Illusions
Bernadette Miller
Amidst the tenements in Brooklyn’s Red Hook section, near the dilapidated waterfront with its graffitied factory doors and rotting garbage piles, trucks crowded the darkening street, the film crew shouting, “Move it here! Let’s go!” On the bus carrying extras, a woman of forty-five with plump cheeks and deep-set brown eyes sat with clenched hands. Loosening her torn bathrobe over skirt and blouse, she peered through the window at film grips swinging the truck camera toward a tenement stoop. Occasionally she fingered the tag in her pocket: number 46.
A man entered the bus; the extras abruptly quieted.
The woman gazed eagerly at Mr. Morgan, the handsome assistant director. Oh, God, please let him call my number, she prayed. Mr. Morgan read the list. Those extras whose numbers were called filed outside. Hands unclenching, she stared after them, reminding herself not to feel disappointed again. Her hard work would pay off.
Beside her, the young blonde with whom she’d chatted en route to the location, smiled and said, “Is Victoria your real name? Were you ever on camera?”
The older woman shook her graying brown hair barretted behind her ears. “Not yet, but someday.” She smiled back. “Victoria Lansing’s my stage name.”
Estelle nodded, her big blue eyes widening. “I want to become a movie star but I love a wonderful boy and we might get married.” She blotted her face with a delicate lace handkerchief. “I didn’t think the neighborhood would be so run down--smelling of garbage. Too bad it’s only April, or the bus would be air conditioned.” She sighed. “Do you think they’ll call my number?”
“Perhaps,” Victoria said, and added defensively, “It’s a remake of a movie about a doctor who takes care of poor patients in a slum.” Reluctant to discuss complaints about filming, she changed the subject. “I nearly married Fred, a sweet pharmacist I met while working in summer stock. He even bought me an engagement ring, but then I realized my career was too important to tie myself down with a family. He finally stopped calling. I think about him sometimes. I’m not sorry--nothing like that. I just wonder if he got married, how he is...”
She studied Estelle’s pretty floral dress. “The agent who hired me told me to wear a shabby bathrobe. See, I even ripped a hole in mine and dirtied my slippers. It’s important to make the audience believe.” Victoria unclasped the barrette, allowing the dank wispy hair to hang loosely about her face, and glanced outside as film grips erected a makeshift table, beyond camera range. Grunting, they heaved onto it a large coffee urn and pastries.
She turned to Estelle. “All my life I’ve wanted to be an actress,” she added softly, and explained how her mother, a former actress, had tried to dissuade her.
“It sounds glamorous but takes total dedication! You spend most of your life making the right contacts, work at lowly jobs, and compete with a hundred actors for every role. Besides, you’re too plain-looking. Find a husband.”
Victoria had run to her bedroom and slammed the door against her mother’s criticism. Gazing through her Queens apartment window, she pictured Variety and Show Business headlines: VICTORIA LANSING’S A SMASH SUCCESS IN MAUGHAM’S OF HUMAN BONDAGE... Despite her mother’s discouragement, she got a drama degree, then studied acting at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, and still spent Monday evenings with a Greenwich Village coach, along with other hopefuls. She didn’t waste time on parties and having fun with friends. Mornings, she’d worked as a waitress, and during late afternoons made the rounds of agents and casting calls.
“Finally, I became an extra and got paid,” Victoria told the girl listening intently on the bus. “I’m a professional.”
“Gosh, I’d wanted to come just for the learning experience,” Estelle said, looking impressed. “Have you ever worked on Broadway?”
Victoria smiled. “I’d love to, but movie work’s exciting, too! It’s more real than the stage. And I can see the stars close up. I keep hoping that someday I’ll be on camera, preserved for eternity. Imagine being seen by millions of people years after I’m dead. Isn’t that inspiring?”
“Yes, but--” Estelle glanced through the window and pointed at the limousine pulling up to a curb. “Oh, look, there’s sexy Mark Hunt with his dimpled chin. And isn’t Heather McCarey gorgeous! Wow, if I looked like her, I wouldn’t have any problem getting movie roles.”
Victoria, brushing aside her hair, touched a pimple. She sighed. “Estelle, you’re beautiful, but there’s more to getting parts than looks. You must develop your craft.”
She could still hear Daddy stressing his hard work to become a fine carpenter. “Oh, sure, my angel,” he’d said with his Cockney accent as she sat on his lap, “folks lie to themselves that life’s easy if you know the tricks. But success must be earned. That’s why I came to America, no more coal mining, like my dad! I wanted to learn a trade I could turn into my own business. And look what I got besides--a little girl that I love with all my heart.”
If he hadn’t died of cancer when she was twelve, he’d be so proud of her dedication, how she refused to brood about not getting feature roles. Nodding, she glanced outside. The assistant cameraman with chalk marked X’s on the street and assigned the positions to extras, who then moved to the sidewalk. The stars’ limo waited nearby. Bystanders, gathering behind rope cordoning off the street, gaped at the actors.
Suddenly, screams pierced the night air as two black boys ran down the street carrying a black teenage girl and left her lying on a tenement stoop. “Oh, God,” Victoria whispered, heart pounding, though the scene was make-believe. The boys, shouting to each other, ran off. The extras, playing neighbors, rushed from different directions. Carefully stepping on their assigned X mark, they stared at the girl and the retreating boys and chattered among themselves.
“No, that isn’t right!” The plump director, shaking his head, turned to his assistant. “They’re too alert, for God’s sakes!”
When the director walked away, Mr. Morgan, standing before the tenement, shouted through a megaphone, “Listen, extras, it’s the middle of the night, you hear a terrific commotion in the street. You walk sleepily from your apartment buildings and stand before the doctor’s house, on your X mark, where you see the pregnant girl lying on the stoop. You’re tired, confused, but concerned!”
