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.

a prop, propped up

although the job title is "stand-in", the position is often off the feet. in the best case scenarios, i'm led to a bed or chair where i'm comfortably planted while the crew erect lights affected by reflective and filtering materials. as long as i fill the frame and remain awake, my duty is fulfilled.

tricky imaginative special effect shots present a worst case scenario. a particular concept looks awesome on a storyboard: at the moment of impact, two characters are suspended in the air while their aircraft collides with a mountain. illustrating these floating horizontal people is easy; bringing the split second fiction to fruition requires creativity from the designers, and a patient pawn like myself.

the set is dressed impressively. seatbelt straps and headsets are dangling from invisible wires, while a fire extinguisher and a medic pack are propped up by grip stands. indeed, from afar, objects appear to magically hover. i wondered how i would achieve the same result in the tableau. would i, too, dangle from above, or would some unobtrusive structure support me from below?

upon closer inspection, i noticed four metal stands positioned close together, each sporting a small rubber pad at the top. surely my body couldn't comfortably lay across four weight-bearing points...

'hop on up there,' the assistant director advised.
'how?'
'these two for your thighs, your torso side here, and your arm lies on this'

yes, much easier sketched than executed. with some awkward assistance, i clambered onto the pads. i immediately felt the pressure in each muscle responsible for supporting my body; my quadriceps, bicep, and obliques burned from bearing the brunt. twisted in a cumbersome position, my remaining body parts either cramped or twitched. lying on a bed of nails would offer more contact points, but i had to endure my job as a "painful-sprawl-in".

naturally, the sequence required the camera to slowly dolly alongside the exposed aircraft interior. since the scene was complicated, many trial runs, along with laborious adjustments, were conducted. all the while, i was to retain my frozen pose, ignoring the symptoms of improper circulation. any slight grunt or twitch would expose my struggle, effectively pronouncing me unfit.

from my floating prone position, my field of vision was reduced to the square foot of floor directly below. for what felt like many minutes, my view was unchanging. suddenly, a lackey slipped a paycheque onto the small patch at which i was consequently staring. like a carrot dangling before a donkey, the white envelope spurred me on. with both eyes on the prize, i endured the hardship's homestretch.

the fanfare accompanying the actor's arrival overshadowed my physical feat, and i silently stumbled off into the shadows to tend to my residual anguish.

domestic plight

sitting shotgun in my pop's parked car, idling in front of my first home away from home, the final send-off was emotional. while the encouraging words were terse, my father's glassy eyes and tight throat spoke volumes. leaving the nest was way easier than witnessing the loss, i suspected. i watched our family car disappear into the dark, heading toward our family home, and the gravity of the moment sunk in. taking a deep breath, i turned to face my new foray into independence, and walked up the steps to my future.

my family away from family greeted me in the foyer, clad in pyjamas and grooving to show tunes. so far, so different. i ascended the staircase to my assigned bedroom, and a waft of home cooking stopped me in my tracks. how fortunate to arrive to housemates who were capable of preparing a proper meal, since i would have merely ventured to the nearest pizza parlour.

the chefs soon announced that dinner would be served, and i was delighted to be seated at a legitimate dining room table adorned with fixings for fajitas. the tex-mex cuisine was gourmet to me, when i was unaware of how to cook chicken, let alone chop vegetables or even warm up a tortilla. the grub was perfectly complimented by a cerveza, and since i planned to hit the sack at my discretion, i embraced the privilege of living on my own.

reality sunk in quick. warm supper did not magically appear the subsequent evening, nor evermore. rather than attempt to follow a recipe or collect ingredients, i was content to shop for crap empty on nutrients but full of gratification. my breakfasts consisted of pop tarts or lucky charms, junk my parents avoided at all costs. in a pinch, the legendary mr. pong's delivered a monosodium glutamate-laden artery-clogging dinner.

my meals in my college days could hardly be considered sustenance, since most of the substances passed right through me or grew as fatty deposits. within weeks, my malnourished system screamed for vitamins, and thus my crash course in self-sufficiency reached an obvious conclusion: learn to cook, or return to the 'burbs.

