She & Him [ "Him" being me, of course ]

Our story this evening is truly wondrous indeed. It's a yarn spun right in the heart of New York City, the Big Apple. I'm at home seriously flexing my culinary muscle, tending to a nice big batch of my famous "Ciopinno", when I get a call from some casting service or other offering me the chance to gain that elusive last waiver, the final hurdle before glorious union status.

You see, when I'm nervous (which is often), I have the tendency to completely fuck up any kind of phone call. If I'm getting good news in any form over the telephone, I'll somehow think of a list of reasons why I'm no good and then try to convince you that you made a mistake in choosing me. Self sabotage. I consider it a fine art. If you're consistent it'll almost always work. "It's easy," the woman on the phone says. "Small production, small set, it'll be a quick day". I think to myself: "So, I'll be sitting in a smaller non-descript crowd than usual?" .

She tells me "No, actually you'll be very featured". "You're going to be a delivery boy". My heart sank. I know what that means. In the simplest of terms, it seems that once again, I'm getting a waiver for basically playing as a Mexican. Not that there's anything wrong with Mexico, or the people birthed of the beautiful Peninsula called Yucatan. It's just that upon seeing my pictures, or perhaps reading my name in print, I'm immediately bunched in with all "Hispanic" or "Latin" folk. It doesn't end there, because although I'm approached on a regular basis by elderly Spanish-speaking women on the street who ask me for directions or just think I'm their grandson, I don't know how to speak Spanish and never get jobs for people who look "Puerto Rican." New headshots are very much in order, ones that maybe won't belie my long-ago European ancestry. I'll admit though, sometimes I can pull off "Member of marauding gypsy clan from Spain" (love those Gypsy Kings I do), unfortunately casting calls for that type of thing are few and far between. Most importantly, I just want to stop getting calls for "Angry (but smart, moral and romantic) tormented Egyptian college student caught between tradition and the influence of western culture while at the same time extremely dissatisfied with current world state of events and seriously thinking about doing something radical." I get that a lot.


Nature of the beast I guess. The routine with these glamorous background gigs goes as so: You usually have to call a hotline or someone involved with the production. You might have a check-in number to listen for in a recorded message. Depending on the size of the project, etc., your number can be anything up to somewhere in the hundreds (especially when doing non-union work). Nothing to get too excited over, you're just given an idea of how many extras to expect when you get there (I don't work well with large crowds). Today my number was 3. That number is pretty fucking low. I check in, and find out the call time is 11:30am, which is kind of late as far as these things go. I've grown accustomed to lugging around a garment bag on the subway at 4AM, so this can't be too bad, right?



The set is somewhere in Midtown, W30-something St. Getting off the train, I realize I'm walking by my former nacho-making place of employment, The Katwalk. I wanted to stop in, say hi, see if the barmaids were still raging cokewhores, the usual chit-chat. I decided against it in favor of enjoying the bleak, dark, no-sunshine, cloudy, gun-in-the-mouth type of day it was, just like the ones I used to love so much in my youth. The breeze was nice, and very cool. In the shadow of the Empire State Building, I duck into a plain looking doorway and zip up on the elevator towards my fate. The doors open onto a narrow corridor. The place is called Gary's Loft. It's used often as a film/photo studio, and it's also a very popular wedding venue. I'm definitely going to throw a party there sometime. That's the view (above) of the Empire State Building from inside the penthouse. Very swank. Down to the end of the hall, turn the corner and there it is: One of the most compact (read: can't possibly hide from the camera) sets I've ever seen. It's apparent a large "crowd" scene is out of the question. Usually at this point in time someone is there to greet you and point you towards the "holding" area for us lowly extras. There doesn't seem to be sufficient room for that, only crew members are running around busy today and nobody has any idea who I am. When I finally get a Production Assistant's attention, he says "Oh, you must be Octavio". "What's this?" I'm thinking. I tell him "No, my name is Nic actually," (I'm an ass)) "I'm supposed to be an extra today?" (I've learned that one way to deal with anxiety is to nervously make everything you say sound like a question, so you don't get the full brunt of people's impatience and/or rejection).

