Weeding Out the Extra
Bundled in a black parka and a bright pink scarf, a woman and her tiny pink nose command the scene at the steps of the Supreme Court of New York. Above her, a camera uselessly dangles from a metal crane until she starts it all on a cold Monday afternoon. Actors, sprinkled over different levels of the concrete steps, look at the woman’s slim mouth. They wait for that one word, and I wait for someone to ask me to leave. No one recognizes that I am there, so I latch onto this seat that I’ve deemed discrete enough for a humble TV show cameo. I take out my orange notebook and start taking notes behind two men that are maybe tourists, maybe actors, or maybe just curious writers.
The woman running the show takes out a small black box from her jacket and speaks to it passionately. Someone finally shouts “Rolling,” and the crane moves to face the World Trade Center, peeking up from the judicial buildings. Some extras, including myself, look towards that direction to see what is going to happen, but the only thing to see is that the people across the street, who are congregated by a lamppost, are also actors.
As the crane keeps on moving, a black SUV approaches the building and a man with a puffy black jacket and slicked back hair jumps out of the car. He holds onto a Fedex envelope and goes up the stairs in twos and threes. A crew member runs towards him but too late. That is when, behind the columns of the courthouse, another crew member appears with a to-go box in his hand. He starts commanding people to stay away from the building as pieces of chicken fall from his mouth. With an hour left until closing time, New Yorkers start pouring into the courthouse with files and briefcases in their hands, and the young man throws himself onto their path to tell them the courthouse is closed.
The steps get more crowded, and I take on a task to figure out who is an extra or not. A man passes me by with a blue folder that reads, “Confidential.” Is he a part of this setup? How about that man over there with a worn out leather briefcase? Then, the man with the black puffy jacket comes back. He cannot be an extra. He bounces down the stairs, again in twos and threes, still holding onto his Fedex envelope. He waves at a taxi before he even touches the sidewalk and the same production person, who couldn’t warn the man the first time, runs towards the taxi and actually mumbles something at the man. The man doesn’t even look at the crew member and rides away.
I wait, until cameras start moving again and a gray Chrysler appears. All of a sudden, everyone on the steps starts moving and the block comes alive with people paid to be the crowd. First, a set of black high heels with red soles exit the car. I am not a fashion expert, but these must be Louboutins, I infer— at least that is what I know from skimming women’s magazines at waiting rooms of all kind. A second later, a tall woman dressed in black appear as the face of the $700 dollar shoes. Maybe I should have been a lawyer, I think, and not worry about losing a few fingers in the cold while taking notes.
Ushered by a policeman — who is maybe on duty or is just another actor — , the woman tries to make her way up the stairs. She walks amongst all these people who are something, but become nothing once the camera starts rolling.
Manhattan, February 2017
