“Fine. Whatever. I’ll just sit over….
As my mother and sister trailed off into a distant store, I begrudgingly sought respite from shopping at a nearyby mall bench. We were in Toronto and it was April 20, 1994…the day of the Oklahoma City bombings, Hitler’s birthday and the day of the future Columbine massacre. But all I knew was that I was at some lame-ass mall and that we had been walking all day and I sure as hell didn’t want to go into that store with them.
As I flopped myself down on the bench as only a sullen 14-year old can, I began watching the crowds. With “My Name Is Jonas” on repeat in my head, I slipped into a better mood and watched people pass. “You know,” I thought, “Canadian kids look just as poser-ish as American teenagers. Huh. Who knew?”
Oh the things that adolescents ponder. The profundity…
Time passed, and I grew impatient with my familial lingerings, wishing that we could just go back to the hotel so that I could read or listen to music. But then my fate approached me. From the left, to be exact.
Dressed in a nice suit, not too tall but not overly short, he approached me and sat next to me on the bench. Visions of child abduction should have been racing through my mind, but suprisingly (frighteningly) I accepted his presence as status quo. We exchanged glances before he introduced himself, and I gathered from his demeanor that he was genuine; trying a bit too hard to “be that guy,” but not a slick salesman.
“Hey. I’m Mark Christensen. I gotta ask you something…”
“Oh crap, here comes the soliscitation,” I thought.
“We’re shooting a movie here in a few weeks. It’s the new Jean Claude Van Dam flick, called “Sudden Death.” We’re trying to recruit extras for the set, kids around your age. You up for it?”
I blinked. All I could think of was some cheeseball asshat running across the tops of trains as they barrelled down the tracks and the camera panned dramatically, sweeping shots from overhead (most likely from a helicopter). I thought about what I knew about extras, how they had to wait around for like 10-12 hours a day, how it was boring, and how most of the extras thought in some strange paralell universe that it would be their ‘big break.’
Then I remembered that I was in Canada.
“Oh, sorry mister. I’m not from here. I’m just on spring break. Sorry.”
We exchanged friendly smiles and off he walked towards another crowd of what he was hoping were underage Canucks. Then my mother and sister returned and we prepared to wander back to the hotel. And just that quickly, my entire future veered back to middle, avoiding a potential fork in the road.
As we left Toronto headed south a few days later, my outlook had changed. Weezer still blared in my headphones, still slumped in the backseat of our Honda Accord. But as we waved goodbye to the city, I left knowing that Canada did have some redeming qualities. Canada was cool because they had talent scouts (or lets hope that’s what he was) looking for kids like me. Somehow it was both insulting and validating to know that I could have been one of the faceless masses in a “major” motion picture.
I’ve never seen the movie. Nor have I ever regretted not living north of the border in order to cash in on the opportunity. But it does still make me wonder what different paths a few simple choices in life could have taken me.
OK, so being in a low-budget action flick isn’t exactly “going somewhere,” but you get the drift.
