Stories I Only Tell My Friends

by Rob Lowe

  I figured I could at least make my own spending money by getting some sort of part-time job. True to my passion, I found one at the Malibu Cinema, taking tickets, making popcorn, and threading the projector. The owner seemed gruff and fairly mean-spirited, but how bad could he have been to give a kid like me a legit job at my age?

  I lasted about fourteen days. First, I was caught kissing Holly Robinson behind the Coke machine. Then came the Friday night opening of Dustin Hoffman’s new opus, Agatha. (This was a time in Hollywood when an A-lister would still do a movie whose title didn’t refer to his own character.) I had been struggling to learn how to properly thread the new projector. It was a complicated system where each reel was put on its own “platter” and then run through the projector at the proper moment. Obviously, placing the reels of film in the correct order was paramount. But somehow I bungled it. The audience erupted in confusion and rage as one moment Dustin Hoffman was in a rainstorm, hanging dangerously off a rooftop, and in the next angle, he wore a tuxedo and danced the foxtrot. To make matters worse, in the next moment, the end credits began and when they were over, there was Dustin doing some sort of love scene. The full house asked for its money back. I was fired on the spot.

  I didn’t have much luck as a busboy either. I lasted three weeks at the Nantucket Light before I was a casualty of “downsizing.” It probably didn’t help that I was known for sneaking free slices of mud pie in the walk-in freezer.

  All along, I continued my journeys into Hollywood for auditions. The best my agency could do for me were meetings on commercials. TV and movie meetings were clearly way beyond both of our credentials. I had recently gotten a commercial for Carl’s Jr., a West Coast hamburger chain. I was pumped because I loved hamburgers and the concept of being paid to eat as many hamburgers as I wanted sounded pretty good to my teenage mind. I also got a speaking part this time, biting into a burger and yelling “I’ve got taste!” over and over.

  By the fourth hour, I was ready to vomit. My costar, a new local L.A. newscaster named Regis Philbin, was clearly a pro. After every bite he’d yell, “I’ve got taste!” and spit his mouthful of burger into a bucket he had strategically hidden underneath his chair. I had a lot to learn.

  The commercial ran relentlessly that spring and did wonders for my social standing at school. Even some of the cool surfer set would call out “I’ve got taste!” when we passed in the halls. It wasn’t quite enough juice for them to let me paddle out and try my hand at surfing (they’d still beat the shit out of me) or to earn a seat on the back of the bus, but it was a start. And I’d take it.

  Everyone knows that the teenage years are a time of profound emotion. The moody, exuberant, passionate, lethargic teen is a figure that has a special place in the hall of fame of clichés—and for good reason. It’s all true. When we ourselves are teenagers, we are living life as it comes. There is no point in reflection. We are so inexperienced, there is very little to reflect on. If we fail a big test, we just move on. We win an award and we smile and say thank you. We fall in love and it’s a thrill. We get our hearts broken and we suffer. And we feel all of these highs and lows in our absolute core; it feels as if it’s never happened to anyone else because it’s never happened to us before. Only later can we look back in the comfort that perspective brings.

  I’m writing this looking out the window at my younger son playing with his dog, David. He is exactly the same age I was at this point in this narrative. Every parent feels that wondrous, prideful pang when they see glimpses of themselves in their children. I’m no different. I’m looking at him now rolling on the grass, backlit by the afternoon sun. He is a boy-man, wanting everything the world has to offer and ready for none of it. Wanting a girl, with no idea of how to get one. Wanting to make a mark in the world but unsure of how to do it. I look at my boy and I’m looking at myself. I want to run out into the yard and tell my young self that it’s okay, all will be revealed in time. I want to give the advice I know he needs to hear. And on the occasions when I do talk to my boys about love, career, family, and all of life’s unknowable mysteries, I realize that I am also talking to myself. And I wonder: Would my life have turned out differently had I had this perspective?

