Idiot Page 12

  Everything felt precarious.

  * * *

  I got lunch with my aunt Sheila: my aunt, my godmother, my biggest ally growing up. We went to our favorite Mexican restaurant. When I was little, we’d talk there for hours. She would show up with a cigarette and too much Botox. I would try to swing my backpack onto the back of the chair like she swung down her fur coat. She would tell me that “you’re too young for sex, but when you have it, make sure that you achieve equality,” as I nodded eagerly.

  This time, she sat down across from me, lifted her sunglasses above her expressionless eyebrows, and surveyed me.

  “You look like shit. Your hair is a rat’s nest.”

  She gave me a skeptical look and lit a cigarette. The waiter looked at us with disdain.

  “Um, Miss—”

  “We’re on the fucking patio, give it a rest, Charlie,” Aunt Sheila snapped, blowing smoke.

  The waiter backed away. Aunt Sheila had a real fierceness about her. And honestly, she’s been smoking at lunch here for like twenty years. Charlie should know by now to back off.

  The best thing about her was that I didn’t have to say anything for her to know. I didn’t have to tell her about my trip, my fucked up choices, and the way it felt like I wasn’t choosing them; how it felt like I couldn’t think, how it felt like my body was moving forward without my mind—

  “You need help.”

  She broke my endless chain of thoughts. Damn it, I was just getting to the good part where I contemplate the best way to kill myself. I tried to brush it off.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m gonna go to the salon later. Maybe get some highlights—”

  “Laura.”

  Damn it, I could avoid everything in my life except her piercing look.

  “I know,” I said.

  It was the first time I’d ever admitted it. My aunt Sheila is the only person in my family to have become sober. She told me what it’s like, what AA meetings look like, that it’s fucking hard, but if I didn’t try I could die. She recounted the stories of when she almost did die.

  I promised I would try.

  I remember that night, sleeping in my childhood bedroom. My pink flowery wallpaper was peeling off and my mom had moved this infomercial stair climber next to my bed.

  But there was one thing that stayed the same: this photo of me, when I was about twelve, swimming underwater. I had it blown up really big because underwater cameras were a big deal at the time.

  I was smiling so big, trying to keep my eyes wide open even though chlorine was stinging them like crazy. My arms were above my head, trying to keep me underwater as my body naturally tried to float.

  I looked so fucking happy.

  I flew back to LA and stayed on my sister’s couch. I found an AA meeting to check out at a place called the Log Cabin Community Center.

  When I walked in, I saw people laughing. They were happy. What the fuck? I was expecting some depressing-ass dark room like I saw on TV, but this was light. Maybe everyone was high. I sat down with the group in one of their dinky chairs, wishing I was high, too.

  My first meeting couldn’t go by fast enough. I listened to other people’s stories and prayed that I wouldn’t have to talk. I wasn’t ready. At the end of the meeting we all took one another’s hands and did something called the Serenity Prayer. We thanked God. What the fuck? I didn’t sign up for church; I just wanted to get sober. I was freaked out.

  When the meeting ended, I tried to rush out. But someone walked next to me. A kind-looking woman. She asked me if it was my first time here.

  “Yeah. It is.”

  She stared at me, waiting for me to talk more about myself. What was I supposed to say? That I was a fucking failure? That I was a horrible person that hurts the people around me? That I got high because I couldn’t deal with real life? That I was a fucking idiot?

  “My name’s Laura.”

  She smiled. “My name’s Tricia. What do you do?”

  “Um. I’m an actress.”

  “What have you been in?”

  I really just wanted to sit back down. “Um, have you seen any commercials in Spain? I was in a Spanish phone commercial.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Great.” I walked faster to try to leave her behind. But she kept up.

  “I think you’re very brave for coming today, Laura.”

  Brave. I didn’t feel brave at all. I felt scared out of my mind. But I suppose bravery is not being unafraid, it’s being shit-your-pants-scared-out-of-your-mind and doing the damn thing anyway. I was finally doing it. Sort of. I at least went to the meeting.

