All I Ever Need to Know I Learned From the Creepy Naked Man

I think it is appropriate to quote our friend Michael Goudeau; the purpose of life is to have great stories to tell. This philosophy was first brought to my attention some months back during a conversation, in which I stated that it would be pretty cool to fornicate with a celebrity. This essay is not about sex with celebrities, as disappointing as that sounds, but it does involve what could be the Worlds' Tallest Man in nothing but a red push-up thong. I just thought this would be an interesting way to drag you, my dear reader, in, and because I could not think of a better introduction.

A few years back, I met a woman who claimed that when she was a young girl, about twelve or sixteen, I don't know what the age of consent is in Tennessee - that Elvis Presley invited her back to his hotel room to spend the night, and she refused. I can still remember the moment when she told me that she turned down a night with Elvis Presley, and I lost all respect for her. Shallow? Perhaps, but I have a point to make in all of this, I promise. You see, if you dont love life enough to stop and think, "hey, perhaps my friends or my children or my second cousin once removed would one day enjoy hearing the story about the time I had sex with Elvis,"then you just don't love life enough the way I think everybody should.

This finally brings us to my story, which only gives us a glimpse into the festering pile of pointlessness that is my life. I find that the beginning is usually a goopd place to start, so that is where we shall begin.

The last place you would ever expect to have a sweaty, smoky drunken rave party of absolute anarchy and lunacy would be a quaint, nondescript little house tucked away into the side of Lynn Valley on a snowy Wednesday morning, but somehow, this was exactly where I found myself. But hell, if it gave me an excuse to miss school, the farcicality of the situation was really the last thing on my mind. I was a woman on a mission. I am ambience. I am mood. I am setting. I am that sparkly star that you put on the top right hand corner of youressay to try and derive from the general sucky-ness of it all; or that picture of a scene girl you plucked off of Photobucket and tried to pass off as "your character" to try and cover the fact that you cannot write and describe your own characters. I am the perfume that you spray on your resume to give it that little something extra.

But I am not merely just an "extra". We are anything but unnecessary or extraneous. I desire to exporess with images what words cannot. The scene demands our presence. And no, I am not a call girl and this isn't about porn.

I am a Background Thespian.

I enter the hosue through the basement door, close to the kitchen, where two busy craft service ladies were hurridley cutting up green apple slices. I slid off my shoes and scoped out my friend. We shall call him Zia, because that is his name, and his name is awesome. It's just so much fun to say. Zee-ya. Just kind of, rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? I don't know why, but he reminds me of that dude from that band who married that chick with a beak for a nose, but minus the scum bag factor.

Holy haberdasheries, Batman, I seem to be digressing. It seems that the Exposition Witch has been uncharacteristically generous to me today. (But whether this is a good or bad thing still remains to be seen.) As I was saying before being rudely interuptted by ... myself, I guess, I find Zia, discussing the scene with the crew beneath the red and green set lights. We hug, exchange pleasantries and film student mumbo jumbo which sounds equivocal to Pentecostal speaking in tongues, and I made it clear to him that I was here for his Blue Eyes, and that I wouldn't take no for an answer.

"No," Zia replies with a smirk.

"Curses. Foiled again."

Zia sent me off with the assistant director, a pretty, petite blonde girl, who guided me into the dressing room in the back of the basement. We battled with the tiny buttons on a moss green flannel shirt, because buttons suck and, like the Man, they are out to get me. The costume ladies then cinched my waist with a matching army green belt. Once they had their way with me, I came out looking sort of like one of those pretentious indie hipster kids, although admittedly, I did like what the belt / shirt combo did with my waist.

It was while we were struggling with the belt that I was introduced to the other "official" extra. He had a sweet baby face and short brown hair, with the longest eyelashes I had ever seen. He introduced himself as Evan, with a handshake and a cheerful grin. I liked him immediatley because he reminded me of a daffodil.

The makeup girl powdered our faces, and once I found a free moment, I poked my head outside to track down Zia again. I found him hanging around in the corridor leading to the living room and stopped him to hand him a DVD of a documentary he had helped me with. There, we chatted for a short while; Zia gave me a basic synopsis of the plot of the film and what he expected my jobs would be throughout the day, before he was called away by one of the Prop girls. I felt awkward standing all by myself surrounded by people running around and buzzing like worker bees. It was then that I noticed one other person standing alone in the hallway; a man, wearing a dark jacket, who I can shorthandedly describe as Andre' the Giant with a severe case of anemia, not nearly as much hair and admittedly, much prettier. He was looking quite self-assured, with his arms crossed over his chest. We looked at eachother, and nodded with aknowledgement. Then, he chortled, and with a smirk, said to me, "you're going to see me naked, soon."

