I Might Regret This

by Abbi Jacobson

  So, on this night, we were shooting a scene in which my character, Katie, borrows the keys to a pharmacy bathroom to help her brother, Seth, who is going through heroin withdrawal. It is clear that she needs the bathroom keys so Seth can shoot up in there with the needle she just bought. The pharmacist isn’t happy, and they get into an argument, but she gives Katie the keys anyway, making a flippant remark about how she hopes Katie can remember to return them. Cut to later, they’re back in the car and Seth hands her the bathroom keys they borrowed. Shit. After that whole thing with the pharmacist, Katie’s gotta return those keys. She runs back to the pharmacy, but it’s closed, and the doors are locked. She spots the pharmacist, but she won’t even open the door so Katie can return the keys. What an asshole, right? So, Katie walks back to the car, then stops. Fuck this bullshit, and she throws the keys back at the pharmacy, smashing the glass front door. AHHHHHH—She runs back to the car and they peel out of the parking lot. Annnnnnnnd scene. What a thrilling, intense, funny, and exciting part of the film!

  Sorry, spoiler alert. Now let’s get into the throwing of the keys:

  Earlier that night, the crew had put a rectangle made out of gaffer tape up on a brick wall near the set—the same size as the glass I needed to hit—so I could practice my aim. It wasn’t an entire door I was trying to hit, but rather a top panel of breakaway glass (approximately eighteen by twenty-four inches) that had been put in the door to smash. Breakaway glass, for those that aren’t usually around fake smashes and crashes, is an industry prop, used to create a more reliable outcome and a safer environment on set. I practiced and was doing well—I could hit the shape taped on the wall and I think everyone felt good about the scene we’d get to later that night.

  Because it was a scene where we were going to break something, even breakaway glass, it was shot last, around four in the morning. I was exhausted, but the scene was just physical, and I tend to be more nervous when it comes to dialogue-heavy scenes the later it gets, so I felt okay. I had prepared beforehand, like I do, and could hit the mark—what could go wrong? Then we began what would be an hour or more where my body completely betrayed me. I COULD NOT FOR THE LIFE OF ME HIT THE GLASS. I threw the keys to the right of the door, to the left, hit the sidewalk in front of me, the lamp above the PHARMACY sign. I chucked them at the curb, the window, the metal rim around the roof. It was absolute insanity. Forty crew members watched me throw those keys every which way except where I was supposed to. They watched me fall apart. My confidence was gone entirely. It was like my body was the only one honest with me—it screamed, “You’re a terrible actor and we’re not gonna help you! We’re ruining this for you, for your own good. We’re cutting the power, you’re on your own you talentless, idiotic dumbass! You think you’re an actor!? Meryl would be able to hit that door with her eyes closed. Go home you stupid comedy writer!”

  At least ten different people in the crew came over to tell me how I should throw the keys—mostly men. THANK YOU! I know how to throw stuff—I used to play softball and I think I’m pretty athletic—but this was absolute mayhem. No one could help me. I completely lost control of my body. My mind was no longer connected to my arm or my eyes. With each throw, the clunky metal object on the keychain started to break, pieces of it falling off. I must have thrown the keys at least thirty-five times. We were running out of time—the sun was coming up! I could have died. I don’t know how I didn’t. It went on forever. A part of me thinks maybe I did die in that moment, on that night, in the middle of one of those throws, maybe I died and it’s all been a dream since then? In the end, I threw the keys and hit the glass, but I was standing SO embarrassingly close to the door, it’s unbelievable I came back to work the next day.

  That overtaking of my body and my inability to use it for what I needed carried such a weight. Because this was physical, happening so publicly, and at the same time so internally, I can feel it again, can bring back that humiliation, that complete lack of control. But it was just throwing keys at a door. No one died, no one was even mad, we got the shot! It wasn’t a big deal to anyone but me. So why do I even care, almost two years later? Why does it make me cringe to even think about, and how can a buffalo carved out of wood on a keychain on my nightstand bring up those feelings so randomly? Memories fascinate me, how they gain or lose weight over time, always fluctuating, just like our bodies, becoming lighter or heavier the more they need attention. That night and my inability to throw those stupid fucking keys reminded me just how shaken I’ve been the past six months, how no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get over this heartbreak, couldn’t stop feeling insignificant in general or shitty about ways in which I could have reacted differently. I could probably throw those keys and hit my mark right now if I had to (I will not test this theory), but I was again in a place where I was unable to do what I knew I needed, to move on. Physically I was fine, but my mind and heart, emotionally, were not, and no new environment or vast amount of space in the sky was going to fix me. It was just going to take time. I thought driving as far away from my life as I could would release the things I was struggling with, but it seems I’d come all this way only to drive more directly into them.