They nodded and began chattering.
“Quiet!” He waited a moment until the crowd settled down. “All right, back on the bus!” He followed them and again called off numbers, but Victoria’s number was skipped.
She laughed ruefully, hands unclenching. “I still need patience after ten years of waiting on these buses.”
“Maybe they won’t call my number,” Estelle said. “I love acting, but I want children while I’m still young.”
Victoria shook her head. “There’s no comparison between marriage and acting! I’ve probably seen every movie ever made. They’re magical, a place where anxieties only seem real. Acting takes me away from the negatives in my life. I concentrate on my role and feel uplifted, as if I’m part of something more important than petty problems--” She paused as Mr. Morgan again boarded the bus to call off numbers, and included 46.
“That’s me!” Face shining, Victoria left the bus, jostled by the other extras, and stood on her assigned street position, smiling. She was in the middle of the second row facing the tenement stoop--bound to be seen if she appeared on camera. When all the extras had taken their positions, the director approached and said something to his assistant.
Mr. Morgan, nodding, picked up a megaphone and turned to the crowd as the director walked away. “We’ll take our dinner break now! There’s a coffee shop open nearby, but don’t go beyond the corded-off section. And watch your handbags, ladies, this is a tough neighborhood!”
Estelle looked up hopefully when Victoria boarded the bus to shed her bathrobe and barrette her hair. “We’re not filming yet?”
Victoria sighed. “Not yet. I’ll walk you to the coffee shop.”
Passing curious bystanders, Victoria proudly fingered her pocket tag. They were just ordinary people, but her tag made her somebody special--an actress. Head erect and shoulders straight, she entered La Corona Coffee Shop with Estelle. They carried their trays of soggy tuna fish sandwiches and tepid coffee to a grimy window table. The other extras had filled the small, dimly-lit room, eating and chatting.
“Is filming always like this?” Estelle said, peering at her dirty cup. “So far, we’ve just waited on the bus. We haven’t acted at all!”
Victoria frowned. “There’s always a chance of getting on camera.”
“Why haven’t you?”
She smiled wistfully. “Bad luck. Movie work takes patience. Something usually goes wrong--the extras are improperly dressed or it unexpectedly rains or grows cloudy instead of sunny. They return to the bus and after awhile the numbers are called again. Somehow, mine got skipped for the final shooting.” She glanced at her watch. “We’d better get back! They’ll start rehearsing again.”
Leaving the diner, they headed toward the bus. Victoria smiled benevolently at awed onlookers. They couldn’t imagine the self-sacrifices required to become an actress. But if she got on camera just once, it would be worth everything. She nodded gravely. It will happen. Her luck will change. She mustn’t lose hope.
As they boarded the bus, a man turned to the lady behind him. “Would you believe it--neighborhood punks stole the coffee urn!”
“It’s a good thing somebody’s watching the bus,” she retorted, “or they’d probably steal that, too!”
Ignoring them, Victoria focused on Mr. Morgan who reappeared and read off numbers, including 46. She jumped up, smiling. “You’ll be called the next time,” she told Estelle whose face sagged. Sympathetic, she patted the young woman’s shoulder. “Believe me, I know how disappointed you feel.”
Wearing her torn bathrobe and soiled slippers, Victoria left the bus, noted her X mark, and waited on the sidewalk. The scene was rehearsed fifteen times over several hours, until the director was satisfied. During the snack break, she forced down a cheese Danish because concentration required energy; she missed the coffee.
Standing by the pastry trays, she scanned the extras snacking and chatting, the director talking quietly with the photographer, and she longed to know whether she’d remain in the scene.
Finally, Mr. Morgan ordered the same extras to assemble for the shooting.
Victoria joined them on the sidewalk and crossed her fingers for luck. Now, the camera began panning the black boys who ran, screaming, to deposit the pregnant teenage girl on the stoop; again they ran off, shouting. And, again, Victoria walked sleepily to her assigned place on the street. Quivering, she gazed with curiosity at the stoop for what seemed a lifetime.
Suddenly she knew the camera was upon her as it scanned the crowd gathered around her. She was immortalized... Chills washed over her while the other extras whispered among themselves, presumably about the girl, but actually about the stars: where Heather had her blonde hair done, and what Mark ate for dinner.
She longed to shout at them, “Get involved in the scene! Discuss what’s happening!” Resolute to do her best work, Victoria stared with neighborly concern at the stoop as Mark Hunt, much younger than Paul Muni who’d originally played the neighborhood doctor, opened the door and saw the pregnant teenager lying there. Feeling the camera’s eye upon her again, Victoria strained her attention toward the stoop, wanting to make the scene as real as possible for a future audience. When the scene ended she boarded the bus, her eyes shining with joy.
“You look as if you’ve seen God himself,” Estelle said softly as Victoria took her seat.
Victoria, trembling, hoped to appear modest despite the promise of immortality. To her embarrassment, she burst out, “I got on camera!”
Estelle smiled. “I’m glad for you. I know it’s what you always wanted.” She glanced through the window. “Oh, there’s Mark heading back toward the limo. I’d like to meet him, wouldn’t you?”
Victoria sighed. Despite her beauty, Estelle would never become a star--she didn’t understand the achievement and the years of striving.
Months later, in a Manhattan theater, Victoria tried to spot herself in the crowd before the tenement stoop. Unfortunately, running cast credits partly blanked out the scene that had been shot on the dark street. It was impossible to recognize individual extras.
“But I helped bring that movie to life,” she reminded herself. Beaming, she sat back to enjoy it, except for the brief wish that Daddy and Fred could be with her to enjoy her triumph.
