Did I hear that right? Yes, I did, because he repeated it with more masculine bravado. “What does baby want? Tell Daddy what baby wants.”
Oh yes, it was all I could do not to scream, Baby wants a cock! Jesus, it doesn’t have to be a porn cock but come on, asshole, Baby wants a fucking real, at-least-average-sized cock!
Instead I kept thinking of poor Jean Harlow’s husband—the shame and degradation and of course, the suicide. He had his last actual fuck, as I personally believe suicides are, in fact, the committer’s final grandiose “Fuck you!” Nevertheless, I did always worry about penile suicide prospects. It haunted me for years, actually. Poor Jean Harlow’s sad, tiny-tallywackered, suicidal husband.
I said casually, as if I’d experienced this kind of thing hundreds of times in my work as a prostitute, “This is what baby wants” and put my fingers in a peace sign between my legs. I deduced it was the only possible hope to get this guy off and out of my house.
He complimented this ingenious idea. “Oh baby, you’ve been around.”
Of course, I thought, in my line of work, you need to know all the tricks of the trade—after all, you never know when your pimp might set you up with something that makes a preschooler’s rod look like John Holmes!
After he finished fucking the peace sign and I finished faking the most pathetic orgasm to date, even by fakers’ standards, he rolled off me in baby dick bliss. “Damn, baby—damn that was good!” Of course it was, buddy boy, but just remember if it hadn’t been for Mr. Sad, Dead, Suicidal Harlow and his tragic farewell, you, your underdeveloped appendage, and your overdeveloped ego would never have come close to heaven’s gate, peace sign or no peace sign. Peace out!!!
There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the infinite passion of life.
—FEDERICO FELLINI
The Art of
Champions
IT SEEMS most people set a timeline on the pursuit of a given task.
In 1980 I was on the verge of giving up on becoming an actress. I’d given myself exactly one year to “make it,” and it was the end of the tenth month—late October, jeez. I’d come so close, so many times to being the female lead of this or that big movie, but it was always between me and one other “famous” girl. But the truth was I’d never been hired for anything, movie or television, not even a guest shot.
Some would encourage me by telling me that getting close was the step right before being the victor. This all sounded swell, and it encouraged me from time to time, but being the runner-up for a huge movie roll was akin to being runner-up at the Preakness. Who gives a damn? No one knows who the runner-up to the Preakness was last year, right? Except the guy who sold the horse after the race.
I was so close to sticking my tail between my legs and running back to Kansas. I had almost no money, even though I was working three or four jobs. None of my friends were actors. I had zero connections in the acting world. I’d gained 14 pounds and had gone from a whopping 116 pounds to a behemoth 130 pounds. I’d just broken up with my well-meaning, hot boyfriend, Doug, who wanted me to stay with him and draw faces on his penis at bath time and support him while he became a manager, a gem dealer, an art dealer, or a minister. Granted, his dick was as talented as a triple-threat actor, but at four-thirty on a Saturday morning, I broke up with superdick. I surmised that I only had two months to make it as an actress and there would be plenty of great cocks in my future. Little had I known that “great” cocks really are an oddity. Good ones are fairly common but great ones are extremely rare. But I digress . . .
His heart was slightly crushed, but honestly our fights consumed a good six hours a day and the other eighteen were spent shagging. You can imagine that this left little time for rehearsals, acting lessons, and auditions.
He couldn’t quite understand that our split was final, so for a while he would break into my house nightly at around 3:00 a.m. He’d make me sit in a chair while he lectured me as to why we needed to stay together. This would go on for two hours as he paced and smoked 87 cigarettes. I’d zone out and nod off, which provoked him to yell really loud. I’d jolt to attention, but I needed sleep! I finally changed the locks and ignored his late-night rants while pounding on the doors, and finally he gave up. I felt sad for him, as I did still love him, but it had come time in my life that work—my craft—had to take precedence over dicks and . . . well . . . dicks.
