“You don’t have to be this formal with me,” I said. “I’m the last person you need to do that for.” I looked at her. Her eyes were begging for forgiveness. “Thank you,” I said. I unwrapped the gift and inside was a small, gold bracelet with the letters “Be Fri” in a half heart.
“I know it’s a bit cheesy and we already have our necklaces, but I thought you might like a matching bracelet as well,” she said. “I have the other half, don’t worry.” She pulled out of a compartment of her purse another bracelet with the letters “ends” engraved in the other half of the heart.
“It’s not cheesy at all, Chels,” I said. I bit my lip. “Really, really sweet. Thank you. I’ll wear it with pride.”
“I feel like we’re ten again,” she said. She giggled.
“I know. That makes our necklaces 15 years old.”
“Gasp! Don’t remind me.”
“OK, we better get going before I get all emotional. Harry is waiting for us,” I said. Sitting in the car, I hurriedly brushed my hair and Chelsea quickly applied a bit of lipgloss and mascara.
Off we went to lunch with my talent manager, Harry. That’s right. I had secured not only a talent manager, but also a talent agent. Timothy Thomas, the agent, proved to be genuinely interested in not only the talent I had as an actor, but he really respected my past as a casting associate. He said that it was one of the smartest things an actor could do for themselves. I smiled at that. I had been starting to think that getting into casting to learn about the other side of the business was more of a hindrance than it had been worth, making me cynical and bitter, but his words of encouragement felt good. If anything, the experience allowed me to see that agents were just people and not gods like so many actors believed them to be.
My manager was an old friend. I had never even thought to ask him to manage me. He had a busy client list and we enjoyed swapping stories about the business, but I never thought he would want to manage me. During lunch last week, I told him my story about Timothy Thomas.
“Why didn’t you come to me?” he’d asked. I’d looked at him in complete shock. I certainly didn’t think he would be interested in mixing friendship with business.
“I’m not sure. I thought you had a full plate,” I’d said.
“Don’t be silly. I’m your friend. I’m here to help. How long have we known each other?”
“At least seven years,” I’d said. He was one of the first people I’d met in LA.
“I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of this before. Give me Timothy’s name and number, I want to meet this guy.”
“Demanding already, Harry.” I squinted my eyes at him. “Just don’t mess it up, we’re just getting to know each other,” I’d said. I smiled and he knew what I’d meant. Harry could be a bit much at times.
To help matters along even more, Harry had some clients that also didn’t have an agent. Timothy Thomas and Harry met up, they hit it off, and haven’t stopped praising the other since. They found a business love.
Harry was waiting at an outside table as Chelsea and I arrived. It was a small cafe on Melrose.
“Two gorgeous ladies,” he said, standing up to greet us.
“One man bullshitting,” I replied.
“Speak for yourself,” Chelsea said.
“Oh, but of course,” I said. “Chelsea this is Harry, Harry, Chelsea. My best friend, meet my manager.” We all exchanged pleasantries.
“Should we head inside? All the food is organic and fresh in here. Reminds me of Southern France,” Harry said. Chelsea and I followed behind him and took in the scenery. Upon first glance, Harry was right. It had the feeling of a quaint Ma and Pa cafe in the middle of Nice.
The decorations were old-fashioned, off-white, and evoked a rustic charm. The chefs and waiters wore beige uniforms accompanied by the traditional white toque hat. The tables were of that old wood that was curved in such a way that you could imagine that the old men playing backgammon on it over the years had aged it with their leathery hands beating the table when they’d lost. The grooves formed a perfect space for setting their scotch and water down. Upon closer inspection, the wood was curved so perfectly that it just couldn’t be that old. The chairs were just ever so wobbly and the floorboards creaked in a calming manner, a reminder of being alive and taking steps.
Only, this was the middle of West Hollywood, and nothing was that old here. Another guise to be something it’s not.
And, when looking again at the prices, the quick self-conscious glances of its patrons and the realization that the decorations were more Pottery Barn than potted in a barn, I quickly woke up from my nostalgic French daze and came back to La La Land. Harry’s bombastic voice helped me come back down to earth.
“Alright, it’s on me. Get what you like, girls,” Harry said. I hated it when he called me a girl and he knew that. He busied himself with ordering his food first.
“He’s everything you said he would be,” Chelsea whispered in my ear.
“He’s harmless but extremely Hollywood. I’ll be surprised if he lets you get a word in edgewise,” I whispered back to her.
Lunch went by with Harry doing most of the talking, as I had predicted. He asked Chelsea a few questions, but the clicking of his Blackberry Curve interrupted her most times. Either that, or his bouncing knee. It always felt like he had somewhere more important to be. Neither Chelsea nor I said anything to him about it. It surprised me how used to these kinds of people I had gotten.
Chelsea’s presence was a daunting reminder of the discrepancy between California folk and the people where I grew up. Luckily, uncomfortable situations didn’t happen around her, because she was the Oprah of real life – putting those around her at ease. No one would ruin her time in Los Angeles, and she did her best to make conversation.
