Foxy

by Pam Grier

  I moved out of my sister’s house after a week or two to give Gina her privacy (and to get some for myself ), and I checked into a hotel just down the street from where Mom lived. Still, I slept on Mom’s sofa sometimes, until I got a call to do a guest-starring role on the TV show The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. In this show, which launched Will Smith’s career, Smith’s character was a street-smart teenager from West Philadelphia who was sent to live with his wealthy relatives in a huge Bel Air mansion. One of the first successful African American sitcoms, it was a perfect vehicle for me to reenter the acting world. I took the job since it was a role that would not challenge me too much and I could film the whole thing in one week.

  I guess I was also ready to get out of Denver for a respite, since the drama around my family kept escalating. We finally got our step-dad admitted into a nursing home for milder cases of Alzheimer’s. But he’d wandered out in the night, and they found him lying down in a field in the snow, slowly freezing to death. He was too far gone, even for this facility. We saved him, but he had to move back in with Mom and stay on meds, and we had to make sure he was never alone until we found another place to put him that dealt with more advanced cases of Alzheimer’s.

  At this point, I was ready to get away, so the job in LA was the perfect distraction. I loved being back at work and was relieved to find that I could remember my lines well enough. When I returned to Colorado after the shoot, I felt more alive and encouraged that I could commute for work. Some of the producers of Fresh Prince and other LA productions lived near Denver in order to get more house for less money, and they commuted every week. If they could do it, I told myself, so could I. True, it might be tough to fly during the periodic snowstorms, but mostly it would work out just fine.

  During this period, I appeared in a variety of shows, including Frank’s Place, The Cosby Show, Martin, Fresh Prince, The Wayans Bros., The Sinbad Show, and a sitcom called The Preston Episodes, starring David Alan Grier. There were more black series and talk shows popping up than ever before, and I was trying to balance work and family. But that balance veered out of control when one night my stepdad didn’t recognize my brother and came at him with an axe. It took five people to restrain his suddenly extraordinary strength. This was my mom’s hero, her great love, and it broke all of our hearts that he was taken away in an ambulance, sedated, restrained, and then confined. He had never forgotten a birthday, anniversary, or holiday. Now he couldn’t remember the faces of the members of his own family when he was checked into the final nursing home.

  As if enough devastation weren’t already going on, I was in Denver one day when I had to take one of my dogs to the vet. It was my cocker spaniel, Magic Johnson, whom I named because I thought the dog and the basketball star had similar-looking kind and warm eyes. Magic was the cutest dog in the world, and I took him everywhere with me when I was sick. He always slept on my bed with the rest of my dogs, cuddling me if I was cold and soothing me when I was afraid. Now my poor little Magic was facing a health crisis of his own when the vet found a cancerous lump in his rib cage.

  “Most people just put the dog to sleep in a situation like this,” the vet told me, “mainly because they can’t afford to fight it.”

  “Well, I can,” I said. “I want to give him all the treatments he needs: chemo, surgery, acupuncture. The works.” If it was good enough for me, it was good enough for Magic Johnson. I was encouraged by the results of his acupuncture when his blood cell count started changing for the better. But it was too late for my Magic. By the time I’d learned about his cancer, the lump had grown too big. Once again, a loved one was slipping away, when a phone call took me completely by surprise.

  “Is this Pam Grier?” a female voice asked.

  “Yes,” I answered. “Who’s this?”

  “I’m Tim Burton’s assistant,” she said.

  I inhaled sharply. Tim Burton had directed such blockbuster hits as Beetlejuice, Batman, and Edward Scissorhands, to name a few. “Why is he calling me?” I asked.

  “Tim is doing a new film, and he’d like you to read for a role.” She was talking about Mars Attacks, which would boast an all-star cast. “Where are you now?” she asked me.

  “In Colorado,” I said. “I live here. I’ve been taking care of my family. I come to LA to work when I can.”

  “Can you come out tomorrow to audition for this movie?” she wanted to know.

