I'm as much an actress as Lindsay Lohan is a rocket scientist.
Thus, when a man approached me in Mumbai who looked more like an Indian squirrel than a talent agent and asked if I wanted to be an extra in a Bollywood film, I laughed so much I snorted. When he said the three guys I was with could also be extras, I considered it as much as I would pregnancy. When he said it paid and included free food, I said yes please.
A white molester van picked us up at one in the afternoon. We had been drinking since eleven. The Kiwi entered the car cradling a bottle of Bagpiper whiskey. He and one of the Brits boozed in the back. The van echoed with our screeches of Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall and You're Drunk You're Drunk You Silly Old Fool. The driver and six other passengers looked at us with the disdain I feel for pigeon poop in my hair.
Twenty minutes into the thirty-minute ride, the Kiwi decided he didn't want to be a Bollywood extra. He wanted to drink on Mumbai's streets. He opened the back door and he and one of the Brits tumbled out like drunken Santa Clauses, Bagpiper whiskey in hand.
The other Brit and I continued to Bollywood and our impending white-person fame in the Indian film industry.
The Brit, myself, and six other Westerners sat at an outdoor restaurant for an hour and a half while women resembling fashion models served us chai.
When the administration recognized that some of the extras were smoking a joint, they encouraged us to go inside the building. While waiting another half hour, I talked with the Germans and French comprising the whiteys. Their English was as fluent as my Spanish. And my Spanish manifests as a Spanish/French fusion. Our roles constituted speaking English into microphones while video clips danced across the screen. Our voices would fashion background noise in a movie entitled Fired.
The Indians on the sound boards didn't seem to recognize that many of those speaking English sounded like it was their sixth language.
Synopsis of movie provided to us: the executives of a company called HWLS - largely Joy - are firing employees, thus the employees are agitated. Go!
One of my favorite conversations:
Thomas: "It's all fair in HWLS under Joy Mittal. He is cursed, the son bitch he will suffer and he will die the worst ever death. Maybe by stoning."
Cheryl: "Let us get that bastard... this office needs some security... not a Joy asshole."
Milind: "He will suffer... I know... we know don't we... we know."
Mark: "Sure deal mate... that wanker needs to be buggered up."
Thomas: "You can't fire us Joy. You can't get us easily out of your life. DIE... DIE... DIE... DIE A SLOW DEATH."