I had to take off those pesky 14 pounds. I HAD to weigh under 118 pounds! Because when I was 16 I weighed 116 pounds, and it was the number I’d arbitrarily decided was the perfect weight for a five-foot eight-inch woman with medium bone structure. It was also the bottom number on one of those weight charts in the back of Vogue. I began the Beverly Hills Diet, which I think consisted of pineapple, papaya, and chocolate cake. Every moment was spent working out, dieting, turning down dates, and staying holed up in my house rehearsing lines for auditions.
I remember feeling extremely disciplined, something that was fairly foreign to me.
I had this agent, Steve Dontanville. He had told me he wouldn’t sign me to the Paul Kohner Agency he worked for, but that he would send me out on things. This was sorta cool of him, since I was a “nobody” who had done “nothing,” including not going to drama school. I knew he didn’t rep me because he was hot for me. He batted for the other team and had no interest in my big boobs.
So Steve called one day and said, “I’ve got a meeting for you tomorrow. It’s a long shot, but it’s the female lead in a forty-million-dollar movie and they like your picture. Oh, and it’s to play a Vulcan.”
Wow! This sounded like a ridiculous opportunity. I’d gotten very close on other big movies. I was never sent out for a small part; Steve only sent me out for female leads. I liked thinking it was because I was too hot for character roles. It spurred me on.
It was one of those rare moments in my life when I felt überconfident. I’d whittled my ripped body down to 116 pounds. Since I’d not been going out, I was well rested and not hung over. I sorta looked bad ass.
Although I was extremely poor, I decided to splurge on an outfit that would dazzle the Paramount casting people: a short turquoise sweater and slim, tight turquoise jeans, size 2 or 4, with four-and-a-half-inch-high gray pointy-toed boots. My ass was the size of a 16-year-old boy’s, but more curvy. In 1980 I had as close to perfect skin as a girl could have. I was 29 years old, although my agent thought I was 23. I didn’t correct him and besides, the DMV had screwed up the date on my driver’s license. Instead of putting my correct birth date 1951, they put 1957.
Steve sent the script over so that I could learn the lines I needed for the audition. I worked hard on them, and I felt awesome. Oh yeah, and although I thought Star Trek was lame, I’d seen all the TV episodes because Bob loved them and I liked lying around with him watching TV. By proxy, I knew everything about Star Trek, but mostly Spock, who was the only character I paid attention to. I liked his “no emotion” dilemma.
It turned out Steve Dontanville was partly wrong: I was going out for the role of Lieutenant Saavik, a half Vulcan, half Romulan. So here was this girl, half Vulcan, no emotion, half Romulan, known for anger and rage. This had the makings of one hot-tempered sociopath.
I was stoked. I could also emulate Spock, as one of my eyebrows naturally arches up when I speak, especially if I’m querying something, and I had dark hair and, and, and . . .
It dawned on me driving to my first interview, Seriously, who the hell could play this better than I? My answer was no one.
I drove to Paramount, long boob-length hair blowing in the wind, top down on my Toyota convertible with the $16,000 stereo called my car, wearing a turquoise sweater, little turquoise jeans, big turquoise sunglasses, and spike heels. That day, I was one badass bitch and no one was gonna take down this role but me.
I gave them my name at the guard gate at the gloriously infamous Paramount studios. The guard said, “Yes, Miss Alley, here is your parking pass.” “Miss Alley.” Oh jeez, my Romulan bl
ood was beginning to boil, in a good way.
Here I was, this girl from Kansas who, a year and a half before had been a cocaine addict in Wichita. Here I was with my parking pass, and guards calling me “Miss.” It was explosive.
I started across the lot in my four-and-a-half-inch heels and my little-assed jeans. He’ll never remember this, but Eddie Murphy walked past me, and I think he checked out my fine ass. Anyway, I pretended he did, which gave me even more confidence.
I walked into the casting agent’s waiting room, and the receptionist asked me to take a seat. There were only about three other girls in there. This is when I decided to do something that I have done in every waiting room with every actress over the last 30 years. I beamed them. I just looked straight at each girl with my green eyes and got the idea of boring a hole in their brain with the concept, Yes, I’m a badass, and you don’t have a prayer in hell of getting this role, so you might as well pick your ass up off that chair and head on outta here. I accompany this high beam with a smirky smile that makes Jack Nicholson look like a schoolgirl. It worked then and has since. I feel them quiver, quake, and begin to dismantle themselves. I’ve never revealed this weapon, trick, evil intention, whatever the hell it is. It’s just my own private Idaho when I go on auditions.
