Stories I Only Tell My Friends

by Rob Lowe

  It was a culture shock. Until I enrolled in Van Cleve Elementary School for the second grade, I had never met kids who had no parents at home, had never heard the term “food stamps,” or seen people beaten to a pulp on the playground for a quarter. Black or white, everyone was completely unlike anyone I had ever encountered. This exposure was all part of Bill’s design for equality and enlightenment. I might have been more interested in these ideas if I hadn’t been so busy avoiding getting my ass kicked on a daily basis.

  My newfound passion for acting wasn’t helping matters. This was Dayton, Ohio, 1972. Not Beverly Hills 1982. There was no People magazine yet. No US Weekly. No Entertainment Tonight, no MTV, no Disney Channel, no Nickelodeon or E! channel. In Hollywood there was zero premium placed on youthful actors other than one-offs like Tatum O’Neal or David Cassidy. With the exception of forerunners like The Brady Bunch, movies and television were the exclusive domain of stories about adults, acted by adults. Kid actors played the children of the stars, passing in and out of a few scenes, if they were lucky. In other words: the modern entertainment industry, in which that scenario would be forever inverted, had yet to be created.

  The notion that some kid from Ohio could become a succesful child actor was ridiculous on its face, particularly to the kids of North Dayton. It was another reason I was different, another reason I felt alone, not to mention it was the constant source of misunderstandings, hurt feelings, and more than a few fights.

  But it was a small price to pay for having an interest that consumed my imagination. I “tried out” (I hadn’t yet heard of the term “audition”) for any child part at the community playhouse and local traveling repertory theater, in college plays, you name it. It made me feel like my life had direction, that I was no longer adrift in the pain and uncertainty of divorce and a bitter move to a tough neighborhood. Onstage I felt a confidence and sense of accomplishment I rarely felt anywhere else. If I happened to be in a production with other kids, though, I could tell I was different. They were in the play to have fun, and to do well, for sure, but it could just as easily have been a Little League team or summer camp project to them. I had fun, too, but I looked at every play as a step on a ladder that would lead me to my future. I was just too young and unsophisticated to know what that future would look like, or how to get it.

  * * *

  My heart is pounding. I am trying to calm my nerves by telling myself that this is how the “real” actors do it, every day of their lives, but I am only eleven and I’ve never had a professional “audition” before. My mom and I are driving up to Columbus so that I can take part in a statewide tryout for the Midwest’s biggest traveling summer stock circuit, the Kenley Players. I may even get to meet John Kenley himself, the legendary producer/owner, who brings some of Hollywood’s top stars to a circuit that includes Dayton, Cincinnati, Columbus, and Warren in Ohio, and Flint, Michigan.

  To me it is the height of the theatrical world to see Sandy Duncan in Peter Pan, Shirley Jones from The Partridge Family doing On a Clear Day You Can See Forever, or Dom DeLuise in Under the Yum Yum Tree, when they play huge fifteen-hundred-seat memorial halls for a week in each city.

  At the hotel in Columbus I stand with about forty other kids. They are all holding eight-by-ten photos of themselves. I have no pictures and I’m embarrassed; clearly these kids are pros. A man wearing eyeliner asks us to do some rudimentary dance moves. I am fixated. Why would a man wear eyeliner?

  One, two, kick ball change, he shrieks at us. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Kick ball change? Kick what ball? All around me kids are pirouetting, spinning like tops. I’m lost. My mom is nowhere to be found. She thinks it’s important that I find my own way, so she is not among the lineup of other mothers holding their kids’ photos, combs, and hairspray.

  Next comes the singing. A twelve-year-old belts out “Gary, Indiana” from The Music Man, complete with a fantastic lisp. (Later, when I talk to him, I realize the lisp is real.) I get cold feet and decide to shit-can my bold choice to do “Where Is Love?” from Oliver! and instead fall back on my go-to musical audition piece, “Happy Birthday.” I get through it fairly well and am immediately led to a huge oak door.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To meet Mr. Kenley.”

  I feel like I’m going to see the wizard. The minion ushers me into a huge suite. I’ve never been in a hotel room this big. There’s a dining room table in it! A man rises from the couch and comes to greet me.

