in my life,” he said, afraid to believe her.

“Maybe that’s why you have no pretensions.  You’re just a natural,” said Bridget, her excitement level rising.  “Of course you need some polishing, but that’s just incidental.  That will come.”

“Why are you telling me this?  What do you want from me?”  Warren eyed her suspiciously.

“Look, I’m sorry if my being here upsets you.  I know I shouldn’t have followed you like this…”

“Then why did you?”

“Because I figured you might need some help.”

Warren thought this over.  He did need help.  He knew that he did.  He was in over his head.  So why did Bridget’s offer make him so uneasy?  The answer to that question was simple enough.  It meant admitting how far he had fallen, both to Bridget and himself.  He looked to his soup and gave it a slow stir.  Inside him waged a war between pride and desire.  For the time being, pride won.  “I seem to be doing all right on my own,” he said.

Bridget couldn’t help but scoff as she looked around the room at his surroundings.  “You think so?”

Warren’s face flushed red.  “Did you come here to insult me?”

“I’m just saying you could be doing better.”  This wasn’t going well and Bridget knew it, but she wasn’t sure how to turn the conversation back around.

 “I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time coming here.”  Warren didn’t give Bridget the chance to reply.  Before she could say any more, he stood and carried his tray across the room, dropped it at a bussing station, and walked on out the door.

Bridget looked to her right to see a toothless old man sitting beside her with his mouth agape, staring blankly.  “What did I say?” she asked rhetorically.  Apparently she’d overstepped her bounds.  Bridget stood and walked out the door, down the hall, and onto the sidewalk, heading for home.

In the dormitory Warren stood motionless at the foot of his cot.  She already knew he was homeless.  She’d seen him with unwashed clothes and a scraggly beard.  Why should this bother him, then?  He’d grown accustomed to not caring what other people thought.  Bit by bit, over the years, he’d let himself go, but seeing his condition through her eyes, he was struck by a deep desire to turn his life around.  If he were to ever have any hope at digging himself out of this hole, it had to start here.  Warren felt in his pocket.  He still had some money left.  He started to count it out.  It was enough.  He marched out of the dormitory, down the hall and onto the street.

Warren turned left, toward Sunset.  He knew exactly where he was going, heading three blocks down and four blocks over to the giant discount clothing store.  Once inside, he didn’t hesitate, grabbing a pair of slacks in his size here, a collared shirt there.  He picked up one pack of socks, and another of underwear.  The only things he tried on were the brown leather shoes; at least they looked like leather, and they fit.  He took all of his purchases to the counter.  When the saleswoman rang him up, Warren threw his money on the counter.  He was two dollars short.

“Is there anything you’d like me to take off?” the saleswoman asked.

Warren stood, knitting his brow in frustration.  He needed these things, all of them.  “Is there a cheaper pair of pants?” he asked.

“You can look,” the saleswoman answered.  “I’ll hold the rest of this for you.”

When he turned around, he saw a woman in line behind him, thin and pale with long blond hair.  She wore a pink tank top and blue jean shorts, with sandals on her feet.  She was pushing a cart full of children’s clothing.  A young boy and girl danced around her legs.  “Hell, I’ll spot ya.  Two bucks ain’t gonna kill me,” she said.

Warren stood where he was, wide-eyed.  The woman reached in her cart for her purse, opened it up and pulled out two one-dollar bills.  “Thank you,” Warren said, dumbfounded, as she handed him the money.

“Don’t you worry about it.  I’m glad to help,” she replied.

Back at the shelter, Warren went straight for the men’s room.  He placed his new clothes on a bench and then turned on the taps in one of the showers.  He slid out of his coat.  Next, he unbuttoned his pants and dropped them to the floor.  He took all of his old clothes, boots, socks and underwear and piled them in the corner next to the trash can.  He wished there was an incinerator.  He wanted to burn them, but throwing them out was the next best thing.  When the water was warm, he moved into the shower and stood directly under the stream. 

On a small tile shelf Warren found an old bit of soap.  He rubbed it between his hands until he got a bit of lather going and then washed his arms, and armpits, body and legs.  A shampoo bottle on the floor had enough left to use a portion on his hair, massaging it in thoroughly before rinsing it away.  Lastly, he ran his hands across his face, closing his eyes as he tilted his head back and moved closer to the shower nozzle.  The warm, clean water flowed across his forehead, down his cheeks, around his neck, chest, thighs, knees, calves and feet, washing all of his worries down the drain.  Warren was going to do something with his life.  No matter what it took, he was going to make her proud.

Chapter Fourteen

Inside the soundstage, the film crew hustled about a speakeasy set, arranging their cameras and lights.  On one side sat Warren in a director’s chair.  He wore a loose-fitting 1930’s-style brown suit with a new fedora on his head.  A makeup artist daubed powder on his face.

“Look at you, poor thing,” said the makeup artist.  “You’re shaking like a leaf.”

“Is it that obvious?” said Warren. 

