Real Girl Next Door

by Denise Richards

  I’ll never forget the pit I had in my stomach when we landed. It was nighttime, and I made my way through the airport holding a piece of paper on which I’d written directions to the apartment the agency had booked for me. Somehow, I found the right bus and made it to the apartment. A rep from the agency met me in front of a three-story building, escorted me upstairs, unlocked the door, handed me the key, and left. He never asked if I needed anything. He just left me there, standing in this place on the other side of the world, in the dark.

  It got worse when I turned on the lights. I saw hundreds of cockroaches run across the floor and the kitchen counters. They were in the drawers and cabinets, too. Scared and sick to my stomach, I grabbed the key and my purse and dashed out of the apartment. Once I was on the street, though, I didn’t know which way to walk. Wanting to call my parents, I chose a direction and went in search of a pay phone. When I finally found one, I couldn’t figure out how to use it.

  Though it was late, I saw a few people on the street, including one man who looked American. He turned out to be Eastern European and didn’t speak English, and I ended up back at my apartment, waiting for daylight, when I could find someone to help me.

  In the morning, I met some of the other girls who lived in the building and found out they’d gone through similar experiences. As they predicted, in short order, meetings, shoots, and an odd familiarity with the Tokyo subway system replaced my fear and disorientation. Tokyo is a gorgeous, clean city. Cabdrivers wear white gloves. The agency sent us on multiple calls every day, and the jobs varied from simple studio setups to elaborate location shoots. In one, I rode a roller coaster over and over, until I was dizzy and nauseous; and for a poster, the photographer moussed my hair into spikes that stuck out in every direction and hung toys from them. Crazy stuff. Modeling for me was an exciting job with cool locations and the chance to meet creative and eccentric people, but I still wanted more. I also set boundaries. Lingerie modeling was the most lucrative of the jobs in Japan, but I refused any job that required me to pose in my bra and underwear, which infuriated the agency. I wasn’t altogether uncomfortable with my body, but I didn’t have a figure that allowed me to brim with self-confidence in all departments; and being photographed in my underwear bothered me. (Ironic that, years later, I actually posed completely naked. Go figure.) In Japan, at the time, they actually preferred the models to be small-busted for the lingerie ads, which is why they wanted me. That just goes to show you that the people you see in magazines, catalogs, movies, and on TV have issues even though they choose to be in front of the camera. Often those issues are what directors or photographers are looking to capture; other times you pray the problems don’t show. The point is, there’s always more going on than you see. In my case, the agency barraged me with angry calls and threatened to send me home if I didn’t reconsider. They didn’t follow through, probably because I worked steadily, but my steadfastness did not make ours an easy relationship. I remember calling home and my dad was pissed that they were trying to get me to pose in lingerie. He called my L.A. agent to see if this was a legit agency I was at, and my L.A. agent explained that it was and that lingerie was a huge moneymaker for their market. I wish that had been explained before I left L.A.

  Other girls were much less inhibited when it came to posing in lingerie, or even less, though that was the least of what some of them did. When hanging out together, I saw them use drugs, alcohol, and casual sex to deal with the boredom and loneliness of being away from home. I was there to work, not party, so I didn’t get dragged into that scene. I did get terribly sick one night toward the end of my two-month stay following a sushi dinner. I managed to show up at a job the next day, but I was in such pain that someone took me to the hospital, where I wanted to stay, and would’ve, had one of the owners of the agency not shown up, spoken with the doctors, and informed me that I had to be at work the next day or they were going to sue me.

  Fighting pain and weakness, I got through the shoot and then finished up my stay with a stomachache, but I still showed up to my jobs. When I returned home, I weighed slightly more than ninety pounds. My parents were shocked and livid. A trip to the doctor revealed that I had a parasite from the bad sushi. (I haven’t eaten raw fish since.) Only when I recovered some of my strength was it apparent that, despite losing weight, I’d returned home having gained a ton of self-confidence, as well as determination to continue modeling and try to make it as an actress, too.

