Not for one minute, though, did I let that deprive me of the sweet joy and the heartbreaking anguish of falling in love.
Charles Clark and I were eleven years old when we met as classmates. He was a gifted athlete and a good student, with a smile that sent a thrill through me from the first moment I saw it, and we were the poster children for every book, song, movie, and poem ever written about first loves. I adored him, and I adored how it felt to love him and be loved by him. In fact, it was Charles who inspired my lifelong belief that those of us whose first loves were significant and lasted awhile spend the rest of our lives trying to re-create that same intensity, that sweet sense of purpose and focus and completeness, that perpetual excitement of always having something to look forward to, because just being together, or talking on the phone, or seeing each other in the hall between classes, felt like special occasions. I’m sure I spent the rest of my love life trying to re-create the “high” of Charles Clark, and at the risk of ruining the suspense, I’ll tell you right now it never happened.
Charles and I mutually agreed on two conditions when we officially started our relationship. The first was that if either of us found ourselves wanting to be with someone else, we would tell the other immediately. The second was that no matter how tempted we might be, he would respect my insistence on being a virgin when I got married. That wasn’t some hysterical reaction to the two molestation experiences I’d had, or a blind acceptance of one of Mother’s religious rules whether it made sense to me or not. It was my idea, my belief that my virginity was too valuable to forfeit for anything less than a lifelong commitment. Charles, hormones and all, respected that without question or complaint, which, of course, only deepened my faith in him and made me love him more.
To add to the perfection, our parents approved, so there was no sneaking around or lying or other family drama to complicate things. We spent a lot of time at each other’s houses, and Charles’s mother even drove us to Bakersfield one night to see the premiere of an impossibly romantic movie called Gone with the Wind. (I still remember how shocked I was to hear the word “damn” come out of someone’s mouth on-screen, let alone Clark Gable’s.) And when Charles’s father was transferred to another town and his family moved away, I loved going there to spend weekends with my boyfriend and with the people I was sure were my future in-laws.
So when he called one day and said he had something to tell me and it had to be in person, I was so excited about seeing him for the first time in almost a month that I conveniently ignored the weight in his voice and simply started deciding what to wear.
He didn’t kiss me hello when he got there. He barely looked at me as he stepped past me into the house and stood in the living room like a stranger, studying the floor. And when I finally broke the silence between us and asked what was wrong, he took a few long, deep breaths before he answered me.
He told me her name, but I was too stunned to hear it. He may have told me everything about her, and how long they’d been seeing each other, for all I know. All I heard was a steady, deafening, horrible buzzing noise in my ears until he got around to the two words I heard loud and clear: “She’s pregnant.”
I was sure the ground was falling away beneath my feet, and I felt sick from the pain and rage that instantly welled up in me. But I guess I instinctively refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing that, because all I said, in the calmest, steadiest voice you’ve ever heard, was, “I understand.” Not bad for a sixteen-year-old girl whose world had just exploded, don’t you think?
And then I completely outdid myself by accepting his invitation for me to meet her. No, not someday, not even later that day. What luck, she was sitting outside in his car at that very moment. Shock is an amazing phenomenon, isn’t it? Without a single beat of hesitation, I walked out of the house with him, head held high, and marched up to the car and looked right at her when he introduced us, although I couldn’t tell you a thing about her. She probably had hair, and a face. She probably said something, and I probably said something back. Maybe we shook hands, maybe not. The one thing I’m sure of is that I gave her my best smile for that two- or three-minute encounter, a smile I hoped said, “If you think you’re the winner in this situation, guess again.”
Then I waved good-bye to both of them, walked back into the house, closed the door behind me, and cried until there were no more tears left in me.
From what I heard, they got married soon after that, a marriage that lasted until shortly after the baby was born.
He tried several times to get in touch with me, but I never saw or spoke to him again.
It became a lifelong pattern, personally and professionally: I don’t care who you are, you don’t get more than one chance to betray me, and as this book should make apparent, I have a very long memory.
I’m not sure how I would have made it through the end of Charles and me, or Mother’s death, if it hadn’t been for another great love of my life, one that started when I was thirteen and continues to sustain me to this day: the love affair between me and an audience.
I was in eighth grade, and I was chosen for a small part in the class play. I think it was called Annabel Steps In, or something equally compelling. I’ve had several colleagues over the years who knew from the day they were born that they were destined, even driven, to be actors. That wasn’t the case with me. Acting had never occurred to me. I thought no more of learning my lines and rehearsing for Annabel Steps In than I thought of doing the rest of my homework and, because I’m an overachiever, doing it well. But then, on opening night, I stepped onstage in front of an audience and it changed my life. It changed me.
It wasn’t just the novelty of being the center of a whole lot of attention that felt so utterly joyful. From those very first moments, it felt like an unspoken agreement between me and the audience: the more pleased they were with whatever it was I was doing and saying, the more I wanted to please them, so that we fed off each other and created a unique experience together that neither of us could have created on our own. It was uncomplicated, reciprocal, and unconditional, a real connection and an exchange of energy I never saw coming and that I continue to treasure to this day. It fulfilled me, it made sense to me, it impelled me, and it gave me something I’d yearned for and wasn’t sure I would ever find—I finally had a place to point to and say from the heart, “I belong here.”