  As I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, I suddenly felt the urge to go outside, to overcome my fear of actually being alone in the middle of nowhere. I debated if I should go and see what it looked like out there at night. On one hand, I knew the sky would be incredible and I might regret not experiencing it, but on the other hand, were there wild animals outside? There are huge birds out west like condors—do they prey at night? Also it was easier and way more comfortable to stay safely in my bed, I’d probably only tussle for another hour before I fell asleep—and just like one of the most thrilling, final scenes of a romantic comedy made in the late 1990s, Rupert Everett’s silky British accent provided an answer:

  And then, she was up, out of bed in one exquisite movement, wondering, searching, sniffing the wind like a deviled deer. Has God heard her little prayer? Will Cinderella dance again?

  I put my shoes on, walked outside, onto the porch and down the stairs to the grass. I kept going, farther and farther into the field, tightly clutching the wooden buffalo keychain until I was far away from my tiny cabin I’d felt so isolated inside. There wasn’t a woman in a long dress out in that field ready to get me, that’s not what I was afraid of now, it was the silence and the darkness that scared me. I slowed down and stood in place. The only thing I could hear was my breathing, in and out, in and out. There were no lights, no sirens, no generators humming, no trash trucks and no subway rumbles through the walls, no groups of drunk friends stumbling outside my window, no light from the TV, no helicopters circling. Nothing. No one. Finally, for a moment, I was just, right there. I stopped looking back at what I could have done differently in this relationship, stopped replaying scenes and rewriting new endings that will never happen. I wasn’t stressing about all the things I needed to do for work, all the calls and the emails, all the lists I make to try and occupy my mind. I wasn’t worrying about Broad City ending, how we’d do it right, or how I’d feel once it was over. None of that. I just stood there looking up at the sky, not remembering, not worrying, not planning.

  The stars out there, out west, are different, they’re brighter and bolder, and they make you feel that the world is so much more than you ever could have thought, that maybe you’d only been focusing on a tiny little corner. I know all those stars are there too, in my New York sky, but I don’t see them. There’s too much in the way. This was the space I was longing for and had been seeking out. But I could see now I hadn’t been yearning for that expanse to escape into, but rather to remember that I was a part of it. Right, the universe. Right, the sky, the stars, the unfathomable mystery of those faraway galaxies. The original, intended purpose for the word awesome. How had I forgotten about all this? It’s all right here.

  I tried to imagine what I might look like from a star’s perspective: a tiny person in a grassy field in sout
hern Utah, all by herself. She just stood there in her mismatched pajamas, looking up, so much happening in the world around her. But there she was, awake in the middle of the night, quietly staring away from it all, letting time slow down for a moment.

  SEDONA SPIRIT

  I’ve never been intensely spiritual, but I definitely dabbled.

  There’s a church in Brooklyn Heights that I refer to as “my church,” which is bizarre as I don’t attend this church and I’m fully Jewish, but this building is, or was, when I lived nearby, a tiny scratch of my spiritual itch. On the outside, there’s a message board behind glass—one that on other churches would usually list the service schedule, but mine puts up quotes, and changes them frequently. I would go out of my way to see what quote might be posted, sometimes riding a less convenient subway line so I had an excuse to walk by it. I needed that little boost, that lift in my spirit. The quote might be from James Baldwin or a pope, other times it was Sheryl Crow or Janet Mock. Whoever it was, whatever they said, I forced myself to stop and think about it. I miss those brief, holy moments in front of my church on Henry Street. There’s a church in my neighborhood now that has a similar board out front, it lists information about their services and has a quote from the Bible: Love is Patient, Love is Kind. After the third time I passed by and realized it was permanent, I became angry. IS IT THOUGH? I have avoided this church ever since.