Don’t feel too sorry for the other actresses. Believe me, I learned this trick the hard way, from some of the most ruthless brain-beaming actresses in Hollywood. It’s an old trick, really.
“Kirstie Alley? They’ll see you now,” said the receptionist.
Oh god, how I hated the sound of my name rolling off her tongue.
Two syllables and two syllables, Kir-stee Al-lee. How stupid, the sound of my name. Not like the actresses I adored, Meryl Streep, two syllables then one syllable. E-liz-a-beth Tay-lor, four syllables and two syllables. Cath-er-ine De-neuve, three syllables and two syllables. See what I’m saying here? Kir-stie Al-lee: two syllables and two syllables, almost rhyming, for god’s sake, and sing-songy, as my third-grade teacher had said in criticism of my poetry. I thought long and hard about changing my name to a different-syllabled combination: Kirstie Streep? Too obvious. Khristina McKay? Too Wide World of Sports. Kirstie Collette, my name combined with my sister’s—yet still stupid because two syllables and two syllables, and not in a cool way like Marlon Bran-do.
Nick Meyer, the director of Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, offered his hand for me to shake.
The casting director said, “Nick, this is Kir-stie Al-lee.” My confidence took a slight dip, but I feigned holding it together.
What I wasn’t aware of was that Nicholas Meyer would become the first champion of my acting career.
Nicholas Meyer was cool-looking, with jet-black hair and cool blue eyes. He wasn’t tall, but he was one of those guys that exuded stature and, god help me, mega-intelligence. He was intimidating, in-tim-i-dat-ing—five syllables.
He was also a genius. His IQ would have made any Mensa member quail. And he had a charismatic, glorious smile. Thank god I knew my lines cold, because the sight and presence of him would have given me early onset amnesia.
“So Kirstie [Al-lee].” He didn’t say my last name, but he didn’t have to, it was implied, “Where are you from?”
“Wichita, Kansas.”
This was the time in my life when I was very clearly a Kansas girl. Many Kansas people do not extend answers to questions. Examples: “How are you?” “Fine.” “You like it here?” “Yes.” “How long have you lived here?” “A year.” “What do you think about Hollywood?” “I like it.”
So this was the entirety of my interview with Nicholas Meyer. Shockingly, he said, “Okay, let’s read this.” And we did.
Up went my eyebrow, curbed was my emotion, with just a hint of rage underneath. Yet when we got to the last scene, where Spock dies, I had a light mist in my eyes (contrived) and a slight break in my voice.
“Hmmm, I liked that,” Mr. Meyer said. “Can you come back Wednesday?”
Can I? Can I? Can I? Yes, I can—Yes I CAN!
• • •
“How’d it go?” my nonsigning agent asked when I got home and called him. There were no cell phones in 1980, so you had to drive all the way home to tell your agent the good or bad news.
“How’d it go? It went great!” I said. “They want me back on Wednesday.”
“Okay,” he responded. “I’ll call the casting director and get the time.”
There were no computers in 1980, no Google or IMDb. There was no hotline into what the directors had done, or whom they were married to, or what schools they went to. It never crossed my mind to research directors or producers because things like that didn’t exist at that time. There may have been some actresses who were more savvy than I was, but I certainly wouldn’t have thought of it. I just ate a lot of pineapple and worked out like a lunatic and studied my lines.
I had a date later that week with a guy who was ultrahandsome and had been asking me out a lot. He was hard to resist because he was seriously hot, but I kept turning him down, and unlike most boys I turned down, I told him the truth. “I’m up for this role in a movie, and I don’t wanna blow it. I don’t want to drink or stay out late, I just want to get this role.” He was an actor who had done his fair share of work, so he would laugh and flirt and say, “You can do both, you know.” I would whinny like a horse and respond, “Let me just get this role and then we’ll go out.” He was very hard to resist, but I vowed to stay steady on the course, be good, keep my integrity, and Rocky my way to triumph.
