“Are you gonna love him even if he has Down Syndrome?”
Holy. Crap. I freaked. Did I really want him to ask me out? What happens once we’re boyfriend/girlfriend? Are we supposed to go to dinners and movies? Get married and have babies? I’m only thirteen! I still wear Minnie Mouse underwear, for God’s sake!
I saw Sam part the crowds in the hallway and head straight for my locker. I was so scared. I looked around for someone—anyone!—to talk to. Someone to divert my attention so I could avoid him. I still wanted to be his girlfriend and wanted him to ask me out, but I couldn’t stand all the attention.
Now everyone is standing at the sides of the hallway, leaning up against the lockers and watching Sam walking toward me. EVERYONE is looking. So my one and only friend is not by my side but up against a locker with the rest of the herd, staring at the reality show playing out before their eyes. Sam was steps from me, he could reach out and touch me if he wanted…We locked eyes, took a breath…OMG he’s gonna ask me! He starts his first syllable…and I turn and walk away.
Wait, what!? Why the hell was I walking away? What’s wrong with me? Later I heard he just stood there for a second, looking at the empty space where I had been standing. Then he turned around and walked back through the hallways, the teenagers still parted and backed up against the lockers, now with their mouths agape and there is a high-level whisper suffocating the building.
Eve chased after me. She found me crouched down behind the Health building. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She knew it was just all too much. This sad spectacle was my life—and I couldn’t take it. After several minutes of thinking about how shitty everything was, about all my feelings of inadequacy it dawned on me that Sam must have been feeling really badly, too. My face went white and my mouth dried up. My inner girlpower forced me to stand up and go find him.
He was sitting on the soccer field, playing his Gameboy. I walked up and sat down right next to him. No more prying eyes, no whispers, just us. I saw on the screen that I was right: Mario Brothers. We sat there in silence until the familiar sound of Mario dying rang across the field. He put the game down and, without lifting his head to make eye contact, said, “Will you go out with me?”
I said yes immediately. We sat there for a few more minutes. Then we stood up together, held hands, and walked back to class.
In just thirty seconds, I was convinced that he was the best boyfriend ever.
A new semester was starting the following week and Sam and I had one class together. He sat behind me in History and everything was great. We were typical, happy thirteen-year-olds who were going out—which meant we never talked or really acknowledged one another. It was wonderful. Everyone just knew we were together.
I was so excited that first day of the new semester. To be honest, I’d never really heard him speak—just the one sentence when he asked me out. We smiled at each other and sat down. I felt content, like everything was going to be okay. I had a friend and a boyfriend and would not have to worry about being attacked anymore. I felt for the first time since moving to this new school, that I would survive.
Ten minutes go by, and all of a sudden Sam grabs my chair, shakes it furiously and screams out what seems to be half of a joke, “…AND THEN SHE WAS HIT BY A BUS!” followed by an uproarious laugh, and…wait…What was that? Was he barking? No. He wasn’t barking. He was telling a joke. “Gggrrr…Ruff! Ruff!” Umm, yeah. That was a bark. What. The. Fuck?!!!!
I wasn’t sure what to do exactly so I did what I was best at back then: I froze. Just like…freakin’ ice. The Ice Teen Girlie Girl Cometh. Oh yeah, if you freeze, no one can see you. It’s common knowledge.
And that was not all—no, that was not all. Because next came the freak-show grand finale.
“Grrrr…ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff…” With spit flying from the corner of his mouth like a Saint Bernard.
Umm, yeah. That was definitely a bark. And not some Lassie shit either—this was much closer to Old Yeller, but the Old Yeller after he gets the rabies and they have to kill him with a shotgun…yeah, that Old Yeller.
I turned around slowly in my seat and looked at him. I was a little afraid but I was also annoyed. Why had he not told me about this sooner? Oh, right, because we had never really spoken to one another. Smooth move, that.
“What are you doing?” I asked, dreading the answer, whatever it was. Sam swallowed hard, took a deep breath and said, “Ggggrr Ruff Ruff! I have Tourette’s…RUFF!”
