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Who's Your Papi?
My day of acting with David Ortiz
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It’s 10:09 a.m. on Monday morning when I get the call.
“Can you be there?” asks the voice on the other end. “Are you down?”
“I’m down,” I say. And then I look into the mirror and I panic.
I’ve just committed my 63 year-old father and myself to working as extras on a Vitamin Water commercial shoot in Estero, Florida. David Ortiz – also known as Big Papi to Red Sox fans like myself – will be there along with Brian Urlacher of the Chicago Bears. I haven’t showered or plucked my eyebrows today, and there’s a pimple forming on the left side of my forehead. I am so not ready for my close-up.
But less than an hour later I am standing outside the Estero Community Center looking vaguely out of place as anxious crew members shuttle back and forth between a fleet of trucks and trailers. Squinting into the sun, I sign my name onto a sheet for non-union “talent” before I’m unceremoniously hustled onto the busy set.
Unlike most of the other extras at today’s shoot, my father and I are not actors. We’re not even aspiring actors. I only know about the commercial because I am mildly addicted to craigslist.org. I like to look at the bikes for sale and the apartments for rent. And sometimes I do something completely impractical: I look at acting jobs.
That’s where I found it – amid a short list of postings for TV/film/radio jobs in the Fort Myers area – a call I could not resist: “EMERGENCY: I need 50 more PAID extras for Monday.”
The payment is $150, the shoot will last around four hours and Big Papi will be there. All I really want is to meet Big Papi.
WEBIFIED
Inside the gym we follow the crowd of average looking extras around the mock badminton court that is our set and onto a rack of tall bleachers along one side. A thin woman wearing a tool belt over khaki pants points us into positions.
“Remember your places,” she tells our group. “This is position one.”
For the next hour or so we are readjusted. We shuffle further down the bleachers, and we rearrange. Our T-shirts need to look good next to our neighbors’ T-shirts. Our props have to match our T-shirts and our positions. Any Asian extras need to be in the front (the commercial takes place in Hong Kong.) We sit; we stand; we switch places, and we sit again. Seating is excruciatingly important.
Finally, after what seems like forever, it is time to film.
“Cameras rolling?” shouts a man dressed completely in black. “Background,” he commands.
The extras erupt into cheers. We bang inflated sticks that look like giant gummy worms. We shake our fists in the air. I wave a tiny German flag gleefully and try to keep an expression of pleased intensity on my face. This smile conveys that I love badminton. This smile is my attempt at acting.
On the court David Ortiz picks up a bottle of Vitamin Water and gives it a quick chug. He screws the cap back on and takes up position in front of the net. With a dramatic big man’s leap Ortiz swings and hits the birdie back towards his opponents. For all his size and strength it’s not that good of a hit.
“Cut.”
And again. And again. And again.
For the next few hours we do take after take. The cheers grow less exuberant, the expressions less intense. Even Big Papi and Urlacher look bored as they repeat over and over the same powerful badminton spikes. They don’t have any speaking lines; it’s just as well.
After six hours of countless shoots and reshoots, the skinny woman in the khaki pants tells us to go outside. She hands out pay forms and promises us pizza. Then she breaks the bad news: “This is lunch,” she tells us – we’ve got more shooting to do. I look at my watch and realize it’s 5 p.m. I’ve been acting all day.
It’s then that I give up. I walk back into the gym to look for some sign that she’s lying and we really can go home, but no one has left the absurd little set. I realize that acting is not easy money, and I realize that I like my job better. Then I notice that the sunlight coming in through an open doorway has been blocked. And Ortiz strides into the room.
He is huge, but looks gentle. His quarter sized diamond earrings sparkle enticingly.
We make eye contact for a half a second and he points at me, smiling.
“Hey Papi,” I yell.
“What’s up mami?” he asks. I talk to him for about 60 seconds and then he’s already moving forward, back into his entourage of assistants and admirers. We shake hands, and I stroll back to the other extras. I am vaguely aware that I am glowing.
“I met him,” I tell my dad, who smiles appreciatively. And then we decide to leave. We’re not actors, after all, and we’re not here for the money. Somehow the day seems like a big game of make believe, and I am relieved to step into my car and back to reality. Then we’re off heading south on 75. It’s been a long day of acting, and I’m just about ready for dinner.
Comments
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As the aforementioned 63 year old father I am disappointed that there was no mention of the intense and emotional performance I gave as a fan. After carefully examining my character's motivation, I cheered with a searing honesty that brought tears to the eyes of the screen actors guild members around me (it was either that or the lack of bathroom breaks).
Posted by RossF on March 24, 2007 at 9:13 a.m. (Suggest removal)
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