Normally, This Would Be Cause for Concern

by Danielle Fishel

  Usually during an audition, you don’t act these things out, you just carry on with your dialogue. So at the very end of my Cabin Fever scene, I quickly scanned the stage directions and got on with memorizing my lines.

  Next, I perused my The Bold and the Beautiful sides. I would be playing Melinda, a devious, sexy housemaid. The character was carrying on a torturous love affair with her married boss, who was going through a trying time and couldn’t seem to shake his depression. Mental illness was hot stuff, apparently. During this scene, my boss would be sleeping on the couch in a robe. This would frustrate me for some reason, and I’d react by pouring a giant glass of milk on his head.

  Not having watched the show, I had no idea if this was a typical Bold and the Beautiful reaction, in a universe where evil twins wreak havoc on unsuspecting good twins and slapping your mother’s face is an acceptable form of communication. But that’s what it said: I was to pour milk on his head. The boss character would wake up, a little peeved, as you might imagine, and say, “What on earth are you doing?”

  To which, I’d reply, passionately, “Can’t you see I want to do more than pour cold milk on your head?”

  To this day, I have zero idea what that means. For perhaps the same reason, I could not get myself to say it in a way that shows I have any acting talent at all. Every single time I read it—in my head, out loud, it didn’t matter—I said, “Can’t you see I want to do more than pour cold milk on your head?” like a live-action Stewie Griffin. I knew this line reading would have to change before I got into the room, but I put that off for later. It was one line. I could get past it.

  When Wednesday, the day of my auditions, arrived, my first challenge was finding an outfit that said both “horror” and “sexy housemaid,” without being, you know, heavy-handed. I decided on a cute top and jeans. I mean, I didn’t want my outfit to overshadow the amazing performance I was about to give, right?

  I got to the Cabin Fever waiting room five minutes early and signed in. Shortly after I got there, I realized the audition was a producer’s callback. There were at least five people in the room, plus a camera. I was surprised, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. I started the scene, finished my two-ish pages of dialogue, and said thank you when I was done. Feeling pretty good about the way it went, I had turned toward the door to let myself out when I heard, “Oh, no. I’m sorry, but we need you to finish the scene.”

  I turned around.

  “I did finish the scene. In the sides I have, the dialogue ends after my last line.” Maybe I was given the wrong sides? It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened, so it was entirely possible that things had changed since I was sent the script.

  “Yeah,” the director said. “There isn’t any more dialogue, but we need you to act out the stage directions at the end.”

  Oh no.

  “OK,” I said. “May I just have a minute, please?” I turned around and quickly read those directions I’d briefly scanned the week before. Suddenly, words I hadn’t noticed before were jumping out at me:

  Port-a-potty.

  Peeing.

  Flesh.

  Melting flesh.

  And, of course, screaming.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  I turned back around. “You want me to act out going to the bathroom in a port-a-potty?” I asked them.

  “Yes! Yes, we do.”

  At this point, I decided that I couldn’t care less if I got this part. I just wanted to get out of that room without losing all of my dignity. And yet I was a professional. I mimed the scene as follows: Oh, hey, a port-a-potty. Great. I have to go really bad. I entered, closed the fake door behind me, and did the hovercraft (if you’re a woman, you know what this is; if you’re a man, have a woman explain it to you).

  Now, here’s where it got tricky. How do you mime going to the bathroom? Whatever. I reminded myself that I really didn’t want this job anyway, but my Type A personality was raging inside my head. To myself, I thought I must have looked incredibly stupid. Not because I was squatting in thin air but because the director couldn’t know whether I’d started going or not.

  I shook that thought, continued pretending (i.e., hovering and looking bored), looked down, made a concerned expression—What’s this?—and gasped.

  Now for my shining moment of glory. I had to imagine—and act out in front of a room full of people—what it would be like to discover melting flesh (just another day at the office), scream my head off, and try to get out of the invisible port-a-potty, miming motions of being trapped. In the back of my head, I already couldn’t wait to tell my mom about this. I exited the port-a-potty in terror (did I forget to flush the fake toilet?) left the stage, and scene.

