A Lotus Grows in the Mud

by Goldie Hawn

  He drops me off for my audition, and I hold my head high as everyone watches me climb from his shiny new car, his script in my hand. “Goldie Hawn.” He smiles. “Al Capp is going to make you a big star.”

  I giggle and wave good-bye, looking longingly after him as he disappears down the street. Glancing at my watch, I realize I am now horribly late for the bathing suit audition and decide to skip it.

  Who wants to be pawed by dirty old men? I tell myself, allowing a little of Bobby’s enthusiasm to rub off on me. Any day now, I’ll be having an audition for one of the greatest cartoonists in America. And then I can buy Mom wall-to-wall carpeting, just like she always wanted.

  Walking down Fifth Avenue, I think about what he said and I start to feel less confident. Do I really want to be a star? That has never been part of my plan. All the stars I’ve ever read about have screwed-up lives or die tragically young. That’s the last thing I want; I just want to dance.

  Days grow into weeks, and still there is no call from Bobby as promised. My job as a dancer at the Texas Pavilion of the World’s Fair keeps me busy and tired. But I can’t help but feel a little sad. Like the cockroach that shares my apartment, my Prince Charming seems to have slipped through the cracks.

  The hammering on my door wakes me from a deep sleep. “Goldie!

  Goldie Hawn?” a voice yells. “Wake up. It’s me, Bobby.”

  Jumping out of bed, I pull a robe around me, tackle the locks and peep out through the gap allowed by the heavy-duty chain. “Bobby? Hang on a minute.” I close the door, slide the bolt on the chain and let him in.

  “Hi, Goldie,” he says, luminous in my shabby apartment in his starched white shirt and pressed pants. I love the way he smells, and I love the way he says my name. I hope Deidre wasn’t in the hall when he came up, or the man in the basement apartment.

  Blinding me with his smile, Bobby plants himself on my bed and picks up the telephone. “Goldie, I want you to talk to Mr. Capp. I just spoke to him, and he’s so excited about meeting you that he wants to talk to you right now. He’s out of town, but when he gets back into the city you’re first on his list.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes. Now, let me call him. He likes to speak to all of his actresses first.”

  Before I can stop him, he is dialing Mr. Capp’s number. When he gets through, he hands the receiver to me. I freeze. What am I going to say to this world-famous stranger? I don’t even know him. I can feel myself perspiring.

  “Oh, hello, Mr. Capp, this is Goldie.”

  “Darling Goldie,” Mr. Capp’s deep voice bellows his reply. “I can’t wait to meet you. Bobby’s told me all about you. I’m in Washington, D.C., right now, accepting an honorary doctorate from the American University, but when I get back we’ll arrange a meeting and you can read for me.” He ends his sentences with a strange little giggle, like a secret afterthought.

  Weird. Just weird.

  The audition is arranged for the following Friday, and Bobby prepares me for it. “Al Capp is the funniest man alive, and is adored by women all over the world,” he says. “He’s been like a father figure to me. I want you to be extra nice to him, honey. I don’t want to let him down.”

  I can’t hear anything after the word “honey.” My heart is hammering under my ribs.

  On Friday, rain falls from the sky in sheets, and my hair won’t do a damn thing. Staring at myself in the mirror, helplessly trying to fight the ravages of humidity, I tease it higher, spraying it rock-hard and hoping it will stand tall for my big audition. What if Mr. Capp likes me? What if I get the job? What if I end up in Hollywood and become the big star Bobby told me I’d be? What about Mom and Dad? The whole idea scares the hell out of me.

  I smear on my last coat of frosted lipstick and slip into my favorite pink crocheted dress. I wrap a string of orange pop beads around my neck, grab an umbrella and dash out of my armored door. Flying down the stairs, I leap over Deidre without a second thought and out into the rain. I open my umbrella but the damn thing breaks. Running through the wet streets, with spokes sticking everywhere and the black cloth flapping round my head like a nun’s habit, I finally manage to flag down a cab before my hair is completely ruined. He pulls away at such speed that my head snaps back against the seat.