The PA looks at me like I have three heads. "Whatever, go down to wardrobe" he says. "Where is it exactly?" I ask. I can tell this guys not too amused with me. "Outside" he says. Again, not too helpful. If my memory from walking into this building serves me correctly, there were no less than 8-10 trailers lining the block. More often than not they're conveniently labeled with signs on the door. No such luck this time, as I'm facing a whole city block of trailers with unmarked doors. At the first one, I'm greeted with a sour-faced woman who not only in her best deadpan responds that no, this isn't the wardrobe trailer, but doesn't help at all in guiding me towards the correct one. Knocking on all the doors now, I finally find the proper trailer. It is there I'm greeted by a very nice wardrobe lady. This wardrobe/stylist gal was very warm, inviting and came complete with her own bubbly, cute-as-a-button apprentice. "What's your name?" she asks, and so the saga continues. As we all know by now the correct spelling of my name is a huge point of contention for me at almost all times. (One of my previous waivers was actually "lost" due to the misspelling of my name by some inept administrative folk.)


I tell her: "My name is Nicolas....and that's without the H", with a slight chuckle. Most of the time, I'm usually greeted by a look of "Who gives a shit" or "What's wrong with this guy?". Not this time. She completely understood. She says "I know what you mean, what's your nationality?" I proceed to rattle of the various origins of my proud Latin ancestry, and she replies "My husband is from Chile, his name is Nicolas also, and he goes nuts over the spelling of his name too!". I'm put at ease temporarily (a rare moment).

"Let's get you dressed, Octavio" she says. I'm confused again, but a stunning realization is now starting to wash over me (I can be a bit dense at times). She says "You know you're name is Octavio in the movie, right?" I'm stricken with nervous fear immediately and I want to grab her by the collar and say "Hey, what are you talking about lady, extras don't have names in movies!" but I keep it to myself. An apron and a pair of construction boots are provided to me by her assistant. This, along with a bubble vest and baggy jeans that I borrowed from a friend, and I was magically transformed into the best possible delivery boy ever ...ever.

Now back up on set, someone asks me "Hey, by the way, did you get any sides yet?" (portion of a script) Again, I think "I'm just an extra, why would I need that?" He says"Someone really should have given you a copy". Another guy walks by and slaps the sides into my now sweaty and shaking hand. I'm suddenly introspective. Inside the vast expanse of my mind, one image begins to arise. It's a neon light, something like a beer sign. I can hear that buzzing now, like when you first fire it up. Wait, I think it says something....there's a couple of blinks, and finally full illumination. I can see the letters clearly in my mind's eye now. The sign looks something like this:

I don't know how to read these things, they're not straightforward at all. Hell, I'm not even a real, trained actor (yet). No high school drama club for me, buddy. At the time I was much too preoccupied with the enigma that is vagina to worry script reading. I'm flipping through the pages, searching frantically for any reference to this "Octavio" character. "What part is being filmed right now?" I'm thinking to myself. Half of the pages have black lines drawn through them, what's going on here?!! Calm down, girlypants. Take it back a little further. Remember who was lauded for their performance in the Thanksgiving grammar school play? Was it that douche Squanto? No baby, it was one awesome 8 year old, you.

It's method time. Who exactly is this man Octavio? How does he feel when he's delivering things? Oh yeah, I'm in the zone now, and then.... someone is telling me I'm expected on set shortly. He gets a communication in his ear. Through my uncanny powers of observation, I can sense whoever is on the other end of the line asking about what I look like. The guy looks at me and says into his walkie "He looks uh, ...neat?" Shit, maybe I don't look right for the "Mexican delivery boy". I'm reminded of the time when I was called to be in the police lineup of thugs who may have killed Jodie Foster's fiance in "The Brave One". Casting had already seen my pic, but when I show up, the rest of the lineup "Hispanics"that were called in were so Mexican gangster looking (shaved head, tats, wife beater), that there was no chance they were going to use me. I remember standing there feeling like such an ass, but at least I still received a waiver for my precious wasted time.

So I'm led through this apartment and up a flight of stairs where a very nice kitchen and living room awaits. Another nice PA, who I remember from an episode of Law and Order in Prospect Park (I was a power walker that day), brings me to be introduced to the director. He says "Hey, I'm Matt, don't be nervous." If "don't be nervous" is the first thing someone says to you, then obviously your uber-cool outer facade isn't working. Matt says "Ok, this is what I want from you". "You're sitting down with the actors, then someone will walk in (a main character), you get up, gather your stuff and leave, Ok?" He quickly points to the part of the script we were about to shoot. I say "Sure", not absorbing a word of what he just said. At that moment another young lady walks over and puts makeup on me. This is real now.




