The prop guys have finished adding giant, chunky lifts to the black dress shoes that I bought for my grandfather’s funeral. A crowd gathers around me as I try them on, and people literally gasp when I stand up. With these lifts on my shoes, I am something like eight feet tall. A crowd of upturned faces hovers around my waist level. I feel like Dorothy in Munchkinland, except I am terrified. I’m supposed to walk in these things? The assistant director tells me to get used to them, to walk around, so that’s what I do. I clomp all over that set, and I feel like an absolute freak, which is the entire idea. I’m here because I’m a freak. A freak is what the White Stripes need.