God. Damn. Hi, karma, I’m Olivia. I’m sorry for whatever I did in my past life…can we move on now?
When I first moved out to Los Angeles, I had one sorta-kinda contact. He was a manager. Norm was an old-timey manager—the I’m-Gonna-Make-You-A-Star-Kid type—with a face tight from plastic surgery. I couldn’t tell if he was always happy to see me, or in a perpetual state of shock.
I dressed up to go in for my first meeting with him at his office. (Side note: How you dress in L.A. is vastly different from how you dress for important meetings in, say, Oklahoma. In L.A. it’s all about looking effortless, like you didn’t try. Jeans, flip-flops and a T-shirt. But the jeans should be just tight enough to still be sexy, yet also seem as if you just threw them on. Voila! It should also be noted that I was never alerted to this and so I traipsed into Norm’s office in heels and my best dress—they call that your “Sunday Best” where I come from.)
I walked into a room that was covered in magazines, mostly of the tabloid variety. There were posters everywhere of all his clients—in their respective soap operas. Still, I walked in with very high hopes. I hoped that he would sign me as his client, sprinkle me with a pinch of pixie dust, and send me off on my merry way to the Spielbergs’ Fourth of July BBQ.
At that moment, all my dreams were riding on this meeting. He was my only connection and only hope. My Obi-Wan Kenobi, if you will (and I think you will).
He checked me out from head to toe and smiled. I think. Okay, no, wait, he just always looked like that—good to know. So he looked me over and…went back to reading his magazine. While reading he told me I had to go to an acting class and perform for the teacher. And if the teacher thought I was good enough, he’d represent me. End of meeting!
So I go to this class. Bad news: The teacher said I was too late to be in the acting showcase where agents and managers come and watch actors perform. But, good news! I could serve the Chinese food to the agents and managers while they watched the show. I just wanted to see what it was like, so I said yes. Hell, maybe I’d meet an agent in search of an egg roll.
During the performance I snuck in through the back and watched the actors on stage. I saw Norm, with that big maybe smile, sitting in the back. Somehow, despite the endless grin, he looked very bored.
But then someone came on and caught his eye. She was a former Ms. Texas. Blond and beautiful and couldn’t act for shit. I looked over at Marv and noticed that he had really perked up since she came onstage. That’s when I realized he would never in a million years represent me. Norm only wanted someone gorgeous who could be plugged into a soap without out any effort at all.
I sat down, defeated. I went back to spooning more and more sweet-and-sour sauce onto plastic plates. The orange goop coagulated in great, gross stains. There is an old adage that says: It is while spooning bright orange sauce onto plastic plates that destiny often finds us. Okay, not really. But the truth is, at that moment, a manager approached me. He thought I had a “great look” and wanted me to call him on Monday. OMG. It worked! I didn’t have to perform at all, I could just fling plastic soy sauce packets and the universe would take care of the rest. Score!
I called the manager the next day and he quickly set up a meeting with an agent. Soon after that, I walked into the agency, finally dressed down in jeans, tank top and boots. No effort at all. The office was cluttered with magazines—Vanity Fair, US Weekly, People, the works. On the walls were photos of random famous folks: Barbra Streisand, Madonna, Tom Hanks. Now, I’m no P
hotoshop genius, but it crossed my mind that the broadly grinning guy standing next to all these celebs was Photoshopped in. Not a great first impression. But I pressed on.
Behind the desk in front of me I saw red hair, a headset and a computer. I couldn’t make out what was on the screen, but it must have been important because this agent was screaming at whomever was on the other line. I took a seat and tried desperately to understand his conversation. Was it a big-budget movie he was negotiating for a client? A new TV series? Oh, I know! Tom Cruise was calling and he was creating a show and all of his clients were going to be in it for a million each!
He finished his phone call with sweat drops pooling around his collar, ripped off his headset and threw it onto a pile of magazines. Then he spun around to face me. Smiled, I think.