I immediately became addicted to learning everything there was to know about the theater, from performance skills to the material itself. I voraciously read and wrote reports on every play in the library. I especially fell in love with the works of Noël Coward and had the pleasure of performing in a Bakersfield Community Theatre production of his wonderful play Blithe Spirit during my high school years. In fact, I leapt at every opportunity to appear onstage, and by the time I graduated, I’d decided with absolute certainty on the course my future would take: I would study and prepare and work hard to save money, and at the first opportunity I would move to New York and spend the rest of my life as a deliriously happy, utterly fulfilled stage actress. That never happened, of course, which should teach us all a good lesson about the words “absolute certainty.”
I headed straight from Bakersfield to the Pasadena Playhouse College of Theatre Arts, which my father could never have afforded without the help of my mother’s only sister, my aunt Della. She lived in Los Angeles and was kind enough to offer me a free place to stay. I’d also been active enough in theater to earn a lifetime membership in the International Thespian Society, so I hit the ground running in Pasadena and loved every minute of it, soaking up every bit of knowledge, education, and experience that came my way. It was a joyful time—I was in my element and growing more confident with every class, every performance, every new friend who shared my dream—and I was devastated when, at the end of my first year, Aunt Della announced that she was moving away, and Dad informed me that without the room and board she provided, he couldn’t afford for me to stay at Pasadena Playhouse College any l
onger.
There’s a wonderful old saying that goes, “When God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.” I doubt if whoever coined that saying was thinking of Stockton, California, at the time. But just as I was mourning the loss of my education, and possibly my theatrical career in New York, my sister, Evelyn, and her husband, Everett, invited me to stay with them in Stockton. There I could take extension courses through the theater department of College of the Pacific, get credits for performances, and explore the incredible array of theater, ballet, opera, and other creative arts that Stockton had to offer.
I sadly waved good-bye to Pasadena, and was still drying my tears when I arrived with my luggage on Evelyn and Everett’s doorstep and embarked on four of the happiest, most stimulating years of my life.
Eager to start supporting myself, I got a job in an appliance store and scheduled my theater and improv classes around my shifts.
I did play after play after play, particularly such light opera classics as Naughty Marietta and Song of Norway. Randy Fitz, a College of the Pacific professor, also wrote several plays and cast me in every one of them.
I wrote and cohosted a radio show about campus life with my friend Jerry DeBono, cleverly called Jeanne & Jerry.
Jerry and I teamed up with our friends Donny Dollarhyde and Pat McFarland to perform sketches for visiting conventioneers.
I wrote and performed in the Stockton centennial show.
I became part of a wonderful, talented, informal group of theatrical performers, directors, and playwrights who made occasional trips to Los Angeles to check out the theater world there, while similar groups regularly made the trip from Los Angeles to Stockton to see what was going on with us. It wasn’t long before strong, lasting friendships evolved between the two groups—in my case, such great pals from L.A. as Tony Kent, Jerry Lawrence, Janet Stewart, Clarence Stemler, and Billy Lundmark would change my life whether I wanted them to or not.
And oh, yes, I almost forgot, I got engaged. His name was Owen Chain. He was a smart, exciting, talented man from a very influential family, and we met one night when he came to say hello to the director of a play I was rehearsing. He quickly became a part of our inseparable theater circle and a part of my life as well, so supportive and well connected that he got me admitted to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London. I passed, having no desire to leave the comfort, friendships, and success I’d worked hard to achieve in Stockton. After a whirlwind two-month engagement, I also passed on marrying Owen, having no desire to tie myself down with a marriage to him or anyone else. Two more things I then knew with “absolute certainty”: I would happily stay in Stockton for the rest of my life, and I would never get married. (Are we sensing a pattern here?)
Owen wasn’t the only person trying to persuade me to leave Stockton. My L.A. friends had begun trying to convince me to move there. “You can do so much more,” they would say. “You’re a big fish in a small pond. In Hollywood you can be seen by people who can open up a whole new world of opportunities.” Even Randy Fitz, my College of the Pacific professor, had been telling me that four years in Stockton was quite enough and it was time for me to spread my wings.
I was having none of it. I was well known right where I was, and I had my choice of roles in a wide variety of nonstop, challenging theatrical productions. I’d moved to an apartment I loved and furnished it exactly the way I wanted, and I still had the security of my job at the appliance store. As far as I was concerned, that was about as good as life could get.
So my friends decided to take matters, and my future, into their own hands.
I never did find out who all was involved in this, or how long it took for them to plan and choreograph it behind my back, and I swear to you, I’m not making this up, because I couldn’t.