  My first love was Corrie, a china-blue-eyed blonde with a rosebud mouth. She, for some reason, had gone totally undiscovered by the ruling class in spite of her archetypal beach-bunny credentials. But that was good news for me, as there was no competition for this overlooked beauty. I was stunned when she indicated that she was interested in me. I was about to graduate from Malibu Park Junior High School, and she was a year behind me. Looking back, I realize that probably gave me a leg up.

  It was intense and full throttle from the get-go, the kind of euphoric mutual connection that I hope my boys will not have to suffer. Every spare moment was spent together, and we drove our parents crazy shuttling us the fifteen or so miles to each other’s houses. I was a fifteen-year-old walking hormone. And after years of disinterest from most of the female set, I couldn’t quite believe that a girl like her could like a guy like me, someone who never really fit in. But she did—and it changed my life forever.

  * * *

  The pilot comes on to tell us that we are at our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. I look around the plane and I want to throw myself out an exit and plummet to the ground. I am on my way to my annual sojourn in Ohio and I am miserable. I want to be back in Malibu with my new girlfriend. It is torture to go a full day without seeing her and now I’m to be gone for five weeks! I am sentenced to a summer of tennis in 90 percent humidity and walks to the Dairy Queen with my brother, while she will be lying out topless on the beach or sunbathing on her roof, covered in Crisco, while the local sheriff’s helicopter circles her house. That scenario would make even Hugh Hefner insecure.

  After a week back in Dayton, I’m dying. Even my ability to consume as many beers as I want doesn’t dent my depression and longing. Corrie and I talk on the phone, but she’s rarely home—it’s the summer in Malibu after all. I’m stuck inside, avoiding the midwestern humidifying oven outside, staring at the phone, waiting for the moment we can connect.

  Finally, the phone rings. It’s my agent. He tells me there is an open audition (i.e., cattle call) for a new TV series I might be right for. If I can fly myself back to L.A. next week, he can get me to read for the producers. I jump at the chance. “One way or another, I’m coming back,” I say.

  My dad and mom have a moment of détente and take pity on me. They okay my return. As I pack to fly back to L.A., I’m giddy with excitement. This is what I’ve been dreaming of, what I’ve been wishing for with such passion. I’m going home to my girlfriend. And, oh yeah, I’m also going to audition for a new TV series. It’s called A New Kind of Family. It is for ABC and the story focuses on two divorcées and their young kids sharing the same house. (Years later, this exact premise will be redone to great success in Kate & Allie.) I have never had a proper audition. For commercials, they basically just ogle you and send you home. Now I will have to attempt the horrific gauntlet that is The Hollywood Audition.

  Apparently there is not yet a script, so for my reading I am given a scene from Happy Days. I will be reading the part of Richie Cunningham in a scene where he has a malt with Fonzie. Obviously, this has absolutely nothing to do with the premise of the new show or the character I would be playing. But what the hell? They’re the experts, right?

  Back in Malibu, if I’m not at the beach with Corrie, I’m studying my lines. I have no coach, no feedback from anyone whatsoever. I don’t run lines with anyone and I prepare just like I have been since the days of Peanut Butter and Jelly. I also am still so green that I’m blessed by ignorance of the odds against me. There are probably hundreds of actors auditioning for this part and very likely there is a “list” of ten actors that the producers are likely to cast. I am too inexperienced to know that getting this part is akin to walking into a 7-Eleven, buying a lottery ticket, and winning the Powerball.
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  Mom is behind the wheel of our shitty Volvo, making a rare journey into the toxic summer smog of L.A. Although I am sometimes pissed that she won’t give me a lift into Hollywood, I secretly admire that she finds it just as important to drive my little brother Micah to a playdate as to facilitate my budding career. My mom will never be in the ranks of eight-by-ten-clutching, armchair-directing, aggressively hustling stage mothers who haunt every waiting room in show business. Hers is a different kind of support. From her I get ownership of my own life and a confidence to go my own way. On occasions like today, when it is really important, she will hold my hand. But mostly she guides me from the sidelines, quietly. And the message to me is: This game is yours to win.

