Go Ask Ali

by Ali Wentworth

  I was a young actress—not a nubile ingenue, but a twenty-three-year-old recklessly driving around Los Angeles from one audition to another in a dilapidated Ford Fiesta, sometimes changing outfits while my knees gripped the steering wheel. My seat was littered with sandwich halves, old ginger ale cans, tattered scripts, and (don’t judge, it was cool at the time) empty packs of Marlboro Lights. What a vision. If my husband had bumped into me back then, he would have run the other way and lathered any sliver of exposed skin with Purell.

  I finally had a respectable audition. Or as my mother called them, tryouts. It was in a real office building with a receptionist, where you needed a parking pass and not an empty hangar in the San Fernando Valley that either housed illegal semiautomatic weapons or shot porn on Beta. My hands weren’t shaking. I didn’t fiddle with my tight skirt. And I didn’t look down at my shoes the whole time like a nun being scolded. And I actually heard laughter instead of the sounds of the casting people chomping on their Big Macs while they riffled through other head shots.

  I received a callback. The director was a jolly Brit who appreciated my sense of humor. And I will love him forever for it. In fact, I will love all British people for it.

  When I got the call from my agent that I had booked the movie, I burst into tears. Not tears of sadness but rather tears of joy that my parents were wrong about me. I steeled myself through costume fittings, a table read, makeup tests; it was all so Hollywood. Or what I perceived Hollywood to be.

  Now, my career has been eclectic, to say the least. I’ve acted in drama, comedy, film, TV, digital, everything but porn. (Never say never.) I write scripts and books. I do public speaking and emcee charity events. And not once in my illustrious (I just wanted to use that word) career have I been asked to dress provocatively. More specifically, in lingerie. I have always been the stable friend, bitchy fiancée, or neurotic girlfriend. My wardrobe fittings consist of tightening the backs of suits, finding a lower heel, and padding my bra. Always padding my bra.

  With one notable exception: For one of my scenes in this particular movie, I was fitted in a lacy, powder-blue teddy. It was attached to a garter belt and sheer stockings. It was the most naked I had ever been (forget on-screen, in life). In the film I played the main character’s fiancée who surprises her out-of-town beau with an unexpected visit just as he’s falling in love with a gorgeous waitress. I was beyond self-conscious. I walked through the set like a five-year-old in heels, like a colt learning to walk. I had to pass all the PAs and key grips, my buttocks on display like banana cream pies at a county fair. It’s worth adding that until this point, the closest thing to a love scene on my résumé was when I had to kiss a guy in my acting class. (He had halitosis and used his tongue.)

  The director huddled with me and the leading man about the scene. It was difficult to peel my eyes off the movie star. I’d seen so many of his films and here I was standing next to him in the flesh, exposing my flesh. And I had to play up the sexiness. We were about to shoot the scene wherein his character had fallen out of love with me and the true object of his affections was moments away from entering the room. So I needed to make the situation even more tense. The humor being the build of his angelic lady friend finding us in a compromising position. Suffice it to say, he hadn’t told this lovely woman (played by one of the sexiest starlets in Hollywood) that he was engaged.

  And action! “Surprise,” I screamed and threw myself upon him, my legs pythoned around his middle. He tried to push me away, which only made me clamp on more fiercely. Remember the film 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea? When the giant squid tries to envelop the ship? That was me. As soon as the director would yell cut, we would linger around craft service nibbling on brownie bits or use the bathroom. About twenty minutes later, we would start up again.

  We must have done twenty different takes of me with my tongue licking the side of his face and his palms secured on my breasts. I’m mortified to recall that I actually bit one of his nipples. We were as intimate as I had been with any of my past (committed) boyfriends. And when you are kissing and fondling someone, physical and (for me at least) involuntary emotional responses follow. That’s just how the brain and the private parts communicate and transmit feelings. And my costar certainly had a “reaction” as well, one that kept hitting my hip bone.

