The words enraged me and I charged him before I could stop myself, and as we scuffled, I grabbed him, throwing him through the sliding glass door, which shattered.
After that, all hell broke loose. When you’re fighting in a house it’s a whole different ball game, because it’s not a controlled environment like boxing. It’s tough and it’s scary, because there are many hidden dangers; you don’t know what’s coming at you from what direction, and you are also at a disadvantage because you don’t know the lay of the land.
At some point, somebody turned off the lights and I covered myself so I wouldn’t get hit in the darkness, but someone jumped me and I began punching in the dark, fighting to a surreal strobe effect as the lights kept flickering on and off. Suddenly we heard sirens screaming toward the house and my buddies all tried to get out before the cops showed up. Unfortunately, I was the last one to the door—and it slammed shut a second before I could get out. This meant the guy behind me had a chance to catch up and I had to fight him off, but finally, somehow, I got away and ran to the car, where my buddies were yelling for me to hurry and jump in. I barely made it before we screeched away, somehow evading the authorities.
Later, we decided we wanted something to eat and went to a Jack in the Box, and the minute we cruised into the parking lot we were in trouble, because a couple of big rowdy cowboys started laughing at us and taunting us. Of course we responded, but it took five of us to take care of them, and in the course of the scuffle one of my friends got hit so hard his eye swelled up like a baseball.
Late-night runs to Jack in the Box became the norm because I wanted to gain weight and get bigger, and I succeeded in gaining thirty pounds eating burgers and fries over that summer before my senior year, as well as adding a mustache to complete my groovy seventies look.
I had also finally made enough dough from jobs at Bed Bath & Beyond, the warehouse at Best Products, and Quick Mart to buy a car, so I bought a lowrider, but this wasn’t just any lowrider, this was a ’76 midnight-blue Monte Carlo with a custom T-top, light blue crushed velvet interior, and a stock steering wheel. I even cut the springs on the bottom of the car so it would go lower and bounce, and always took with me a liter of Coke, immediately pouring it out and filling it with beer before popping a cassette into my badass stereo system. I’d turn that baby up loud and then go cruising to pick up girls. Or pick fights.
One time we were outside with people yelling things at us and we were yelling back as usual, and when we got out of the lowrider they started threatening us. Suddenly Kurt backed away from them, which was odd, so I jumped in front of him, between him and this guy, ready to get down in the dirt.
I yelled at the guy, “Come on, man, I’ll take you.” The guy started toward me, but I felt Kurt grab me and pull me away.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
“What the fuck?” I asked, mad, adrenaline pumping.
“Didn’t you see that?” he asked.
“See what?” I answered.
“He had an eight-inch blade hidden behind his back, man,” he said.
Once again, somehow I had escaped a grave fate, but this wasn’t the only time one of my friends would save my ass during a fight. Once at the drive-in seven big guys in big trucks started throwing slurs at us. I’d seen Bob mad but never as mad as he was when he pulled one of the guys out of the truck like the guy was a paper doll. All his friends jumped out of their trucks and it was on, and as I was fighting one of them, I suddenly heard, “Mauricio, look out!”
I turned in time to see a guy running straight at me, and without slowing down he punched me right in the face, knocking me back several feet, but if I hadn’t turned, who knows what he would have done after he got the drop on me? By this time sirens were screaming close by and as the cops drove up and started yelling, we all dispersed in different directions, jumping the fence and running like hell.
I think back on those times, and it’s a wonder I made it out alive. By telling these stories, I am by no means condoning or promoting violence. These stories are about friendship and adolescent revelry, sure, but they’re also painful times to look back on. That instinct inside me was a combination of things—anger at my dad, undefined goals, and my undiagnosed condition. It’s a wonder I didn’t get injured more seriously in fights. It’s a wonder I didn’t get killed.