“I was just trying to get these Madonna tickets,” he said. “The seats I wanted were really hard to get, but I fuckin’ threw down the cards to get it. Whatever. It’s worth it. Hey—what are you doing next week? Wanna house-sit for me?”
Seriously. That’s how it went down. I’m sure if any of his clients knew that he spent his days searching online for concert tickets, they would have a better understanding about why their careers had stalled.
I told this maniac that I had absolutely nothing to do and would be totally down for house-sitting. Honestly, I was excited. I didn’t know how Hollywood worked. I figured this meant he wanted to represent me. Or at the very least, he’d feel guilty and be unable to reject me because I had done him a big favor. And then he dropped this on me: “Why don’t I have you come over early to meet my girlfriend so she feels comfortable around you.” Yeah, okay. That made sense. What with the fact that you just asked a complete stranger to watch your house for you.
“Cool. You come over later, then,” he said. “And you need some help? I’ll represent you.”
Yes! Sure, it had started a little strangely with him ignoring me for ten minutes while he secured Madonna tickets. But I had an agent! I was so happy! And it was a good agency too, a fine agency. Totally midshelf. The Skyy Vodka of agencies. But for me—brand-new to Hollywood with only theater experience under my belt—it was the best I could do. I could worry about moving up later, right?
I went to his house later that night to meet his fiancée. It was a small house in a busy neighborhood. He didn’t own it, he rented—but he had the pride of an owner. He kept saying things like, “Isn’t it like a spa in here? It’s so serene and peaceful. We’re so lucky to have this place. One day, if you make it, you can have a place like this of your own. Isn’t it like a spa?”
Um, sorta?
I walked in and introduced myself to his fiancée. She seemed nice, well put together. Then I took my first good look at my new agent: curly red hair, short, stocky. He had mastered that whole studied-disheveled look that goes over so well in L.A.
He definitely had a bit of ye olde Napoleon complex in him, too—he had a lot of bravado and a profound need for everyone in the world to find him irresistible. (Note to agents: If you’re reading this book, you should know that you are actually resistible. And everyone can tell you have issues with your height. Your facial hair and scented candles do not distract us.)
It didn’t take long for me to realize that it wasn’t the girl he wanted me to meet; it was the dogs. He had asked me if I could house-sit, but never mentioned the dogs. Clever move! Let me just say, I like dogs as much as the next person—as long as the next person is someone who only likes dogs a little bit, but not that much.
But: three bulldogs? These were really big puppies. Puppies. They hadn’t been trained and had no idea how to calm the fuck down. As far as they were concerned they were the stars of a puppy porno and my leg was Jenna Jameson’s pug.
I held my tongue. God forbid I should lose my first agent in less than twenty-four hours.
“Do you like dogs?” he asked.
“Ohmygodareyoukiddingme?! I love dogs.”
“Great. This is Ruby, Jack, and Sam. Now, you have to make sure to address Ruby first,” he explained in a very intense tone. “She is the alpha dog. She needs to be loved, fed and touched first. And…you are the alpha human. Did you know that? You’re the human.”
Um, yeah. Go on.
“And you need to make sure they know you’re the human. So, what I want you to do is—wait, are those clothes expensive? Doesn’t matter. I need you to lie down on top of the dogs and establish dominance.”
Wait, no, don’t go on.
“Uuuumm…actually, I think I’ll try this little technique another time, if that’s okay?”
I was still hoping not to fuck it up and insult my first agent.
He agreed that it made more sense for me to “establish dominance” later when he wasn’t around. Because his presence would take away my leadership in the wolf pack. As they saw him as their paternal leader.
Okay, got it, dude.
We toured the house. I noticed the coffee-table books: Raising a Champion, and Dog Owner’s Guide and How To Tell If Your Dog is Psychic. There were Vanity Fair magazines piled everywhere. Ev-er-y-where. The bathroom smelled like a candle had thrown up. There were, like, no less than fifteen candles going at once, all with a different scent. The computer room was locked and I was not allowed in. And then there was the bedroom. He really wanted to show me this one piece of art. Not including the dogs, of course, it was the one thing he’d grab in a fire.