  At the end of the shooting day, I changed into my sweatpants and tattered T-shirt and headed back to my modest dwelling for cereal and a new episode of ER. I thought about what had transpired on the set that day and decided that I couldn’t be alone in my feelings; the leading man clearly was falling for me. True, he was a great actor, but there was no way he could have been faking it; the body never lies. We had become lost in each other and it was as if there were no cameras, lights, or makeup people around us; we were alone in a hotel room in the desert (set). And we had fallen in love. How would I manage the rest of the shoot? Should we announce ourselves as a new couple or do our best to keep it on the down low? And was I ready to become a famous Hollywood couple thrown into the den of tabloid magazines and talk-show fodder? This was way before Brangelina, so we would have been the first, we would have been . . . oops, almost gave him away!

  I couldn’t sleep that night. My life was about to change. For the better (not that it would take much). He and I would make films together, travel the world, maybe even start a band? I slipped into the hair and makeup trailer well before my call so I would look dewy and fresh when he arrived on set. I considered knocking on his Gulfstream and surprising him, maybe a passionate make-out session before he shot that boring monologue-to-a-cop scene. But that wouldn’t be fair to him. He couldn’t go recite serious prose postcoital and with a smirk plastered on his face. I refrained and made a reservation at a posh Asian fusion restaurant for us that evening.

  I spent most of the morning in my kennel cage of a dressing room reading magazines and messing up the New York Times crossword puzzle. I clipped my toenails and excavated my face for pimples like a caffeinated, anxious teenager. I decided we should talk about the future, our status, and just general plans. I didn’t even know what religion he was. Or if he had food allergies! Suddenly, there was a bang on my flimsy door and a nondescript production assistant peeked his head in, wearing his headset with such pride, you would have thought he was Chance the Rapper on tour. “We’re at lunch!” he exclaimed before squawking into his walkie-talkie. It was time to share a burrito out of a truck with my future husband.

  The leading man sat alone at one of the long plastic tables set up for the cast and crew. Usually the stars eat in their private quarters with their glam squad and assistants, but not my love. He was one of the people, like Karl Marx or Bernie Sanders. He was quietly munching on a spinach salad, lost in a script. I placed my tray down directly across from him. He looked up, smiled, and went back to reading.

  I didn’t expect a proposal, but I was confused by his lack of enthusiasm after the previous lustful day. “Can I ask you a question?” I asked softly.

  He nonchalantly answered, without looking up, “Sure . . . shoot!”

  “What are we? I mean, what’s going on with us?”

  The leading man stared at me as if I’d just confessed to a hit-and-run.

  “I’m not sure . . . what do you mean . . .” he stuttered.

  “Well . . . yesterday . . . it was so heated . . . obviously we both were feeling . . . aren’t we, you know, a thing?”

  He almost vomited spinach and bacon bits. And then gingerly pushed away his script like he was preparing to reason with a serial killer.

  “Listen, you gotta understand this world. I learned a lesson a long time ago about this industry. It’s all make-believe, Ali.” What the hell was he saying? “When the director yells cut, it’s over. All of it. Suddenly, you’re no longer fighting a dragon or loving the person you’re kissing or in bed with. It’s a surreal job we have.”

  This was not a job! This was a life we were going to build together! What did dragons have to do with how m
any children we would have?

  “I’ve done many love scenes with some of the most beautiful women in the world and if I allowed myself to fall in love with all of them, well, I’d bounce from one shallow sexcapade to another. You have to be able to draw the line between what’s real and not real.”

  He was breaking up with me. This had to be one of my top short-lived relationships, less than twenty-four hours. A record, actually.

  I stared down at my Converse high-tops. “I get it. It just gets confusing, you know? I’ve never done any kind of kissing or even a love scene.”

  He smiled so nicely. “I did an independent movie years ago. It was never distributed. But the female lead was an actress named [Don’t be angry, I can’t tell you her real name! Again, it’s his story to tell, not mine. I’m just doing the lesson part.] Jenna.”

  My eyes widened. “Jenna Rubin? Oh my God! I didn’t know you two did a film together.”

  “We did. A very sexy movie where we shared an uncontrollable passion. She played a prostitute and I was a gritty cop from the Bronx who saved her from being sold to an Arab prince—”

  “I would have loved that movie,” I interrupted.

