Leila Nelson, background actress . . . on the outside, trying to get in.

There I was. Freezing, huddled, scantily clad in my unsightly black vinyl dress and hip boots whilst my large hair, the result of a blow-dryer, a can of Aqua-net and a John Waters-esque woman named BeBe, blew furiously in the Bronx night air. It was 2:27 a.m. and I was crushed between a tall lamenting girl with dreams of becoming Miss October in the next great pin-up calendar and a woman who was thirty-six, looked sixteen, had four kids, and spoke endlessly of children's flu medications. Meanwhile, the same three landmark Seventies disco tunes played loudly, continually from inside the club we were dying to enter.

People would have maimed one another for the chance to move up on the line. There were glances of hatred sent from those further back to those blessed enough to be near the door. Men pushed women. Men pushed men. Women pushed men. There were no rules other than those set out by the scary man with the ponytail and the power at the port of entry. Even I, whose angriest thoughts tend to be aimed in writing at the likes of Presidential hopeful Pat Buchanan, began to think up evil ways to dispose of the superfluous masses ahead of me on the line.

Here I must state, in order to preserve a bit of my dignity, that I am not a pathetic, lifeless, party-girl awaiting my next sweaty, dance-filled, beer-dampened evening. I am an actor and I am on a movie set. Perhaps I should be more blunt: I am an extra, or as those who wish to be polite would say, I am a background actor. This is the set of Spike Lee's film, Summer of Sam. The other point I must make is that I truly was thinking of disposing of the superfluous masses ahead of me on the line. You see, the life of an extra is a cruel and hideous one. Every man for himself. One's main goal is for the camera to catch sight of you for a even nanosecond . . . or two if you're lucky.

The thrill I felt when the casting agency called with the job was wonderful. The endless rides on the 6 train to the building happily referred to as holding were, well, endless. And the two nights sitting outside a small club called Virgo with a group of unbelievably peculiar characters was, well, peculiar.

Our job as actors once out of holding and on the set was to feign a great attempt to achieve entrance to the disco. Once inside, we would be the honored counterparts to Mira Sorvino and John Leguizamo both of whom were already inside tripping the light fantastic. There was a five-hour preparation which preceded a few takes of all of us screaming in frustration on the line outside the club. It was difficult . . . not because we were performing Chekovian monologues, but because we were all too cold to move even the slightest bit. I was taken pity on by a sweet lighting technician who would toss me his jacket whenever we were not filming. However, it became more painful to have been so warmed, then having it ripped off of me, so that process ended quickly.

As the night air cooled my nether regions, I kept thinking back to the day of my fitting earlier in the week when the wardrobe man had me try on a pair of jeans graffitoed with the name Snuffy . . . Yep, for those Spike Lee fans out there, they were definitely his pants from Crooklyn. Unfortunately, they were a few inches too long and I was stripped of the jeans and handed the very short black vinyl dress. Whilst standing outside the club I glared angrily at a young woman a few yards from me warm in Spike's jeans. I thought of two things. One: damn the tall of the world. Two: thin black vinyl should be used to keep freezer meats cold.

At around midnight, we would break for lunch. The SAG actors and all of the technicians ate inside above the club. There were picnic tables set up outside for all of the non-union people. After about half an hour, someone indoors realized how cold it had become and we were invited in. Lunch is always this late and it is the time when people are becoming deliriously tired. It is also when the characters come out to play.

I met a young actor who invited me to join his theatre group of post-modern readings of the classics . . . Hamlet on rollerskates? Twelfth Night as a metaphor for the plight of the rain forest? Um, questionable. He then offered me a sip of vodka from the green leather flask he had in his jacket pocket. However appealing that sip was at the moment, I politely declined. There was a woman who despised Spike Lee and all he stood for, but she was "just a desperate actress." Another man had never even seen a Spike Lee film in his lifetime. One person actually told me she was doing this simply for the money. This struck me as utterly absurd because all non-union actors were making the same seventy-five dollars for the same eighteen hour day. I should have told her to go get a job at Starbucks . . . she'd make more money (plus Starbucks offers benefits).