  I’d been a big comic-book fan, so I knew Mars Attacks. Right up my alley. And what actor didn’t want to work with Tim Burton? But I couldn’t leave my ailing best friend. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I can’t come and audition, but please tell Tim thank you, and give him my congratulations for the success of Beetlejuice. His work is amazing. I really think Michael Keaton should have won the Oscar for Beetlejuice.”

  We hung up and I hugged Magic. I couldn’t believe I had just turned down Tim Burton, but I couldn’t abandon my dog while he was sick. He hadn’t abandoned me, and I had to do the same for him, since he seemed to be stabilizing. He was getting a little bit better, and I was encouraged, until a week later, when his health took a bad turn and began to deteriorate.

  In the midst of it all, Tim Burton’s assistant called back. “Could you just put something on tape for us? Then you wouldn’t have to come out. Tim really wants to see your work. It’s a comedy. Could you tape something funny?”

  There was no way I could be funny while my dog was fighting cancer. I explained that to Tim’s assistant. “I’m sorry to disappoint Tim, but my heart is broken right now over my dog, and I don’t want to give Tim a terrible performance.”

  When we hung up, I was sure I’d heard the last from them. I kept repeating the names Jack Nicholson, Glenn Close, and Jim Brown. They were the stars of the movie for which I had just turned down an audition. I forced myself to forget about it, so no one was more stunned than I when the phone rang four days later and I was talking to the legendary director himself.

  “Pam. Sorry to bother you,” a warm, highly animated male voice said, reminiscent of some of the characters in his avant-garde movies. “This is Tim Burton. I’m so sorry about your dog, but I really want you in my movie.”

  “Why?” I asked. I couldn’t understand why he kept coming back instead of getting offended that I had refused him.

  “The role is a woman who won’t leave her children, no matter what. This is exactly how you are with your dog. The mom and the kids in the film are being attacked by Martians, and she won’t leave them. She’d die first. That’s the role, and your refusal to leave your dog was your audition. I need a woman with your character. The role is yours.”

  “But I won’t leave my dog while he’s still alive,” I reminded him. “What about your shooting schedule?”

  “We’ll shoot around you until you’re ready. When you are, let us know and we’ll fly you out to LA. We’ll take really good care of you here. I promise.”

  I began to sob from his warmth and kindness.

  About two weeks later, when Magic was finally ready to go, he gave me a look that was all-knowing. He rested his paw on my chest as if he were saying, “It’s time for me to go and for you to go, too.” And he closed his eyes. As he slipped away to heaven, I tearfully gave thanks for having had so much time with him. Then I headed out to Los Angeles to work.

  Tim’s people took great care of me while I grieved the loss of my sweet Magic, turning to work once again to lose myself. And what great work it was! This was my first film with a budget like this—a cool $90 million. On the smaller films to which I was accustomed, the limited budget allowed for a limited amount of creativity. With this film, however, since the budget was sky high, the sky was the limit. Gathered together were some of the finest actors in the business, making a movie about big-headed, green-and-purple Martians in gold lamé capes. You had only to walk on the set to see the wonder of a studio supporting an artist with everything he needed to make his vision tangible. And I got to participate.

  Although one wou
ld expect such a daunting endeavor with so many locations and special effects to be chaotic and crazy, it was just the opposite. We didn’t need to do a multitude of takes, because they had spent so much time and money on preparation, and the actors were all pros. Everything was organized and sketched out. The mechanics were programmed to perfection, including the lighting, sound, and direction. The actors were focused and determined, with no time to screw around, because they all had other projects coming up right after this one. If we went overtime, we might lose a crucial cast member to their next commitment. It takes intelligence, experience, and preparation to work with such high-caliber people and pull off a film like this, and it felt great to be an essential element of the machinery that would make this film a huge success.

  Tim Burton and I became such good friends, he gave me an original painting he did—a framed oil of me as a Martian. When I finished the film, I leased and eventually bought that property in Colorado, and I display the painting proudly in my living room there. Since my mountain home is surrounded by a forest of trees, in case of lightning or a forest fire, I know exactly what I’d save—myself, my rescued horses, my dogs, and Tim Burton’s original painting of me as a green-and-purple Martian.