  “Hello, son, I’m John Kenley.”

  Mr. Kenley appears to be wearing whiteface and red lipstick, like Cesar Romero as the Joker from Batman. He looks anywhere from 80 to 180 years old.

  “So you want to be an actor?”

  “Yes, sir,” I manage.

  “Well, we always need local actors and I hear you are getting a lot of experience in Dayton. You are in a song-and-dance group, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir, we play birthday parties and stuff like that. We even just did the opening ceremony of the new courthouse square in downtown Dayton,” I say.

  “What is your group called?”

  “Peanut Butter and Jelly.”

  Kenley eyes me. “Mmmmmmmh,” he says.

  For the first time it occurs to me that Peanut Butter and Jelly is probably not a very exciting name. He offers his hand. It is translucent white and utterly smooth.

  “Good luck, son. We will keep you in mind.”

  My moment with the master behind me, I ride down in the elevator with my mom and two women who proceed to tell us that Mr. Kenley lives during the winter months in Florida as a woman named Joan Kenley. My mind boggles. I look up at my mom, who rolls her eyes and makes a clucking sound, which she does whenever she thinks something is entertaining but highly unacceptable. (I would elicit that cluck often later in life.) As we walk through the lobby, I see a man wheeling industrial traveling cases with the name Liza Minnelli stenciled on them.

  My mom lets me ask the guy what’s going on. He tells me he is a “road manager” for Ms. Minnelli, who is giving a concert tonight.

  I turn back to my mom. “I want to meet Liza Minnelli!” I announce. (Liza has just become a superstar in Cabaret.) In keeping with her ethos of letting me explore the possibilities of my own life, my mom says, “Well, Robby, why don’t you try and find her?”

  With that I’m off. I march right up to the front desk. “Liza Minnelli’s room number, please,” I say. I figure if I can meet a real actress maybe I can learn something about how to be a real actor myself. Incredibly, the man at the desk says, “Ms. Minnelli is in suite 528.”

  Mom smiles at me and I run for the elevators. In a moment I’m standing outside of the suite. I knock as if it’s the most natural thing on earth, as if she would be expecting me. In most other areas of my life I am slightly behind the curve, retiring, sometimes unsure, but when it comes to anything to do with dreams of being an actor I am filled with what I would later learn is called chutzpah. I knock again. There is no response. Now I can hear the sounds of stirring behind the door and a male voice says, “Just a minute.”

  The door opens. A man with no shirt stands there, looking down at me. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Rob Lowe. I want to be an actor and I was hoping to meet Miss Minnelli.”

  The shirtless man stares at me for a very long beat. “Come in,” he says finally.

  I enter the suite. A few bottles of wine, some burnt candles, and room service remnants are scattered about.

  “Liza! Are you awake? You have a visitor.”

  He leads me to the living room. Liza is propped up on the couch, eating chocolates and drinking wine. “Well, hello there, kiddo,” she says in her unique, crackly, high-ended voice.

  Mr. Bare Chest tells her that I am a young actor who has come calling.

  “Well, isn’t that marvelous!” she says, batting her incredibly long eyelashes. “What’s your name?”

  I tell her and she introduces me to the man, who tur
ns out to be her husband, Jack Haley Jr. I have just played a munchkin in The Wizard of Oz and here I am with Dorothy’s daughter and the Tin Man’s son! Liza asks me to sit and offers me one of her chocolates. Gracious and warm, she doesn’t seem to mind for a minute that I have intruded on her privacy. Faced with this proximity to a true superstar at the height of her fame, I’m tongue-tied, but she draws me out, chatting with me about theater and music, asking me questions about myself. It is surreal.

  When I sense that it is time to go, I thank them for letting me come say hi and she kisses me on the cheek.

  “Good luck. Maybe I’ll see you in Hollywood.” She smiles and winks at Jack Haley Jr.

  “Yeah, kid, see you in Hollywood,” he says. As I say good-bye, there is no way of knowing that, in fact, I will see them both again in Hollywood.

  The effect famous people can have on other people’s lives is not to be underestimated. They can inspire us with their talent; make us feel like kings with their kindness, with a hello, a handshake, or an autograph. They seem like creatures from another race with supernatural abilities.