I stared at it, trying to take it in. To make some sense of it. The picture was a collage of black and white photographs. It was hard to make out what it was. My new agent stood just to the right of me, proudly watching me diagnose his masterpiece. I couldn’t puzzle it out, so I moved up close and put my face within inches of the piece. And then it hit me.
“My girlfriend’s vagina. In every position you can think of. Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Is that…” I started.
“My girlfriend’s vagina. In every position you can think of. Isn’t it beautiful?”
To me, vaginas look like messy open-faced Reuben sandwiches…not mine, of course. But, this one looked like that. And so…this was his girlfriend’s vagina? The woman in the kitchen who was right now establishing dominance over the dogs? I was staring at her hairy snatch right then?
My mind, ever helpful, kicked in with an insta-mantra: Don’t lose your agent. Don’t lose your agent. Don’t lose your agent.
“Wow…it’s really…amazing. I’ve never seen a vagina up close before…and wow. Great work.”
That was the last day I house-sat for him. And the entire time he was my agent, I never booked a job. Never did establish that dominance, either.
Lesson to be learned? You may be a desperate newbie and really, really, really want to make it. But if someone ever offers to be your agent, it’s not worth straddling his dogs and admiring his girlfriend’s hairy vadge.
1391 B.C.: Moses commands—He led the Hebrew slaves out of Egypt, crossed the Red Sea, and delivered the Ten Commandments from the top of Mount Horeb, all while looking like a tenure-track math professor.
575 B.C.: Pythagoras theorizes—The first man to call himself a “philosopher.” He also founded a religion based on math and was deathly afraid of legumes.
December 14, 1503: Nostradamus born—apothecary, seer, original know it all.
17th century: Bow ties are donned—First dressed the necks of Croatian mercenaries. Later appropriated by crafty conservative television pundits to look more smarter.
July 10, 1856: Nikola Tesla arrives—Invented radio and alternating current. He also kept a pigeon as a pet about which he said, “I love that pigeon as a man loves a woman.” He died alone in New York.
February 5, 1943: Nolan Bushnell changes geekdom forever—Bushnell is born on this day and in 1972 creates Atari. Pixels will never be the same.
1954–55: J. R. R. Tolkien writes geek mythology—Annoyed by England’s lack of native mythology Tolkien creates The Lord of the Rings. In the process he also invented Orcs.
And dorks.
October 28, 1955: Bill Gates hatches—The first person to make being a geek seem a little bit evil.
July 4, 1961: Richard Garriott falls to Earth—He made his first video game as a teenager. Used his gaming fortune to fund a trip aboard a Russian Soyuz, where he made the first sci-fi movie filmed in space. Shortly after, he officiated the first wedding held in zero G. All hail The Pope of Geeks.
May 13, 1964: Stephen Colbert born—Possibly speaks both Quenya and Sindarin.
1966: The Society for Creative Anachronism begins—Cosplay for old people.
1972: Hacky Sack is invented in the state of Oregon, of course—Geek stoners discovered pot and then a little knitted ball with beads in it. Not normally procrastinators, nerds while away precious hours they could’ve spent on early computers.
May 25, 1977: Luke Skywalker says, “But I was going into Toshi Station to pick up some power converters.”
May 14, 1984: Mark Zuckerberg is born—The twenty-five-year-old college dropout’s wealth fell half a billion dollars in 2009 to just under a billion. Goes to show, stay in school, kids.
July 20, 1984: Revenge of the Nerds hits theaters—Nerds get revenge.
August 2, 1985: Weird Science premieres—All computers should make hot women. Every single one.
November 24, 1988: Mystery Science Theater 3000 premieres—Heckling science fiction B-movies with wise-ass cracks—once only the province of late-night geeks in their dens—given public voice by a man and his robot puppets.
May 10, 1994: Weezer debuts—With songs about Buddy Holly, sweaters and girlfriends, and a video featuring the band playing Hacky Sack. Lyrics include: “I’ve got the Dungeon Master’s guide; I’ve got a twelve-sided die.”
Suck It, Wonder Woman! Page 2