  I have never run out of a room so fast in my life.

  Afterward, as you might imagine, I spent a lot of time questioning my career choice and deciding whether I should walk into Marie Callender’s and apply for a waitressing position or head to my next audition. I figured there was no way the Bold and the Beautiful audition could be as humiliating as what I’d just experienced, so off I went.

  You’d think I would have learned by then.

  When I got to the next waiting room and signed in, not a single other soul was there. A few minutes went by, and I started getting nervous. Did I have the right day? Ten more minutes passed, and I was still the only person in the waiting room. Finally, it occurred to me what was happening. They’d already chosen me for the role! Look, they’re not even auditioning any other girls! Ha. I was so proud of myself.

  However, after twenty-five more minutes passed, my mental state went from confused, to elated, to pissed. I couldn’t wait for them to offer me this role, just so I could turn it down on principle! How dare they make me wait for close to an hour without even coming out to check on me. Why did casting directors think they were the only ones who had lives? That was it. I was finally going to take a stand for actors everywhere and just leave!

  Except I didn’t. Fifteen minutes later, I was still fuming in the waiting room when the casting director finally appeared and said those seven magic words: “All right, I’m ready for you now.” And “Sorry for the wait.”

  Ready for me now? Was she serious? I decided to give her a piece of my mind, but what came out was something like “Oh, it’s no problem. Thanks for seeing me.” I like to think there was a note of sarcasm in my voice but probably not. I needed this audition.

  We got into the room, and she turned on the camera. “Do you have any questions for me?” she asked.

  “No, I’m good to go.”

  “OK,” she said. “I’m going to have you state your name, age, height, and weight.” Age and weight, huh? That was a new one, but all right. “Then,” she continued, “I’m going to need you to hold your arms out to the side and turn three hundred sixty degrees, very slowly, while I pan the camera up and down your body.” Ah, the entertainment industry. Where talent and ability are less important than height and weight. I knew I should have gone to Marie Callender’s!

  We started the scene. Everything was going well until it was time to pour the milk on homeboy’s head. Out of my mouth came “Can’t you see I want to do more than pour cold milk on your head?”

  The casting director stopped me. “Can we do the scene again, and this time say the milk line like you have been in love with him for years, and you just want him to acknowledge he loves you, too?”

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “That’s no problem. I’ve been doing this line different ways all week. Can’t you see I want to do more than pour cold milk on your head? ”

  She stopped me again; one more time.

  “Can’t you see I want to do more than pour cold milk on your head?”

  Every time, I said it the exact same way. It was like I’d been possessed and a robot had taken over my brain. I could not say it any other way. It was horrible. I knew it was horrible, she knew it was horrible, and the camera knew it was horrible. The next time she stopped me, I final
ly made up my mind.

  “Listen,” I said. “I understand this may not be the line reading you’re looking for, but it is the choice I’ve made for the character, and I’m not willing to budge on it.” That’s called dramatic integrity, folks. She looked at me incredulously and thanked me for my time.

  It will not surprise you, but I was not offered either role. However, I am pleased to say that since that day, I have never auditioned for another horror movie or soap opera. And you know why? Because I may not be perfect, but we are all too good for that crap.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  WALK MUCH?

  Before we take our relationship any further, I have something important to tell you. Hello, my name is Danielle Fishel, and I am a total klutz. Not just the fall-in-high-heels normal type of klutzes we all know. I mean a serious fall-down-out-of-nowhere, embarrass-the-hell-out-of-friends-and-family type of klutz. If there is something to trip on, I will trip on it. Frankly, if there is nothing to trip on, I will trip anyway. Or spill my drink. Or put my foot in my mouth within five minutes of meeting someone.