  “Are you here to see Mr. Capp?” the doorman greets me at 400 Park Avenue. “Fourteenth floor.” He points to the elevator.

  How does he know who I am?

  The elevator bounces, settles, then opens. A man dressed as a butler is waiting and ushers me into the apartment with grand formality. “My name is Eric, miss,” he says in an impeccable English accent. “Mr. Capp is running a little late, but he will be here shortly. Please take a seat.”

  Openmouthed, I stand in the middle of this amazing space, admiring the view and the paintings and the objets d’art and the hundreds of books lining the walls. Needing to sit down, I ease myself onto a fluffy white couch that swallows me up in its feathery softness. Struggling to escape, I wish my dad could see me now. We would have shared a good laugh at how absurd this all was.

  Suddenly remembering why I am here, I pull my script from my white vinyl bag and apprehensively study my part for the umpteenth time.

  The butler waltzes into the room carrying an elaborate silver tea set, which he sets down grandly in front of me. “Mr. Capp likes his women to pour his tea for him,” he says with a smirk before leaving as quietly as he came.

  His women? But I’m not even a woman yet. I stare at the two-hundred-pound tea service and wonder how best to tackle the teapot, which looks like it weighs more than I do. I stare at it defiantly—my first test. I practice lifting it up and down with both hands over an imaginary cup. I try resting my elbows on the table to take the great weight but realize that pushes my bottom too far into the air. Determined to look elegant, I continue practicing for several minutes until I realize that someone has come into the room and is watching me silently from the doorway.

  His bellowing voice startles me. “Goldie! Having trouble with the teapot?”

  I stammer and crash it back down to the tray, most inelegantly, as Eric appears to take his boss’s damp coat.

  Al Capp chuckles. “I’m sorry I’m late, but I’m so happy to finally meet you.”

  A burly man about six feet tall and in his mid-fifties, he barrels toward me. His body tilts and rolls. Oh my God! He has only one leg. I mean, he has two, but one is false. Bobby never mentioned that. Desperately trying not to notice, I extend my hand and giggle nervously. He giggles back, and wobbles away from me with the words, “I’ll be right back.”

  When he returns, he is dressed in a silk dressing gown.

  I can feel every muscle in my body tighten.

  He chuckles. “Little Goldie, I hope you don’t mind, but I slipped into something more comfortable.”

  I do mind.

  “Now, dear, why don’t you pour us both some tea?” I hesitate, staring at the teapot again, and he laughs. “You’ll do just fine.” His guttural chuckle sends an unpleasant chill up my spine. I now realize it is not a chortle of happiness but a peculiar kind of nervous tic. It makes me even more uneasy.

  Beads of sweat roll down my armpits. I feel his gaze inspecting me as I follow his directions and pour tea into paper-thin porcelain cups. His body pitches and rolls around the coffee table to reach the other half of the L-shaped couch. Losing his balance, he falls back into a sea of down.

  “Ah, that’s better,” he says with a sigh.

  Suddenly, I can’t stop talking. “Mr. Capp, I love your apartment. Bobby has said such wonderful things about you. I just arrived in New York from Maryland. My father plays violin, and my mom is a typical Jewish mother. She wanted me to marry a Jewish dentist, but I really want to dance on Broadway…”

  He stops me. “Let’s not waste any more time. I want to tell you that if this works out today, as I’m sure it will, I will put you with one of David Merrick’s finest acting coaches. You know who he is?” />
  “Oh yes. He’s the biggest producer on Broadway.”

  “You’ll have to work very hard. This is a difficult business.”

  “Mr. Capp, I’m a dancer. Nobody works harder than we do. I know what it’s like to pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again.”

  “Good, Goldie, that’s good. Now stand up and walk to the middle of the room.”

  I do as I am told. The moment has come to prove my talent, and I am terrified. I read aloud the part of Tenderlief Ericsson. I know it by heart but pretend I don’t. Unlike my audition for Juliet, this time I hold on to the script for dear life.

  “You don’t have to project quite so much,” Mr. Capp interrupts. “This is film, not theater, so you can just speak normally.”