" Nic, we'll have you sit down at the table " the director tells me. He points to a huge wooden rustic kitchen table in the kitchen (actual kitchen and table on bottom shown left) I sit down and immediately spread my arms across the table for some reason, as if somehow this is normal behavior. I was trying to become familiar with the space, to "own it" so to speak. Then a young girl and guy enter the room. The girl is petite, dark hair, nice blue eyes. The guy is tall, a bit stocky. They sit across from me at the table. They seem to know each other and proceed to talk about previous days working on this project. I get shy at inappropriate times, so instead of striking up convo, I just think to myself "Finally, these must be the extras, the actual actors haven't gotten here, and this is going to be fine". I finally commence chatter between us at the last second so I don't look like a dick, and it becomes clear that these are probably not the guys who I'll be in the scene with. I also didn't research this project or ask anyone, so I have no idea who's in this movie or even what it is really.

"Second team out!" shouts the Assistant Director. At that moment my two new friends get up, say "Nice meeting ya Nic, good luck" and leave. Finally it all becomes clear. If you recall, my check-in number was 3, a suspiciously low number which I interpreted as a benefit; my time to shine in a limited pool of extras. Turns out my newly met acquaintances were in fact numbers 1 and 2 on that list. That means they were the stand-ins. Holy shitcakes, there are no other "extras"!

"First team in!" someone shouts from across the room. As background, I'm usually long gone off the set by now. I'm first team, for the first time. Stage directions on the script say I have to be equipped with props. Red insulated delivery bag, six pack of beer(?) and a bike helmet. I shuffle through my sides. It reads: (I shouldn't write the exact wording) "Happy is seated at the table". "Octavio, a 19 year-old Mexican delivery boy is across from her, with a six-pack of beer he brought with him". As I'm reading this and it begins to sink in, a different set assistant attempts to push the bike helmet down on my huge head. "Uh, I don't think it'll fit" I say, trying to be funny while attempting to block out memories of high school humiliation over the size of my cranium. I take it off, and then the actors arrive. Showtime.


I hear a girl laughing off stage. It's a lively, hearty laugh. I look off to the left and there she is, in all her glory. The one and only Zooey Deschanel. One of those girls I've dreamt about working with, because she seems so awesome and non-jerk like. Raven haired, slightly aloof in the best possible way, fair skinned with huge beautiful eyes. I've met blockbuster actresses before and never got nervous because they usually seem so inaccessible. This is a different situation, that's not how she is so I am a little taken aback. I had no idea she was going to be here. Her stand-in suddenly makes sense. This time my imaginary inner neon sign reads: "Don't stare." If you're not familiar with her, she's been described by Rolling Stone as the "Current indie boys movie-star crush of choice". I'm usually not a huge fan of ridiculous propaganda bullshit concerning "Indie music" or people, the type of shit that appeals to complete tools (you know who you are), but the music in this case speaks for itself. It's good stuff.



I've been a fan of Zooey's for a while, and once I finally heard her sing, there was never a doubt in my head that Ms. Deschanel had the voice of an angel (her performance of "Baby it's Cold Outside" with Will Ferrel in ELF, hello?). She sings quite well, and is the more lovely half of the musical duo "She and Him" (M.Ward, Z.Deschanel). The album is great, buy it. Her sister Emily (below) is different, but also very awesome, starring in the FOX series "Bones" with David Boreanaz (It's forensic fun for all). I probably should have introduced myself to Zooey or moved in any way. She seemed busy, so I figured, why bother her?



I know what you're asking yourself. "Hey you, writer of so many overly long yet gripping and inspiring blog posts... Didn't you mention that there were two stand ins?" Yes there was, thanks for asking. Now I was about to get the "left hook" in a one-two punch of celebrity intimidation. I hear footsteps coming down the hall and try to imagine who the other guy earlier could be standing in for. I'm looking down at the table when I hear a booming voice say "Hello, Octavio". I think a little poop came out at that moment (can't be sure) as I look up and into the face of John Goodman.