  “And a couple weeks into shooting I realized that we weren’t playacting anymore and our love scenes were actual love scenes. And three weeks after we wrapped I was sitting in a hotel room in Beverly Hills with Jenna Rubin and I thought, What the hell have I done!”

  My hand covered my mouth. “She’s nuts, right?”

  The leading man gave me a penetrating look as if to bring the whole story home. “I left my wife and kids for her. I blew up my life for a hollow fantasy. It took me years to get back with my wife. I was a fool.”

  I nodded. “Wow.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Ali.”

  That humid afternoon in Los Angeles saved me years of heartache and therapy. Well, not therapy; there was a plethora of other issues to chew on. But this man, this grown-up, could have easily taken advantage of the situation. I was there for the plucking. But he chose to share a very private story in the hopes that I would never make the same mistake. And I haven’t. Oh, I’ve made a million other mistakes, but I never again became unzipped when it came to infatuation. And I learned the difference between real and make-believe. (Only at work, though.)

  Jenna Rubin has kept the tabloids flush with her marriages, affairs, and subsequent divorces. And even though she’s a sexy (although long in the tooth now) celebrity, when I catch her on the cover of an OK! or In Touch in CVS, I can’t help but exhale and think, “Could have been me, could have been me.”

  For those of you in entertainment—don’t confuse the fairy-tale nature of being on a set with truth. And that includes reality shows. Same rules apply outside of entertainment. You’re not really in love with your son’s lacrosse coach. You’re not going to run off to Mustique with him and live in a straw hut making love and eating banana bread all day. Don’t project your fantasies onto other people. You will be disappointed. As the children’s book states, “Everybody farts.”

  Chapter 10

  Peka Gone

  I have said this many times before: As much as I love the film Love Story, Erich Segal’s infamous line “Love means never having to say you’re sorry” is a complete falsehood. As is the idea that you would find two people that beautiful at Harvard University.

  I usually blame unwarranted and irritable behavior on hormones or lack of sleep. But occasionally it’s just a matter of pure, unmitigated anger. It is imperative, however, that after you give the finger to someone in the school carpool lane (who turns out to be the principal) or snap at your husband about not being appreciative enough (as he’s carrying up a breakfast tray with the New York Times), you apologize. Nothing, not pride, alcohol, or arrogance, should stop you. In fact, even if you believe you did nothing wrong, just apologize. Trust me.

  We were living in Washington, D.C., when I had my second baby and it was clear I needed help. And sleep. One of the greatest gifts a mother can receive is an extra pair of hands—whether they belong to one’s mother, sister, friend, or employee. My extra hands came in the form of a petite Indian woman named Peka.

  Peka was always smiling. Whether she had her dentures in or not. And she was always amenable to any plan.

  “Peka, grab your boots we’re going to jump in puddles!”

  “Okay!” Big smile.

  “Peka, we’re having a princess party, can you help me bake a five-tier light blue Cinderella cake?”

  “Okay!” Big smile.

  “Peka, we’ve just robbed the Citibank near the mall, start the car, grab the fake passports, and head to the airport.”

  “Okay!” Big smile.

  Peka played the lottery every single day. And didn’t much care for “creative” food (as she called my cooking). Her most precious belongings were a Crock-Pot (always filled with warm rice) and a flat-screen TV. Her favorite show was Dancing with the Stars. She would scream at the judges the way the Patriots’ coach yells at the refs. For her those scores were life and death for the dancers. And whenever the judge named Bruno would gyrate and convulse over a contestant, Peka would clap her hands and laugh, “He’s so crazy man!”

  Peka was my wife for four years. We would swap the girls like we were running a relay race. If this one needed a nap, Peka would put her down and read US Weekly while I took the other to music class. When I came home, it was my turn to catch up on The Wire. I told her everything. When you spend that much time with someone—a colleague, life partner, jailmate, sous chef—they are compelled to listen to your stories, thoughts, plans, dreams, and fears . . . whether they like it or not. Peka loved to give me her thoughts about the other mothers in the play group. Who she liked, who had “evil in her eyes,” and who was just one “sad lady.”

