Chaos erupted off the school bus yesterday. I watched through the dining room window as our two backpack toting grade-schoolers, freed from the rigors of school headed for the front door in a tornado of activity fueled by their empty stomachs. The oldest demanded mac and cheese for the third night in a row, at the expense of her little sister who wanted PIZZA! Even if we survived dinner, there was still homework, baths and a bedtime routine more complicated than landing an airplane. It looked like the evening would end with me feeling angry and a failure.
I had planned to attend a penance service at our church that evening, one of two held each year in preparation for the Easter and Christmas Seasons. Our pastor promised a host of priests, some tall, short, skinny and fat, all with excellent hearing, who would be available throughout the evening to hear our sins and offer absolution until all sin had been eradicated from our parish. I was also scheduled to work as an extra on the movie, “Sweet Girl” very early the next morning. I had been assigned to play the role of a “medical professional in a suit” for a hospital scene.
I find confessing my sins to a priest stressful because it requires vulnerability and a humility that does not come easy for me and so I didn’t need much of an excuse to pass on the sacrament. I justified my decision by believing: Leaving my wife, Jeanene, home alone to referee, for even an hour, while I went to church, would be a bigger sin than anything I already had to confess. And maybe movie making is much too frivolous a pursuit for a father having far more mundane yet important responsibilities.
Later that evening, after the kids were finally asleep, I shined my shoes, laid out my blue suit, white shirt, striped tie and went to bed. I must have still been feeling guilty as I set my alarm for 4:00AM because: I had a dream I met a priest when I arrived at the set.
“It’s so good to meet you because I missed the penance service last night,” I said.
“No problem my son; follow me,” he replied.
We found a quiet corner and I proceeded to bare my soul to this man.
The morning shoot followed without a hitch. Afterwards, I was the last one to arrive at the cafeteria. The priest and my other fellow extras were already seated, enjoying their lunch and some lively conversation. One of them shushed the others as I approached the table carrying my lunch tray. I sat down and began to eat when one of the other extras broke the silence by chuckling under her breath. A third responded with a sarcastic comment and then I knew. The priest had told them everything I had confessed! I was incredulous as I confronted the priest exclaiming, “You broke the seal, of confession! How could you?” The priest smiled in disdain saying, “You’re not a doctor.” Then gloated with satisfaction when he added, “Why would you assume I am a priest?” Evil laughter instantly engulfed them in a roar that conspired with my alarm to wake me with the force of a punch to the gut.
No one is happy to hear an alarm clock at 4:00AM but I should have been ecstatic when mine went off this morning. Instead, I awoke feeling queasy. I felt anger and a sense of dread unlike anything I have ever experienced. A few moments later, still not fully awake, I found myself naked, waiting for the shower to warm-up, feeling incredibly exposed and vulnerable, as if they were watching me. How could I let this happen? How am I ever going to face those people again? Hot water rushed over my body for some time before I was awake enough to understand and accept, it was just a dream. I had nothing to be ashamed of.
I got dressed and headed out the door still feeling only the infernal aspects of my dream. I drove through the dark and empty city streets that December morning, trying to dismiss it as simply penance for missing reconciliation, but I couldn’t. I also thought of the anguish victims must feel, as they awake every morning to the reality of being betrayed by a priest, in the worst possible way.
Anyone who has been a movie extra knows the drill. I boarded what looked like an airport shuttle at the designated parking area. It transported me and a few other extras having a 5:00AM call time to the staging area where we checked in, made brief stops at wardrobe, hair and makeup before helping ourselves to breakfast, complements of the production company. Later, a larger group of us were transported by tour bus to a lecture hall, disguised as a hospital for the movie.
What I enjoy most about being a background actor is the people I meet. I like to hear their stories, where they’re from, other movies they’ve worked on, etc. We were all standing around waiting for further direction, still feeling a little silly after waking so early, when one extra asked another where they got their medical degree. He responded saying, “I went to correspondence school.” Another said he got his from a vending machine on the third floor. Then another tried to one up that.
I began to find the silliness a little boring when I noticed a short gray-haired man in a suit, standing off by himself. I approached him and asked, “So, what keeps you busy when you’re not pretending to be a medical professional in a suit?”