My extremely demanding boss, Tess Goldman was in China this week meeting with all the small children in the factories who make her baby furniture. (She wasn’t really meeting the small children. I’m sure the adults of the Chinese factory knew better than to allow the children to show up for work when Americans were around.)
Anyway, Tess wouldn’t have noticed if I had taken a sneaky two-hour lunch break with my best friend. Plus, I hadn’t minded taking advantage of Tess being away this once. Chelsea came here to get away from it all - to relax and let loose, and there was nothing that was going to stand between us having the time of our lives. At least I hoped as much.
The awful, Blackberry-infested lunch with my manager was over. I had to go back to work afterwards, so dropped Chelsea off at my place to get rested and organized.
When I got back that evening, Chelsea and I settled into our old routine of wine and chips with salsa.
“I love him. He is truly a good man, and honestly, sometimes he frustrates me when he just runs off like that, but I do love him,” Chelsea said in a whimsical fashion. I didn’t know what it was about her, but when she talked about her husband, she always seemed to be somewhere in Narnia. Her eyes gazed off into the distance, and her head cocked to the right. Her voice got quieter and a bit sweeter. It was almost as if she were telling this to Victor; as if she knew he could hear her, or perhaps, was afraid he could hear her.
She was convincing someone that she loved him, but it certainly wasn’t me. Then again, it was hard for me to say I knew what love was, let alone what it took to make a marriage work.
Sunday, April 27th
Hello there sir,
Is O’Hare the right airport into Chicago?
Take a gander at this itinerary and let me know what you think:
Wed, Jul 16
Los Angeles to Chicago O’Hare Non-Stop
United 0124
Depart: Los Angeles 19:00
Arrive: O’Hare 0:59 Next day
3h 59m
1,745 miles traveled
Mon, Jul 28
O’Hare to Los Angles Non-stop
United 0473
Depart: O’Hare 19:55
Arrive: Los Angel
es 22:24
4h 29m
1,726 miles traveled
Two whole weeks. Think you can handle it?
I just got back to your sexy voice on the answering machine. This weekend, we went camping in Leo Carrillo, a campsite right on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu. We drove about 45 minutes through rolling mountains; it was so nice to get out of the city for a bit, sit by the ocean, watch the flames from the fire pit flicker. I was in charge of keeping it lit.
I know, I know. It’s usually a man’s job…that’s what they tell me…but I can’t help myself. I just can’t keep my eyes away from the flames, and while everyone else got bored of it, I felt like it was my duty to stay and keep it lit. Gave me something to take my mind off a certain man on safari.
My hair has that great camp smell now. I love smelling like a campfire. I almost don’t want to shower (don’t worry, I will). It just feels old fashioned and rustic.
What is the camping like in the Serengeti?
________
I passed out last night in the middle of writing this email! After the camping and last Friday, I’m just so exhausted.
Oh, you don’t know about last Friday.
I had an audition for probably the best theatre company in Los Angeles (Tim Robbins is the artistic director - he’s married to Susan Sarandon and is really, really tall). He’s the type of actor that’s recognizable; you’d know him if you saw him. The piece I had prepared was pleading to the gods to not end my life (heavy shit) and looking back, it would have been better had I picked a comedy piece. They must be sick to death of seeing young women crying at their feet.
Anyway, they basically tore me to shreds. They hated it. Some of the men gave me pitiful stares as I left sobbing, my nose running, and my arms shaking. I had to wait in the car for a good hour and a half before the sobs stopped. I was a sight. But the lone woman on the judges panel, well she was a total bitch.
She kept yelling things like, “I don’t believe you!” and “Don’t fake it.” and “Stop. Forget your training.” “You’re stiff.” “You can’t get away with that on this stage, honey!” Right in the middle of my performance! It was so embarrassing.
After the whole thing with that French man and the webisodes, I’ve just been hesitant to get back into acting again. It’s such an emotional roller coaster.
My friend Erika described it to me better than I ever could: “To tear you apart in front of others is like looking at a beautiful woman who’s vulnerable in her nudity, offering herself up to a bunch of students to draw in bizarre ways, and suddenly going up and pointing out some silly fucking thing called cellulite. WHO DOES THAT??? That’s what was done to you, and imagine how fucked up and bitter you’d have to be inside to accomplish this.”
I mostly agree with her, except I can’t help but think maybe I just wasn’t good enough. I can’t help but partly agree with the woman in the back row.
This whole weekend I cried on and off, either when at home or alone in my tent at the campsite. I feel as though I’m mourning the loss of acting. I get overcome with this great sadness - something earthshaking and mortal. And I cry. Or maybe, as Samantha says, I’m mourning the plans I thought were going to unfold in a certain way - the loss of my dreams, and my self-derived reason for being in this world. Sometimes in the silence, I can hear the plan speak quietly. It’s not over. But most of the time - I just feel the loneliness and the emptiness of my dreams floating away.
God, I sound like a barrel of laughs, and I realize this might be intense for you. I hope I’m not baring my soul so much that I’m scaring you away. I suppose it just feels natural to talk like this to you. Please tell me if it’s too much! I’m not used to being this vulnerable with someone!
Anyway, I’m sure this is the last thing you want to read while on a beautiful safari and having the time of your life. I promise the next email will be more uplifting.
