by N. K. Smith
“It’s not shit, it’s inspiration.”
“Well, it reminds me of a cocaine high, where everything is buzzing around me.” I stop and shake my head and actively reason the coke craving away. I don’t want coke. I don’t need coke. I’m better without it. “Whatever. We have to plan, and in order to plan, you have to relax.”
Together, we plan out our documentary, and before long it shifts and balloons and then narrows down to the suffering of women.
We start collecting and filming stories of oppressed women in the societies in which they live. At first, it’s homeless women and children in England and France—whose stories are similar to how it is in the United States—but once those topics are covered, I start asking about the average income of women, about their place in society, make-up, clothing, and job opportunities. We interview young girls for their thoughts on the world to get a clear idea of how women are brought up in these societies.
We got to Brazil where it’s said that a woman is assaulted every fifteen seconds. We go to India and hear about dowry-related killings and the rape culture and the new revolution that’s trying to change it, and multiple countries in Africa where people tell us about genital mutilation and the hundreds of thousands of women raped within context of civil wars and conflicts.
Of course we run into roadblocks. There are proper ways of doing things. We have to get government permissions, but we get them. It’s actually quite thrilling and, more than that, fulfilling.
And there are days when I think this is beyond me. There are days when I just want to go back to LA and get high because knowing this type of shit exists out in the world is just too much to handle. I know about being objectified and valued for my body rather than my whole person cannot compare to what the women of the world deal with every day.
Natalie gets worked up a lot. Her passion is almost too much to bear, but I do what I can to bring her back to earth, and get our team practical and working toward finding solutions. But, we’re a great team. I calm her down when I need to, and Natalie centers me in those moments of weakness when the only thing I want to do is burn my camera, throw money at the issues we’re filming, and go snort a couple lines. Today, I want to pack it in because we visited a woman who was doused in oil and set alight by her husband.
I flop down on the hotel sofa and wish the damned air conditioner would actually cool the air right now. “I’m done. I’m grabbing a plane out of this place tomorrow.”
“Right,” Natalie says with a laugh. “You’ll be back in Hollywood showing off your tits and snorting coke so fast it’ll make me dizzy to watch it.” She’s relaxed just like she always is after a full day of interviewing and shooting. I see now why she constantly has to be doing something. It was in the quiet moments after selling a script when she fell into partying and drugs.
“I don’t think I can do this. I don’t want to know about this stuff, you know? I know what we’re trying to do, but this isn’t my experience. I thought we were going to explore the surface stuff, like beauty culture and—”
“You can’t ever forget about this, and you know it. You might not have experienced this stuff, but we’re talking about a world-wide culture that makes these things possible. It’s the same culture that makes it okay to rape girls here and exploit their bodies back home. We can’t give up now.”
I close my eyes. “Give up what? What are we even doing? I mean, we were supposed to just do some light traveling and write, so why are we—”
“Because sometimes life takes you where you’re supposed to be.”
Forcing my lids open, I direct my eyes to where she sits, thumbing through her cell phone. “So we film all this. Then what?”
She smiles. “We’re going to edit it, give it a title, and then release it so other people can see what we’ve seen and give the money to organizations that can change the world.”
It seems impossible to be able to film all this, then rewatch it all, edit it, shop it around for a distributor, and then show it to the world.
Even though I’ve gotten my energy back since I gave up drugs, thinking about what we have to do leaves me drained. “Dedication and focus have never been huge character traits of mine,” I say as Natalie sips a cold bottle of water.
“Whatever,” she returns with a laugh. “This from a woman who grew up in Hollywood.”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t you quit after that shit with your parents exploded? Why didn’t you quit when you finally had a choice to? When your manager—”
“Because it was all I’d ever known. It would have been hard to give it up. What was I going to—”
“Bullshit.” The challenge in her voice is so clear, I already know what’s coming. “You have enough money to stop acting and never look back. You could’ve gone to college. You could’ve been a fucking investment banker, but you stuck with acting. I don’t believe for a second you stayed with it because it was all you knew or because it was easy. It’s not easy by any means to do what you do. You stuck with it because you were driven to. You wanted to be the best. You focused on a goal and you were dedicated to reaching it.”
When she pins me with a weighty stare, I look away. “You just said that sometimes life takes you where you’re supposed to be. All I did was float. I was carried into acting, and I—”
“Floated up to the stage to accept your Oscar?” She sits down next to me and takes a hold of my head to force me to look her in the eyes. “Always the victim, Adra. It’s bullshit, and you know it. I get why it’s hard to take responsibility for some of the shitty things you’ve done. I struggle with that too, but why can’t you accept that you’ve made some good choices along with the bad? Why can’t you say that you made all those good things happen?”
I shift on the sofa until her hands fall away but I can’t look away from her. I am a deflated balloon. I hold no answers. “I don’t know.”
Even though it seems like I should know. Maybe it’s buried too deep. I’ve always floated along and accepted what’s been given to me, but perhaps she’s right. Maybe I did create those things. Maybe I did, on a subconscious level, stay in Hollywood because acting is a passion.
