 Conan O’Brien is a freakishly tall human being. There’s no other way to describe it. People talk about how tall he is, and you prepare yourself, but when you’re sitting there in the Late Night Green Room, ready to be “Party Guest #4” in a pre-taped sketch, eating oatmeal cookies and wondering if the Cokes in the mini-fridge are free, the sudden revelation of his height is unsettling, at best. I was on my third oatmeal cookie and fifteenth surreptitious glance at the mini fridge during my first time as a background extra on Late Night when Conan himself walked into the greenroom. He was so tall, I stared. I wondered if he had to buy special “tall guy” shirts and longer ties. Then, I realized I was staring, open-mouthed, and I looked away, abruptly, trailing a wad of oatmealy spit behind me. Such began my Odyssey...
When I was called about being an extra on Late Night, they asked me to bring colorful, hip clothing for the shoot. Blythely, I said “No problem!” and went hunting in my closet only to realize that there was a major problem: I have no clothes of color. I also own nothing remotely hip. I picked out anything in my closet that wasn’t a black turtleneck sweater or black “Career Casuals” pants from Old Navy, stuffed the entire mottled mess into my rolly suitcase and spackled on some Cover Girl. I was primed and ready.
We were doing a “post-tape,” which meant that we would tape the sketch in the late afternoon, following the taping of the actual Late Night Episode for that night. Sorry to spoil the magic, Kiddos, but Late Night isn’t actually filmed late at night. I was a little leery of asking my boss for time off, considering the fact that the last time I got called in to Late Night, the sketch I was in got cut by the time I made it to the studios and I had to spend the week explaining to my boss that the “feminine problems” I had alluded to in order to get a half day off work had suddenly cleared up. I steeled myself, stuck out my chin, held my head high, and begged like an ass. As I recall, she wrinkled her brow, frowned a little and made me promise to come in two hours early the next day to make up the time. Then, she happily returned to her massive phalanx of personal calls (all of which centered around her toddler son’s bowel movements) and left me to my own devices.
Late Night tapes at 30 Rockefeller Center, a few floors below the Saturday Night Live studios. It was a slightly odd sensation, to walk into a studio that I had once seen on an NBC tour. I checked in, and was put onto an elevator that only went to the floor that the attendant in the lobby TOLD it to. I was about to make some joke about how it seemed silly to keep Late Night so secure until I remembered that 30 Rock was also the home of the NBC Nightly News and Tom Brokaw, the unlucky recipient of a nice little letter full of Anthrax. I made a mental note not to touch anything as I rode up on the elevator.
Getting costumed was the most nerve-wracking part of the experience for me. There I was, laying out my poor, pathetic clothes for an extremely critical man to paw over. “God, is that synthetic? Eeew.” He finally found an acceptable blouse (my lovely parting gift for being on “A Makeover Story”; I’ll tell you about that later…) and dispatched an assistant costumer up to the Saturday Night Live costume area to get me a black skirt. Had I KNOWN I could have brought my OWN black skirt, I would not have found myself wearing a skirt that had a Saturday Night Live cast member’s name pinned inside it. It’s not a flattering thing to know that I share a skirt size with Will Ferrell.
Only one of the other extras was in any way interested in talking to me, so I chose to stand near him during the taping, nervously mumbling and tugging at my Will Ferrell-sized skirt. Before we began, the prop master handed us all “drinks” in an effort to approximate the atmosphere of a party in the inoffensively decorated approximation of a living room. I traded out my “drink” for a real bottle of unopened Zima, thinking it would be a “fun” choice. Standing next to a real bookcase filled with fake books in a fake living room, I commented to my extra friend about whether or not I should open the Zima. “Well, you know, would a bottle cap ‘read’ on camera? If so, should I take it off?” Yeah, like that one damn prop is going to spoil the authenticity of the scene. Before I could debate further, my extra friend wrenched off the cap and we watched in horror as the contents of the bottle turned a milky yellow color. “Good god!” said extra friend, “This is older than some elementary schoolers!”
The taping went well, and I had to wait a whole week to see the finished product. I got a call from a friend of mine at Late Night telling me when to watch, so I said to hell with my bedtime and stayed up to watch my brief moment in the sun. And I watched. And watched. And wa…. Suddenly, the dulcet tones of my cell phone playing “Hava Nagila” roused me and I answered. “You were awesome! You were SUCH good background!” said my friend Janine, “Did you see it?” NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! I slept through my Late Night debut, without even setting my VCR. Thankfully, at least thirty people I know who have an exaggerated sense of my importance taped it FOR me. That’s the lesson I learned from all of this…it doesn’t matter how big the part is, it’s how many people you’ve got cheering you on.
--Amy Roeder is an improvisor, actor and producer based out of Chicago. She loves to hear other people's stories. |