Although I had no clear direction, life seemed uncomplicated, but beneath the surface something was off, something ominous was simmering, and one day when a group of friends came to tell me there were six guys who expected us to fight, I suddenly couldn’t budge a muscle. I stood there, silent, panicked.
It felt sickeningly familiar. Just like the little boy in the dark, under the covers, terrified of what was hiding the shadows. I didn’t understand why I was so scared. It wasn’t like me not to want to be the first one through the door for a fight. I was so embarrassed I was acting like such a pussy—usually it was me calling out other guys on that in a heartbeat—but now I flat-out lied and made up an excuse why I couldn’t go with the guys.
My sudden anxiety, this inability to perform a normal task in my daily routine that I had done numerous times, was just another rippling undercurrent trying to warn me I was on a collision course with something terrible that would alter my life. But, as I’d done for years before, I brushed it off, pushed that feeling down somewhere inside. I made my way through high school with a new skill—lying to myself and thus creating a false reality for myself and others.
I couldn’t wait to get out of school, but as the end of my senior year approached, it looked like I wasn’t going to pass twelfth grade. I had copied my way through since I was little, but now girls who had always let me cheat were getting angry at me and no longer allowing it.
I wish now I had applied myself. It wasn’t that I had no intelligence, I just rarely paid attention in class, but I do remember one time I actually got into an assignment involving writing an essay and then presenting it to the class verbally. I decided to write about the trip to Nicaragua when I was fourteen that had started out with an altercation with my father.
I didn’t want to go, and my father was so angry that I was complaining about the trip he hit me and then made me go on the family vacation and expected a good attitude the whole time. After all my bitching, at the end of the excursion I was sad when it was time to come back home, because I loved it and didn’t want to leave. I had a great time while I was there, but one event stood out that wasn’t a happy memory—in fact, it was a very dangerous encounter.
One day I was eating in a restaurant and a guy who was clearly a bully came in and started bothering me. I didn’t want to fight him and told him to leave me alone, but when he wouldn’t, I finally got into it with him outside the restaurant. Once again, my tae kwon do came in handy, and I tried my side kick that never failed me . . . but this time I missed. It only pissed him off more, and he grabbed me, throwing me down and slamming my head on the street. He kept slamming my skull, again and again, and as I was losing consciousness, his brother stepped in to stop the fight. When I stumbled back to my relative’s house and my mom saw my condition, she took me to the hospital and immediately called the cops.
I turned in my essay and when it came time for me to read it to the class, I actually enjoyed the theatrics of re-creating the story. After all the essays were turned in, the teacher told the class one essay stood out from all the others.
I was stunned when the teacher told the whole class, “The number one essay in the class is Mauricio’s. I’m giving him an A-plus.”
It felt good to be acknowledged and to have accomplished it on my own, but then I went right back to doing what I always did, copying answers and other people’s homework. I thought I was so cool that I was even pretty brazen about it; however, I finally got busted for cheating and the teacher embarrassed me in front of the whole class. I also flunked all my classes, and when my mother realized I wasn’t going to graduate she started lobbying the principal. It wasn’t
the first time she had to go to the school to get me out of trouble over the years, and after her cajoling, begging, and dramatic tears, the principal finally gave in and I was allowed to attend the graduation ceremony. I think my mother probably clapped louder than anybody when I walked across the stage.
I didn’t care about the diploma one bit; I just knew there was going to be one helluva party afterward, and Randy and I stayed out all night tearing it up.
Chapter Two
Livin’ on a Prayer
After high school, I worked at the Farmers Market bagging groceries, and drifted with no burning motivation to follow any specific path, but I did meet two guys, Jeff and Manny, who became my sidekicks, and we were the Three Musketeers, inseparable, for years.
I had hung out with Manny’s uncle Mo in high school, but Manny was the most giving person I’d ever met and he was truly my best friend of all time, one hundred percent there for me in any and every way—no questions asked. Manny had dark hair, an open friendly face, and a quick smile, but we thought he was the least attractive of this trio. Jeff and I were total tens—at least in our minds, anyway. Manny’s sense of humor, though, made up for his lack of looks. Jeff and I teased Manny insufferably, yet he could give as good as he got just like we all could, ribbing each other at every opportunity.