  I stopped walking for a second and looked at her. “Thank you.” She smiled back at me, then went on her own way.

  It would be years before I would finally become sustainably sober. It would be a roller coaster of ups and downs. I was trying to do the most difficult thing I’d ever done. My addiction is a fatally progressive disease. It has a voice that used to speak loudly. I work every day to speak louder than it. This was just the beginning of a long road ahead. I wasn’t unafraid, but for the first time, I was brave.

  CHAPTER 7

  Look, Mom! I’m on TV!

  Colleen’s couch was not the most comfortable bed, you guys. It wasn’t even a futon. And Colleen’s roommate, Rebecca, was not too pleased to see the hot mess that I was sleeping in their living room every night.

  Colleen was so generous for letting me stay with her (I mean, it was also her sisterly duty), but I could tell that she was getting a little antsy. We’d come a long way from our couch-surfing days, and she had gotten used to having her own space. I was getting antsy, too! I was back in LA with a whole new mindset now. I was ready to get work as an actor. With a couple AA meetings under my belt, I was drinking and using drugs a lot less than before (it’s hard to quit cold turkey, okay? Don’t judge me!) and I felt ready to work. The problem was that I was so terrified. What the fuck happened to me? I knew I could act. I used to have this unwavering faith that I was going to make it, but now it was clouded by fear.

  And now that I didn’t have Rudolf . . . or Damon . . . or copious amounts of drugs to distract me . . . I came face-to-face with my goals in a way that I never had before. The time I had always been waiting for was NOW.

  I needed to get off Colleen’s couch.

  I went to Samuel French Bookshop on Sunset Boulevard and found a book that listed all the agents and managers in Los Angeles. I wrote out a cover letter, updated my résumé (not handwritten this time), and got a better headshot. I sent these out ten times a week to almost every name listed in that book, until someone wrote back.

  Anyone.

  Anyone?

  No one?

  After weeks of annoying everyone in both the film industry and the postal industry, I got a phone call. It was my mailman, asking that I stop harassing him. JUST KIDDING, IT WAS AN AGENCY! Progressive Artists Agency liked my headshot and was asking to see my reel! They represented Peg fucking Bundy from Married with Children! I had made it.

  At the time, my reel only consisted of one Spanish cell phone commercial, one experimental student film where I painted my face blue, and one student thesis film where I played a girl who had hit her head on a diving board and was in a COMA for the ENTIRE film. Although my coma face was spot-on, I was not about to send this reel to Progressive Artists.

  Side note: There was one scene in the diving board movie where the boyfriend had to pull my lifeless body out of the pool, and I could not stop laughing. Everyone on set was furious with me. After the sixteenth take, the twenty-year-old director looked like he wanted to put me in a real coma. I shall stick to comedy.

  Without a reel, the agency asked that I prepare a monologue to come in and perform for them. Okay! I could do that. The blue paint thing didn’t let my true talent shine, anyway.

  I read monologue after monologue, searching for the one that would show off my comedic abilities, BUT NONE OF THEM WERE FUNNY TO ME.

 
; I was putting a bit too much pressure on myself. It’s just . . . this seemed like it was my only shot. And I swear to God, I couldn’t find one that felt like . . . me. It did not help at all that so many roles written for women are just plain one-dimensional. It wasn’t the way I wanted to present myself. This was a problem. Now, I could drink and ignore it and not show up to my audition, or I could solve the fucking problem.

  This time, I decided to solve it. I wrote my own monologue. They wanted to see me do a “professional work” but . . . how would they know if it was professional or not? I wrote a scene that took place on a bus, where I played an eccentric girl talking to strangers. I went into the agency and performed it for two agents, a man and a woman. I had them in the palm of my hand. Laughing exactly when I wanted them to, silent and engaged when I wanted them to be.

  “Wow, Laura, that was really good,” said the woman.

