Free The Extra by Kenneth Rosenberg

someone who vaguely resembled him.  Only a lot better looking.”
    “Yeah, yeah, where is he?” said Bridget.
    “They sent him home for the day,” said Charles.  “Signed him off for a full eight, too, the lucky bastard.”
    “Why do you ask?” said Marjorie slyly.  She was always in the market for some gossip.
    “I just want to talk to him,” Bridget answered flatly in response.
    “He’ll be back tomorrow, honey.  He’s not going anywhere.”
    Bridget headed across the lot.  She didn’t want to wait until tomorrow.  Warren had done amazingly well, it was true, but he was out of his element.  He needed guidance.  What if he got the part?  Surely they’d take advantage of him if they could.  Someone had to explain the ins and outs of the business to him; to tell him about agents and managers and the basics of a standard contract.  At the very least she could help get him started.  When she got to the front gate she moved past the guardhouse and out onto the sidewalk.  She looked in both directions up and down the street.  Warren was nowhere to be seen.  Bridget turned to the guard.  “Where did he go?” she said.
    “Who?”
    “Warren…the guy,…oh never mind,” she blurted in frustration.  She picked a direction and rushed off down the street.  When she got to the first intersection she saw Warren’s figure heading toward Hollywood Boulevard in the distance.  “Warren!” she called out, but he was too far off to hear her.
    Bridget hustled after, intending to stop him when she could, but as she followed along, curiosity began to take hold.  After a few blocks she slowed down and simply watched as Warren casually wandered down a side street, waved and chatted to a few other homeless people.  He peered into garbage cans from time to time out of habit.  This was his life; his actual life.  He looked completely at home on the street; much more than he was on set, where he often seemed out of place and out of sorts.  Here he appeared at ease in his natural environment. 
    When he arrived at a homeless shelter, Warren high-fived a couple of scruffy-looking men outside and spoke to them briefly before he disappeared through the front door.  Bridget sat down on some stairs across the street to take in the scene.  Who were these people; these homeless men and women?  How did they get here?  How long did they stay?  Did they have any happiness in their lives?  She watched these discards of society limping, hobbling and shuffling past.  What she really wanted to know was how Warren August had ended up among them.  How did this attractive, intelligent man get here in the first place and what did he need in order to get out?  A bit of encouragement?  The love of a good woman?  That thought frightened her as she realized that she was more than just intrigued by this man.  She quickly tried to put these ideas out of her mind.  Maybe she could still help him get on the right track, and perhaps straighten out his life.  There was only one way to find out.  She stood up and walked across the street.
    Bridget was nervous walking into the shelter.  She felt out of place entering the domain of a class other than her own, as though she were walking in on some sort of exclusive country club where she didn’t belong, only in reverse.  She expected uncomfortable stares at the least and was surprised when she got none.  Nobody seemed to pay her any attention at all.
    Behind a reception desk sat a middle-aged man with short grey hair.  He wore glasses and a brown cardigan sweater, and hardly even looked up from his newspaper as Bridget walked on past.  She entered an expansive dining room with high ceilings, a kitchen on one side, and long rows of tables on the other where people ate from trays of food.  Everything about the place was worn, much like the people themselves, as though no matter how much they were scrubbed, neither would ever be completely clean again.  But then there was