  “Sorry,” I say and start again. I begin to trust him more. He is actually teaching me. I take a deep breath, relax a little and go on.

  He stops me again. “Goldie, I would now like you to read the part of Daisy Mae. I think you could be very good in that part.”

  “Daisy Mae?” I am stunned. “But she’s the lead. She’s beautiful and sexy and large-breasted! Mr. Capp, I really don’t think I look like she does.”

  “Nonsense!” he roars. “I created her!”

  He watches me with unblinking eyes that sear right through me. He orders me to go to the back of the room and walk toward him as if he were the camera. “I want to see how you play to the camera,” he says. “Look kinda stupid. Like Daisy Mae.”

  I go with it. Look stupid? Well, okay. He is my coach. Using my beads as a prop, I put them in my mouth and dangle them from my lips, eyes wide. I try to look as vacant as I can, all the while imagining that he is the camera.

  “Okay, now go and stand in front of the mirror and let me see your legs.”

  I look around nervously. I pray for the butler to come back with fresh tea. “Oh, don’t you want me to read from the scene?”

  “In a minute.” Seeing my hesitation, he chides, “Go on, don’t be shy. I’ve seen legs before.”

  I bet you have, I think. Obeying somewhat reluctantly, I walk to the mirror, turn slowly and lift my dress just above my knee. I tilt my head and giggle.

  “Higher.”

  I raise my dress another inch.

  “Higher.”

  My fingers freeze on the edge of my skirt. I’m beginning to feel that this isn’t right. I mean, where is all this getting me? What about the part? Looking up, I say, “Mr. Capp, I’m going to be late for work.”

  He chuckles again, which only makes me feel worse. I am getting sick of that damn chuckle.

  “I have to get all the way out to Long Island,” I explain, looking longingly at the elevator door. “I’m afraid I’ll miss my train.”

  “Come over here, Goldie,” he says, patting the couch next to him. “You won’t miss your train.”

  My knees lock, and I stand stock-still staring at him for a moment, in an agony of confusion. Part of me wants to run from the room; the other part tells me to do as I’m told. After what seems like forever, I walk over and gingerly sit on the edge of the couch.

  Afraid to make eye contact, I stare hard at the driving rain beyond the picture windows, biting my bottom lip.

  A dark energy fills the room. A shiver runs up and down my spine. When I let my eyes drift slowly back toward Mr. Capp, I see that my host has parted his silk robe to reveal a flaccid penis resting heavily against his wooden leg.

  The breath rushes out of me. All I can hear in my head are Bobby’s words: I want you to be extra nice to him, honey. I feel sick to my stomach. Bobby tricked me. Al Capp tricked me. Tears prick my eyes, and I bite my lip until I can taste blood. Finally, summoning up my courage, I speak, my voice quivering in my throat.

  “Mr. Capp, I will never, ever get a job like this.”

  Sneering, he quickly covers himself up.

  “Then go back and marry a Jewish dentist!” he spits, waving a hand at me dismissively. “You’ll never get anywhere in this business, Goldie Hawn.” Pulling himself up on his one good leg, he snarls, “I’ve had them all, you know, much better-looking than you. Now go on and get the hell out of here!” He throws a twenty-dollar bill at me as I fumble with my purse and umbrella. “You don’t want to miss that damn train.”

  I tear out of that apartment as fast as I can. I rush past the disgusting butler and the tittering doorman, both of whom I now realize are accomplices for this ugly routine. I run out into the pouring rain. I run for several blocks without using my umbrella, hoping to wash the filth of Al Capp and Bobby the Pimp from my memory.

  Drenched and exhausted, with his twenty-dollar bill clutched tightly in my hand, I hail a cab. I can’t be late for work.

  Later that night, when I eventually get home from work, dog tired and still deeply affected by my experience, I find a letter waiting for me in my mailbox. It is from my mother and it is a day late.

  “Goldie dear,” she wrote. “Daddy and I were very excited to hear about this great opportunity you are having with this cartoonist, Mr. Capp, but I have to tell you something, honey. Please know that while these men may offer you the casting couch, while they may promise to give you your first break, it is your talents and your gifts that will sustain you in the eyes of the public. And it is your inner self that can decide what best to do. Remember that. I love you, Mommy.”

