12:32 A M Saturday Morning, Mount Vernon East Train Station

The Hungarian makeup stylist applies beads of fake glycerin 'sweat' to my brow and upper lip with a stipple sponge as the Serbo-Croatian PA compliments me on how authentic I look as a commuter train conductor.  The Jamaican teen with the dreadlocks dyed red to match the color of the necklace he is wearing; (one of those those glowing red things you get at concerts), studies Calculus with his tutor, while the lead actor, a genetically engineered plain vanilla Amalgam of Marky Mark, Chris O'Donnell and any of the interchangable members of Backstreet Boys or N'Sync, chats with the French wardrobe woman about how difficult it is to live in Japan when you're a white, anglo saxon, pre-pubescent American.  I have been on the set for exactly six hours but have yet to shoot a frame of film.  The Czech director, who looks disturbingly like a younger, albeit not quite as stable, Crispin Glover, looks my way and frowns.  The  First A.D. calls 'lunch' in the lilting brogue of his native county Corke as cast and crew trudge out into the nightime cold.  It is a late night in March Mt. Vernon, which is subustituting for a hot summer evening in Bethel after a Metallica concert.. Just another run of the mill day in Show Business.  I am shooting a 'Coke' commercial.  At least I think I am.  Perhaps we need to rewind here for just a moment...

THE PREVIOUS MONDAY AFTERNOON, POLYNESIAN RESORT AND HOTEL, DISNEYWORLD, ORLANDO FLORIDA

I return to our plush, faux Hawaiian Provincial decorated room with wife and kids in tow, gleefully effervescent after spending four hours at the Magic Kingdom and two hours at the MGM Studios, to find my manager Gary has left five desperate messages urging me to call him immediately, as it is 'relatively important'.  When I do, he informs me that I have booked a principle role in a national spot for Coca Cola.  I should have known something like this stroke of luck would happen now, as there are two things that are almost certain whenever I attempt to take a few days off and go away with the family:   

-          1-  The days I am anywhere will serendipitously coincide with the those of the first rain to break the six month drought in the state to which I've traveled, and

-           B- I will inevitably get some kind of choice gig two days into the vacation. 

It happened three summers ago when I booked a TV commercial spot in Mexico City with an all British crew for a Swedish Refrigerator Company that was to air in the Eastern European market.  And then again last year, when I was offered the opportunity to originate the role of megalomaniacal despot TV Commercial Director Marcus Gordon" in the Off Broadway Play "Tabletop", which, although not  quite as international an experience as that on the Mexican shoot,  was creatively satisfying nonetheless. I fear I'll have to cut the trip to Mousescwitz short, but then Gary tells me we won't be shooting until the day after I get back.  I am comforted, knowing that I will not have to deprive my children the joys of riding Dumbo in Hurricane Force downpours and Apocalyptic winds. 

I am excited, but the news is somewhat of a surprise to me, as I didn't recall actually having auditioned for a Coke spot.  "You didn't" Gary tells me.  "They asked for me by name?" I hopefully inquire.  "No, they just wanted a fat guy with a moustache" he says.

Oops. 

Let’s rewind a bit more...

THE FRIDAY EVENING TWO WEEKS PRIOR TO THE PREVIOUS MONDAY AFTERNOON.  MY BATHROOM

With ego and vanity each in their own, separate but equally precarious and vulnerable positions, I take razor in hand and rid myself of the strip of greying hair beneath my nostrils and above my upper lip in one, fell swoop.  I have just returned from the set of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, after reprising my role as sleazy defense attorney Milton Schoenfeld in yet another episode.  The return to the show has me fantasizing about more than just a recurring part, I'm actually envisioning myself starring in a spinoff.  That is, until the star of this episode, none other than Lois Lane herself, Miss Margot Kidder, asks me if I've had the experience of watching myself age on film.  When I ask her what she means, she says

"You know, you do your first 'on camera' in your early twenties and then thirty or so years go by, and then when you look back on your body of work, it's weird to watch yourself age." 

I don't have the heart to tell her that I haven't done all that many film roles, so it's not like my cinematic ouerve would unfold like slow time lapse photography.  She persists in driving her point home like a metal spike to my head:

"You're what?  Fifty five?  Are you a grandfather yet?  It's great.  You get to spoil the kid, then send him back to his mother when he gets to be too much of a pain in the ass."