  2

  NEXT, I MOVED into an apartment in West Los Angeles with a girl I knew from modeling jobs. A beautiful California blonde I’ll call Stephanie had dropped out of the business and enrolled in college, but she helped me celebrate when I landed my first TV commercial (for Paul Mitchell hair products) and then a walk-on part in Life Goes On, my first TV credit. Though I only worked a day, I loved being on the set. I loved the camaraderie the cast had with each other, and it looked fun.

  After I really caught the acting bug, I still modeled to pay my rent. One thing I noticed about my gorgeous roommate was she had fabulous fake breasts. She inspired me to get my boobs done (more on that later!).

  I eventually moved out of my apartment when a popular modeling agency wanted to sign me in New York. I decided to go to New York and spend six months working and taking acting classes in between. I lived in an apartment with five other models. Yes, there were six of us in this tiny two-bedroom apartment. I felt that this was what a sorority must feel like, only completely dysfunctional.

  Once in New York, I continued building my book, and I actually worked a lot despite my height—or lack of—at five feet six inches. It’s also when I got my first taste of being criticized about my weight. At the agency, every week we had to get weighed and measured. They used a tape measure for our thighs and our waists, hips, arms, you name it. Because I was on the shorter side, they wanted me very thin. I was five feet six and weighed 110 pounds. One day, the owner of the agency had a talk with me and told me the agency wanted me to lose ten to fifteen pounds. I’m not joking. The agency hired me a trainer and put me on a strict diet; they wanted me to drop the weight, and fast. This is where a young model (I was nineteen) could get very messed up in the head about body image. I was embarrassed in front of the other models who lived with me at the tiny apartment. I was the only one who was asked to lose weight. Despite being fat in their minds, I still worked. But I ended up saying fuck it. I didn’t want a career as a model anyway. So I left New York and headed back to L.A.

  Unlike in modeling, where my size and physique would limit my potential, I knew acting was different. (Well, depending on which role you play.) Also, acting was something I was passionate about. The door to success was wide-open to anyone, of any size, shape, look, and talent, and I decided to commit myself to making it my career, or at least try to. I signed up for acting classes with a respected teacher who ran a studio in Hollywood. I moved into a house in West Hollywood with a gay friend who was ten years older than me, stable, and a phenomenal cook.

  Soon I was seeing fellow acting student Patrick Muldoon, who was also attending USC. Before Pat, my only serious relationship had been my high school boyfriend, James, but that relationship had ended after I returned, nearly a year earlier, from Tokyo. Pat was different. More mature, focused, and extremely bright. He had his sights set on a serious career, and we spent hours after class, in groups, or just the two of us, talking over coffee about acting and the future. It was fun, and I got to know him well before we ever dated.

  When he picked me up on our first date, I introduced him to my roommate and sensed some awkwardness. In the car, Pat asked if he was my boyfriend or some kind of sugar daddy, which was quite funny. Later, after Pat dropped me off, my roommate was waiting up to find out about the date. He was also quite smitten with Pat. Pat and I would date on and off for years before anything progressed too quickly.

  My friend helped me get a fake ID so I could get into all the hip clubs. I used that ID to try to get a cocktailing job. I was
still modeling at that point to pay the rent. Now truth be told I’m twenty and look about fifteen. I give the owner a lot of credit for not hiring me; he clearly knew I was not twenty-four (per my fake ID). Actually, I ran into that club owner a year ago, and he reminded me of our interview. I told him I had a lot of respect for him for not hiring an underage girl. A lot of sleazeballs would’ve, but not this guy. So, with no cocktail-waitress gigs, I continued modeling, which took me to Japan once again to make some quick cash, and then I had a few bookings in New York.

