Don't believe what they tell you: There is such a thing as a small part.

In a recent column I daydreamed of being a stage star. A week or so later, I got the call: Pittsburgh Opera was looking for extras ("supernumeraries" to those in the biz) to appear in its upcoming production of "Aida.'' At last! Fame and fortune with one of the country's most prestigious opera companies! Forget the Nile -- I would get a voyage on the High C-notes!

The auditions come. Eight of us are asked to march across the room to a snippet of music. Left! Right! Left! Right! Simple, no? No, not when you have no coordination. So while seven go the right way ... I go the wrong.

Imagine my surprise when the e-mail arrived a few days later: I got a part! I was hired as a popolo. (I looked it up, too, it means "people" in Italian.) I can't wear my glasses on stage. I have to shave my goatee. I won't be playing lead. But it's a start. I'm on stage, performing live; it sure beats the time, back in the '80s, when I appeared dead, as a one-eyed golf-playing zombie in George Romero's "Day of the Dead," filmed at the Monroeville Mall. (Don't rent the DVD; I'm only on screen for one-sixty-eighth of a second.)

The night of my fitting comes. I imagine something ruffled in periwinkle. An assistant hands me a burlap bag, on loan from the Opera de Montreal. She reminds me I am supposed to look like a poor Egyptian; I think I look more like a well-fed Egyptian.

The first night of rehearsal comes. I knew I'd have a nonspeaking role, but a part teenier than Britney's brain? I am only in Scene 14 of Act II; I will be on stage for 33 minutes, assuming all things run smoothly and the Phantom doesn't decide to crash a chandelier or two. I will be standing in the back row, high on a 12-foot platform, lips locked, feet still, out of sight of everyone except Verdi and God, if they decide to glance down at the Benedum stage.

During my first rehearsal, about 140 cast members -- including the principals, but not the horse -- cram into Studio A. Egyptian props dot the room; I feel like I'm caught between the sets of "A Chorus Line" and "Land of the Pharaohs.'' Extras who make up the Red, Grey and Brown armies are running around the studio, carrying spears and shields and drums and torches, the latter of which look suspiciously like toilet plungers covered in duct tape. At least those extras will be seen. At least they have some action. They might even be mentioned in a review. Me? I stand behind the orange tape representing my mark, singing Shirley Bassey favorites to myself. I find myself reprising "I (Who Have Nothing)" several times.

On break, while others head to the bathroom or water cooler, I head over to Eszter Sumegi, the Hungarian soprano portraying Aida. She is a stunning woman whose blue eyes are so dazzling the shade should be outlawed. I introduce myself. "My language bad," she says, her English as fractured as the Sphinx. Through carefully controlled cadence, she manages to tell me she's waited 10 years to play Aida -- "a dream come true" -- and that this is her first visit to the Steel City. I ask her for advice for my opening night jitters. "Nervous? Oh no! You be beautiful!"

The break is over. Back to my mark. Back to standing still. Back to Bassey.

So how does the story end? You decide. You may not see me, but come see "Aida." Stand, cheer, toss flowers. Just don't come backstage, bringing me flowery bouquets of praise and opening-night gifts.

By the time Aida has sung her last aria, this pooped popolo will be pondering his next career move ... and his next Pittsburgh (mis)adventure.