Being left-handed, by brain processes things in a very image-heavy, abstract sort of way. Trying to keep cool, my mind flashes back to my childhood: I'm in the living room, feeling generally neglected, while old episodes of "Roseanne" flicker across a crickety TV set in the distance..... Ok, I finally snap out of it. The director introduces the three of us. "Hi, I'm Nic", I say to Zooey, kind of with a chuckle like I'm apologizing for something already. I'm trying my best to be calm, cool and collected. I stopped getting star struck a long time ago. I'm thinking "Yeah, I know who you are, you have large eyes that I'm trying not to stare into, but we're both professionals here, right?" She responds with "Hi, I'm Zooey". My heart is a flutter. Turning to shake Mr. Goodman's hand, I'm seized with another flash, this time playing in full volume and IMAX sized scope inside my brain. While he's crushing my hand in his, I'm taken back to a scene from The Big Lebowski where Goodman, in his legendary role as Walter Sobchak pulls that guy out of the wheelchair and throws him to the ground while screaming "This guy fucking walks! I've never been more certain of anything in my life! Walk you fucking phony!". I think I told him my name through all this madness going on in my head, but I can't be sure.




Here's the scene: Goodman plays Zooey's Dad. It opens as I'm sitting with her, we're both drinking beer. We're cool, so damn young and beautiful, living in a crazy world without enough time. That part lasts for about 4 seconds. Then John Goodman walks in, and immediately scares the crap out of me by catching me with his daughter. I quickly finish my beer, gather my things, and get up. Upon him asking who I am, I bow shyly at Goodman, grab my delivery bag, and attempt to cram that very small bike helmet on my head. Exit, stage right. That's only the beginning of the scene, because after I leave the room the dialogue between them continues for a couple of pages (talking about my character). Simple enough, huh? Let's just say it took more takes than were probably necessary, most notably the very first one, where my timing was non-existent and I kind of slammed the beer too hard on the table, grabbed my stuff and literally ran out of the room just as John Goodman was entering. If you know me personally, you wouldn't find this part surprising at all. The director sat me down and told me basically that was a little too early. When he called out "Ok, everyone back to your ones (starting point)", I was so embarrassed that I didn't want to go back on the set. I wanted to say "You know what? I'm good. I think I've had enough". Failure was not an option, at least for me. Second take. Zooey grins at me, she saw what just happened and my incompetence is humorous to her, almost cute. "Action" - This take, my timing is better, I look more Mexican and clueless than ever (which is what the scene calls for) and I think things are going quite well. Now between takes, Zooey is playing with the beer caps on the table and I'm growing quite distracted. It works though, because now we're developing a little "rapport" and eventually I'm comfortable enough to nail the shot. The scene is wrapped. It's the end of my day, so I head into the elevator. As the doors are closing, Ms. Deschanel tells me to hold the elevator and rushes in. It's her break time. There we are, just her and I (it's a tiny elevator, mind you). We're on the 15th floor, and it's a long way to the street level. Other people filter in and out of the elevator. I don't think they recognize her. I'm in one of those tortuously long, awkward-silence with a well known actress elevator rides (geez, if I had a nickel...) What do I say, if anything? I'm frantically trying to think of things she's been in that maybe I should compliment her on. That's what you do in this type of situation. Hey, maybe I'll say "Tin Man was awesome!" (sci-fi miniseries) "Did your parents ever read the original Wizard of Oz to you and Emily at night before bedtime?". God that sounds creepy, can't say that. Maybe I should mention a gig I worked on for Target once. It was in a mansion upstate and I met her best friend, fashion designer Erin Fetherston, who was approving everyone's wardrobe. They work together all the time, (watch the short film "Dreamy Wander" here) but the fact that I knew that might have sounded too weird. She might think I have an overzealous interest in the internet, and that may also seem quite creepy to her.



Too late now anyway, elevator's pulling into the lobby. All I could muster in the end was "Well, good luck with the rest of the movie". Real smooth. Before we leave the elevator, she looks at me and says "Thanks, by the way you did a great job". It's pouring rain outside now. Perhaps she was just being nice, but as I and walked out onto these soaked Manhattan streets, I was dancing between rain drops. Elated. When I called one of my best friends later that day, he was happy for me and summed it all up perfectly. Even though I didn't really have lines or anything in the movie, he said "Wow, that's great! John Goodman acted at you!"


The movie is titled "Gigantic", so please check it out, even if my brief appearance is completely cut out later. Paul Dano (Little Miss Sunshine, There Will Be Blood), also stars in this film and serves as Executive Producer. Hell, even Ed Asner is in it, so how can you possibly say no?

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