  Very few people could make me laugh like Peka did. She once told me what a spiteful temper she’d had as a child; every time she was insolent to her mother, her mother punished Peka by cutting off all her hair. So defiant Peka spent most of her time hiding up in papaya trees.

  Sometimes she made me laugh unintentionally. If I went for a walk, she would clap and say, “Oh Mommy! Yes! You keep walking and no more fat fat!” as she rubbed my belly and waist. Or when I would have to go to a black-tie event with my husband and so would wear makeup and actually blow out my hair: “Oh Mommy . . . yes, yes, makeup much better for you!” She never meant to be unkind; in her mind, honesty was the greatest compliment.

  And then we moved to Manhattan. And Peka came, too. I didn’t realize the hurdles you had to jump over in order to buy an apartment. On the island of Manhattan in the 1500s, you threw down a few rabbit skins and some chunks of gold and you were given a timber-framed house with a thatched roof. But the folks on New York City co-op boards today no longer appear to be interested in straightforward, fair trades. To me it’s black and white. You have the money, the apartment is for sale, you give them a check, they give you a set of keys. Unfortunately, it’s not that easy. Ask Madonna.

  Our board interview felt like a parole hearing. My husband and I sat across from four members and a fruit and cheese plate. Having never auditioned to live in a building before, I was very self-conscious. I hesitated to reach for the Brie. I just knew it was a trap. Yet I didn’t want to be unappreciative, so I chewed on a cracker. But I wanted a heap of the gooey cheese so bad. We were asked very practical questions about how much entertaining we did (I assured them that we limited the Ecstasy parties to Tuesdays and Thursdays and that Bon Jovi would only jam on Christian holidays). And they asked what my husband’s salary was. Nothing personal about that. I assumed the next step was for them to swab our mouths.

  One of the women eyed me like she knew I was the type of person who stole umbrellas from hotels. Let’s call her Mrs. Gaynor. She was a dead ringer for Lady Bird Johnson, with a coif so lacquered I was confident she would never suffer a concussion. A confident woman who took pride in her appearance and her bold lipstick color choice. A lady
who takes a brisk walk outside whenever she needs to pass gas.

  Thank God I didn’t eat the cheese, because we were accepted. Accepted to live in an apartment we were paying for. Go figure.

  Apartment living is a curious thing. You share a building with a group of strangers, so you’re kind of roommates—or, at the very least, buildingmates. But you’re not sharing a fridge or fighting over who’s responsible for the cigarette burn on the couch. And yet you rub elbows with your neighbors almost every day. Whenever the elevator door opens I hold my breath waiting to see which cast of characters I will share a ride with. Or if I’m with our dogs, which person they will bark at before shoving their snouts into the person’s crotch. It’s usually a polite hello and then an awkward silence until we reach the cacophony of the lobby and street ahead.

  On the rare occasion it was Mrs. Gaynor, dressed to the nines and smelling like Bulgari perfume. An elegant woman who was always very complimentary, even when my hair was wet, I had the flu, and I looked like death. It bears mentioning that she is a formidable woman; even as she doled out the insincere flattery, you could practically see the thought bubble over her head: “Oh, if I had an afternoon I could fix this mess of a girl up!” That thought’s probably in many people’s bubble. Lord knows it’s been hovering over my mother’s head for forty years.

  Peka had helped Mrs. Gaynor hire a new housekeeper. A friend named Tamar, who lived near Peka in the Bronx. Mrs. Gaynor was so grateful to Peka for finding such “a good girl” to help her.

  I had been in Los Angeles for a few days pitching original ideas (if they’re not attached to the Marvel franchise, they don’t have a shot). I wearily walked into our lobby dragging a Tumi suitcase with only one wheel behind me. All I wanted was a bath and a pint of coffee Häagen-Dazs. But I would have settled for a whore’s bath and a bowl of cornflakes.

  Just as I hit the elevator button, our super approached me with a concerned look on his face. My first thought was: Did I leave the toaster on? And then the dreaded: We have roaches.