flash forward twelve years, and the domesticity process is almost complete. my morning activities are dominated by resetting the kitchen for another day of chef duties. as the house husband, i meticulously clean each dish and cutlery item and tidy the counter accoutrements. the introduction of a new scrubby brush actually provides joy. there is also a sense of pride and accomplishment when succeeding at loading the dishwasher with a series of tetris-style stacking techniques. even wiping grease from the oven is akin to a spiritual cleanse.

to think that i'm the same chap who once shared an apartment with three other lads, where the kitchen was virtually uninhabited for the year we lived there. cobwebs literally hung under the cupboards, and there wasn't even a light bulb in the fixture. simply a large room to house a fridge full of take-out leftovers and liquor, it was square footage forgotten.

no longer. now, the liquor is next to the fresh vegetables.

peace of fertile mind

although fatherhood beckons from around the bend, four time zones away, i needed to gain some insight as to whether i could sire offspring. it had come to my attention through a routine check-up that production in the sack factory might be affected.

i was required to abstain from ejaculation for a period of two to five days prior to my appointment. this regulation kept me treading on eggshells: any excessive stimulation would have to be averted early on, or i'd risk staining my immaculate record. an overzealous encounter might promote a volcanic eruption, necessitating a clinic rescheduling. the diligent house of cards construction would be obliterated.

cocked and loaded, i descended upon the hospital, empty plastic vial in tow, hidden in my pocket. the andrology laboratory reception room held a couple of men, noses in magazines. appealing to our gender, only sports illustrated issues were available, hardly material that would encourage arousal.

after an awkward couple of minutes, a red-faced gentleman (flush from climax and embarrassment) emerged from a room, clutching his captured seed. he delicately placed the container in the appointed spot, and briskly exited. unless i were to pass by a brothel or bathhouse, it's not often to be keenly aware of a man who had recently expended. his actions weren't secret, and seeing as i was next, neither would be mine.

i lamented hearing my name, wishing to remain anonymous. the nurse discreetly slipped me two vials, which worried me - surely i couldn't produce a sufficient sample, even with a half-week of abstinence! she notified me that the receptacles were for urine, which worried me - i hadn't harboured that liquid! once in the washroom, cradling cup to tip, i plead with my bladder to spontaneously provide. i took a sip of tap water, as if that would immediately encourage waste. finally, lo and behold, a trickle, barely reaching the minimum required. triumphantly, i sealed the samples and strode back to my seat.

five minutes later, i was called upon for the main course. when i had booked this appointment in person weeks before, the receptionist had provided a vial with which to return. now the nurse offered a fresh one, and when i suggested i use the one i brought, she said, 'just keep it for future use'. you know, for a rainy day, when i randomly need a seed collection.

i was ushered to a room at the end of the hall, a discreet distance from patients with acute hearing. surely the nurse would be privy to heavy breathing or chicken choking, but i intended to be quick and quiet. while the rest of the hospital retained a sterile decor, i was curious if the disseminating setting would appear more inviting. however, other than a stack of outdated porno mags, the room was merely another stale examination station.

the masturbating material raised more questions than organs. which hospital employee has the task of selecting and purchasing these issues? was there a wide variety of kinks represented, in case a specific patient could only produce when presented with a unique fetish? were the pages routinely cleaned? not since my group of friends and i raided the caretaker's office in grade school had i seen a pile of '80s penthouse copies in a staid environment.

i opted for my imagination for inspiration, and fortunately hit the mark with olympic timing and precision. with my deposit immediately off to the testing for the time sensitive process, i wandered off into the morning rush, searching for a post-coital breakfast place.

dealings of wheeling

an absence of sustenance can cleanse the system at best, and cause hallucinations at worst. while i've skirted certain religious customs and preserved others, the day of atonement fast has remained a personal rite. an accomplishment of which i'm proud, especially when the purpose is to consider the previous year's transgressions. a self-regulating attempt at annual piety, albeit brief.

normally, the struggle would culminate in a visit to synagogue, where i'd waver amongst the malnourished, dressed in itchy formal wear and subjected to uninspired droning. a traditional scenario that was perhaps the most excruciating ritual of the final stretch of abstinence. this year, i was involved in the minimally more palatable option: car shopping.

arriving at the dealership, overcome by hunger, i had to subdue desires to bite into the lemons on the lot. even steel would suffice at the eleventh hour of food deprivation. the onset of optical illusions resulted in compact cars appearing as oversized sandwiches.