  In the last six months leading up to this trip, I had been leaning into these attempts at mindfulness and spirituality. Between the breakup, my newfound sexual awakening, and Broad City’s end being in sight, I could feel my life changing significantly, in larger, more sweeping ways than I’d ever experienced, and I was scared I was spinning out of control. There was a looming sense of the unknown, and because of that, my spiritual dabbling doubled.

  I read horoscopes from time to time for fun, listen to anything Oprah puts out into the world, and at one point in my life The Alchemist was my most treasured book, so I wasn’t unfamiliar with seeking some guidance, but this began to feel more intentional. I started doing yoga and eating mostly vegetarian—trying my best to focus on foods that have lots of nutritional value instead of lots of bacon. I’d also been given more stones and crystals from friends than I know what to do with. Each was supposed to attract more of one thing and ward off another. I have them placed around my house, on windowsills and on shelves, in pockets of book bags and on my nightstand—more a reminder of my kind friends’ powers than the crystals’.

  Despite my best efforts, I was still hanging out in the spiritual novice section, and I needed to cut the bullshit and get down to business. So, when planning this road trip, I decided to go to Sedona. If I was going to go mystical, and fully give that “woo-woo,” “hippy-dippy,” “cosmic moon cycle” arena a fair chance, Sedona was the place I was going to do it.

  An hour into day 1 at the luxurious, campus-like beast of a resort tucked inside a red-rock canyon, I surrendered to the amenities and found myself a plush-slipper-wearing, kale-chip-eating, energy-vortex-searching soul seeker. I’d completely given in to the Teslas (there were a bizarrely high number of Teslas). I tore open the schedule of activities I found on the desk in my room and cracked my wrist—the equivalent to knuckles for me. Watch out spirituality and calming essential oils, I’m coming for ya! I was going to leave this place strong and stable, just like the red rocks—my mind clear and peaceful, my heart open and no longer aching. What an incredible three days this was going to be—PEACE AND QUIET AND SPIRITUALITY AND LOVE AND LIGHT AND LOVE AND LIGHT AGAIN AND RED ROCKS AND JOY! Also, this place was ridiculously expensive—I was going to get my money’s worth.

  I called the concierge to book activities, but they encouraged me to come to the office and go over everything. In-person interaction, especially when it’s about bettering myself, is just lovely—it’s one of my favorite things to do and I didn’t hesitate one bit! (Please sense my sarcasm.) I walked over to the lobby (a quarter mile away) and sat down with a concierge to organize the next three days of the rest of my life. She was dressed head-to-toe in wilderness gear, wearing one of those safari hats that tied up from both sides. The overcompensation of gear is usually a deterrent for me, a clear case for something being bullshit as I’m not usually in a place where an extreme amount of gear is necessary. But I was trying. I would let this go and continue on my road to enlightenment! Spirituality comes in all shapes and amounts of wilderness gear, who was I to judge? I began to list off my plan, and she tried to keep up. I felt like I was one of those rich ladies who goes into a store and buys things in more than one size all at once, to try on at home, just because she can, except instead of high-rise denim, I was trying on every which way of raising one’s endorphins and emotional well-being.

  When Conci (nickname for concierge—CATCH UP!) handed me a printout of my program, it looked like an eager honor student’s after-school schedule, jam-packed and overwhelming for no apparent reason. Yoga classes, aerobics, abs workouts, a massage, hike after hike. My time for the next three days would be carefully and densely filled with healing exercise and body-enriching activities. Who cares if my relaxation felt like a micromanaged TED conference for one?! Nothing says tranquility and enlightenment like a hard-core itinerary.