Although I take it as a compliment that Ms. Kidder thinks I'm such a veteran, it is painful for me to admit that she believes I am almost fifteen years older than I actually am.  I try to take her remark with a grain of salt, toss it off as an innocent and benign observation, made by a very sweet woman who is merely making friendly small talk while the crew lights the scene we are about to do.  I attempt to make myself feel better, rationalizing her words as the ravings of a lunatic woman whose grasp of reality is about as firm as a piece of overcooked vermicelli.   I bite my tongue, forcing myself to refrain from informing her that not only am I NOT fifty five,but I've never been found mumbling to myself, half naked, without my teeth,  in some backyard doghouse in the San Fernando valley either.

Clean shaven, I'm convinced, I appear younger than my actual age and my pure, hairless skin helps to accentuate my youthfully cuddly puppy dog eyes.   Of course, I could shave my head and it wouldn't shave off even a week of the many miles I've put on over the years.  Being 90 pounds overweight doesn't help all that much either, but nonetheless, I believe my new, clean cut look helps me reclaim at least five to seven of the years I lost to the rigors of the road.

Now that the necessary expostional information has been imparted, let’s begin our return time trip, and spin forward a bit...

BACK TO THAT EARLIER MONDAY AFTERNOON, AT THE POLYNESIAN RESORT AND HOTEL, DISNEYWORLD, ORLANDO FLORIDA

I reluctantly inform Gary that I am sans whiskers, justifying my decision to shave with the Margot Kidder story, and rationalizing it further with the assertion that facial hair is too 'threatening'.  He advises me to cease all grooming immediately and see if I can find a hospital in the area that would be willing to inject me with some anabolic steroids to stimulate and enhance beard growth.  I proffer that he just come clean with the production company, and inform them that I don't exactly look like my 8x10, to which he responds with a pithy remark that includes references to the photo being almost five years old as well.  'We can just blow it off', he assures me, 'I mean, it's not like a Coke commercial is going to get much airplay.'  Point taken.   I order three steaks and a quart of milk from room service, hoping they are infused with massive quatities of Bovine Growth Hormone.

Everyone on the same page now?  We have enough background information?  Good.  Let’s return to our story, then, shall we

6:30 P.M.: FRIDAY EVENING, GRAND CENTRAL STATION TERMINAL TRACK  42

Bouyed by the prospect that I am about to shoot something that will either garner enough national exposure of my inherent genius to initiate development deals with the big 3 networks, or make me enough money in residuals to at least retire at the age Margot Kidder assumed I had already achieved, I walk towards the train upon which I am about to spend the next 12 hours of my life.  Makeup and costuming have gone well, although the French costume woman is somewhat confused, wanting to know where I will wear my 'money machine'.  I have visions of having to carry an entire ATM on my back until I realize she means one of those little change deals conductors have on their belts. 

The Dutch Director of Photography and the German Line Producer pass me on th platform.  The LP spins around and looks at me accusingly.

'Where is moustache?'

'What do you mean?' I innocently ask, knowing full well that what I've managed to grow in the past four days, despite repeated treatments with Grecian Formula and medium brown mascara, looks vaguely like I've just eaten a mouthful of Oreos.

'Your agent assured me you look exactly as your photo.  I have made promises to people…assurances'.  His tone suggests that Lynne, my commercial agent at Atlas, should begin fearing for her life.

'I go in and out of it, depending on the project'. I say curtly, thinking that a small modicum of indignance wouldn't necessarily be such a bad thing at this particular moment.

He studies me briefly, then says in low tones:  "Keep your mouth shut and we will see if anybody notices.  If not, then continue as if nothing happens.  If it becomes issue…we will deal with that situation should the time come."

I take my place on the train a bit shaken, not so much by this exchange, but by meeting the rest of the cast in the spot, who are apparently, all children whose parents were not born until four or five years after the Beatles broke up. Even without the facial hair, I feel ancient.

12:43 A.M. SATURDAY MORNING, MT. VERNON YMCA

            The catering people have taken over the all purpose room in the building that houses the Mt. Vernon YMCA, setting up a buffet spread for 'Lunch' that includes Roast Pork, cous cous, and a carving station featuring rare leg of lamb.  In light of the recent foot and mouth and mad cow scares, I opt for salad instead, not wishing to add food poisoning to the list of reasons why I'll be sent home once the director realizes I have ruined his masterpiece.  Besides, in my head I still think it's Friday night, and so I think I'm adhering to the Lenten meat fast.  This is not the time to be alienating God. 

The various crew members sit at long tables in no particular order, or hierarchal seating plan, and conversation is lively although not necessarily in English.  I feel like ever since I left DisneyWorld, I've entered another Fantasy Land, and am now in my own, real life version of the 'It's a Small World' ride.  Even though this is the International House of Production, the foreign voices are those of the heads of each department.  The actual grips, gaffers, and the like are all card carrying American members of local 52, and one of them, the prop guy,  recognizes me this past summer in 'Tabletop'. 

