Kids, walking around, seem like kids, with constant half-smiles, teeth showing, like a big joke winds up for the pitch, the punch, and each one, wide-legged jeans, facial hair, eyebrow ring, telegraphing the grand laugh with foreshadowed snicker, in the know, proud, look at me, here I am, I feel like life is a movie. Life is a movie. You’re an extra. Please do not talk to the primaries. Shooting Law & Order in the neighborhood. Saw Jerry Orbach. Old, stage makeup. Tall. Runty production assistants, pee-ayes, everywhere. Head microphones, radios, attitudes. Sir, walk over there. Sir, there is a production. Rather, Production. What is The Production? Who is in The Production? How long The Production? Trick is, look in the window of the caterer, gaffer truck, light truck, wherever gangboxes stacked. Paper in window says what movie, show, Production. Ethan Hawke dancing at 9C on Monday with not-Uma. Short wrongish blonde. Ethan: haircut, shaggy dog. Like any kid sloughing off back of class, conference room, city bus, bleachers, anywhere with groups. Not citizens whisper name, look there, it is, it isn’t, who, where, he left, hey we just saw.