Extras marched in from holding, a canvas tent and folding tables set up next to a defunct firehouse turned defunct restaurant.
It was easy to pick out the eager first timers from the veterans,just by the looks on their faces.
Quodbrook Casting did a decent job of sending average people, but music video always attracted some strippers and some muscleheads, math rock hipsters wanting to slip someone a demo and a guy with weed tunnelvisioned on becoming best friends with the band, who fifty percent of the time weren’t even on the set.
Kyle Gitner looked out over the production. Dozens of C-Stands, a crane, portajohns, foggers.
Good weather, ample parking, an old fastener warehouse blocking the view of the set from the traffic on Gratiot, keeping the gawkers to a minimum.
A wrangler named Tony was placing the extras in their starting positions, explaining the importance of continuity.
“Whatcha shooting?” The voice came from just over Kyle’s left shoulder.
The words “mayonnaise commercial” were on Kyle’s lips as he swung to face the voice.
It was always a mayonnaise commercial, unless it was a 400 million dollar superhero movie and the whole town knew damn well it wasn’t a mayonnaise commercial.
Kyle didn’t know anyone who had ever worked on a real mayonnaise commercial.
The person standing there was a skeleton
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