  Apparently, this is something I’ve done my whole life. When my mom recounts stories of what I was like as a child, I’m often ridiculously embarrassed. People who have children know that sometimes, actually, 99.99 percent of the time, you have no control over what comes out of your child’s mouth. Thanks to Bill Cosby, those of us without children know that Kids Say the Darndest Things. I fit that description if by darndest Mr. Cosby meant rudest.

  When I was three years old, my mom took me to McDonald’s. We were sitting in a little booth in the middle of the restaurant. Sitting next to us was a very portly person who had quite a bit of food: multiple orders of fries, a few burgers, and some chicken nuggets. I was enthralled.

  One of the most confusing things to me about children is how hard it is to get them to eat. I’ve been around a good number of kids, and every single time, I’ve had to force them to stop playing and shove some food down their gullets. Who doesn’t finish a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Who leaves fries on a plate? Who takes three bites of dinner and asks to be excused so they can go play in the dirt? I’m sure child Danielle did, but adult Danielle would love to sit down to a meal of chicken nuggets and eat them all.

  Child Danielle couldn’t take her eyes off the person who was gobbling food down like it was a last meal. Crap, maybe it was a last meal! I had no way of knowing what was going on in that person’s life. Who am I to judge the eating habits of a person enjoying a meal in McDonald’s? I was there, too. I should have kept my prying eyes to myself and kept my loud mouth shut. I should have, but I didn’t. Suddenly, and loudly, I exclaimed, “Ugh, Mommy, look! Why is that man eating like a pig?” I still had a fry in my own hand when my mom apologized to the woman I had so crudely insulted and yanked me out of that McDonald’s before I even had time to protest.

  As I got older, I learned not to be so judgmental or, at the very least, to keep my judgments to myself. Right around the same time as I learned to think about the feelings of others and not speak every time a thought entered my head, I came down with a case of the klutzes.

  I could spin this differently. I could tell you that I’ve always been fearless when it comes to athletics. I could tell you that I was a bit of a tomboy who regularly beat boys at sports when I was a child. I could tell you that I can throw a perfect spiral with a football and once had dreams of being a quarterback on a football team. But this isn’t that story. This is the story of how I fell off a freaking Big Wheel.

  Not my actual  Big Wheel.

  I grew up in Yorba Linda, California. It is a small suburb of Orange County and was a fantastic place to grow up in the 1980s. We lived on a small cul-de-sac, and there were several kids my age who became my best friends. We all went to the same elementary school and played at one another’s houses. Our moms became friends, and we frequently spent weekends having sleepovers. Jessica was my bestest best friend, and she lived one small street away from me. We lived so close that my mom could stand outside our house and watch me travel the short distance to and from Jessica’s house.

  One evening, just before dinner, I left Jessica’s house on my Big Wheel. I had lead feet and could really make that thing go. Not sure what the horsepower is on a Big Wheel, but I think it must be at least five hundred. The only problem with the Big Wheel was that sometimes, when you pedaled really fast, the wheels stopped spinning but your feet kept moving. It was incredibly irritating. Just when you got going, the wheels would stop, and your feet would be uselessly pedaling. That’s exactly what happened on that fateful day that permanently scarred my face. Damn you, Big Wheel!

  Naturally, when you’re young, everything looks bigger. The street that connected Jessica’s house to my house had a small curve, but when I was five, this curve seemed fit for a NASCAR race. I was supposed to be home before dinner, and, as usual, Jessica and I had played a few minutes longer than we should have, so I was in a hurry to get home. I hopped onto my trusty five-hundred-hp Big Wheel and took off.

  I was on the asphalt and riding along the left side of the road, near the curb. But then I hit a roadblock. A car was parked in front of a home along my path. I could have driven on the curb, but the road was curving away from my house in that direction, and there wasn’t a “curb exit” before my own home. Had I taken the curb, I would have ended up on a busier street that was strictly forbidden for playing and riding Big Wheels. I had no choice. I had to ride my Big Wheel in the middle of the street.