I woke up one morning on what seemed like a perfectly normal day, got dressed, and headed off to work. I arrived to discover that Tony Kent and Janet Stewart had arrived before I did and given my boss notice that I was quitting, effective immediately. My boss and I had a great relationship, and he took this news so well that when I walked in the door that morning he greeted me with a sweet, supportive, “I know it’s time for you to move on, and I understand completely.” I obviously had no idea what he was talking about, but before I could ask, Tony and Janet came bursting in, grabbed me, and walked me right back out the door.
“Come on, Jeanne, let’s go,” Tony ordered, thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Go where?” I sputtered.
“Your new home.”
We arrived at Tony’s car, which was packed with all my clothing, and over the next several hours on the road, they filled me in on the whole astonishing story.
The minute I left for work, where Tony and Janet had already resigned on my behalf, a second team of friends had raced into my apartment, completely cleaned it out, loaded all my furniture into someone’s truck, and delivered it to its new owner in Stockton, my friend Millie.
And that night I was delivered to the partially furnished apartment above a garage they’d already rented for me in Los Angeles.
So there you have it, my answer to the age-old question: “How does an aspiring actor get to Hollywood?”
Get yourself kidnapped by the best and sneakiest friends anyone could ask for (and even when you’re in your eighties, never, ever forget them).
Chapter Two
Hollywood and I Discover Each Other
So there I was, waking up that first morning in Los Angeles in my new apartment, complete with a space-saving bed that rolled into the wall when it wasn’t being used. My head was spinning from the day before, a day that had started with a routine drive to my job at an appliance store in Stockton and ended in a whole new world with a whole new life. I was overwhelmed, scared, and more than a little excited as I assessed the situation. I’d grown up being relocated whether I liked it or not, so I had plenty of experience adjusting to that. I’d proven to myself that I could hold down a steady day job and do it well, which meant I wouldn’t let myself starve, and no one had studied harder or worked with more dedication to learn and love the art of performing, which meant I still had a long way to go but nothing to apologize for. This might work, I decided. And even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, since I’d be moving on to New York City theaters before long anyway.
Armed with that confidence, the dear friends who’d brought me here, and more than a little false bravado, I hit the ground running.
Through one of those dear friends, Paul Davis, I got a job at Ball Scripts, a company that typed and mimeographed scripts for the studios and routinely employed struggling actors in need of rent and grocery money. What it lacked in glamour it more than made up for in inside information—we got to see firsthand and ahead of the rest what projects were being done in town and what parts would be available.
At the same time, another of those dear friends, a choreographer named Jack Pierce, decided to open a theater-in-the-round called the Gallery Stage at the corner of Crescent Heights and Santa Monica Boulevards, in the heart of Hollywood. It was a wonderful ninety-nine-seat space, perfect for the production of On the Town with which it opened its doors for the first time. I was privileged to be part of the cast, and in this case being part of the cast also meant being part of the crew. Between rehearsals and our day jobs, we hammered, we painted, we hauled, we scrubbed, and we fell in love with that theater. I mean it literally when I say that we were still pounding the last few nails into the floorboards on opening night and changing from our coveralls into our wardrobes with only minutes to spare.
I threw my first official Hollywood party during those insane weeks of rehearsals. I have no idea how that many people managed to wedge themselves into my small apartment. I also have no idea when or why I fell asleep on the couch. But first thing the next morning I woke up yearning for my magical disappearing wall bed.
I still remember the shock of rolling the bed out from its hiding place in the wall and discovering that it was already occ
upied. There, peacefully and soundly asleep, was Pat Morrison, a fabulous singer and dancer in the On the Town cast. Having never entertained an overnight guest before whom I didn’t know was there, let alone one who was hidden in my wall, I was debating the etiquette of the situation (i.e., whether to wake her up or let her sleep) when my doorbell rang. I answered it to find Don Gazzanaga, aka Pat’s husband, standing there.
“Good morning, Jeanne,” he greeted me cheerfully. “Thanks again for last night. Great party. Really, just great. I was wondering, though, did I happen to leave my wife here?”
Before I could say a word, Pat came scuffing up behind me and said sleepily, “Right here, honey.” She turned to me for a hug and promised to see me later at the theater, then scuffed on out the door and disappeared with her husband.
“Interesting marriage,” I thought as I watched them drive away. “Interesting town.”
(Pat and Don and I became close friends over the years, by the way, and it turned out that they had a strong, happy, totally committed marriage. They apparently just misplaced each other every once in a while.)
Despite its almost leisurely sprawling layout, Hollywood is a very small town, and word spread quickly among the acting community that a new theater called the Gallery Stage was opening. Our first audience was graced with the likes of Elizabeth Taylor, Debbie Reynolds, Betty Garrett, Norma Shearer, Barbara Eden and her husband, Michael Ansara, and more than a few other show business movers and shakers. We were a hit, we were ecstatic, we got great reviews, and we were suddenly in demand.
The studios immediately started calling, wanting to meet me. I had no agent and not enough experience to know which calls to return and which to ignore. Paul Davis came through again—his cousin Jerry Herdan was an agent, half of the successful Herdan-Sherrill Agency, and next thing I knew, he was officially representing me. Jerry had several clients at Universal Studios and arranged a meeting for me there.
Not Young, Still Restless Page 2