Jeff had just been discharged from the army when we met hanging out at a club; he had figured out a tactic most likely to get him out of the service because the regimented life just wasn’t for him. Jeff was a pretty funny guy and a tad on the reckless side. He was almost a cliché at first glance—tall, blond, and handsome. Girls always wanted to talk to him first, and he had also worked his looks to begin modeling and eventually wanted to become a movie star.
Every weekend we dressed up in suits and went dancing in clubs in San Francisco, and in the summer the beach in Santa Cruz was our usual hangout, but no matter where we were, our pastime was the same: trying to pick up girls. One afternoon Jeff and I saw two gorgeous girls at the beach who were way out of our league. One of the girls, Kathy, was tall, with blue eyes and dark hair, and she was already modeling. I knew going out with her was a reach, but I was as cocky as I was flirty and asked her out anyway. Kathy didn’t even hesitate before saying yes and we had a great time, so we started dating regularly. One day, Kathy told me I should be a model, too, and I broke out laughing, but she persisted, suggesting I shave my mustache and cut my hair differently.
“That ain’t happening,” I told her.
“But you get paid two hundred dollars an hour,” she informed me.
That got my attention. I signed up for modeling school despite the fact that I had to shell out eight hundred bucks. I was not a tall guy, so it felt like a ridiculous idea, but I figured it was better than working at the grocery store. Plus, you didn’t have to twist my arm to get me to go somewhere with tons of beautiful girls. That said, what made me think I could model at five-foot-nine is beyond me.
For the first time in my life, I had found some direction. The moment I got in front of a camera for headshots, something clicked. I’d found a way of getting attention just like the little boy who loved the applause at parties. When I looked in the mirror, I liked what I saw.
I was lucky, because the camera loved me back. Once I had my photos, I called the Grimme Agency, a powerful and respected modeling agency in San Francisco run by Jimmy Grimme, a little guy, shorter than me, who had a big personality and was like a drill sergeant. He was also one of the hottest talent scouts in the Bay Area. I was thrilled when he said he would take a meeting with me.
His first question was, “How tall are you?”
“Five-eleven,” I answered.
Jimmy didn’t miss a beat. “With or without heels?”
I quipped right back, “Six-two with heels.”
I’ll never know why, but Jimmy, who had launched the careers of models like Christy Turlington and Suzanne Somers, decided to give me a chance. The very first thing he made me do was shave my mustache.
By now, Kathy and I had broken up, but she wasn’t the only thing I had left behind. A flashy red Alfa Romeo had eclipsed my beloved lowrider, and I also had a new girlfriend, Kelly, who liked my passionate nature almost as much as she liked the car. After we’d dated awhile, Kelly moved into my parents’ house with me.
It lasted a couple years between us, but I was so focused on my career that I didn’t have time for anything serious that could potentially shift my attention. Once I was in front of a camera, it was pretty clear I’d found my calling. It wasn’t long before I considered acting.
When I met a woman named Joan Kenley, a voice coach in Oakland, I didn’t know she would later go on to become the voice for voice mail around the world and the Telephone Lady on The Simpsons. All I knew was that she was another person who saw my potential, but man, she didn’t pull any punches in her critique of me when we met.
“You have what it takes but you’ll never make it with that voice,” she told me matter-of-factly.
The voice she was referring to was my natural tenor, the high pitch that had been adorable when I was little. The one that, coupled with my dimples and flirtatious nature, could get a girl to do whatever I wanted. Joan firmly believed that voice would only hinder me for the stage or screen, and explained that I was talking from my throat instead of my gut. Eager to do anything to further my newfound performing career goal, I took months of classes from Joan, and after I diligently practiced the vocal exercises she gave me, my voice dropped a few notches, just as she had promised.