  I felt so relieved, I couldn’t stop smiling. Where’s my pen? Where do I sign the contract? The agent on the right, a tall man, wiped his eyes. “What play is that from?”

  Oh. Uhhhh . . . I hadn’t thought of a title. I scanned the room for the answer. Okay there was a couch. Don’t call it Couch, that’s too obvious. The couch was teal. The pillow on the couch is white . . . and those are . . .

  Colors.

  Both agents looked a bit stumped. “I haven’t heard of that. Who is it by?” asked the woman.

  It can’t be by me, right? That would seem unprofessional, right? Actors don’t write. Actors act. “By—by . . . Chris Blum.”

  Chris Blum was one of my teachers in high school. I sent him an urgent email when I got home. “If anyone ever asks, you wrote a play called Colors and it’s very good!!”

  The agents looked at each other, confused. “Oh! I’ve never heard of that.”

  “Oh, it’s very new. Very new. New and hot.”

  Looking back, I’m like, Damn. That’s right, girl. Write your own shit. I’m proud of myself. But in the moment, I thought they wouldn’t have taken me seriously if I had told them the truth. I thought actors were just supposed to act. I thought it was good to stay in my lane.

  Original monologue or not, they signed me. #fuckyeah

  The first audition they got me was for a pilot presentation.

  Now, a pilot presentation is basically a pilot connected to a production company rather than a network. The production company will develop and shoot their own pilot and try to pitch that to networks to sell, rather than the traditional route of developing a script and shooting it through a network. It’s a different way to get your TV show made.

  It was this hilarious script called Sex Ed about a group of weird freshmen college students taking a sexual education course. I auditioned for the role of a dumb model, which I had done a vast amount of research for in my past. Guess all those modeling rejections paid off, because I booked it! Suck it, Wilhelmina.

  When I got to set, there was a girl there who was surrounded by people. Her name was Stevie Ryan, and everyone wanted to talk to her. I remember wondering if she was some kind of celebrity I didn’t recognize. I talked to her and found out she kind of was.

  “Yeah, I make videos on YouTube,” she said to me.

  “You do what? How?”

  This was about ten years ago, in the early days of YouTube. What the fuck was this? I had heard of YouTube before, but I didn’t know people were doing things like this. And recording your own character sketches definitely wasn’t cool or respected at all at the time. But she didn’t care, she was just doing it. It was sort of punk.

  I had never seen a comedienne like her before! She was bold and brash and smart. She embraced her femininity in a way that I hadn’t ever seen in the comedy world. She was acting and writing and creating shit that was edgy and authentic and original. Not only that, but Stevie and I were at the same management company. We were on the same pilot. It was strange to see someone so similar to me taking such command of her craft in this way. Could I do shit like this?

  Ehhhhhhhh, no.

  I quickly pushed that thought aside. Stay in your lane, Laura. I never thought in a million years I’d have the courage to do all the things she was doing. To put myself out there like she was. I’ll just keep performing other people’s words.

  Either way, I was now a big fan of hers and we became good friends on the show. It was such an exciting time. My first pilot! My first time working with real directors and producers for a project I actually wanted to do. And I was going to be on TV!

  Well, not quite. The show never got picked up.

  I was so upset and confused at the time—What the hell? This was fucking funny shit. Why would it not have gotten picked up?

  I had a lot to learn about the industry, like the fact that your show can be hilarious and still no network will take a chance on it. When you’re an actor, you’re very much a leaf blowing in the industry winds. Which can be frustrating, but right now it was exciting and amazing. I had loved working on this pilot, and it just served as confirmation that I had chosen the right career. I wanted more of this.

  One night, I was alone in Colleen’s apartment flipping channels on the TV, and I came across a show on MTV called Disaster Date. It was this reality show where guys think they’re being set up on a blind date by their friends, but it’s really an actress who’s assigned to go on this date with them and be their worst nightmare.