I read for Nicholas on Wednesday. He had more people in the room, most of whom were producers. He smiled, he was happy. Oh, and I wore the same turquoise sweater and tiny turquoise jeans. I had no money, and it was the only sexy outfit I had.
He asked if I could come back a week from Friday and read again.
“Yes, I can!”
By Monday of that week and after a very long boring weekend alone, working out and eating pineapple, actor boy called. John was his real name (and probably still is).
“You wanna go out Friday?” I thought, What the hell, I will have already read my final time for Star Trek earlier on Friday, and I would want to celebrate and make out with John and eat something, anything other than pineapple.
“Okay, cool, we’ll go out on Friday.”
“Eight?”
“Perfect.”
I spent all week exercising, working on my scenes, and eating papaya. On Friday I picked up my turquoise outfit from the cleaners. I was now superstitious about it and decided to just keep wearing what was successful.
On Friday I did my final reading, and I nailed it. Nicholas was amazing. He was sweet and professional and presented me to all the new producers like I was a seasoned actress. Nicholas knew I had never had a single job as an actress, and I’m sure he was smart enough to know that everything on my résumé was a lie—all my “productions” of fake plays and all my “film parts” in Kansas, for god’s sake, that never existed—and yet he still presented me like I was a great actress and a pro.
I HAD done a great job on that reading. Nicky told me I did, and I could perceive that glorious energy that flies around the room when people are really interested in you.
I felt so happy, so proud of myself that I’d worked so hard on the script and had forgone parties and bad food to get that role. My integrity was intact. I hung my turquoise outfit in the closet; it was like my talisman. It hugged me tight and carried me through the auditions. Yes, I’d earned the date that I was going on in six hours, and I was also getting a free meal at a nice restaurant, and I was fucking hungry!!!
I got all fixed up, fresh clothes, not my “uniform” that I’d joked with Nicholas Meyer about in my meeting earlier that day. I told him it was the only thing he would see me in until I donned a Star Trek outfit, so could he please speed it up. I was ridiculously happy.
At about seven o’clock I started feeling really weird. I couldn’t tell if I had food poisoning, which was doubtful since
I’d had no food. Then I began feeling really anxious, like I was going to have an anxiety attack. It escalated. God, it felt like what I envisioned a nervous breakdown feeling like. Shit, I was going nuts or getting ready to have a stroke or coming down with some bizarre strain of exotic papaya disorder.
I went in and lay down on my bed. It was getting really bad, and I was getting scared. I gave my roommate, Alice, John’s phone number and asked her to call him and apologize. I begged her to let him know I really was sick and wasn’t faking and felt horrible about canceling. She came in afterward and said he was cool and that he said if I needed anything to let him know. Jeez, cool, hot, AND considerate? There I was, ready for the asylum.
About 30 minutes later, Alice walked in and told me my sister was on the phone. I said, “Oh god, tell her I’m sick and I can’t talk right now.” But my sister said, “Get her on the phone!!”
She told me our parents had been in a car wreck; that our mother was dead and our father was in the hospital dying.
Suddenly, everything went still. There was no more anxiety, no more instability, no more sickness, just dead calm. As horrifying as it was, my perception now matched the truth, and I understood what had happened.
I don’t have a perfect recall of all of the next week because it felt like being swept up in some time-stopping bog where every moment was in slow motion. I flew all night to get to Kansas, on borrowed money.
It took three or four planes to get to Wichita, which is ironic since Wichita is the “Air Capital of the World.” I didn’t speak to any of the people who sat next to me on any of the legs. I couldn’t speak and I couldn’t hear. My only interest was getting home.
What do you do when parents die? You do what adult children of dead parents do: you make arrangements. Our mother was dead, but our father was struggling for his life. So we straddled that fence of making arrangements and grieving for our dead mother and spending the rest of our time by our dad’s side at the hospital.
The Art of Men [I Prefer Mine al Dente] Page 9