dead ringer

before sunrise, my preselected song faded in, awakening me from an unfulfilled slumber. difficult to relax when no call time came in before hitting the sack. scheduled for work in the morning, but lacking a destination or arrival time, makes falling asleep a challenge. i set an alarm to assure an expedient rise and dash. sure enough, i first contacted my agent who discovered her oversight: i was supposed to be on the opposite end of town, half an hour earlier. don't bother freshening up, she suggested; my duty was to play a dead body. if i didn't leave immediately, though, i might find myself really playing the part.

teeth brushed and jeans zipped up, i hopped in a cab and sped to the set. a frenzied production assistant greeted me at the gates, reimbursing the fare and ushering me to my trailer dressing booth. the first shot, featuring my splayed bloody carcass, was slated for 7:30, and my transformation was supposed to start at 6. it was 7:28.

i squeezed into a slim black suit that had been previously treated with dried blood and slits, and swiftly visited the hair and make-up trailer. each technician stared when i first entered, scrutinizing the cause of the commotion. i was directed to the closest barber chair, where a wig was quickly fitted to my head. i transferred two seats to the left where a make-up artist applied a single thin red mark to my cheek, apparently the extent of her special effects work. finally, i was led to the corner station where i sat for half an hour while clay and latex were sculpted into a depiction of a shotgun exit wound.

the production assistant returned, still perturbed, and whisked me into the studio. fortunately, the crew killed time with alternate shots, rather than lollygag on the clock. still, like a geek walking past a clique in a high school cafeteria, i sensed the stares from the shadows behind the camera.

a wardrobe mistress handed me hospital booties to protect my shoes when crossing the pristine white floor. a set decorator flashed me a photo reference, from which i determined how to lay on my back as the actor had posed. although our heights were identical, his torso girth was olympic, so i was uncomfortably propped upon a sandbag to appear more buff.

with the soft shuffle of booties-on-concrete, a props master approached me and doused the ground surrounding my wound with fake blood. i closed my eyes and focused on slowing my breathing while the camera rolled. after the hustle and bustle from the moment i awoke until the first take, i had returned to a supine position, albeit bloodier and contorted. five minutes later, with the shot in the can, i was done for the day.

afterward, i sat on the streetcar, tending to the splatter under my fingernails. all in a day's work.