I See You Made an Effort: Compliments, Indignities, and Survival Stories from the Edge of 50 by Annabelle Gurwitch Page A

professionals. Basically, it’s like you’d held a position that came with a title and a corner office and are now back in the mailroom. On a trial basis.
    As I stash my belongings inside our cramped cubbyhole, I’m thinking about how common it is now for people in their fifties and sixties to spend months fruitlessly searching for work, facing rejection and reinventing themselves with Plans C and D. Only that morning I’d read about an American woman who aged out of her career in business management. After several years of seeking employment, she’d been able to secure a position with a company located in Pakistan. She had to dress modestly, couldn’t walk the streets alone, lived in a rooming house—and this was a
success
story! With my credentials, I couldn’t even get a job in Peshawar. I’ve got to make this work.
    Both the background and principals are hustled through hair and makeup together and I’m convinced the scowling makeup person is mistaking me for a background performer. She rubs dirt on my face and flattens my hair to my head with the heel of her hand. “You.” She points to me as I exit the trailer.
    “Me?”
    “Yes, you. Go wash your face. You’ve got some mascara on, it looks too modern. You should never show up for work with makeup on.”
    “Okay.” I nod sheepishly, mentally noting that the actress who has gone in before me is wearing iridescent blue eye shadow.
    “I’ve got my eye on you.”
    We wait for the sky to darken so our nighttime shoot can begin. We villagers take photographs together. We’re giddy. We can’t believe how terrible we look, plus we’re all sure we’re going to go into overtime. We’re going to make some scratch. The sky darkens and the assistant director assembles our group where the first shot of the night is being set up. He gives us the scoop.
    “There’s a giant green troll chasing you through the streets. The troll will be CGIed in postproduction later, so for now, you’ll see a prop guy carrying a long stick with lights on the top of it. But you’re actors, right? You can all pretend to see the troll.”
    One of the villagers portrayed the grandmother in
Napoleon Dynamite
. Another is a recognizable comedian who once starred in his own Showtime comedy special. “I think we can manage,” we murmur amid chuckles.
    There appears to be an army of prop guys readying the area. They hose down the cobblestones with water. My period boots have only a thin leather sole and are soaked through to my tights, but I’m not going to be the first to complain. Horses will run past us, we’re told. The magical words “hazard pay” spread through the group in an excited whisper.
    “Hazard pay for the horses and the water.”
    “How much extra do we get?”
    “I don’t know, but it’s a lot!” one of the villagers exclaims.
    We are instructed to assemble in front of the director, who makes his selection. “You, you, and you.” Including me. These are the only words he will address directly to us during the entire twelve hours we will spend together. The assistant director places we few, we happy few, we band of villagers on the street and the other principals head back to the honey wagon. Grasshopper and Ole Toothless aren’t principals, but they get prime spots in the front of the pack. I’m not surprised. These guys look fossilized. I would feature them.
    “Who wants to carry a torch?” the prop master barks.
    “A lit torch?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Like, on fire?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Me, I want to do that!”
    I think of myself as someone who is up for adventure. I’ve performed roles where I’ve had explosive charges attached to my person, fired machine guns, learned to sing opera, kissed RodneyDangerfield. And just like that, a prop guy dips a heavy wooden club wrapped in gauze into a bucket of kerosene, hands it to me and ignites it with a blowtorch. No one has asked,
Are you someone who should be carrying a torch? Have any suicidal ideation? How