Once upon a time there was a cone. We called it fame.

Name’s Rocky – Rocky Raccoon. I work down on Studio Boulevard in lot 482. I am an actor. I’m not famous or anything yet unless you’re the type who pays close attention during scenes. I’m not doing this for fame. I’m doing it for the craft services. Ha. Only kidding (sort of).

Fame is not all it’s cracked up to be. You think, “autographs, paparazzi, premiers.” That stuff is for what we call in the industry “A-Listers.” They’re the spoiled ones who come to work with their giant fat egos so obtrusive they can hardly fit through the doors. Not that I’d turn it down. Just saying they not only have big egos but equally large expectations, and bank accounts. Who wouldn’t want that, I suppose. If you’re into that type of showiness. Get it? The pun?

Anyway, as for me, I’m treated like fuzzy forest furniture.

“Look happier, Rocky.”

“Dance more. That’s it, jump just a bit higher.”

“Could you turn around three times and chase your tail for us?”

“Don’t forget to fall down from being dizzy. Yes, that’s it. Hand on the head as you fall as if to say, ‘Oh my.’”

There is no room for dignity when you’re acting. It’s your job, so you do what it takes. Besides, it’s not that far off from some of my Friday nights. Minus the dated, “Oh my,” line from a southern lady who has just been offended. I’m hardly genteel.

Some kids can’t take the pressure. Like the deer who keep wandering off set and hiding every time something loud happens. It causes us to run behind, but that looks bad on all of us. Some of the extras are just inherently slow, like Tony. He’s a turtle. Good guy though. The worst of them all are the birds chirp chirp chirping with their tiny bird beaks as they belt out what appears to be a bird’s version of an opera. Wow, remind me never to make the mistake of going to see Bluejay and the Bandits. I hear it’s excruciating to see and, well, hear for that matter.

What I am is underappreciated. The directors, showrunners, and whoever else sits in those chairs rarely acknowledge the extras. The higher-ups never even compliment me when I tell them how many credits I have. I even have my SAG-AFTRA membership. And my credits will only grow from this stint as woodland ambiance.

I’m beginning to feel like the produce in a crisper drawer where I can never get the humidity right. In the end, they give in and succumb to the moisture, becoming mushy, moldy, and unsightly. Their work is done before they even get started — exactly like the pumpkin carriage is treated in Cinderella. People don’t know, but his undercarriage has started to dry up and turn brown. Unappealing. Her replacement never shows, so they use her anyway. That’s her last role. She’s one of the good ones.

I wake up early to sneak into the studio trash cans. Can you believe the food has already been picked through and discarded? Wouldn’t you know it, but those damn Bluejays are already in practicing their screeching. I mean chirping. You’d think, being brother and sister, they would want more time apart, but I’ve never seen one without the other. They are so coddled. Only distilled water taken from the springs of Never Never Land. Two hours in hair and makeup! They’re feathers, people. It takes less than ten tiny little strokes to get them to sit down right. They don’t even wear makeup. I can’t write this stuff. It’s simply over the top.

If I had that job, I’d pick something cool that would show off my baritone. Maybe Pitbull for the irony. Get it? I’m not a dog, I’m a raccoon.

Then my brain goes in a strange and unusual direction. I begin thinking about how much better the entire scene would be without the Bluejays at all. I mean, I can pull off a much better number than them. Maybe I should. I think hard and long, maybe too long, about it. How do I do it?

I could tip over a piece of lighting so it falls directly on them. Ew, the word “splat” just goes through my head. That one’s a no-go. Too violent.

I could poison their water. I wonder how hard it is to find untraceable poison. Nah, too complicated.

I could knock one into a pot of Earl’s Chili. People wouldn’t even notice. They’d think it’s chicken. What am I thinking? I can’t let my friends eat the Bluejays. That’s way too much like cannibalism. Yep, there I go, creeping myself out again.

Maybe I can just use my animal instincts, if they’re still in there, and just eat them. Or at least one. They would never sing or act without the other. I can do that. I just have to pretend like I found a fast-food burger in the trash. Burgers may be too graphic. I can pretend they are nuggets since they’re mostly gel anyway. Okay, I see a plan coming together.

I’m surprised at how excited I am. I’m kind of wondering who I’ve become. The type of raccoon… stop. Shoving that one down fast. All gone. No guilt. I can do this.

I go straight home to plan the entire murder — no, career advancement opportunity. Yes, that’s much better. I have so much to figure out. Luckily, I’ve been with them every day for over a month, so I know their habits and schedule. I’ll do it tomorrow. I don’t want to lose time, momentum, or motivation.

Another morning, another glorious day at the office eating crrrrap—wait. I feel sick. I must have caught a stomach bug. Today is the day, so I can’t afford to let anything go wrong. I will show up, and I will complete perhaps the greatest performance I’ve ever done. The duo must die. Okay, that’s weird. I just creep myself out again. Gotta stop doing that. Less dramatics, Rocky.