"That was unfucking believable" he says, shaking his head, "It was like a page torn out of my own life.  You were amazing, although you didn't play the director as much of as a prick as they all are."

"Everybody tells me these commerical directors are all scumbags", I offer, in a cheap attempt to gain solidarity with someone even close to my own age and nationality.  As the words are leaving my mouth, I rise to get a bottle of water from the cooler, and almost knock over Ivan, the man at the helm on this shoot.

"Of course, that's not been my personal experience" I say.   He smiles weakly. 

"Let me speak to you for a second, alright?" he asks softly.

"Sure." I reply, playing in my head the scenario I am sure is about to unfold, making a mental note to find a schedule so that I can catch the next train home.

            "What do you think you're doing?" he asks

            "I'm sorry." I say, my voice trailing up at the end to begin my mea culpa.

            " I mean,what should we have you do in the scene?"

            "Um…I don’t know…"

            "How does the conductor do?  What does he fit into the puzzle?"

            Despite his willy nilly switching of pronouns and adverbs, I think I get the gist of what he’s trying to ask me, and am immediately relieved that he is actually asking for my creative input on the spot, not looking to dress me down for shaving of my personality.

            "Well…the way I see it…the train is a journey" and I begin to spin the most incredible web full of existential and symbolic bullshit of my long career.

            "It's life…and we're all on the train, and we don't know what the destination is…but there are stops along the way, some we may take and some we may not…and the conductor is there as the neo-classical Joseph Campbell wizard.  He KNOWS where the train is going…but he doesn't say…just makes sure the journey continues its course…and stays on time."

            Ivan nods slowly, taking it all in.

            "And the Coca Cola?" he asks raising his right eyebrow.

            "Coke…is God." I say.

            He smiles.  I'm in.

1:33  A.M. SATURDAY MORNING, Mt. Vernon East Train  Station

“Where is lantern?  Where is whistle?’ Ivan asks me, now that we are back ‘on set’ and ready to shoot  what I am sure will be the first of my myriad closeups, as I’ve managed to weasle myself into the starring role of this commercial.

‘Whistle?  Lantern?’   For the first time I think I’m more confused than he is.

‘You are conductor, no?’

‘Yes, but I have a ‘money machine’...no lantern, no whistle, this is a commuter train.’

‘Ahhhh.  Yes.  Okay, what words do you saying here?’

‘Well, I suppose I would announce the stop... Bethel…station is Bethel.’

‘Brilliant’.

            We shoot.  Somewhat fewer than a myriad of closeups, but with my brilliant ad libbing of ‘All aboard!  Watch the closing doors!’ I am satisfied with the amount of coverage I receieve.  Shortly after that, we wrap and  we all pile into a van for the return trip to Grand Central, a move that I still am confused about, as I don’t understand why we just don’t get back on the damn train where we’ve just spent the past 10 hours, but, hey.  As long as I’m in bed by sun up.  Garcia should’ve waited for this experience to know what a long strange trip it really can be.

Now for our Quinn Martin Production Style epilogue, the ironic denouement to our little story. let’s fast forward exactly four and one half weeks.

WEDNESDAY EVENING, 9:47 EST, FARMINGDALE NEW YORK, MY BEDROOM

            Watching ‘West Wing’ with Sharon, trying to spot telltale signs in the dialogue that would suggest  that Aaron Sorkin wrote this particular episode under the influence of mushrooms, a promo for Law and Order Special Victims’ Unit comes on, and there is microsecond shot of me over Chad Lowe’s shoulder.  It will air a week from this coming Friday, and I think it can’t get any better than this...and then...immediately following... a Coke commercial.  THE COKE COMMERCIAL!  It’s all there!  The train, the kids, the station...and I start making the ‘Ka-ching sound’ as it unfolds before my very eyes.

One problem. 

Where’s the conductor?

“Isn’t this your spot?’ Sharon asks.

‘Yes’

‘Well...where are you?’

‘Apparently... on the cutting room floor.’

There’s a moment of sympathetic silence.

‘For what it’s worth, I like you better with a moustache.’  She kisses me on the cheek and hands me an envelope.

‘By the way, this came for you today’.

It’s a piece of junk mail.  Addressed to me.   From the AARP.

I get out of bed.

‘Where are you going?’ she asks.

‘To get myself a diet Pepsi.’ I mutter.