  I expertly managed my Big Wheel around the parked car and was in the middle of the road. And then I heard it. The sound of an oncoming car. I was merely inches off the ground in a brightly colored Big Wheel, and I was going to get hit by a car. I pedaled my little legs as fast as I could and spun the handles of my Big Wheel toward the curb. My wheels stopped. My feet kept moving. Not now, Big Wheel! But it was too late. I could see the wheels of the car rapidly coming toward me, and I had to make a quick decision. Panic or save myself? I chose to save myself by hurling my body off the Big Wheel and onto the asphalt. The Big Wheel tipped over, and we were both sliding across the pebbly, black, filthy asphalt. My face broke my fall. I was bleeding, and barely any skin remained on my face.

  Sure, this experience was tragic for me at the time, but let’s be honest here. Who “falls off” a Big Wheel? How does one manage to do that? How does one manage to fall off something that barely sits off the ground? And if we want to talk reality, that car was probably going less than ten miles per hour. It was also on the opposite side of the road from me, because that’s how we drive in America. I was never in any real danger, except for the danger I put myself in by being born with a serious case of the klutzes.

  This was after my face had healed somewhat. Also, sweet shirt and bow I have there, huh?

  Over the next few weeks, my face scabbed over and I looked horrendous. I didn’t want scabs on my face—who does? I had one scab in particular that really ticked me off. It was one of the smaller scabs, but it was located directly under my right nostril. To me, it looked as if a brown booger was constantly hanging out of my nose, and I wanted it gone. So I would pick at it. Naturally, it would come back. I’d pick at it again. Of course, it would come back, so I’d pick it yet again. This went on despite my mother begging me to stop because it would scar. I didn’t care.

  Sure enough, my whole face healed pretty well, except for that one little spot under my nose. It scarred, all right. It scarred in a way that looks like I have snot running out of my nose and down toward my upper lip. Every makeup artist who has ever put makeup on me has delicately dabbed that spot on my face with a makeup sponge at least five times before I realize what’s going on.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “That’s actually not snot. It’s a scar. It’s my snot scar.”

  And then I remember my faulty Big Wheel and how it left me for dead in my time of need.

  The Big Wheel incident is the first memory
I have of being klutzy, but it didn’t stop there (there is an entire chapter here on the subject, friends).

  I’m pleased to introduce to you some of the most awkward years in anyone’s life: high school.

  The Boy Meets World filming schedule made it impossible for me to attend my regular high school full-time, but being as normal as possible—despite having one of the most unusual jobs ever—has always been important to my parents and me, so I went to “real” school as often as I could.

  I enjoyed my classes on the BMW set, but I loved real school. There were so many more boys to look at, and I had made some really good friends. I liked sitting at the same lunch table every day, hearing my friends talk about the guys they liked or the classes they hated. Being at real school was also the only way I would ever know exactly what had gone on in the latest episode of Beverly Hills 90210, because my mom thought it was “too mature” for me to watch. I had to hear about the adventures and sexual escapades of Brandon, Kelly, Dylan, and Brenda from my friends, who clearly had cooler parents than I did. I mean, I was twelve! Did they think I was some kind of child or something? The nerve!

  So, it’s pretty obvious why I loved being at my real school as much as possible, but most child actors choose to do all of their schooling on set for a few reasons. First, it can be distracting to other students when another student is gone for long periods of time shooting a movie or a TV show, and then he or she just reappears halfway through the year. It’s even annoying and distracting for the teachers. During one particularly horrible year of junior high school, I had a mean, tiny, angry jerk face of a teacher. He hated me and called me Princess. I’d come back to school after being gone for three weeks filming episodes of BMW, and he’d say, “Oh, welcome back, Princess,” in the most condescending way. He almost always followed it up with “Look everyone! Princess decided to come back and join us. Aren’t we lucky?” I used to have dreams of stepping on his head and crushing him beneath the Converse shoes I wore every single day. I also wore a flannel around my waist every day because it was the ’90s, and “grunge” was the look. A baby T, flannel around my waist, and Converse were as far as my good sense/mother would let me take grunge. I was like ten percent committed to the trend.