I arrive early as usual. After rehearsing all morning, the Bluejays will be thirsty and need to pamper their voices. I’m already by their big obnoxious bowl of Never Never Land H2O. Let me tell you one thing. Waiting is the hardest part. Cliché for a reason.

They take turns while the other goes off and pretends to be interested in what the other cast members are doing. Nobody cares, Bluejays. We all know you’re fake. And—oh no—this is my moment. I sneak over and in one ruthless move the single Bluejay is in my mouth. What is happening? It is moving, but I’m not. My mouth is frozen. I can’t chomp down. Not even a little. This is so gross. Boy Bluejay arrives for his turn, and all he sees is one lone feather gently swaying down like it’s in slow motion. Girl Bluejay’s fluffy tail is sticking halfway out of my mouth. It begins tickling my nose, which is now twitching uncontrollably. I look absurd.

Startled, I let out an audible exhale, and Girl Bluejay flies out. I smile. I must look like a maniac because they just stare at me. So I say to myself, “Say something, Rocky.” I begin laughing and pointing at the two. “Gotcha. Haha.”

“Huh?”

“I’m playing a joke. I remember the story about you guys and your cave adventure, so I’m acting like a cave.”

“That makes no sense, Rocky,” says Girl Bluejay.

Luckily, Boy Bluejay unknowingly comes to my aid. “It’s kind of funny. Remember how hysterical you got? And how we both laughed when we got out for being so scared in the first place?”

I point and laugh again. My smile still feels awkward and twisted. Showing too much teeth. They’re both chuckling now and fly away back to rehearse. Their laughs sound as fake as my smile. They know. And worse, they know I know they know.

What’s happening to me? Do I maintain actual real morals after being in the biz all these years? Something won’t allow me to bite down. It’s the reason I’ve been sick to my stomach all morning.

“I think I need to throw up.” So I run to the tree-filled restroom, get behind one, and proceed to heave like a schoolgirl after her first prom. I’m guessing.

I can’t believe what I almost do. My curiosity is becoming too distracting. I need to get back out there. After all, the show must go on.

So I’m shuffling back, trying to do my coolest raccoon walk as if to say, “See, I’m cool, you’re cool, we’re cool.” Then from out of nowhere Cinderella stumbles and begins to fall, taking a very large piece of lighting with her. I’m close enough to get there. I run into the path of the fall, turn to my side, and brace for impact. Best case, I’m stronger than I look. Worst case, I go pancake.

She’s still screeching midair. Turns out I do go pancake, but it’s enough to cushion her fall and prevent any harm to the star of the show. My internal organs are smooshed, sure, but I just save the star of a show. Wow. I feel a strange feeling. I think it’s good old-fashioned selflessness. Turns out I don’t want her to hurt herself just like I don’t want to hurt the Bluejays. It isn’t in my nature. Get it? Okay, last pun.

I don’t want anything in return. I’m the happiest I’ve ever been. And even though I get a bit jaded for a while, there are some things that are more important. I like helping, I like making them safe, I like every one of them, even the insufferable Bluejays. I feel strangely protective of them now.

One thing is for sure. I gotta get out of this business. Look what I almost become. Hold on—the director must have spilled something. He’s calling me over.

I can’t believe what just happens again. In a good way this time. Cinderella is so grateful she has them offer me a lead animal promotion. Lots of firsts for today. I turn it down. I know, I know, I must be crazy, but not the bird-eater type of crazy. I don’t want to be the type of human animal that goes to such extremes. Nothing is worth my values or my self-worth. Yes, I am actually being serious for once.

I don’t even get to the best part yet. Next they offer me a job as Creature Consultant. They actually notice some of the suggestions I give them and like them. They never even acknowledge me, but I guess not getting annoyed and having me removed means, “Hey pal. You may be on to something.”

My first day at my new career, I jump right in. First, I’m going to have the Bluejays sing better music. I’m thinking Taylor Swift or Ed Sheeran. Second, I’m going to recommend they begin using more domesticated deer. I mean, these girls are not happy. They are downright stressed out all the time. The studio is no place for an animal on high alert. Next is Tony. I’ve known all along how to motivate him. All he needs is incentive. And what’s better than food for that purpose? No, what Tony wants is popcorn. Loves the stuff. I’ve seen him eating it under the craft services table. His agent has him on a strict eating plan. That will have to go too. The last feather in my cap — you know I can’t resist — is negotiating their way out of the labor slash substitute janitor duties we never should have had in the first place. You’re welcome, guys and gals.

I’m praised after my first day of work. Things are flowing quite smoothly. Sure, I feel proud, but I’ve learned that keeping up with an image of who people expect you to be is not worth it. I go to great lengths to make sure my head never gets too big. I wear a cone.