The audible squeak didn't deter Herman from stretching his bulky frame back on the recliner. The leather creases and spidery-webbed lines on the seat cushion failed to add worries to his mind. The chill in the Thanksgiving Day air had caused his knee to ache when before family arrived he had walked to the curb mailbox to make up for his lapse of memory the day before.
Herman sighed. He'd again eaten too much turkey and wasn't surprised a full stomach commanded his mind to turn on sleep mode. His family, reduced to a visiting sister, he'd come to expect each odd-numbered year. That she'd brought along a DVD of the movie "Sugar" hadn't been anticipated. In companionable silence, they had watched the movie straining to recognize a familiar face in the ballpark stands--his. No luck.
Matilda, his sister, had graciously taken leftovers. He knew she'd stop by the rural church outreach mission the next day and share their good fortune with others.
Herman wiggled. The recliner squeaked again. His mind tumbled back to that hot, humid day in July, 2007. Today he couldn't remember what had come over him two summers ago. It wasn't a ticket to stardom. Perhaps a little fun. Something new. Yes. That was it. He could admit, at least to himself, that life had slowed down for him. His eating increased; another notch punched into his belt closer to its leather tip.
When he had signed up, he had joined movie star wannabes and real actors with union credentials that stood in line to talk to an advance producer. He'd checked off the box that said he wanted to be an extra. The advertisement stated it was a baseball movie and he had played semipro baseball as a young man. After these many years he failed to meet the age requirement for an on-field role. Anyway, he doubted wardrobe had a uniform his size.
Unaware of what to expect, he had nervously signed the required written waiver. Gerald Rainey of TV's "Jericho" was there. Did they both have to sign the same form? What about "Mr. Olson" from the TV series "Little House on the Prairie," who sat in the next secton of stands with a familiar face of a woman he couldn't place. They had a microphone and camera in front of them. He didn't. It just wasn't his time to be a star.
Then a young lady with an official-looking badge came up to him. Could he move over two sections to be behind the third base dugout? Sure. Would he remove his Chicago Cubs baseball cap? Okay. Why, he had asked. Advertising, she said.
The day, initially exciting, dragged on. The heat of a July 3 day bearable, however, not the humidity. It was always the humidity that did him in. He knew he was to root for the home team. "Sugar" starred as a young pitcher for the home team. He could feel the pats on his back when he didn't cheer for the home run hit by the visitors. Others next to him had. The woman who had requested he remove his hat explained that fans should boo, not cheer, for a visitor homer. Without his hat, the perspiration on his forehead doubled what it would have ordinarily been.
He would have left after five hours, but the movie woman promised a drawing for a TV. Big screen. Now he knew why he had been given a raffle ticket. He'd stay. There were drinks and food at the dinner hour. The bratwurst didn't threaten illness. The burnt casing proved that. And, eyes couldn't perceive airborne virus germs. He didn't know it then, but the outbreak of new viruses this past year had given new meaning to the words "when pigs fly."
In the light of a full moon he had walked to his car carrying a T-shirt given him. On the back was the name, Sugar, and the number, 21.
In the movie DVD he had watched that afternoon with Matilda, neither had seen his face in the stands. He especially watched in slow motion the scenes of the Bridgetown ball game. Was that him there? No. Wrong color polo shirt. After three attempts, he and his sister gave up. He'd not made the big screen. He had only been promised an opportunity. Perhaps that was why he hadn't received an e-mail from the producers when the movie was released this summer of 2009. He had given it to them twice. Once electronically, and then on that fancy paper he had signed.
Could he still add his efforts to the next movie coming to town looking for future stars? Why not? While he had no control, he could offer his time and the loss wouldn't be great. He didn't remember the grandstand scene with "Mr. Olson" either. If their images on celluoid were swept up into the same refuse bin, he was in great company even if "Mr. Olson" received more than a bratwurst and T-shirt for his efforts.
If he ate more, he might qualify for TV's "The Biggest Loser." No, he wouldn't subject his body to that.
He reached for the TV remote. Was football over? He'd check his e-mail again tomorrow. The producers still had to have his e-mail address. He could fill out a Santa costume without belting a pillow to his stomach. Yes. He could suggest the ideal location at the mall. "Ho ho ho," he practiced. "Little boy what do you want for Christmas?"
Herman wiggled his body again. He knew what he wanted for Christmas. Yes, the producers surely would want to do a winter movie after having done a summer movie. He would be ready.
He glanced at the computer. Tomorrow would be the day when he'd say: "Yes, Hollywood? I can be there."