  There is never a happy ending for people who lose their integrity. Not just in show business but in the fast-paced competitive world we live in as well, where so much energy is put into winning, at the sacrifice of so much.

  Knowing your limits, and that there is a limit to getting what you want, comes from a sense of self-respect instilled in you from an early age. It takes guts to stand up in the face of what you really want, but you have to know in your heart that if you make the wrong choice you won’t be able to live with yourself for the rest of your life. There is only one person who matters at that point and that’s you. If you give in to such pressures, you strip away your self-respect, your personal ethics and your standards—the very things that create the fiber that will hold you together for the rest of your life.

  We can instill integrity in our children by teaching them not to be afraid to speak the truth about things they believe and not to be intimidated by someone else’s view of what’s right and wrong. To be able to stand back and observe clearly. The hope is that children respect their parents enough to want to please them. It mattered so much to me what my mother and father thought because I had so much regard for them. So, the circle continues, and I hope that what I learned from my parents I have passed on.

  Once you have decided to hang on to your integrity, you have a much easier path to knowing yourself and what you believe in. Because on that last day of your life, that’s all that matters. That’s where you find peace in your life, your loved ones and your god.

  It was several years before Al Capp’s cartoon characters, including Tenderlief Ericsson, were taken up by a network and run on national television. I saw the program listed one night, and I laughed out loud. By now a household name myself, I couldn’t resist sending him a telegram.

  It said: DEAR MR. CAPP, CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR SHOW. AS YOU CAN SEE I DIDN’T HAVE TO MARRY A JEWISH DENTIST AFTER ALL. SIGNED GOLDIE HAWN.

  to my children

  My darlings, the pain of growth can be excruciating, to emerge as a whole person as we thread our way through the fire of enlightenment. The tunnel seems black and foreboding, but the pinpoint of light that appears as an apparition is real. It is the true essence of life, and the manifestation of all the perfection in you. Never to be snuffed out by the negative emotions that mask its perfect illumination. Dressed in our armor, we hack our way through the darkness, blindly trying to escape the void of the unknown. At times, we feel penned in by the events of our journey. Be still, watch and listen. Don’t run away from the darkness, for therein lies the answers to untold truths you already know. The light may be there to guide you, but you have to f
irst travel through the dark to discover a more fully illuminated you.

  life’s purpose

  When viewing life from a thousand feet up, we can see our purpose more clearly.

  I can hardly hear myself think, let alone speak. My friend Spiro is yelling something in my ear above the music blasting out of the giant speakers in the Peppermint Lounge, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. Laughing, taking another slug of my scotch on the rocks, I shrug my shoulders and we sit at the bar and carry on watching the go-go dancers.

  “Do you want to dance?” Spiro finally yells at me during the momentary break between numbers.

  “Sure!” I cry, still energized after a five-hour shift at the World’s Fair. I’ve never worked so hard. I’m about ninety pounds of twisted steel. I spend every night screaming, whooping and hollering, wearing a full cancan costume of red-and-black ruffles, performing high kicks, cartwheels and splits with the rest of the troupe. I have about twenty seconds to change into a black fringed go-go dress before rushing back onstage to dance the pony, the froog or the monkey to the latest hits.

  Kicking, spinning, yelling and jumping to the four-four beat, I rush out on cue each night and dance my butt off. Shimmying my fringe in the black-and-white strobe lights, I hardly dare look down. I am twelve feet up, above the bar. Thank God, Spiro has promised to catch me if I fall.

  He has brought me to the Peppermint Lounge in Midtown Manhattan tonight after work. Now he leads me up onto the dance floor, where we move and groove to the music, trying to find a space in the crowd. Dressed in a pink top, psychedelic miniskirt and white go-go boots, I lose myself dancing with him, and then spin around to dance with a stranger, before bumping back against Spiro. Then comes my favorite part. As the music blares out of the speakers, the whole club throws their hands into the air and starts to sing as one to “Twist and Shout,” laughing together as we launch into the song. What a blast.