Many of these roaming, basically unemployed actors, directors and writers had cell phones which rang incessantly through the night. And almost every single person never stopped complaining. The cold was a big issue. The food was a bigger one. Honestly, what does one expect? Dinner for 200 extras catered by Le Cirqe? I worked it out and we were making 4 dollars and ten cents an hour. What we had was basically your usual high school cafeteria fare. In my opinion as long as the lukewarm coffee kept flowing, I was in heaven.

I generally love meeting new and interesting people, but when you are stuck in a small room with two hundred new and interesting people, you yearn to be alone. I finally settled down with my jug-o-coffee and a couple of books at a relatively quiet table with a few nice, rather benign people . . . which is the best I could have hoped for. These were the folks with whom I chatted for the next two days.

Whenever Spike walked by, most reacted as if they had just seen the second coming of Christ. People actually posed. "Perhaps I might catch his eye and he'll give me a line." It was as if that thought was tattooed on every actors forehead. And I must admit, it was on mine as well. Anything to not have to submit to extrahood again. I had already done this type of thing three previous times and the joy of it was wearing thin. Of course, there was always more to learn, and my eyes and ears were always open . . . But where were the roles for which I have been studying? As I sat chugging my seventh cup of coffee at 3AM I was becoming far too introspective. I really did not have to take that class on James Joyce did I? Instead, I should have learned some more practical things, such as how to cure my feet of the frostbite with which they were so graciously blessed whilst still outside.

As the atmosphere became more relaxed, the crew became more involved in conversations with the extras . . . often times, too involved. The man in charge of extras casting circled the room and occasionally chatted about the goings on of the scenes to come and of upcoming sets that we might be asked back to be a part of. His name was Tuffy and the most infamous scene of all was the one to be set in Plato's Retreat. Ah to be chosen to be in a group sex scene . . . perhaps even a lesbian interlude with Mira Sorvino. People were a-flutter with the potential of being ravished by John Leguizamo. Excitement was in the air. A woman knew, if looked at for too long by this certain group of crew, that they were being considered for that scene. It was to be a complete nude scene and the actor would be compensated a thousand dollars. Hmm . . . if only it had been a SAG card . . . But still, what would mommy think?

The entire night was becoming more and more bizarre. I was approached numerous times by a man, who I believe worked a boom, who kept telling me that the dress I was wearing was gorgeous. (Do you remember when I said it was black vinyl?) There were PA's abounding: Juice and Messiah left particular impressions . . . mostly due to their names. At that point I was so tired I was practically sleepwalking, but I vowed not to sleep because those PA's would walk about and bring people to the set for other random takes . . . I WOULD WORK DAMMIT!!! My eyes were too tired to continue reading so I just kept walking in circles around the room. I certainly had not been sitting there for ten hours to be passed over because I was napping. It had also become so cold that many of the actors did not even want to participate anymore. The fact that I remained enthusiastic through my haze of frostbite and exhaustion won many points! I was on my way. Look out Mira, John and Spike . . . I will not be defeated . . . I will not be negative.

My sparkling attitude was spotted (or perhaps I truly was the only one left awake) and I was brought from the holding room to the indoor set which was about 85 degrees due to all of the lighting . . . My body adjusted, my face was re-powdered and I was ready to go. I danced in the exact same spot next to the exact same people, to the same song for the following two hours, trying to maneuver myself somehow into the focus of the camera, which, of course, was everyone else's strategy as well.

I was hideously uncomfortable. The man next to me kept hitting me in the head with his arm whilst dancing. I assume the reason he continued to do so for every single take was for the purpose of continuity . . . I thought it would have been incredibly inappropriate for me to follow my instincts and kick him in the groin. My head was pounding. A bruise was forming in the shape of his elbow. Meanwhile John and Mira danced flawlessly only a few feet away. To my exhausted, cloudy eyes, they looked angelic. I wondered why they did not sweat. He was gorgeous in powder blue and she was extremely tall and thin in black boa-like garb. Whilst I continued to dance and be bruised, Mira and John were wrapped in coats and ushered back and forth to their trailers.

I watched Spike Lee, listened to what he said, and had a great time. Then it was over. The scene was over. Spike left and the set was struck. We, the extras who still remained, were bussed back to the original holding spot where we changed, returned our costumes and contemplated the events of the past few days. Phone numbers were exchanged. Tuffy, Juice and Messiah were bombarded with duplicate headshots and resumes and, of course, the occasional home phone number as actors searched through their bags for tokens and Metrocards.

The 6 train awaits.