I was also excited that Joan thought I was worthy of an introduction to a private acting coach and made an appointment with Michael Olten after her referral. He was a middle-aged white man who got right down to business; when I showed up at his apartment, he immediately wanted me to read a scene from American Buffalo.
“Okay, here you go,” he said, handing me the sides. “It’s a tough scene, but let’s just see how you do with it,” he said.
I was nervous because I had never done a scene before, but I started reading in a thick Brooklyn accent. “Hey, Bobby! Give me a fucking roast beef sandwich!” I yelled, and continued until I finished the scene. He sat there quietly, just staring at me.
“Okay, so you’ve never acted before,” he said bluntly.
“No, never,” I said.
He nodded, and that was it, the session was over, and I left with the impression that he hated my performance. Disappointed, I went to see Jimmy later that day, and when I got there he smiled and slapped me on the back, because not only had Michael Olten called him, but he had told Jimmy I was going to be the next Al Pacino. That comment alone, that validation, gave me an extreme adrenaline rush, and when I left Jimmy’s office that day, my mind was set; I was determined to become just that.
Of course, I took it to the extreme at first; I dressed like Pacino, talked like him, and I even faked smoking to look like him for a few weeks until I started focusing on the craft of the man. It didn’t matter that Michael Olten’s class was an hour away and would require driving to San Francisco; I would have driven two hours or as far as I had to go. It didn’t matter that I had to study all the time, because I was transfixed and listened to everything Michael said and did whatever he told me to do—except when it came to one thing. He wanted me to change my name to Rick Madrid, but I thought it was a stupid name and refused. We would argue about that on and off for a while.
After a couple years, Kelly and I broke up and she moved out. When I wasn’t reading scripts or obsessing over becoming the next Pacino, I drank, partied, and went from girl to girl. If the drinking had been accepted at home before, it was now clear that things were getting way out of hand, and my parents certainly didn’t approve of this kind of out-of-control behavior. On top of that, my career choice wasn’t exactly one in which a boy from a small town like Martinez had any chance for success—and a Nicaraguan-American boy, at that.
My brother came right out and said he didn’t think I would ma
ke it as an actor, and my father felt the same way and never hesitated to be verbal about it. He was just being realistic and wanted me to have a real job just like him and my brother, but I wouldn’t listen and kept right on taking classes, vowing to myself that I was going to show them and everyone else that I could make it and be someone.
One afternoon, while my father was watching All My Children, he and I had the usual disagreement over my life’s goal, but it soon escalated.
“I know you’d care if I was on a soap!” I yelled, and it was as if I had suddenly stepped over an invisible line between us that I had never dared to cross before. I couldn’t control my emotions or anger and I couldn’t stop myself from lashing out at my father.
My father was surprised that I had raised my voice to him, not recognizing the dark edge or uncontrollable anger I displayed. He chose to remain silent instead of engaging with or correcting me, because he was uneasy, maybe even a little afraid, of this stranger in his house. This was a completely new dynamic in our relationship—me getting the last word, and neither of my parents knowing how to act around their baby boy.
My mother, though she also felt an indescribable apprehension, did anything she could to support my endeavor. She did everything from picking up photos no matter how far she had to drive to get them to typing résumés and letters, and even helping with outfits for print jobs and auditions. Whatever it took, no matter what I needed, she was always right there cheering me on.
My father may not have understood my dream and he may have questioned my path, but God bless him for helping financially. I hoped somewhere deep down that it meant my father believed in me, that acting was more than a pipe dream, that I could succeed. I wonder if maybe he was afraid of what I would become if he didn’t help out at first.
The more obsessed I became, the less I slept, and the more chaos ensued in my world. I didn’t, couldn’t, know it at the time, but I was experiencing a manic phase and the darkness inside me was lurking, waiting to bubble to the surface.
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