  Once back in L.A., I rented a studio apartment in a sketchy area of Hollywood. What sold me was that the place had pink carpet. It also had fleas. But the carpet was pink, so who cared? One day, as I left for acting class, a police officer stopped me and asked if I had seen anyone with a baby. Seeing my confusion, he explained, “A baby was taken from the building.” “Like kidnapped?” I asked. He nodded.

  Whether or not it really happened, I assumed other shady if not downright dangerous stuff was going on there, and I called my dad to help me move my crap somewhere else. When my parents pulled up in my dad’s truck, I got an earful from them. They hadn’t seen my apartment, and they were angry that I would’ve moved there in the first place.

  I found a studio apartment in a building with security in the Valley, though in talking with the manager, I encountered a problem: I couldn’t afford it. Not by a long shot. Luckily, they had one low-income unit available, and I qualified. After settling in, I decided to get more serious with turning acting into a real job.

  One thing I had to do: change agents. I needed a theatrical agent. I had professional headshots taken and sent them to agencies. The Harry Gold agency was the first to respond, and after my first meeting, they signed me to their children’s division. I was a little confused until they explained that being able to play fourteen or fifteen years old made me even more attractive since shows wouldn’t have to bother with the regulations that protected child actors on the set. Plus, I wasn’t expected to have a long résumé.

  I have so many fond memories of that time in my career. Barely twenty, I was carefree, hungry, optimistic, eager, fairly naïve, resilient, untainted, enthusiastic, and full of the thing that makes each day better and brighter no matter if you have one dollar or one million dollars—that’s the belief that something wonderful might happen. I went to class every week, checked in with my agent daily, and auditioned as often as possible. I worked extremely hard. I took care of my body, said no to drugs, and made sure I prepared thoroughly. One rule I always obeyed: on the night before an audition, I stayed home and studied. I took the work seriously. I wanted to be good at my job. And I wanted to keep paying my bills.

  Always concerned, my dad warned me about the high percentage of Screen Actors Guild members who were unemployed. I told him not to worry. I planned on being part of the percentage who worked. I truly believed it was going to happen, and I must’ve sounded pretty convincing because my sister took a year off from college to try acting, too. We had a great time. We moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the same complex while she waitressed and took acting classes with me. However, she was too shy, and she didn’t enjoy life in L.A., both of which made her realize acting wasn’t for her.

  At the end of the year, she moved back home—and just in time. Without my mom’s cooking, she shrank to about ninety pounds. But I’m grateful we had that time together. It was wonderful to share a dream, and even better to have her around as mine started to become a reality. In early 1991, after my first two auditions with my new agency, I got my first parts! I had one of the most amazing weeks of my life when I landed small parts on two popular TV series, Saved by the Bell and Doogie Howser, M.D. Both happened the same week, which was hard to believe. But I wasn’t about to argue with that kind of good fortune. Then I got a part on Married … with Children. My role was too small for an actual name; I was simply called Girl #2. But again, so what? I was getting hired to do what I wanted, what I loved, and earning money at it.

  In early 1992, after my twenty-first birthday, I worked on Beverly Hills, 90210. I played Jennie Garth’s cousin in an episode where her mom got married. I didn’t have much to do, but I was thrilled to be on a hot show, one I actually watched, and in the spirit of full disclosure, I was a little intimidated by all the young star power there. But something began to happen with me, actually within me, on that set, and it continued into my next jobs, The Ben Stiller Show and Seinfeld. It was a change of mind-set, a subtle yet real transformation that was essential if I wanted to genuinely morph from wanting to act to actually being an actress. This is true of everyone. No matter what you do, at some point, you must ask yourself if you belong; not only if you fit in, but if what you’re doing feels right—in my case, it was being on the set and working with actors. For a long time, I was one of those actors in coffee shops and class, talking about being an actress and going on auditions. Then, when the opportunities arose, and I couldn’t be just another pretty face among the countless pretty faces in Hollywood, I had to look inside myself and find out whether I had the stuff to be an actress, whether I could deliver on a set of professionals. On The Ben Stiller Show I ran down the beach in a bikini, and on my Seinfeld episode, which ran in 1993, I played the network president’s daughter and had to play innocent while George (Jason Alexander) stared at my cleavage.

