"Let's All Kill Gary" by Johnny Allina

“Been slow.” Within the TV commercial extra world, Howie’s resemblance to a nursing home resident had been a disadvantage. Eyebrow, nose and ear hair were thickets.

         “Gary’s on almost every job. Even when he doesn’t fit the specs.” Stewie, plump blueberry shape, steamed.

         “Thanks, to Jen.” Me—a five-head, maybe, six; swimming caps out of the question—stated the obvious. But the collective anger was real. Lifers, we’d been super professional; early to set, great wardrobe—sometimes still in dry cleaning plastic—never shirking the job. Extreme weather conditions, on our feet hours at a time, rushing back to our starting marks, drives to distant, unfamiliar locations… whatever was called for. But Screen Actors Guild jobs were being lost to non-union extras; their day rate cheaper. Though a rough-looking contingent, as though grabbed off the street, and clueless, dropped on sets, or part of a prison work-release program. Unkempt, they wore ill-fitting clothes and lacked decent haircuts. These deranged misfits were fabled for sleeping in their cars during shoots, stripping craft services tables blind, and at risk of the police conducting a sweep for outstanding warrants and being stuffed, hand over head, into squad cars. Their presence resembled scenes straight out of The Wire. Except, instead of violent Baltimore drug-dealers, contingents of Russians, comic-con attendees who’d live with their parents well into middle age, and those off their meds prevailed. Fortunately, their attendance was mostly limited to large crowd scenes.

And yet, Gary, connected, fine, was racking up enemies by the job.

         An occasional principal, Gary acted like he was slumming, being an extra. As if, doing us a favor, gracing us with his presence. You’d walk past, say ‘Hello,’ and he’d stare straight ahead, ignoring you. In this close-knit community, a definite no-no. Oh… and haughty.

         His greatest offense? Pontificating. Acting like the Master of Ceremonies, constantly making quips. Extras usually continued to talk, even when told not to. But Gary took it to another level. Holding conversations as we rolled film. Commenting on an actor’s performance, even heckling, offering directors suggestions, stepping to the front of lunch lines to talk to folks, then cutting ahead—this done enough times to confirm, it was a ploy… Normally, this would lead to banishment from our world. However, Gary was under Jen’s wing; an untouchable. He had to go.

         Oh, wardrobe. Rather than bring a host of options—extras given a breakdown the night before—Gary mailed it in. Same jeans, polo shirt—snug on his snack-fed belly—and challenging himself, perhaps bring a jacket. Such an annoyance, wardrobe stylists approved his look, not wanting to engage that irksome personality.

         Better suited actors hoping to make rent, pay bills, eat, and the carless folks navigating haphazard metro options, were passed over, as Gary raked in check after check. Worse, announcing he’d had multiple avail checks for a single day—necessitating turning down work—how many spots he’d gotten—each one, the equivalent of another paycheck—and booking weekends (double pay)… without any awareness that others were fed up, sharpening knives, cleaning guns, charging tasers…

Rather than wait for karma to come around, barely scraping by—Janis Joplin’s line, ‘Freedom’s just another word, for nothing left to lose,’ came to mind—I decided to take matters into my own hands. Howie and Stewie didn’t need convincing.

         Hmm… How to bring about Gary’s demise? Stewie and me turned to Howie. A film-noir buff, he’d know a scenario, far enough back, that’d read like a plausible accident.

         A clique on set, we openly schemed, sitting in extras holding; this one, a downtown parking lot, under a pop-up tent, urine and vomit smells rampant. And invisible, the resurgent, antibiotic-resistant black plague. Not surprisingly, Gary was already hitting the craft services table, even though the woman there wasn’t fully set up. And he’d just had breakfast. Two helpings. In short, loathsome.

         “Well… poison is an option.” My initial thought.

         “Crush tablets in his coffee. Easy.” Stewie offered.

         “Yeah, no. Where we getting poison?”

         “Good point, Howie. Benadryl, or something else in sufficient quantity?” I wanted my idea approved.       

“Whatever we do, no Internet searches. That’s Exhibit A.”

We all nodded at Stewie’s prescient warning.

“Run him over after wrap? Walking to his car? Today.” I felt ambitious.

“Stewie could shove him into traffic…” Howie.

“Why me?”

“You’re the strongest.” While true… I skirted saying, the biggest… a euphemism for fat. And hairy. When Stewie changed shirts, it looked like he was wearing a sweater.

“How much time we putting into this?” Stewie ever cautious.

“Want to stay off the streets? While providing a public service.” Howie revved up. Two pension credits short of being vested—make a certain amount every year, and you earned one—there was clear motivation.

“We’re not getting any younger.” I stated the obvious and most salient fact; age a definite handicap in our business.

*****

Jobs grew less frequent. Howie became desperate to act. No Gary, better chance of work. Always wanting to fit in, Stewie stayed on board. But we faced risk and the unexpected. So,  resigned ourselves, contemplated other careers. Howie applied for a post office gig; mail sorter. Stewie ramped up going to swap meets, buying an item for a buck, flipping it on eBay for two.

Not mentally equipped to deal with the general public, I’d reached a dead-end; under constant strain. We all were.

*****

Safety meetings were mandatory. Before shoots, the 1st Assistant Director addressed the entire production. Walkie-talkies held aloft to broadcast the message. Certain potential hazards highlighted. Don’t pet wild animals. Stay away from cliff edges. And, one in particular: the techno crane, a squat version of the AT-AT’s the Empire employed against the rebels on the Star Wars snow planet Hoth, featuring a telescoping arm and stabilizing head for the attached camera, allowing freedom of movement through space. Massive, steel plates anchored the base.

Extras—movements haphazard—merited repeat warnings not to step in front. Odds were taken, on whether someone would. Never happened. Extras had fainted due to extreme heat, fell—uneven ground, equipment cables—been concussed by collapsed wardrobe racks…

While not on the fateful set, word spread rapid-fire amongst the extra community—Gary had been killed.

Apparently, giving a soliloquy, after an AD called ‘Action’—the timing perfect—Gary, oblivious, stepped in front of a techno crane and was crushed like a soda can—the arm’s full downward force, the cause. Not the camera end, but extended metal beam. While most looked away, others had the morbid fascination or glee, glimpsing organ soup.

There’d be no memorial services. At least nothing organized by the extras. Schadenfreude reigned over Gary’s demise; self-inflicted.

         *****

A rare day, we all worked together. Gary’s jobs went to Jen’s new, innocuous boyfriend. And none, had found an alternative way to earn a living. We looked forward to social security—not far off—earning cash subjecting ourselves to medical experiments…

While Stewie played a bloated, drowned corpse, Howie and I sipped coffees, watching.

“Stewie’s getting put on a lot of jobs...”

At the tender age of seven, Johnny was traumatized by not only bad parenting but an overconsumption of sweets, his father running the North American operations of Pez candy. He was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth on Park Avenue and raised by partially suicidal European eccentrics. Once the money was gone, the lot of them became unglued in different ways. Johnny parlayed a John Donne essay into a scholarship at coveted Bennington College, where he went on to associate with more upper class, anxiety-ridden, somewhat suicidal, vicious eccentrics. Having navigated all aspects of bad behavior from Park Avenue, a small village in rural Vermont, a series of low- to medium-level odd jobs, stint at the Andy Warhol Foundation and ultimately to TV commercial extra work, he’s turned these experiences into short stories.