Could I live without acting? Maybe. Would I feel more at home as a veterinarian or a banker than as an actor? Probably not. Does it matter if I chose the life or it chose me? It’s mine, right? Maybe I’m on this trip because I’m passionate about writing. Maybe I’m doing this documentary with Natalie because I have a passion for women’s issues. God, I wish figuring things out was simple.
I shake my head to remove the thoughts, then smile at Natalie. “Now my head hurts.”
“Any time. If you ever need a healthy dose of reality—”
“I’ll turn on the TV, thanks.”
She stands up and chuckles. “Silly, Adra, None of that’s reality. Reality is right here.” She slowly swings her arms around the room and then brings them to her heart. “And here.” Now pointing to her head, she tacks on, “And here.”
Four months after embarking on our trip, we return home and start editing the footage together. We shut ourselves away in a little studio eating pizza, drinking tons of coffee, and attending every Narcotics Anonymous meeting we can. I’m pretty proud of us for going away from our support and comfort zone for four months. Bran advised against it, but quite a few countries have their own meetings, and it was helpful to see addiction recovery all around the world.
I have no idea where this little documentary, which we’re calling Victims of Culture, is going. Natalie keeps talking about these film festivals that will help us get some backing and a distributor, but I can’t give up too much energy on worrying about it. It’s one day at a time with recovery and it’s the same with this film.
Chapter 60
Time flies when you’re busy. I can’t remember the last time I wrote in my journal. It’s not because I haven’t wanted to, it’s just because life has become so crazy. I’m hardly alone enough to write, and when I am, I ch
oose to work on my creative writing.
I cannot believe how quickly time has passed. This time last year, I was stick thin and worried about what dress would look right on my body. This year, while I still care about what my dress will look like, I’m more interested in coordinating with Natalie’s because we might get to stand up on stage together and accept an award for Best Documentary.
Life moves swiftly, and I cannot find words to describe how excited I am to experience it. It’s like I’m awake and living for the first time in . . . well, maybe ever.
***
“So, what, Miss Big-Shot? You think because your little film’s changing the world and winning awards you can leave your A-game at home when you come to train with me?”
I laugh and then run a little faster. Roman’s been kicking my ass. He knows I’m anxious about the award season coming up. Victims of Culture has been one of the highest grossing documentaries in recent years and is up for a Golden Reel for best in the category.
In addition, Keep in Mind did better than I thought it had, and the critical acclaim it has garnered all came during the period I was messed up on drugs and in rehab. It’s been nominated for Golden Reels in five categories, including Best Actress.
This whole awards thing has a deeper meaning for me than last year. I want to win, but if I had to pick, I want to win with Natalie for Victims of Culture. I’ve learned so much in a year but I wonder if anyone else will notice that I’m not the same body-obsessed downer of a girl I was this last time. No, they probably won’t. They will be too obsessed with my stint in rehab to actually notice the changes.
“Seriously, Adra, kick that ass into high gear. I’ve seen your dress, girl, you need some killer upper body muscles to pull it off right. We haven’t even done resistance training today, so kill this fifth mile, and let’s go!”
“Drugs have nothing on this type of high,” I say in between sharp breathes.
Roman reaches over and speeds up my treadmill. “You’re right on that. Just give me that little extra, and I’ll send you flying to the moon with endorphins.”
I focus on the digital numbers on the display. They aren’t ticking off fast enough, so I bump the speed up again and feel the sweat dripping from me.
“That’s my girl!” he says. He hops down from his machine and starts setting up the resistance equipment.
When I hit my target, I lower the incline and the speed until I’m just walking. I put my hands on my hips and bend over a little to try to catch my breath. “Jesus. I mean, I like the release of brain chemicals and all, but damn. All this exercise is going to kill me.”
“And we’re not done yet. Come on.”
Chapter 61
Tonight’s the night. I’m excited. Locker’s Confidential went to Las Vegas for an awards special on the odds of each actor and film to win, and I’m happy to say Victims of Culture has some pretty awesome odds. I guess my performance in Keep In Mind does, too, but they’re not nearly as good as the documentary’s. The Best Actress category has stiffer competition, so I’m not holding my breath on that one, but it would be pretty sweet to win.
***
“How does it feel to have that in your hands? It’s been a roller coaster year for you. What are your thoughts?” The redheaded reporter sits back down as the photographer next to him snaps a dozen more pictures.
“So, yeah,” I say into the microphone as I readjust my grip on the heavy Golden Reel award. I have no idea what I said out there on the stage in my acceptance speech, but I feel a little bit calmer now. “I guess I won, huh? What a year. A year ago I barely ate anything because I thought the thinner I was, the more people would love me. And after last year’s ceremony, I did cocaine for the first time.”
There are some gasps and murmurs from the press. Since rehab and all those Narcotics Anonymous meetings, I’ve relaxed into sharing my story, and I figure now is as good of time as any to give some brief statements to the media.
