Jon Hart is the author of Man versus Ball: One Ordinary Guy and His Extraordinary Sports Adventures and its undeserved sequel, Unfortunately, I Was Available, which is available for purchase here.

When I worked The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel in its first season, I played a deli customer, and it was a tense, miserable sixteen-plus-hour day. I was nonunion at the time, so I didn’t qualify for Golden Hour, which is at least one full additional day's pay for clocking over 16 hours (If you work a second over 16 hour, Union earns an additional full day of pay. If you work over 17, it goes up to two days and so forth). Crew was constantly barking at male background to not manspread, which didn’t exist in the ’60s. I never knew how much I loved to manspread. Anyway, I hadn’t been back since, but that wasn’t for lack of trying. As usual, I toss a Hail Mary. Then again, every submission is a Hail Mary. In this instance, casting wants a lookalike for the artist Robert Motherwell. Immediately, I google his pic and learn that we share a very slight resemblance. I apply. Soon after, casting requests my sizes.

I got the gig!

But then I’m not so sure because I receive no confirmation. In the late afternoon, I nudge casting with a text. Casting is waiting on production, and they’ll get back to me. Right. I sleep. I can do that. Sometime after 11 p.m., casting texts that I’m out as far as Motherwell, but they can use me as a “nondescript gritty artist.” I must attend an 8:15 a.m. fitting the following morning at Steiner Studios in No-Man’s Land, Brooklyn. Someone must’ve canceled. I’ll take it.

Other than a wardrobe lady scolding me, ordering me to always wear a beater rather than a white undershirt to fittings, it goes fine. She claims, of course in a smug tone, that a pack of beaters cost a few dollars. Right. Anyway . . . reporting time on Monday is 4:45 a.m. I knew that it was going to be early, as Maisel is a period piece, and they need plenty of prep time for hair and makeup, as well as wardrobe. Also, it’s a Monday, and production wants to get the week off to an early start. Still, 4:45 is extreme. I sleepwalk through wardrobe and hair and makeup with one minor issue. I take exception to a certain surly wardrobe woman who stands in the men’s changing area like a prison guard, barking commands. No, I’m not wearing my Spanx. I’d been hoping for a free, probably horrible, haircut courtesy of Maisel, but H&M turns me away. In the upcoming scene, we’ve already been at the bar for a while, he explains, so our hair should be unkempt. I can do unkempt.

It’s raining. Some of the food truck guys refuse to make an omelet for background, par for the course. In their mind, union or not, we don’t count. At best, we're production's guests. At worst, we're intruders, a necessary evil, at least before AI can replace us. A production assistant escorts us over to set, McSorley’s, the legendary bar, which is posing as the Cedar Tavern, the historic artist haven. Meanwhile, I overhear that we have nine pages to cover, a herculean task. It’s going to be a long day. We might even reach Golden Hour. Needless to say, production wants to avoid GH at all costs. 

As it rains, we stand outside McSorley’s in cheap production ponchos, waiting to be placed. After about an hour, the unused extras are sent back to holding. I make the mistake of asking an extra colleague whom I’ve been making small talk with in the rain her name—and she’s taken aback. Would you prefer I refer to you by your extra number? Production assigns each background person a number. It's dehumanizing system, but it's efficient.

When I’m called back to set, they place me in front of Maisel’s lead, Rachel Brosnahan, and her strapping date, a doctor, actor Zachary Levi. I don’t want to be in the forefront, as I’m wet and not camera-ready. But let’s be clear: I don’t know if I’ll ever be camera-ready. Ultimately, production agrees. After they shoot a take, they replace me, explaining that I’m too tall and that I’m blocking Rachel. Instead, I’m placed in the way back, at the bar, ordering a beer—fine by me.

Actor Rufus Sewell, who plays an artist, is the star of the day. In our scene, Rufus stands atop the bar and recites a lengthy poem, which is actually portions of several different poems strung together. It’s an arduous soliloquy, and he must recite it verbatim while appearing inebriated. Frankly, it’s the toughest monologue I’ve witnessed in my BG travails. By my estimation, Rufus does it quite well. But, of course, I’m background and don’t count.

Lunch is at a nearby school. Rachel strolls into the cafeteria in a robe, carrying a tray of veggies. Her skin tone and friendly demeanor are equally magnificent. I attempt to not stare but fail miserably. Fortunately, I’m lurking from afar.

Back at McSorley’s, they’re shooting in the corner of the bar, so they tell many of us to “step down,” which means to get lost but to stay close, just in case. We stand or sit wherever on the sidewalk, many of us on a brownstone’s stairwell. Fortunately, it has stopped raining. A few young female extras rave about Rachel’s glow.

At about 8 p.m., I start to firmly focus . . . on Golden Hour. If we go past 8:45, union people, yes, that’s me. I’ve never received it, nor witnessed it, but I’ve heard stories. There was the shuttle that got held up in traffic, and the one that got jammed in a tunnel because it was too high. . . . No, I don’t expect to hit Golden Hour. I fully expect production to wrap us just in the nick of time. But surprise, surprise! They don’t! We get Golden Hour! Easily. “Welcome to Golden Hour!” James Earl Jones announces. And then at 9:45, we get there again, yes, another day of pay. I’d break into Fiddler on the Roof’s Bottle Dance, but I’m beat. Catering brings out Shake Shack but doesn’t allow background to indulge. Well, you can’t get everything.

Meanwhile, some of the crew is agitated.

“You’ll eat anything!” one crew guy mutters to someone.

If he’s speaking about background, he’s probably correct.

“I’ve never seen anything like this!” another complains.

At some point, while loitering around the crafty table, I congratulate an exhausted Rufus on his performance. He’s appreciative and informs me that he had just three days to prepare. As background, I’m strictly forbidden from speaking to principals, but after seventeen hours, I’ve decided that standard rules no longer apply. More importantly, Rufus looked like he needed some much-deserved positive reinforcement. In general, there’s very little hand-holding on television sets. You’re expected to know your lines and deliver on command. Period.

 A little later, production wants more coverage of Rufus’s marathon speech, so I’m summoned back to McSorley’s. I’m sympathetic to Rufus’s plight. He has already recited it so many times and expended so much energy. He’s an award-winning actor, but he’s also human. In addition, it’s warm in McSorley’s, and we’re dressed for early winter. I’m wearing a long wool coat. At one point, Rufus stumbles on his lines and apologizes as a courtesy. “Overtime!” a male extra yells out gleefully. Very unprofessional and disrespectful. Some background are just lame.

We hit Golden Hour again.

After more than eighteen hours and three Golden Hours, we’re finally wrapped. I thank a heavyset wardrobe man for primping me over the course of the day. He refuses to look at me. “It’s my job!” he snarls.