Everybody's talking about Navy SEALs today, but there are some unspoken heroes that could also use a bit of encouragement. Of course I'm talking about movie extras.

I know quite a few people who are professional extras, and they've always raved about it. Getting paid for sitting around! Catered food! Hobnobbing with celebs! I pictured them lounging in director's chairs while PAs brought them Mai Tai's and massaged their feet.

Little did I know the truth was pretty much the opposite.

As I mentioned previously, I saw a newspaper ad looking for extras for Men in Black 3. It said they were looking for people over 6'5" -- freakishly tall territory, which means they might as well have asked for me by name. I went to the casting call, and almost immediately a young woman scurried over and put a gold star on my application. I shone with pride until I saw her give two stars to a snaggletoothed dwarf. Needless to say, I wasn't particularly surprised when they called and told me to report to the shoot.

I was surprised by how difficult it was, bringing the Navy SEALs to mind. I had to get up at a preposterous 3 a.m. to catch the courtesy shuttle to Coney Island, and was so groggy at the breakfast buffet I could barely shovel Canadian bacon and assorted fresh fruit in my mouth. From there it was a grueling stint at hair and makeup, where I futilely tried to convince an attractive gay man that I was an autumn and had to scrupulously avoid earth tones. Next it was wardrobe. Buddy, you try putting on a leisure suit when you don't even have your own mirror. I paused for some deep breathing, but by the time I got to the set I was seconds away from asking, "Where's my trailer, again?"

My first scene was particularly challenging. A PA stood me in front of an ice cream cart, then scampered off. I was aghast: no word about my motivation? I mean, it totally makes a difference. Was I from outer space, or just an earthbound geek? Did I enjoy the occasional Popsicle, or was I simply mystified by the tiny box belching smoke? When the camera started rolling I channeled my inner Meryl Streep and ordered a fudgsicle.

I waited. And waited. Finally the clerk said, "You know this is just full of dry ice, right?"

"Can I speak to the manager?" I replied.

For my next scene, the PA said I had to stroll down the boardwalk, then veer right to a food stand and buy a corn dog. A corn dog? I thought. Really, did I look like the type of person who'd buy a corn dog? Glancing down at my neon polyester I realized I did, but he was still wrong to judge a book by its cover. I'd carry it, I decided, but there was no way I was eating it. I was strictly vegetarian, except in extreme cases of free bacon.

On the bright side, at least it gave me a clue to my character's personality. Wherever he was from, he was clearly an idiot.

Once I had the corn dog, I was stuck. I couldn't exactly toss it out, because then what would happen to continuity? I could picture puzzled audience members thinking, "Hey, didn't that dude just have a corn dog?" and I didn't want to be featured in the credits as "RIDICULOUSLY TALL GUY WHO EATS INCREDIBLY FAST."

For the rest of the day, I followed direction. "Stand here and walk that way," they said. "Stand here and walk that way," they said. "Stand here and -- "

"I got it," I said after the fifteenth time.

The good news is, for a few hours I circled Will Smith, who is very funny, very handsome, and the consummate professional. The bad news, I was holding a corn dog at arm's length. At one point he glanced over at me curiously, and I tried to convey through subtle facial nuance that (1) I was doing this for art, not a paycheck, and (2) I don't ordinarily look like I'm going to vomit, but fatty meat gives off serious fumes.

It didn't work. Fourteen hours after I arrived, when director Barry Sonnenfeld finally yelled "Wrap!", I didn't ride back to the city in a limo; I had to catch the courtesy shuttle home. Got to bed by midnight, alarm clock rang at three. On the bus back to the set I looked out the window and saw a car careening straight for us. I flinched. I screamed.

And then I realized I was staring at the reflection of a car going the other way.

By now I felt like a pro, and though I was barely conscious I didn't let my standards slip. I walked around holding bags of popcorn and peanuts and a towel and a pennant. If they'd told me to hold a live squid between my teeth I've have replied, "Am I eating it or just holding it?" And just before we wrapped for the day, a PA came up to me and said, "You're Roman, right?" I might have been flattered if I'd been awake.

We have today off, due to inclement weather, but I have to go back tomorrow. The dedication of these unspoken professionals has truly surprised me, leading me to identify with our heroic SEALs, though the chicken at their fajita bar probably isn't wildly overspiced. I'm so tired I'm not even worried about making it into the film. Just don't call me an "extra," because that sounds disposable. I'm background. I'm the non-speaking professional who gives a scene emotional resonance by adding touches of his own personal life to a film, whether he's conveying the promise that corn dogs are better at a distance or that people who say they're selling ice cream better have the goddamn goods to back it up.