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I pick up a snack for later and a couple of cans of Red Bull to help keep me awake. I also purchase one of those pine tree car air fresheners, for two reasons:

1. My car is but one of many boring beige sedans on the set; I'm hoping the yellow tree hanging from my rear view will set me apart somewhat.
2. I've averaged about twelve hours a day in my car, for the past four days. I've eaten in my car, I've slept in my car, and (thanks to the dedicated folks in the wardrobe department) I've done it all wearing the same set of clothes--much like a homeless person. A pleasant fragrance couldn't hurt.

I park in the lot where they keep the stunt cars and the fake New York City taxi cabs.

Catering has already arrived, so I help myself to a donut and some coffee.

I fill mine out before turning it at the wardrobe table in exchange for my mock turtleneck sweater and my gross leather jacket. I've never owned a leather jacket, but the way this one turns my fingernails black with grime can't be typical.

This is where I've spent the majority of my time on set, in a group of about seven other precision drivers. We're led by a stunt driver name Sean, who recently worked on The Italian Job and Domino and is heading to Vegas to do Ocean's 13 next.

It doesn't look like there's much going on, so I read National Geographic.

The other drivers in my group have congregated outside; we are at least half a mile from any action, so the feeling is they won't be using us this morning. Conversation topics include Spider-Man's greatest advesaries (somebody brought a printout of biographies, including first appearances) and whether skateboarding continues to be an appropriate hobby past age 35.

We don't know if we're allowed to partake of said sandwiches. Nobody told us we could, but nobody really tells us anything. It doesn't matter, because by this point, we've all picked up a little trick that I don't mind sharing: if you're ever on a large movie set and you want to do something that others are doing--but that might get you in trouble--act confident and do it. If a nosy production assistant or security person bothers you, just say, "It's alright, they told me to." No one ever asks who "they" are, and if they do, "I don't know, the guy in the jacket" is a perfectly acceptable answer. I know for a fact this technique works for stealing turkey sandwiches.

Production grinds to a halt as they take the poor halfwit away in an ambulance.

The crew brought the caterers with them from L.A., and the food is actually quite good. Today, it's some sort of seafood pasta. The problem is that all the extras break for lunch at the same time, and there aren't enough tables for everyone. Furthermore, because the walking extras spend most of the day in extras holding, they get aggressively territorial when we driving extras invade their space.

We manage to avoid any turf wars today by sitting at the wardrobe table, in a little alcove at the back of the room. We've almost finished eating when Tony the wardrobe guy discovers us and chews us out. (Apparently, the table--and consequently, half the costumes--had been covered in pasta sauce a few days earlier.) One of our group complains to Sean, who responds: "Nobody yells at my drivers except me!" He says we can eat with the crew for the remainder of the shoot.

Now the crew has to eat. We wait.

I have no idea what a plates shot is, but I am as excited as anyone to finally be doing something.

We have evidently become part of a splinter shoot, and the main shoot (operating at the intersection of Euclid and E. 9th) is currently monopolizing all the cameras. We are instructed to park on the side of the road while we wait. I read some more National Geographic.

Possibly to make room for a forklift? I eat some M&M's and read Devil's Game.

The mood is electric; we haven't been this close to the action since they trained us in the Burke Lakefront Airport parking lot.

I've never been in the front before. In fact, since day two I've been the very last car in the formation. This is gonna rule!

No explanation is offered. All I can do is pout.

I almost convince myself that my car will be visible parked on the side of the road. Almost.

The cameras are rolling this time. From an extra's perspective, there are only two differences between a rehearsal and a take:

1. Before a rehearsal, the P.A.'s yell, "Rehearsal's up!" Before a take, they yell, "Picture's up!" (To my disappointment, at no point does anyone yell, "And . . . action!")
2. If the shot features a car crash, they try not to smash anything during the rehearsal.

There are no collisions in this shot, so I'm bored. I've gone back to reading Devil's Game.

He's also rocking a sweet mustache and a pair of reading glasses. My brain struggles to conjure up the career path that would result in such an outfit: rodeo-clown-turned-ventriloquist, maybe? Even more surprising than his costume is the make-up kit he's carrying; extras don't wear make-up, and neither does Spidey. That's when I notice a moderately attractive, well-dressed woman in her early thirties standing near one of the imported New York city taxis parked directly across the street. A wave of envy consumes me and every other extra within view: this woman is a featured extra. In addition to the make-up, she's guaranteed to be recognized on screen, and she may even get her name in the credits! I'll need an extra-long shower tonight to wash off all the pettiness. In the meantime, I've got an excellent view of the shot in which she'll be starring.

Not me, of course, even though I was the closest to the cab to start with. (Golly, that sounds pathetic. Sorry about that.) Meanwhile, the A.D. is directing Superstar Featured Extra Woman to look up at the camera, which is
suspended overhead from a crane and swooping past her.

Just before any shot where the road itself is visible, tankers filled with dirty water spray their contents all over the street. This process makes the road look dark and shiny for the camera.

She's talking on her cellphone, and looks up to see Spider-Man (as represented by the camera) swinging by.

The woman wasn't looking at the right spot, so they put a little flag about twelve feet up the crane to help her out.

He jumps out of an unmarked white van and for fifteen seconds, poses for the camera in front of the taxi. I'm guessing the shot will be used as a reference for the CGI wizards during post-production.

The guy in the suit is obviously a gymnast; when he's not shaking hands with his fans, he does back flips. Children and nerds alike stand awestruck. (Also, me.)

Tony from wardrobe yells at me for the second time today. Somehow, mine is the last costume to be returned, and he was worried I had run off with his filthy leather jacket. I exchange it for my pay voucher, which I turn in at the casting table before heading home, exhausted. It's been fourteen hours, and I didn't end up in a single frame.