  In Hollywood, it works like this: You don’t get an audition for anything unless you have an agent. He or she gets a call from a casting director who is working for producers who are casting a role written by a writer. In movies, the writer is weak and has little to no say about anything having to do with the script they wrote. The producers have a big say (executive producers do not) and the director has the final word. However, in recent times, all of these players have been trumped by the desires of the “foreign sales” and “marketing” departments. These are the sole entities that choose the actors in 95 percent of all movies made today. In television, the writer is king, the director is weak and the producers are grunts, and the executive producers hold the power. Some executive producers write as well and that makes them “show runners,” and they truly rule the TV roost. However, once they make a decision, they go to their bosses for approval, the vice presidents in charge of programming (although the actual title for this position changes year to year and network to network), who then vet everything for the head of the network, who is God.

  So, if you are looking to get a part in a movie or TV show, regardless of how big or small the part might be, it is wise to think of yourself in a live-action version of the arcade game Frogger. Any one of these layers of folks can blindside you out of contention for any reason at all, and you must navigate your way over and beyond each gatekeeper you encounter. As I make my way through this process on A New Kind of Family, I, of course, have no concept of the agendas and personal fiefdoms I am conquering along the way. I just practice the same principles I use to this day. I know my lines, I give the character a point of view, and I keep it honest.

  Mom pulls the Volvo into the headquarters of ABC, then located in Century City and known to me as the location of future earth in Planet of the Apes. We are early, so we get a soda and wait in the giant three-story lobby.

  “How do you feel, Robbie?”

  “Good.”

  “You want to practice?” (My mom always said “practice,” like I was a baton twirler.)

  “I’m okay, thanks,” I say, as out of the corner of my eye I see the casting director approaching.

  “You ready?”

  I nod. Mom gives me a hug and I follow the casting director through giant double doors. As I walk away from my mother I am also walking away from my childhood. When I come out of those big doors, I will have a full-time job, and that job will subject me to pressures and scrutiny that some adults never face. It will fulfill my dreams and break my heart and lead me to experiences beyond imagining. I will never be the same. I’m fifteen years old; my life is just beginning.

  CHAPTER 7

  The tiny agency that represents me has another young client who has just landed a big role. She lives in New York, is around my age, and is going to be in California for some meetings. My agent arranges for us to have lunch. My relationship with Corrie is the extent of my “dating,” so I’m a little nervous even though this is not a romantic meeting. Any time a young teenager spends with a member of the opposite sex is fraught with expectations. Will she like me? Will I like her? Is she cute? Will she think I’m cute? What if I make a fool of myself?

  The scouting report says that she’s an extremely smart musical-theater actress who is taking Broadway by storm as the new “Annie.” Those are big heels to fill, so she’s gotta have some serious game. I’m nervous to meet her. I’m just one of four kids in a TV family but she’s fuckin’ Annie! After more consideration than you would use to choose the location of a multinational war council, I decide to host young Annie at a local Malibu restaurant called Paradise Cove—famous to me because I lost my virginity on the nearby beach, possibly famous to Annie because it is the home of Jim Rockford’s trailer in the legendary TV show The Rockford Files. I also bring my girlfriend with me because I am an idiot.

  My mom drops Corrie and me off at the restaurant and I see my agent waiting outside.

  “Hi, Rob. Glad you could do this. She’s excited to meet you.”

  “Same here,” I say.

  “Who’s this?” my agent asks, with a smile.

  “This is Corrie, my girlfriend.”

  “Oh.”

  I can’t tell if my agent disapproves; it will take me years to understand the inner workings of agents.

  “Well, come on in. She’s waiting.”

  Sitting in a corner booth is a curly-haired, brown-eyed, slender girl with a shy smile.

  “Hi, I’m Rob. This is Corrie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “You too,” she said. “I’m Sarah. Nice to meet you.”

  Soon we are eating french fries and talking shop. I am in awe of Broadway and can only imagine how difficult it must be to play a role like hers. Of course I mention nothing of my musical-theater experience in Peanut Butter and Jelly, instinctively knowing that I am in no position to compete in a “credit swap.”

