The Extra by Kenneth Rosenberg

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