  Something clicked when I saw it. Hold on a second. I LOVE being people’s worst nightmares. I loved fucking shit up in public. This was the job I was training for my entire life. This was just like the time that I ran into the gas station, sobbing, in order to get free cigarettes with Jack. Or the time that my friend Andy Junk and I pretended to be a southern married couple at an open house. When I was younger, during those two nice weeks a year in Chicago when we could actually drive our convertible with the top down, I’d sing at the TOP of my lungs when we’d stop at a red light. My family would get SO embarrassed. It was awesome. See? Being a disaster to the people around me was my area of expertise.

  I immediately called my agents and told them I HAD to be on this show.

  I sincerely feel that when you know exactly what you want in life, you can get it. If you can be specific and visualize it and fixate on it, it can happen for you. For so many years of my life, I didn’t know exactly what I wanted. I just told myself I wanted to be an actor. But I also told myself I wanted to do drugs and get wasted. My visualizations couldn’t have worked, because I was focused way too much on using. But now . . . things were a little different. I wasn’t completely sober, but I was trying to smoke and drink less, to focus more. And whatever work I was putting in was starting to pay off.

  I auditioned and got on Disaster Date. TIME TO FUCK SOME SHIT UP!!!

  Actually, it was all very controlled. The producers and actors would find out all this information about the “mark” (the guy we were setting up). The mark’s friend or family member would tell us everything that annoys him, and I would become a character who could encompass all these things.

  “Okay, I have to hate animals AND give out unsolicited life advice? Talk about a multidimensional character!”

  On set, we would have a whole restaurant set up, complete with thirty extras lingering around eating dinner.

  On the show, we’d see how long before they walked out on the date, and just as they were walking out, I’d say, “WAIT WAIT WAIT! I have one last thing to tell you . . . I’m an actor, those are all actors, those are hidden cameras . . . and you’re on MTV’s Disaster Date!” Usually accompanied by the dramatic removal of my wig.

  The mark’s friend would run out onto the set, and the two of them would drown each other out in a chorus of “BROOO!!!” and “YOOOO!” and “Brooo, I got you so good!” and “Bro!! You got me!” And then they would hug. It was so fun.

  As the episodes wore on with Disaster Date, I became more and more creative. In one preproduction meeting, the producer and I were chatting about a particular mark who did
n’t like people who were obsessed with their pets.

  The producer tapped his pen, thinking. “So, Laura, we could give you a dog to pet the whole time . . . and then you could let the dog drink water from your cup . . .”

  That’s cute. But not quite far enough. “Right. Or . . . I could be an Australian primatologist. And I could have a monkey on my shoulder.” I whipped out my Australian accent. “It’ll be SEW much fun, mate.”

  The producer let me create my own character! That date was an amazing shitshow, as it was supposed to be. Although there was no money in the budget for a real monkey, so I had to make do by walking on my hands and feet in the restaurant and making ape noises. Hey, I could be my own monkey. It worked just fine.

  In Disaster Date, I got to be very creative because so much of it was improvised. I played a yoga instructor on one date and twenty minutes in, I was in a headstand in the restaurant.

  On another date, I played a life coach named Teresa and I gave the mark the worst life advice possible throughout the date. I told the producer to call me halfway through the date so that I could act like I was giving bad life advice to one of my clients.

  The guy was trying to relate to me when he said, “My sister’s bothering me a little lately.”

  I latched on to that. “You gotta cut her off. Just cut her off.”

  “I mean, all she did was eat my leftovers—”

  “You call her up and say—What’s her name?”

  “Uh, Megan, but—”

  I shushed his lips. “You say, Megan? It’s over. You are a toxic, toxic, person, who is ruining my life, and I don’t need you. I’m never talking to you again. Repeat that after me.” I looked deep into his eyes.

  “She’s my sister, though.”

  The mark started tapping his fingers on the table with discomfort. I had him right where I wanted. Then my phone rang. Perfect. I answered with such confidence. “Believe and You’ll Achieve It Incorporated, this is Laura.”