Flavor of the Week: No Tiny Parts

"Under Five” roles are the ones in TV shows and movies in which actors have less than five lines. The roles that no one remembers. You know: the perky young barista at Starbucks (“Venti Latte at the bar!”); the schlubby garbage man in Brooklyn who was in the wrong place at the wrong time (“I just found the body; I ain’t no murderer!”); the bewildered guy with the leash (“Hey! That monkey stole my dog!”). At a certain point in one’s acting career, booking an Under Five is exciting, but eventually it’s a real kick in the crotch, especially if you walk in thinking you’re reading for a lead.

When I was 22 years old, I started dating my neighbor’s 25-year-old best friend. He was smart (loved books) and fun (throwing parties). I mean, yes: He kissed weird and smelled a little like hot dogs, but he was ambitious and optimistic—and really cute. In fact, he seemed like such a great guy that I had to start keeping a trashcan by my front door because I was so nervous every time I left for a date with him I almost threw up. Literally. This should have been my first sign that it was bad news. There is no situation in life that better defines the idea of “listen to your gut” than puking on your date.

We spent evenings walking around Union Square talking about politics and music. I liked how impassioned he got. He liked that I wasn’t very tall. In fact, he used to compliment me by murmuring, “You look so tiny...” It was as if what he was really saying was: “My dick would look HUGE standing next to you.”

For one date, we went to see an art film about a Scandinavian chapel. I managed to stay awake through the whole thing to prove that I was on par with his Yale friends. Whenever I met up with him and his friends, he seemed surprised to see me, as though he had forgotten he invited me. But that couldn’t be the case, since he was super totally into me. I mean, I was tiny!

Usually when you’re going to audition for a part, they send you “sides,” which are just one scene with your lines. You have to try to figure out how you fit into the whole story by just that one scene. If you could read the whole script, it would be different: You’d know exactly why you’re there and who your character is supposed to be. But usually you just prepare yourself and hope for the best.

After a few weeks of dating, I found myself standing on West 22nd Street, listening to him tell me that we needed to “cool off” because he had been having an escalating online affair with a 16-year-old girl, and it was getting “pretty intense.”

“Are you serious?” I replied. “You’re in love with your 16-year-old pen pal?” A look of stunned realization appeared on his face. It was like clouds were parting and he was surrounded by honey-colored bunnies that were tenderly boning big-eyed bluebirds. “Maybe I am,” he said. “Yeah, maybe I’m in love with her. She is... so amazing.”

I took off my heels and hailed a cab. As I sat in the back of the cab—too pissed off to even eat the candy in my purse—I realized that I had just wasted a month on someone else’s story. That stupid look of wondrous awe at the beauty of his new love is what rubbed it in. That was the crux of this story, not my dumping him. It seemed impossible to me: How could there be a more important character in my story than me? Me, with my charming dorkiness and playful jokes! I started to rage inside: I must be smarter than her! She can’t possibly be as fun as me!

But there it was: I wasn’t the lead, I was just an Under Five.

Thinking back, I now realize that it’s a really shitty movie anyway. And it’s not the sort of part I should be going out for. I should be in groundbreaking independent features or fringe, cult hits with titles like

Spider Rebels or Tiny Spider Rebels: The Musical! Not Ivy League Douchebag and His Child Bride. I should be making my own stories, not worrying about someone else’s crappy casting choices. And if I do end up as an Under Five again? Well, sometimes a tiny part steals the show.