  CHAPTER 32

  Ghosts of Boyfriends Past

  It was early in 1992 when I got a call from burgeoning movie director Spike Lee. He was shooting a semiautobiographical film called Crooklyn that he co-wrote and would be directing in Brooklyn, New York. The focus was on a young girl and her rowdy brothers all growing up in the ’hood. He wanted me to play Alfre Woodard’s character’s best friend, and I jumped at the chance to work with him and Alfre, one of God’s gifts to cinema.

  Close to five years after my initial cancer diagnosis, I managed to pass the physical that is always required before a film shoot. After I assured Spike that I wouldn’t be dropping dead on his movie set, I flew to New York, where they put me up at a small boutique hotel in Midtown called the Paramount. I was eating as healthily as I could and staying away from smoky rooms. I also went to Chinatown in New York and got the herbs and foods that were a part of my new regimen.

  I was feeling strong and healthy when I got off the elevator in my hotel on a day off and stepped into the lobby. The doorman, Wayne, asked, “Shall I call you a cab, Ms. Grier?”

  It was the kind of New York weather that encouraged people to be outdoors as much as possible. “Not today,” I told him. “It’s so beautiful outside, I want to walk around.”

  Ever since my life had been in jeopardy with cancer, special moments had become vividly precious in my mind. Much of what I’d previously considered important had been stripped away. Now little things like the smells and the pulse of the city mattered to me. I looked to my right and then to my left. “Which direction should I go?” I asked Wayne.

  He pointed off to the left. “That way will be more interesting,” he said. “There are some nice shops and cafés there.”

  “Thank you,” I said and began to walk down the street in the direction he had pointed. But in less than ten steps, my attention was drawn to a handsome man with reddish brown skin wearing an expensive suit. He looked vaguely familiar. I watched him cross the street. Did I know him? I caught my breath. He was damned familiar. He looked exactly like Philip, the disappearing man, the ghost of boyfriends past, who had run from my illness like it was contagious.

  My feet went numb and my knees wobbled as he began walking toward me. He hadn’t recognized me yet, and maybe he wouldn’t. But suddenly he stopped and stared. He glanced to his right and left, as if looking for a clean escape. There wasn’t one. I tried to take a step forward and teetered, when Wayne, the doorman, came running over to hold me up. He must have seen me stop in my tracks, and he held my back as I struggled to breathe.

  I hadn’t seen Philip since my diagnosis years prior. In the last call I made to him, I’d said, “I’m okay. I thought you might like to know. The treatments are relatively easy to get through, and I’m taking Chinese herbs. Do you know anything about acupuncture and acupressure? You can use it on yourself and your mom. I’d like you to call, but if you don’t, I understand.”

  He never responded, and I had put him out of my mind. Now here he was again. Out of eight million people in the city of New York, what were the odds of my bumping into this one man? I saw him take a deep inhale, as if resigning himself to the inevitable. Then he walked up to me and said, “Well, hello there. You’re looking very well.”

  A gust of wind blew his jacket open, and there were the telltale suspenders that Philip always wore. This was no Demerol flashback. It was Philip, holding a small box in one hand. It was his voice, his suspenders, and his attitude, I realized, as I felt the contents of my stomach starting to rumble. I imagined chasing him into the street and watching him get run over by a car. I know that’s a terrible vision, but I couldn’t help it.

  With Wayne still holding on to me, I told Philip, “You better keep walking, or I’ll throw up on your shoes.” I was just getting warmed up as I continued, “You didn’t care whether I lived or died. You didn’t call me just to say, ‘I’m glad you’re okay.’ Or ‘Will you be okay?’ Or ‘Here’s why I didn’t come.’ Something. Anything. Or were you angry at me because I shamed you into buying your mom a home?”

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I do owe you an explanation.”

  “No, you don’t,” I retorted. “I don’t want to hear it. I have to go inside now.”