“Yeah, I know, right? It wasn’t because I didn’t win, it was because I didn’t know myself well enough to realize no matter how thin I was or how high I was, no one could love me any more than I loved myself. And I’ll share a secret with all of you—I didn’t like myself a bit.”
With a laugh and a shake of my head, I roll my eyes. “So I totally didn’t answer that question. How does it feel? It feels great, but if I win for the documentary, it’ll feel even better.”
Another reporter who has been flagged by the awards crew stands up. “So Adra, you’ve done this documentary, are you looking to do more filmmaking behind the camera or are you going to be acting in anything soon?”
“I’d like to do both. Before Victims of Culture came out, I didn’t really know what I wanted out of my career, but now I’ve got offers to do it all, and I’m pretty excited to see what I can do, you know? I’ve written a screenplay, so I’d like to get that out there, too, but as far as acting goes, I’m close to signing a contract on a starring role in a movie that’s going to be great.” For the first time in a long time, my smile in front of the cameras feels real to me.
The next reporter takes a microphone. “So given what you’ve just said, you make it seem like you were using cocaine while filming the role you just won for. Is that accurate, and if so, do you think the drug helped you portray a person with psychological disorders?”
I suck in my bottom lip as I think about how to best answer this question. The award gets heavy in my sweaty hands, so I squat down in as ladylike a way as I can and set it by my feet. When I stand up again, I shrug. “I’ve thought a lot about this since hearing I was nominated, and, you know, I was high for most of the film, so I’m not sure how I feel about being rewarded for it. Did it help? Probably, but I’m ashamed that I was involved with such a mind-altering drug. Maybe that’s why I’m looking forward to seeing the results of Best Documentary. Natalie Diaz and I made that film totally sober with the right intentions. I feel like I’d rather that this be a testament to my creative artistry, you know?”
The questions go on and on for longer than I thought they would. I answer every one of them as honestly as I can, but let out a long breath of relief when I’m allowed to leave the press stage. Someone takes the trophy from me since that one isn’t really mine. I’ll get my engraved Reel after the show ends, but for now, my hands are empty as I attempt to find the bathroom.
I love that this dress is form fitting and that my form is actually a healthy one this year, but I think it might take an act of God to shimmy the heavy garment it up my legs to be able to use the bathroom. When I saw the sketch Pierre drew for it, I knew I had to have it even though I have a film out documenting the struggles of women all over the world. I felt bad about the price tag.
Pierre was willing to compromise because the recognition on the red carpet would propel him even further in the fashion industry. He said I didn’t have to pay for it, but that didn’t feel right either. So, in the end, I gave him the price of the material and labor, and donated twice that amount to the women’s charity, Survivors of Culture, that has sprung out of the film.
Just as I turn the corner toward the restroom, I grunt as I collide with someone. “Damn, sorry,” I say, but then look up into Peter’s brown eyes. “Hey.” It comes out like a whisper, but I’m so happy to see him that it should’ve been a shout.
He steps away from me with what looks like a fake, stiff smile. “Hello, Adra.”
I can tell something’s not exactly right because his whole body is rigid. It’s not like it’s taut with tension, more like he’s frozen.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Good. Congratulations. See?” He points in the direction of the press stage. “All you had to do was wait a year.”
Peter takes a step toward me and my heart pauses for just a second, but he keeps on moving past me as if the conversation is over.
“I called you a month ago,” I say as I twirl around and watch him stop.
He nods, but doesn’t turn to face me.
“I know. I got the message, but I wasn’t sure what to say back to you. The last time we spoke, it seemed like you needed some space, so I didn’t . . . I didn’t want to push or—”
“How would it have been pushing if you’d just called me back?” Even though I was busy, the silence from him stung.
Now he faces me. “This is crazy.”
“What is?”
“This,” he says, motioning back and forth between us. “I wanted you to call me last time, and now—”
“Now I wanted you to call me.” I force a laugh. “We should write a movie about all our miscommunic—”
Peter cuts me off with a sigh. He scratches at the back of his neck, then tilts his head back toward the stage. “I’ve got to present an award in five minutes or so. I can’t—”
“Okay,” I say with a nod. “It’s cool.” My heart hurts, but I can’t see a way to fix this. This is going to take time, if Peter even wants to fix it. “I thought you said, you know that day we saw each other at the meeting, you said you loved me and that you would be here for me when I’m ready. Did something change?”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and keeps his neck bowed.
Whatever he’s thinking, it must hurt him enough to make him hesitate like this. “You can say it, you know? You can tell me if you’ve had second thoughts and you don’t want me anymore.”
“It’s not like that.” His voice is soft and low and I almost cannot hear him.
“What is it like then?”
Peter doesn’t answer and won’t look at me.
Maybe our friendship is just screwed. If it is, I’ll have to learn to live with it, but maybe it doesn’t have to stay screwed. I can’t let him turn away from me. I can’t just give up because it’s the easier option. “I’m sorry for all my shit. I’m sorry that it’s affected you . . . us. I know what I did to our relationship might not ever be repaired, and I know my actions, both on drugs and off, were incredibly selfish and unfair to you.”