I wish I could have had a photo of my face in that moment because in hindsight, I’m sure it would be unfortunately hilarious. I must have looked decisively horrified, however, because Creepy Thin Man jumped, and waving his hands, assured me that it was only, “in the movie”. If I hadn’t been standing next to an open room, there would have been a Linden - shaped hole through the wall.

Jesus Christ, Zia, what have you gotten me into?!

I suppose that’s not entirely fair. It wasn’t as if he dragged me here kicking and screaming, but no where in my contract did it say that I would have to interact with a naked giant. So, as assured and nonchalant as I could pretend to be at that point, I walked back into the dressing room and sat down on the armrest of the rickety, beat up quilted armchair while Evan signed a few release papers and I slowly began my long and painful road to recovery after being emotionally scarred.

The assistant director came back to herd the extras up to the holding room upstairs. It was significantly chillier in the upstairs kitchen. I sat down at a small square table with a bunch of prop beer bottles sitting in a prop cooler. I overheard one man, who was sitting on a nearby couch, typing away on his MacBook, say something about how the crew was going to need more ventilation downstairs because of the smoke machine. I checked the nearby clock on the stove top behind me – 11:26.

I heard the steady thump of footsteps travel up from the basement. I turned my head to the entrance to see Creepy Thin Man, who was now only wearing a dark purple bathrobe. Evan introduced himself to Creepy Thin Man, and the two talked for a moment, when Creepy Thin Man turned to me, and said, “hey, what’s your name?”

“Linden,” I replied.

“Oh, like Trevor Linden?”

“Yeah."

“Were you named after Trevor Linden?”

“Well, I was born in Calgary, so … probably not.”

“Oh, well there you go,” he said. “I’m Jordan. Like …”

I racked my brain trying to think of a hockey player with a “Jordan” anywhere in their name. The only thing I could come up with off the top of my head was Jordan Eberle, and then in my minds’ eye, I envisioned when he scored that tying goal in the third period against Russia in the IIHF U18 Championships, with 5.4 seconds to go in regulation time, and I thought to myself, “Hey, Russia, you think you’re better than me?!”

“The country!” Evan said cheerfully.

Or … that.

“Yeah,” Jordan said.

Each of us was silent, and this carried into a sufficiently awkward moment between the three of us. Evan chirped up about a concert he would be going to, and him and Jordan launched into a conversation about modern music. Jordan mentioned something about a festival in Washington state he would be going too, and then proceeded to list off about fifteen bands that he would be seeing.

“I don’t really know any of those bands,” Evan said. “A little too indie for me.”

Jordan shrugged.

It was getting very, very chilly in the kitchen. I pulled my legs up to my chest and hoped that we would be brought back into the cozy basement soon. As if reading my mind, the pretty blonde girl raced up from the downstairs, and told us that the crew has ready on set.

She escorted the three of us downstairs and onto the set. The sliding doors had garbage bags taped tightly over them to emulate night and to keep any natural light from creeping in. The room was light with red and green lights, and on one long table sat all the prop beer, and other assorted liquor, bottles. One of the prop girls thrust a half empty beer bottle into my hand and handed me a blue glowstick. “Don’t crack them until we’re rolling,” Zia instructed. Then, leading me by the shoulders, Zia guided where he wanted me to stand. He positioned me in the corner of the room, beside a speaker and a rocking chair that had a small child duct taped to it.

“Okay, Linden,” Zia said to me. “In this shot, we’re going to have Brynn [the lead actress] swim through the crowd, and then she’s gonna stand on this platform beside you; she’s gonna say her thing, and then I want you to stumble into her, and then you and Jordan are gonna party-boy her out the door.”

“Okay,” I said coolly, although I was more dubious about being close to the giant in the thong than I was letting on.

The blonde A.D. led Jordan out onto the set, in all his naked, skinny glory. Zia and I locked eyes and shared a stifled giggle. “Are you sure you’re cool with this?” he asked me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the makeup girl powder down Jordan’s chest. Both of them were laughing. I turned to Zia, and answered, “yeah, I think it’ll be fun.”

I could let this one slide. Maybe I could even have a story to tell.