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Fifteen.”

  “Do you have a … a boyfriend or anything?”

  “Not really,” she says, glancing quickly at Corrie, who has been bored to death by our conversation. I begin to feel guilty. Corrie is a normal kid. She can’t relate to Sarah and me. Why would she? She stays quiet as two young actors connect over a mutual passion.

  As we say good-bye, Sarah takes my arm.

  “Will you do this forever, you think?”

  “Do what forever?”

  “Acting, silly.”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. What about you?”

  “It’s what I love,” she says, her eyes glowing with sweet intensity. “I hope I can do it forever.”

  She says this with a solemnity that is so honest that it moves me. “Or at least until I’m an adult!” she adds, laughing.

  We hug a good-bye and, as my agent drives her away, I wonder if I will ever see her again.

  Twenty-one years later, I’m at the Golden Globes ceremony, nominated for Best Performance by an Actor in a Television Series—Drama for The West Wing. I don’t win that night, and while I’m disappointed, I’m thrilled when Sarah Jessica Parker does win for her smash, Sex and the City. She said she wanted to do it forever, I remember as she walks up to the podium.

  * * *

  There is not much to compare with the uproar that a successful child actor can cause in his family. Forget the esoteric touchy-feely discussions of the pluses and minuses of teen fame. The simple, logistical hurdles will kill you. What about school? Who is going to drive you back and forth? State law requires a legal guardian to be with you at all times; which family member will that be or do you hire someone to do it? If so, how do you find someone you can trust? My mom and Steve agonize over these decisions as Corrie and I celebrate the fact that I won’t be going back to Ohio and … I just might become a TV star.

  I cram as much time as I can hanging out at Little Dume Beach with my friends before I start shooting the show. Corrie lathers on the Crisco oil, in her tiny leopard-print bikini. My buddies and I just laugh and boogie board. The Surf Crew, now calling themselves the Point Dume Bombers, are not impressed with my new job and still threaten to pummel me whenever they think I might try to actually learn to surf. I may become famous, but I ain’t gonna become a surfer.

  My mom’s commitment to giving all her bo
ys equal attention prevents her from spending twelve hours a day sitting on a set with me while I shoot. Chad and Micah have schoolwork and Little League and all the other activities of boys their ages. When Mom isn’t holed up for hours mysteriously writing God knows what in her office, she wants to be at home for her two younger sons. After meeting a number of candidates for the job as my guardian (including one of the Penn boys; I don’t remember which one, Sean or Michael, but one of them wanted to try acting and thought being on set would be a good way to learn), we settle on a big, shaggy-haired Bostonian named Clark. He drives a ridiculous old cruise-ship Cutlass, complete with big swatches of primer paint prominently displayed across its body. We will make quite an impression as we roll up to the soundstage. Clark is a huge sports fan and not averse to buying my friends and me the odd six-pack of Coors. I’m not sure what my mom’s criteria for a guardian were, but he certainly met mine.

  The next step in organizing my life as a working child actor was dealing with my education. I was always a fairly good student with better-than-average grades. I actually liked learning (which did nothing to help my social standing), so I hoped that I would be able to easily handle the transition from school to private on-set tutoring, which law required to be a minimum of three hours a day. I was due to start high school in the fall (Santa Monica High began with sophomore year) and I would have to get their permission to stay enrolled while working. Many kid actors opt to drop out of traditional school to avoid the difficulties of social reassimilation and inevitable academic catch-up. I wanted to go to the same school as all my friends and be as normal as I could. After much wrangling, “Samohi” begrudgingly let me stay enrolled and accepted the state-sanctioned tutor as a legitimate proxy.

  Rolling up to the soundstage for my first day, I feel the light-headed electric pulse that I imagine is common to any kind of dream fulfillment. A little over three years ago, I was a kid in Dayton, Ohio, having my showbiz illusions shattered by an aide-de-camp of Telly Savalas but still fantasizing about life as an actor. Now I’m about to work my first day as one of the stars of a show on ABC.