  And the true stars understand that. Liza Minnelli certainly did. When you are around them, the ones at the top of their game, there is always the possibility that some of their magic could rub off on you.

  * * *

  One day I hear that Telly Savalas from Kojak is coming to Dayton. Kojak is the biggest thing on TV, although truth be told, I prefer The Partridge Family and reruns of Lost in Space. That said, if Telly Savalas is going to be in Dayton, I want to meet him.

  It is a brutal, gray, dark winter day and the wind whips through my CPO jacket as I walk to the bus stop for the journey downtown to Rike’s department store. I take the bus everywhere these days, sometimes transferring between a number of different routes. It never occurs to me that I’m often the only kid traveling alone. I love the freedom and the sense of adventure.

  It’s Christmastime, so Rike’s is busy as I screw around riding the escalators backward for a while before following the signs that say, TV’S KOJAK TELLY SAVALAS LIVE, 4TH FLOOR, TODAY! I have no idea why Telly Savalas is in Dayton on the fourth floor of Rike’s and I really don’t care; I’m just thrilled to see this well-known actor in the flesh.

  The line for Telly Savalas wraps around the men’s clothing department and into women’s handbags. I take my place and begin to wait, thinking of what I want to ask him. How did he get his start? Is acting fun? What’s Hollywood like? I know that on his TV show, he is famous for always having a lollipop in his mouth, so I’ve brought him one of my favorites, a Charms Blow Pop, as a gift. As I move forward in the line, I can see him sitting behind a sort of card table, signing an eight-by-ten photo for each person who steps forward. It’s almost my turn now and although I’ve been in the line for over an hour, my excitement hasn’t waned.

  An aide leans in to whisper something to Telly Savalas, who looks up and smiles at the man, relief clearly visible on his face. The man moves to the front of the line and cuts it off with a red velvet rope. “That’s it, folks, thanks for coming.” Savalas bolts like a rocket. He is gone, out of sight somewhere between the kitchenware and women’s handbags. There is a murmur of upset from the remaining crowd in the line. I’m third from the front and deeply disappointed, but I understand how busy Mr. Savalas must be; I’m sure he has to get back to Hollywood and to Kojak.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I say to the aide. “I have a gift for Mr. Savalas.” I fumble in my pocket and offer up my Charms Blow Pop to the man. “Would you please give this to him? I know he likes lollipops.” The man looks at me and smiles. “Sure, kid,” he says. I hand him the lollipop and turn to go. I figure that even though I didn’t meet Telly Savalas, I saw a great actor in the flesh and witnessed what it’s like to be adored by fans, and the excitement that ripples around a star’s appearance.

  I turn around for one last look. I see the aide to Mr. Savalas throw my lollipop in a trash can.

  * * *

  Around this time, my mom and Bill begin to fight almost nightly. Chad is too young to know the slippery slope that this can lead us down. With the day in the lumberyard seared in my memory, I am anxious and scared each night as they scream below my bedroom. I develop a way to mask the yelling and pounding noises so I can sleep. I discover that if I shake my leg in a certain way it vibrates my bed frame and creates a metallic shaking noise that drowns out any other sound. Soon I can’t fall asleep without my shaking-leg trick and it becomes a tic that will stay with me for many years.

  As their marriage deteriorates, so does my mother’s health. She is in bed a lot, and yet I’m never told exactly what is wrong. She can be her normal interested, interesting, supportive self one day and mysteriously incapacitated the next, adding to the volatility in the house and to my ever-present sense that something bad can happen at any minute.

  I escape by bus to the theater and throw myself into any play I can find, like Oklahoma!, The Time of Your Life, and Stop the World—I Want to Get Off (what an apropos title for me!). My dad, always the one looking to have fun and making sure we did the same, arranges for me to appear on a local cable-access kids’ show, Clubhouse 22. I’d watched it for years and loved the host, a hip guy named Malcolm and his sidekick, Duffy the Dog. Walking into the television studio, I feel an electric charge I still get sometimes today. The bright lights, the smell of paint and freshly cut wood, and the thrilling disconnect between fantasy and reality that you feel when you behold a TV or movie set and its unique mixture of beautiful fakery and practical, unexpected reality.