fortunately, my state of delirium had not set in yet, but the blinds were drawing on my window for safe test driving. our first vehicle seemed luxurious, at least in comparison to my folks' rides. attractive features dominated the dashboard, but the engine's power turned me into a believer. leading off with the superior model is a crafty procedure, when the subsequent journeys are inevitably compared to the integrity of the initial ride. the ploy worked, and the high-end was a must-have.

settling into comfortable chairs before a desk on the showroom floor, i was acutely aware that the wall-less office allowed anyone within earshot to eavesdrop on our financial transactions. at least cubicles, equally public sound-wise, have visual barriers. here, the private business of bargaining and baiting is completely exposed.

calculations and considerations were bandied by my wife and the sales rep, luckily leaving me out of the equation, since my lack of auto knowledge mixed with famish left me unfocused. our sparring partner was a slick salesman, tossing off catchphrases and doublespeak with ease. Conspicuous family photos and personal anecdotes served to humanize, supporting a pitch which could be mistaken for candour. my shrewd gal would not be fooled or wooed, patiently scrutinizing the flop, turn, and river.

once the specifications were in place, we revealed our hand, writing a figure on paper, as if the formality of the process trumped simply verbalizing our price. our liaison took the paperwork to the faceless authority around the corner, leaving us to discuss our options. he returned promptly with an adjusted figure, only a minimal decrement from the asking price. my wife was unimpressed, and begrudgingly counter offered. avoiding the ritual of disappearing to his superior's office, our guy casually grabbed the phone and punched the extension.

'okay, here's what they're offering. uh-huh. uh-huh. yup. okay.' it was eerily reminiscent of a 'deal or no deal' conference with the silhouetted banker. again, avoiding a direct disclosure, our guy wrote the numerical response on a slip of paper. again, the slight variation irked the wife, who had tired of the tedious haggling. she requested to negotiate in person, and our amused rep encouraged the showdown.

i proudly watched her confidently stride into the manager's glass office, and seat herself across from her nemesis. the brusque approach was appreciated and paid off. she played her pocket aces, the dealer busted, and she cashed her chips in. with that swift transaction, followed by my signature, i became a first-time owner of an automobile.

once the deal was sealed, i broke my fast with immense satisfaction. a delicious discount that i could swallow, with a payment plan i could stomach.

falling horizontally

of all the common phobias to experience through simulation, plunging in an airplane tailspin would be one of the most dramatic, if not traumatic. plastic spiders or confined spaces may trigger anxiety, but a full throttle nosedive reenactment might produce soiled skivvies. personally, when i'm taxied on the tarmac towards the runway, i struggle to suppress visions of the 'lost' pilot or 'alive'.

arriving at a warehouse for a production entitled 'mayday' tipped me off to my extraordinary day's work. appearing as an abandoned piece of wreckage was the front half of an aircraft, surrounded by electricians busily imitating lighting conditions for nighttime flight. this scene would depict details from an actual crash, which took place in the early '80s. thus, i was chosen to dress in a stylish white turtleneck and grey blazer, to match my horrendously brushed hair.

the plane interior appropriately reflected the era. with no personal screen built in to the headrest, i was reminded how if one didn't bring reading material on board, the safety manual would be the sole distraction. thankfully, current colour schemes and patterns are more neutral than the flamboyant eye sores of old. other than the visual differences from a bygone decade, the seats still offered a relaxing holding pattern. in fact, since the quiet cabin was dimly lit for night travel, i promptly settled into slumber.

suddenly, i was thrust into consciousness by a voice screaming 'BANG!' and powerful compressed air that was shot across my face. from peaceful snoozing to a living nightmare, my reaction was authentic, perfectly capturing the horror the passengers would have endured. without warning to brace myself for all hell breaking loose, the virtual intense chaos instantly elevated my blood pressure. napkins and headrest fabrics flew through the cabin, past dangling oxygen masks and luggage dropping from overhead compartments. lights flickered and ladies screamed, supporting a surreal approximation of a plane in peril.

my disoriented state of terror dissolved when the flight attendant awkwardly performed a gymnastics back roll past my seat, indicating propulsion. her genuine commitment appeared farcical in light of a stable level aisle, but as a consummate performer myself, i delved into my role by shielding my extreme expression from airborne debris.