“Just relax and be yourself.  You’ll do just fine.”

“Thanks,” he answered, closing his eyes.  He tried to put his mind at ease, to settle his nerves, by pretending he was elsewhere.  He thought back to New Orleans, to playing his sax in a club not unlike this one.  He could picture the scene in his mind, and when he breathed in deeply he could almost taste the stale smoke wafting in curls past the bright white beams of the stage lights.  He was sixteen years old, recruited to play with a local blues band.  He’d been nervous then, too, under the scrutiny of an inebriated crowd, but when he started to play all of his worries evaporated, carried away by the sounds of the music.

Warren opened his eyes to find himself still sitting in a chair beside the set, waiting for his turn before the camera.  What began as a bit of fun was suddenly imbued with tremendous pressure.  If he could somehow convince them that he belonged here, he might actually turn his life around.  Behind the cameras, Kaplan cupped his hands around his mouth and gave a shout.  “Find your places people!”

“Go get ‘em killer,” said the makeup artist.  Warren nodded and walked onto the set, ready to give it his best shot.

Bridget stood beside the craft service table picking at blueberry muffin.  “I followed him last night,” she said to Charles, who stood beside her, blowing on a cup of hot coffee.

“Huh?” said Charles.

“Warren.  I followed him home.  Guess where he lives?”

“I don’t know.  Bel Air?”

“A homeless shelter.”

“We knew the dude was hard up,” said Charles.

“He wasn’t very happy to see me there.”

“What did you expect?”

“Come on, you can’t tell me you’re not curious?”

“Sure, maybe, but I’m not about to follow the dude home.”

“I just… I didn’t mean to.  I only wanted to talk to him, but… he intrigues me, I’ll admit it.  He’s smart, he’s articulate...  I just don’t understand.”

“I can guarantee you one thing; there’s a reason he’s on the street.  I don’t know what that reason is, but you better be careful.”

“I appreciate your concern, Charles.”

“I just wish you’d share it.”

Bridget pursed her lips and furrowed her brow in consternation.  “Well, after last night he’ll probably never talk to me again anyway.”

Charles raised his eyebrows.  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he said.  Bridget turned to see Warren coming toward them across the lot.  He walked right up and stopped before them.  His face was lightly flushed.

“Look who’s here,” Charles broke the silence.  “The man of the hour.  You know you don’t have to associate with us extras anymore, now that you’re a hot shot and all.”

“Come on, Charles, leave him alone,” said Bridget.

“He knows I’m only playin’,” said Charles.  “How’s it going in there, Warren?”

Warren licked his lips.  “Slightly terrifying, if you want to know the truth,” he said.

“I thought you had things all figured out?”  Bridget couldn’t resist this little dig.

“Never trust what an actor says,” Charles smiled slyly.

“I’m no actor,” answered Warren.

“Yes you are,” said Charles.  “Whether you realize it or not.”

Warren shifted his jaw to one side and narrowed his eyes.  Eating humble pie was not easy for him, but Warren was driven toward success in a way he’d never felt before.  He was willing to do what it took, even if that meant swallowing a bit of his pride.  “Well, I’d like to be…” he said.

Bridget watched him squirm.  Contrition didn’t seem to be in his nature.  Is that what she was witnessing?  She wasn’t entirely sure.  “Are you trying to tell us something, Warren?”

He exhaled.  “I’m trying to apologize.”

“For what, exactly?”

“I was a little short with you last night.  I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that.”

“I’m the one who followed you home.  I don’t blame you.”

“You caught me by surprise.”

“Apparently.”

“I appreciate what you were trying to do.”

“So… what are you saying?”

“Maybe we could try again.”

Bridget was somewhat taken aback.  “All I wanted to do was give you some advice; to explain the business side of things a little bit.”

“Ok, I’m ready to listen.”

Bridget nodded slowly.  “Are you available for dinner tonight?” she asked.

Warren’s expression brightened a bit.  “Sure, I suppose.  I mean, yes.  I am.” 

“We’ll go grab a bite somewhere and talk things over.  Maybe I can give you some pointers,” Bridget added.

Warren nodded.  That wasn’t as hard as he’d expected it to be.  “I’d better be getting back.  They’re probably waiting for me,” he said. 

“Ok.  Just meet me out here when you’re done.”

“See you later, then.”

Neither Charles nor Bridget said a word as they watched Warren walk back into the soundstage.  Once he was gone, however, Charles turned to face her.  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” he asked.

“Just can it, smart guy,” Bridget replied.

Chapter Fifteen

Warren wore a baggy brown suit that he’d borrowed from the wardrobe trailer as he and Bridget walked down the boulevard together, but instead of his trademark fedora he wore a funky wide-brimmed hat.  On a street where the unusual was usual, he still got a few funny looks.  Bridget couldn’t help but chuckle.  “If my friends back home could only see me,” she said.  “Walking down Hollywood Boulevard with a bum in a Zoot suit!”