He stood up straight, grinned and responded, “I’m a Roman Catholic Priest.”
At this point it was still dark outside. No cock had crowed; not even once. My dream was no more than three hours old and here I was, face to face with my worst nightmare. I wondered, is this God’s idea of a joke? Startled, I responded saying the only thing I could think of besides, yeah right! “Good to know.”
Our brief conversation was interrupted by a call to the props department where we were provided weighted briefcases (I find the attention to detail and quest for perfection amazing and, in an odd way, enjoyable.) Finally, we were all directed from props to the set on the next floor.
For the next four hours the priest and I, along with a dozen other extras, walked up a long flight of stairs while the movie stars walked down past us. I bet we walked quietly —background actors are sometimes seen but never heard— up those stairs twenty-five times before stopping for lunch. (That’s me, by the way, in the blue suit walking up the stairs past Isabela Merced and Jason Momoa six minutes and thirty seconds into the movie.) To be sure, starring in a movie is no easy task. The days are very long, which may be why the movie stars only walked down the stairs and took the elevator back to the top between takes.
I might have avoided the priest if I had seen him at lunch. However, as we prepared for the afternoon shoot, the priest and I were miraculously paired together. We were assigned to wait by ourselves in a darkened locker room area until hearing the call for “Background!”, our cue to count to thirty before walking down a hallway further into the background and leaving the scene through an exit door.
We had plenty of time to talk alone throughout the afternoon and into the early evening and shared our thoughts on matters of all kinds, much of which will remain private. I must confess, we sometimes continued whispering to each other even after the call for, “Quiet on the set!” The more I rambled the more succinctly he responded.
“Oh my!” he said, when I recounted my dream and the humiliation I felt in detail. To put my mind at ease, he added, “Priests really do forget.”
I explained how I also felt guilty for even being there given my family obligations yet he, a Father with an even higher calling, was there too. “Don’t you think acting is a little too self-indulgent given our other responsibilities, Father?”
“Everyone needs recreation,” he said.
After discovering we shared an interest in art, I described for him an idea I had for a painting, inspired by my own weak attempts to pray the rosary perfectly. I asked Father to imagine a man struggling to keep his balance while walking on a rosary, strung like a tightrope fixed between a large crucifix anchored firmly into the ground and the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove descending from the heavens. The Virgin Mary kneels on a cloud holding the rosary encouraging the man to continue his journey while reflecting on the mysteries of her Son’s life and passion. The man: head down, arms outstretched, one foot slightly in front of the other, mirrors the posture of Christ at the end of his earthly journey on the cross behind him. On the ground below the rosary lie the earthly source of the transient thoughts that divert his attention, images of his, family, work, hobbies, material goods, ambitions and even vices, steeling his focus, breaking his meditation and testing his balance as he advances one prayer at a time from one rosary bead to the next. To which the priest responded simply, “Beautiful.”
*
Later that evening, I found myself again driving back through the dark somewhat empty city streets mulling over my dream and the day’s events. I had no doubt he was truly a Roman Catholic Priest. Even so, he never offered and I never asked for absolution.
I pulled into the garage, climbed the stairs one last time and opened the basement door to the welcome chorus of “Daddy’s home!”
“Daddy, why are you dressed so nice, Daddy?” “What did they do to your hair Daddy?” asked the oldest one. “Are you hungry?” “We saved you some pizza, Daddy!” added the youngest.
Jeanene stood and turned off the TV. “Okay girls. It’s time for bed. Let’s brush teeth, wash your hands, feet and face, put your jammies on and pick a book!” I filled their water cups and got their pills.
With them finally tucked into bed, I blessed their little foreheads and said good night with the last three words on the path to a soft landing: “Tight.” “Dreams.” “Bagels.” Our family lingo for sleep tight, sweet dreams and don’t let the bedbugs bite.
Tight. Dreams. Bagels,” they echoed.
Mark is a full-time husband and father ─retired engineer─ and an aspiring actor/author who hopes to publish his debut novel next year. Find him here: Mark Marsico