crew dude with phallic air cannon

thirty seconds later, the pandemonium had subsided as swiftly as it began, papers and people drifted to the seats and floor. a fortunate outcome, this simple settling of elements into silence, rather than actual impact. crew members dispersed through the aftermath, resetting props and restoring the condition to pre-collision. i restored my tousled hair to its stylish glory, and adjusted my disheveled blazer and armrest fabric.

the mock bedlam would transpire four times more, but i was prepared for the onslaught at that point. by the fifth sequence, i practically yawned while my character was spiralling into oblivion. i was so over the phobia.

aw, shucks

at the point i pinned the name tag to the pocket of my dress shirt, it symbolically represented movenpick's ownership of ol' avers' life. following that initial shift, i'd shudder at the sight of my name on the schedule forever more.

in theory, tending the bar would offer valuable experience. in the unique 'marché' theme, patrons would follow mock cobblestone paths connecting colourful kiosks offering world fare. essentially, a glorified food court meets buffet, overpriced and overcrowded. with so much traffic, i expected to pocket a healthy gratuity for uninterrupted service. indeed, an endless stream required me to fetch beverages, but there was a catch: upon arrival, guests were given a passport upon which they accrued corresponding stamps to the items they selected. upon departing, the stamps were tallied at the cashier. thus, tips were left out of the equation, and my meagre wage wasn't bolstered by any incentive to be polite or efficient.

although the pressure was off to squeeze extra cash from the consumers, the obligation to perform properly remained. from the first day, i was thrust into a crash course in expectations of distinct drinking societies. very quickly, i learned the basics of serving nuances that each libation required.

my most familiar category was the beer enthusiasts, most often crew cut men dressed as preppies. apparently, simply flicking the tap and filling a glass wouldn't impress even casual draught drinkers. my indefatigable mentor exemplified techniques of tilting the glass and avoiding contact with the tap, among other subtle aspects i never imagined existed in the simple concept of pouring ale. usually i'd engage in a battle with foam, scooping and measuring with a scientist's instincts to present the perfect head.

when the tap began to sputter, my stomach would turn, indicating i'd have to venture to the cellar to exchange kegs. keeping the customers waiting while i'd struggle with a steel barrel in a claustrophobic space could have caused an ulcer and hernia combo.

the wine clientele were naturally the most sophisticated, and thus the most fastidious. well-dressed aesthetes with proper postures would speak in hushed tones, expecting the full rigamarole from a trained specialist in fancy dining experience. i'm positive my service left these elites unfulfilled. when asked to match a red with their meal, i'd randomly recommend a merlot, perhaps, to appear knowledgeable. while the connoisseurs leisurely swirled and sniffed, i sensed the accumulation of customers beckoning my attention.

most complicated of bartending procedures was the martini madness. smart suits and sleek dresses would mingle post work, and sip tasteless or fancy mixed drinks, respectively. in an apparent performance piece, my cocktail showmanship and garnish selection was scrutinized each time i shook or stirred. at first, i'd secretly consult the mixer's bible when an unfamiliar order arrived (which was practically every one), but eventually i learned to shamelessly ask the patron to describe the ingredients. more often than not, they wouldn't know, so i'd consult the bible in full view.

my job description encompassed these disparate styles of serving, but i was unprepared for the most tedious and degrading duty of all: shucking oysters at happy hour, which of course was a most unhappy three hours. i'd don an apron and a chain mail glove, and stand in the public booth surrounded by stinky clams, appearing like a medieval michael jackson chef. naturally, shucking the shell is particularly difficult, especially while the action attracts the attention of anyone in a two-metre radius. when a parched crowd is assembled, holding hot entrées on a tray and requiring me to serve them beverages immediately, their glare impedes my zen-like shell removal. offering oysters in the midst of a busy bar area was a phenomenally bad idea.

my lowest point in my three week stint, perhaps in my history of crappy jobs, occurred on new years eve. as the countdown began to herald the celebration, i stood exhausted in the oyster station, surrounded by intoxicated revellers wearing plastic top hats and blowing shrill noisemakers. at the moment the new year arrived, champagne glasses clinked in the air while lovers kissed, and i bent over an uncooperative shellfish, defeated in my lot.

a week later, i examined my paycheque at work. my scrimpy salary was like a slap in the face with a chain mail glove. i immediately served my two weeks notice, before two weeks of unbearable service. it was not a happy new year.