  On the air, I help Malcolm and Duffy the Dog pick a prizewinner from the mailbag and am shocked when Duffy later removes his giant dog head to reveal a very beautiful blonde woman. (Years later, when I discover that my dad had been secretly banging Duffy the Dog, I don’t think I was ever more proud. If that’s the connection that got me onto my first set, so much the better.)

  I’d also finally found a gang of neighborhood kids to hang out with, building forts, throwing mudballs, and playing tackle football. Although they thought I was a “freak” for my “acting,” we bonded over our love of the Pittsburgh Steelers, Pete Rose, and the Big Red Machine, and ignored our differences, like their proclivity for petty theft and the killing and eating of neighborhood squirrels. (I often found skinned, bloody squirrel bodies in my friend’s kitchen sink. His family was from Appalachia—“briar” is the local pejorative for them—and squirrel meat was a traditional food source. It was all very Deliverance.)

  Soon Mom was pregnant again, and in keeping with my tradition of harsh judgments on such matters, I thought, Pregnant? You’re so old!

  She was thirty-three. Micah was born that summer and I hoped it would make our house less volatile. It didn’t. My mom and Bill repainted their bedroom walls black-brown. Even an eleven-year-old knows that this can’t be a good sign. The thing was, I had a good relationship with my stepfather, and I wanted their marriage to last. Bill and I listened to talk radio, cheered Senator Ervin at the Watergate hearings, did door-to-door campaigning for everyone from George McGovern to Senator Howard Metzenbaum.

  When Micah was a couple years old, my mother began to retreat to her bedroom for hours a day, every day. She wrote short stories and poems and kept a daily journal (which she would do for the rest of her life). But her mysterious illness was gaining a grip on her. She began to feel that Chad was also suffering from what she thought were “allergies.” And so she checked Chad and herself into the country’s leading hospital for universal allergics, Henrotin Hospital in downtown Chicago. There they were to fast, having nothing but water for two weeks, and then eat nothing but blueberries. The doctors would see how they reacted. Another fast would follow and another single food would be introduced, each more exotic than the next, culminating in caribou meat. Chad, seven years old and feeling perfectly fine, was terrified, but off he went, the first passenger on the first of my mother’s grand expeditions into the rising dawn of self-fulfillment, self-help, and
self-obsession.

  Upon their release from the universal allergy hospital, both my mom and Chad seemed exactly the same. What had changed was our refrigerator. It was now stocked with buffalo and caribou meats, and we were regimented to drinking special water. We consumed handfuls of vitamins that made me want to vomit. Chad and I looked forward to the weekends when we got to be with our dad and gorge on hamburgers, milkshakes, and pizza. Not surprisingly, on those carefree weekends, Chad felt great.

  * * *

  I’m playing Nerf football with my friends in the mud and slush of a mild winter day. It’s tackle, as usual, and we light into each other without fear of injury, absolutely hammering each other. This is a daily ritual for our gang of friends, football in the cold, kick-the-can when it’s warm; huge games with kids everywhere. I’ve got my uniform: a “breakaway” Steelers jersey over a sweatshirt and Levi Toughskins. I see my mom on the porch waving me in. “Gotta go, guys!”

  “Come on, Lowe! Just a few more plays! You pussy!” they yell good-naturedly, and I am happy that in spite of our different backgrounds, we’ve become such good friends. I lope down the block to my house.

  I cannot remember the specifics of what happens next. I have spent hours, days, and years trying. It is like the Rosemary Woods twenty-minute gap in the Watergate tapes of my childhood. I’ve come to realize that the first divorce and subsequent move was painful enough to block the second one out of my long-term memory. But the facts are clear enough: Mom and Bill are over, my mom will make us forsake Ohio and its gray “unhealthy” winters for a move to California. She has friends there that she met while in the allergy hospital. Unlike the conversation in the lumberyard, I have only vignetted memories of this entire chapter of my life. Clearly, I had learned my lesson well: I would black out, avoid, disassociate anything and everything beyond my comfort level. Saying good-bye to my home, my friends, my dad, Bill, and my grandparents, to leave for a place I had never been or seen, was just too tough for me to process properly. Years later, I would learn the filmmaking phrase for my random, isolated memories; it is called a “montage.”