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Just leave me alone.”

  “I’ll take it from here,” the doorman said to Phil. “Why don’t you go away?”

  While the doorman took my arm and helped me walk back toward the hotel, Philip rushed over to take my other arm. I wanted to scream. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me as these two men helped me into the building. I hated looking like a sick lady who needed help. I never wanted Philip to see me that way, and I jerked away from his arm.

  The doorman went to call the elevator, but there was no way I could step into a moving structure without my breakfast landing on the floor beneath me. I dropped onto a sofa, and Philip took a chair beside me. My head ached. Quietly clutching his little box, he looked sad, as if he wanted to be anywhere else. Maybe he had remorse or guilt. I really don’t know, because he said so little, but his silence spoke volumes.

  He looked small and pathetic when I said, “I was having cancer surgery to save my life. You said you’d come and you didn’t. We rented you a car and a hotel room. I called you, my mom called you, even the doctor called you. You never called any of us back. That was how you wanted to leave it, and I had to live with it. But I’m okay now, and you can go. Please.”

  He sat where he was, fiddling with the box in his hands.

  “What’s in there?” I asked.

  He looked down and after an uncomfortably long pause said, “I just picked up my fiancée’s wedding ring. I’m getting married next week.”

  My head throbbed harder. “Good luck,” I said. “I hope she never gets sick.”

  My ears were ringing, my head was pounding, and my mind was fuzzy when I got up and motioned to the doorman that I was ready to ride the elevator. Once I was back in the safety of my room, I fell onto the bed and dropped off to sleep in my clothes.

  CHAPTER 33

  Meeting Jackie Brown

  Besides the occasional film, I focused on theater for a while. There was an honesty and immediacy about it that appealed to me, since I was in such a vulnerable stage of my life. A black Renaissance was occurring in live theater as well as in film, and I loved the simple stories, the energy, and the feeling of being right there with your audience. I liked the idea that you had one take to get it right, which was so different from film, where we did take after take until everyone was satisfied.

  One of my favorite roles was playing Grace in The Piano Lesson, written by talented playwright August Wilson, at the Denver Center for the Performing Arts. This play is the story of a brothe
r and sister who argue about whether to sell the family piano that has carvings of relatives dating back to the days of slavery. My co-star was Roger Robinson, a great black actor recently nominated for a Tony Award, and we were sold out for every performance. I was also the understudy for the leading role of Berniece, which I actually performed one time.

  Next, I was hired to do a play called Telltale Hearts at the Crossroads Theatre in New Jersey on the campus of Rutgers University. It was deep winter and very cold when I worked with the group called the Negro Ensemble. Yes, the Negro Ensemble, which was very popular at the time. This group was part of the burgeoning African American theater. Founded in 1967, the ensemble was prestigious, as it integrated the past with the present. The play was a comedy, and they put me up in an apartment about twenty minutes from the theater. I was happy walking back and forth; I liked the exercise. When two and a half feet of snow fell one night, however, I thought I better call a cab in the morning. But the cabs were running so late, if at all, I was afraid I’d miss my call.

  Being a Colorado girl, to me, a little snow was no excuse for being late for work. I put my script and some extra clothing in a backpack, zipped on my skiing gear, and jogged from the apartment, across the campus, to the theater where we were rehearsing. I was the first cast member to arrive, and the director said, “Wow, your cab must have picked you up early. Everybody else is running late. The roads are completely blocked.”

  “I didn’t take a cab,” I said. “I jogged here. It’s not very far.”

  He looked at me like I was crazy. Meticulously dressed New Yorkers didn’t get their clothes wet and dirty, but I didn’t care. It was a fifteen-minute jog on level ground, much easier than when I jogged for an hour, mostly uphill, in the mountains of Colorado. I was used to the exercise, and the main thing was that I was on time, doing a play that was hilarious, having a ball. Despite my illness, which had set me back for quite a while, I felt that my craft was up to that of the rest of the cast. I was enjoying my work, and I believed that a well-rounded actor needed both film and theater.