Can you believe over a month has passed since we met? Only three more months to go.
Right, so here goes with my answers….
1. What made me say hi back to you? I honestly don’t know what made me stop (besides your good looks, and I have to admit I did hear an accent), but I usually wouldn’t stop for a guy…especially considering how tired we were. But I grabbed my friend before you ever said hi and told her, “Don’t worry…they’ll come up and say hi.” Wasn’t that cocky of me?!
I just had a feeling though. And then when you did say hi to me, or whatever it was you did say…I felt silly, and uninteresting. So, we were going to leave again…and then you guys invited us upstairs…so we thought, what the hell and followed you.
So there you have my big secret. We were actually the ones who stopped for you.
2. My mom: My mom is very young at heart. She did anything she had to, to make the best life that she knew how, for my sister Ariel and I. Once we left the nest, it was finally her time. She has been married four times and I think being single and without children after 20 years allowed her to figure out who she really wanted to be. She never went to college, until in the last few years, she got up the courage to go and get her degree! I’m so proud of her.
I think it can be tough as you get older to take risks and do something different from the rest of the crowd, but she never stops trying new things and growing. She is very beautiful and strong.
She’s wise but innocent, if that makes sense? She doesn’t know how amazing she is – and she can see through others in an instant. My favorite story is how she saw a homeless woman on the street without shoes; she picked her up in her car and took her shopping. I don’t know anyone who would do that, but she did and the woman came back with three new pairs. I admire that.
And now she’s living her life like she is my age - going to college, single, renting, smoking pot and going through all this self-exploration. It’s never too old to start - but it can get frustrating sometimes when I just want her to be my mommy, ya know? Sometimes I feel like her mother actually.
And she does love Brits…
3. My fave sandwich is a tuna melt or a portobello mushroom sandwich.
I guess our letters will be fewer and further between, now that you’re leaving to go camping. Maybe that’s why I’m so eager to tell you everything at once. I’ll try to be more mysterious next time….
Oh, but it’s no fun being mysterious, is it? Isn’t that just playing games? Anyway, your turn with questions. Be safe!
Talk to you soon I hope,
AC
xoxo
FATHERS, EX-STEPFATHERS AND
EX-BOYFRIENDS, OR SIMPLY: MEN.
“Why would the last text message be ‘Good luck’?” I queried, “I mean, what does that even mean? Good luck finding another man any better than me? Good luck in your life without me? Hope you get lucky, because you sure need it? Oh. The nerve,” I slowly breathing in and out. Now was not the time or place to lose my composure.
“What?” Chelsea stared at me, confused. I realized I had been lost in my own world while she was talking to me about her husband and how much she loved him.
Since the dancing in the bedroom incident two and a half months ago, there had only been a few text messages from the ex. The first one being “I’m taking last night as a sign this is over?” Wait, a man who could read signs? Was I really throwing this gem away? I wrote back, “I didn’t know what else to do. Yes, best not to see each other.” To which he replied two weeks later, “Good luck.”
I didn’t reply to that because that meant renouncing my power of receiving the last text, and those last two weeks of not responding had been hell. But boy had that made me angry! Like I needed luck? And that’s the last text I receive after two and a half years of knowing him? “Good luck good luck good luck,” I repeated over and over again.
It had been like this – me torturing myself – for too long now. When would this pain go away? I tried cleansing my apartment, burning his pictures, giving everything he had ever given me to goodwill, taking Crystal’s classe
s and yet he was still burning this grand canyon in my mind.
I really wished I had a remote control for that area of my brain. And, sometimes, just to play with me, my brain would repeat his phone number over and over again so there would be absolutely no way in hell I could forget it. This had to stop. At the very least, the telecourse was making me realize I deserved to move on, be with someone who cared about me and not be in pain any longer.
“Oh my god. I just totally spaced. I’m so sorry,” I gaped back.
“Oh, that’s OK. I’m bored of talking about my husband. Who sent you that message?” Chelsea resigned.
“No one important. The ex. So over him. Really. But you know when there’s just that niggle in the back of your mind you can’t ignore. It doesn’t even really have to do with him at all - it’s more about me. He wrote ‘Good luck’ almost two months ago and I’m freaking because my only thoughts are - what if my luck has run out? What if he was it and through all the fucked up things, that was as good as it was going to get?”
“Your luck will never run out sweetie. You’re one of those people who attract good things, no matter what. You always bounce back stronger than you were before,” she said sincerely. That was one of the sweetest things she had ever said to me.
“Thanks Chelsea.” I took in what she said. “I love having this time to myself, and for the first time, I really feel grounded. I’m starting to get auditions, making money, finally working out. Oh, did I mention I’m working out?”
“No, since when has Adele been working out?”
“Adele has been working out for the last couple of weeks. I know it’s not a lot, but I’m determined to stick with it,” I said.
“My flabby ass needs to get to the gym,” Chelsea replied. I looked at her rail arms, her tiny waist and her forever-extending legs, and I laughed.
“You’ve got to be kidding, right?”
“Victor tells me I’m fat all the time,” she said.
“‘Scuse me?”
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