I never had a problem with labor unions in Iowa when I was young, innocent and naive. In high school economics class, they seemed so cute and cuddly. Hoffa and his minions kept wages fair and conditions tolerable. We didn’t have to work in “The Jungle,” earning nickels and laboring in squalor.

It wasn’t until my summer in California and my third job in as many months that I realized what a racket this union thing is.

After a month as a slave and another as a studio audience, I’ve graduated to the realm of film and television extra work.

Over the last several weeks, I’ve played a high school student on several occasions, a punk attending an alternative rave and a Jamaican marathon runner.

Wearing the Caribbean colors was a highlight. It wasn’t enough this film cast a broad-shouldered white boy as a Jamaican runner. They featured me throughout their L.A. City Marathon montage. I’m on camera warming up before the race, preparing to blast off at the starting line and giving their principle actors a run for their money right up to the finish line.

The film is titled “Love” and I recommend renting it in a few months if you live in the Far East. The entire movie is in Korean and it’s slated for exclusive Asian distribution.

A few days later, I was back on camera in an American film learning to love life as an extra and hate those hillbillies with the “Buy Union” bumper stickers on their rusted-out ’83 Durango’s.

This latest film, “Jack of All Trades,” is sure to be a cult classic. Starring the oldest brother from “Home Improvement” and Topanga from “Boy Meets World,” “JOAT” (as the production assistants refer to it) is star-studded.

Brought to you by the same guy who directed “How to Be a Player,” “JOAT” features cameos by artists like Britney Spears and N’Sync. It should garner plenty of critical acclaim.

It wasn’t watching Zachary Ty Bryan act that was most bothersome. It was watching him retire to his private carriage for hors d’oeuvres and air conditioning that really got to me. More than that, it was watching half of the extras follow him.

In Hollywood, there are union extras (Cool Kids) and non-union extras (me).

Both groups do the same thing. We play pinochle in a holding area for six hours, then spend an hour on set walking through the background or hanging out at a locker or sneaking in offensive expressions when the director isn’t looking.

The biggest difference between the cool kids and me is I get minimum wage to spend my day this way. They pick up about $90. They also get $20 an hour if we go into overtime, cash bonuses for late meals or wardrobe changes and mileage money. All perks I can only drool over.

It’s not just the cash, it’s the benefits the cool kids enjoy. While the misfits walk a couple blocks to eat bread and gruel from a trough, the cool kids have a catered feast laid at their feet. They usually have their choice of prime meals, but can make requests if anything is not to their satisfaction.

Many of the cool kids skip lunch, having spent their appetites on the free soda, latte and pastries. “Just show your union I.D.”

They move to the front of the voucher and paycheck lines, they ride the air-conditioned buses, etc., etc., etc.

So why am I complaining? I’m getting paid to play cards and be in movies, for crying out loud. And I can join the union, too right? Well, not exactly.

It’s only fitting that blatant snobbery and wealth go hand-in-hand, so the union’s entry fee is approximately $2,000.

Oh yeah, and you only earn the privilege of paying two grand to join the club when you’ve managed to acquire three union vouchers. At the end of the day, everyone fills out a voucher to get paid. The cool kids just fill out a better voucher that gets them a lot more money.

So how do I get a union voucher? Join the union.

If any of you are noticing a fallacy in this system, give yourself a pat on the back because it has apparently eluded the notice of the entire film industry.

There is, however, one other way to get a voucher. You see, as part of its strangle-hold on show business, The Club has mandated a certain number of vouchers for each day of shooting. However, the filmmakers usually can’t find enough cool kids to fill their voucher quota (primarily because it’s logically impossible to become a cool kid).

This means they have to let some of my misfits have the union vouchers.

The assistant directors are the guys who decide which misfits to give them to.

These ADs are generally bitter men in their mid 30s who think they should be the director. Their system of determining who gets the extra vouchers goes something like this:

They hit on as many attractive non-union women as they can over the course of the day and reward those who show the most promise. It’s training wheels for the casting couch.

Of course, I can’t be too upset by my discoveries. I’ve made some pretty decent money, and I’ve had plenty of opportunity to show off my acting prowess.

Oh, and I’ve gotten pretty good at pinochle.

---

Ron DeMarse is a senior in liberal studies from Muscatine.