  It was weird to sit there and do take after take of Jason staring at my boobs, but I understood that was the joke, and I just tried to block out how I really felt. The cast was hilarious, and it was a treat to watch them work. They worked extremely hard to make every scene and every line and nuance within the scene look natural and effortless—and, of course, funny. I was privileged to get to observe them up close.

  I saw that in others who were at the top of their craft, including Denis Leary on Loaded Weapon, George Clooney on the TV series Bodies of Evidence, Matt LeBlanc in the movie Lookin’ Italian, and Dean Cain in the series Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman. For me, those days were as much about watching and learning as doing, in fact more so, though as the parts grew ever so slightly, I worked hard to make a good impression. I was on point, diligent, and prepared. I was always excited to share stories with my parents. Whether it was a movie or TV set, the process was slow and methodical, with lots of waiting around, chitchatting with new friends I made. Looking back, though, I see that those idle hours were almost more important than the work itself—in terms of observing how everyone from the cast to the crew did their jobs—so that I knew exactly what was expected of me when it was my turn in front of the camera. I was also making enough money as an actress to support myself. Barely, but I was still supporting myself. Looking back, I was so grateful. I remember learning that craft service was free food. After receiving a plate of snacks, I asked a PA, “Who do I pay for it?” I was shocked that there were just tables of free food all day for everyone.

  I also loved the moment when I got my first cast chair on set with my NAME on it! It was for a pilot I did for Aaron Spelling. The whole cast was excited, and we all took pictures. That was cool. When you play Girl #2, you don’t get that. I also remember the first time I had a job on location and production flew me first class. I had never flown first class in my life! (It’s a SAG rule to fly actors first class—and a great rule at that, I might add!) Plus, when you travel they give you per diem to pay for your food and other expenses while away from home. On Starship Troopers, we called it “free money.” Despite the good times, trust me, I don’t forget those days when we weren’t able to order room service or buy the latest designer jeans.

  3

  IN THE MIDST of that run, I moved into a house in West Hollywood that I shared with another girl and two gay guys, one of whom was in my acting class. He was friendly with Chuck James, a boyish-looking junior agent with ICM, one of the industry’s major theatrical agencies. Ambitious, Chuck was smart and self-confident, with sharp instincts, good taste, and an innate sense of the way Hollywood worked. As we got to know
each other, he took an interest in my career, and while he wasn’t in a position to sign me, he offered to represent me unofficially—or to “hip pocket” me, as it’s called, meaning he’d serve as my agent without formal papers. It also meant leaving the Harry Gold agency, which was a risk. But my gut told me it was time for a change, so I went with Chuck.

  We’d barely finished shaking hands before he got me the lead in Tammy and the T-Rex, a low-budget movie about a murdered high school student who reunites with his high school sweetheart, Tammy, after he’s been turned into an animatronic tyrannosaurus. I played Tammy, Paul Walker played opposite me, which wasn’t hard to take, and, yes, I knew the movie was cheesy. But it was a movie! And it was so much better than hearing my agent say, “They went with someone else.” And, as Chuck reminded me, at this stage of my career it was important to work and build both a résumé and a reputation.

  Reputation? As a new actress, I was cognizant of building relationships with two constituencies, the public and producers. Chuck was clear in his advice: I had to think both short and long term. Hollywood’s internal hard drive is based on relationships. So in addition to talent and looks, I wanted to be known as someone who was well liked, easy to work with, and professional, and I tried on all accounts. It was important—especially a decade later when the shit hit the fan and I needed to rely on the goodwill I’d built. Hollywood is full of people with talent and looks. A good attitude went a long way. The little things my parents had taught me starting in childhood, such as a firm handshake, participating in conversations, and saying thank you, were even more important as an adult.