  The next three days I stuck to my schedule: went to exercise classes back-to-back, explored the various trails on the grounds, and read by the pool (not on the original schedule, but added later in pencil once I found out about the pool). By night I’d go get food from one of the many restaurants inside the large main lobby. I had been told by almost everyone that worked there (mostly the hosts I stared at while I waited for my to-go order) that I must try the prickly pear margarita, so I did. Eh. I took a mountain bike tour through the red rocks one morning on one of those souped-up bikes with the shocks that you see in magazines but don’t think you’ll ever ride in real life. Two married couples and I slowly wove our way down paths, through rocks and crevices, as our mountain bike guide George spewed instructions that doubled for life advice. Yes, we do have to look through the obstacles in order to get past them! If we look down and focus on the rocks and other things in the way, we will fall! We have to point ourselves in the direction we want to go…on the trail. Yes, George! I was fully on board with this intense metaphor of a mountain bike ride and hung on to his words as tightly as my handlebars.

  I went on a solo hike through the valley of red rocks, sat in a meditation room, briefly (I didn’t know what to do in there…), and climbed a path to a stone energy vortex. Vortexes are sacred areas that are thought to hold very powerful, healing energy, and leave you feeling different than when you came. Sedona is said to be a vortex itself but has within it even more powerful centers of energy. I stood at the vortex, shut my eyes, and waited. Here we go! It began to drizzle as I stood there—okay…could this be some sort of energy symbol!? It hadn’t rained in days, and then the moment I get to the top of the trail and touch the stone vortex it starts to rain? Timing is everything. As I continued trying to force the rain to mean something, it started to really come down and I had to leave in a rush, retracing my steps through the maze of trails to the hotel, hoping I remembered the right way back. I did leave the vortex in a different state than when I came, so that was true.

  Besides the energy vortexes, which I clearly conquered, I had heard getting one’s aura read in Sedona was essential. I couldn’t leave without a photo of my aura! The hotel itself was the kind of place you never needed to leave—but I wanted to drive into town and see what actual Sedona looked and felt like, plus, that was where all the aura reading places were located. At first glance, the town appeared to be a larger version of the boardwalks I remembered visiting at the Jersey Shore, the kind of place where everyone might be buying T-shirts that said I GOT STONED IN SEDONA. The only difference was the red rocks peeking over all the rooftops, immense nature rising into the periphery. Getting one’s aura read seemed so personal, but this place seemed so public, a true tourist trap.
/>   Although I hadn’t gotten an aura photo, I had been to a couple of psychics before. In high school, my friend Sam’s mom hired a psychic to come and read our palms at her sleepover. I remember feeling like I had given her too much information. I got excited in response to anything she said: “The letter M…hmmm. My grandmother’s name starts with an M!? Wow, that must be it.” I’d make any connection from my own life to whatever she said. I wanted an experience, for her to find something I didn’t know about myself. To tell me what was going to happen. The other time I went to a psychic was one of those days where you have the strong desire to punch someone right in the gut. Years ago, my manager (at the time) was able to secure me an appointment with her beloved psychic, which was difficult as this woman was one of those renowned LA psychics, someone the Kardashians or Real Housewives might go see, so apparently in high demand. I was nervous, not knowing what to say or do with a clairvoyant, let alone a famous one. My experience in high school wasn’t successful and I wanted to do it right this time. Do you talk first or let them do the talking? Am I supposed to have questions ready? On top of that, I was running late.

  I hate being late. I treat myself like that friend who is always late, so you tell them a meeting or dinner starts a half hour before it does, hoping they end up actually on time, except I’m both people in the story. I coyly remind myself to show up thirty minutes early. I plan up the wazoo. But not on this day. Los Angeles is known to be tricky, driving-wise, but what they don’t tell you, what they leave out of the story, is the parking. One of the true untold stories of Hollywood. Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous: Parking Predicaments, Uncensored! The extra time, even if you’re going to a parking lot, can be significant, and must be factored into your planning. When I’m in LA now—maybe due to this incident—I always look up the parking situation, and it has saved my ass on numerous occasions. My manager’s fancy psychic was located in Beverly Hills, obviously, and when I could see I was going to be at least fifteen minutes late, I called my manager and she said she’d call the woman to let her know that traffic was out of control and I’m from out of town. The parking structure next to the psychic’s building was backed up and I was slowly circling up floor by floor, looking for an available spot. Finally, I’m running down the hallway to her office door, passing doctor’s office after doctor’s office (weird she’s next to all these doctors?), where I calmly composed myself before knocking. The door opened, and I began to apologize profusely.