by Liz Astrof
I’m a serial and unrepentant sinner. And there my brother was telling me how my actions had consequences that went beyond just needing to atone once a year. Which I don’t even do.
In a voice that was serious and calm and a tad too religious-y, he tried to explain that heaven was real and suggested condescendingly that I broaden my horizons on the subject by watching Meryl Streep and Albert Brooks in Defending Your Life, and while I felt I technically won that argument by informing him that Defending Your Life was not a documentary (I think), my brother held fast to the heaven thing. Based on my heathen, shrimp-eating, TV-watching-on-Shabbat, shoulder-baring-shirt-wearing lifestyle—it sounded like I wouldn’t be meeting Jeff or Meryl Streep in heaven.
• • •
FOR THE MOST part, Jeff and I avoided the topic of religion after that last conversation—he felt I was judgmental, and I felt it was really, really stupid. I avoided religious people of any stripe. They pissed me off. It was my own act of protest against God getting his/her tenterhooks on my brother. I actually went to great lengths to narrow my eyes at them. I think once I even hissed at a clump of temple-goers. Under my breath. In case God was listening.
Yet despite my animosity, I was becoming aware that “believers” were showing up at important times in my life—Orthodox Jews in particular. They came out of the woodwork to help me. Worse, they were good people.
The first time I noticed was when I very, very, totally accidentally hit a pedestrian with my car. I was driving the kids and we were singing “Happy Birthday” to Cathy—well, into Dad and Cathy’s answering machine. Phoebe was refusing to join in, and as I turned back to yell at her to sing—“It’s your grandmother’s birthday, goddamnit”—I heard that unmistakable thunk of my car hitting something . . . human. I didn’t want my kids to wind up with PTSD or a pill problem, though, so I needed to remain calm.
I failed.
“I HIT A PERSON!” I shouted at the top of my lungs and pulled over, hoping I wouldn’t hit anyone on the way to the curb and dropping the phone, leaving about five minutes of subsequent commotion on my parents’ answering machine tape (which my dad promptly smashed to pieces with a hammer in his basement, just in case the recording could be counted as evidence).
The woman I hit was in her twenties, with ripped jeans that may have been ripped before—it was hard to tell. My jeans were ripped, after all, and I’d never been hit by a car, but hers were ripped and she had been hit by a car. By my car. By me. I HIT A PERSON! She hadn’t broken anything, the grill of my car having absorbed most of her impact. She would be okay, thank (okay) God. Her elbow dent and raspberry nail polish were embedded in my hood. I’d drive that crime scene around for the next three months—a reminder that I HIT A PERSON!
Immediately, people poured out of the nearby coffee place and office buildings to see what had happened. Of course, they quite rightfully tended to her first, since she was the victim and everything. I was pretty shook up, too, though, and was no doubt crying and possibly hyperventilating as I checked on my oblivious kids, thank (okay) God, and tried to call Todd because the kids needed to get to school and someone was saying something about—holy shit—cops.
“It happens!” said a very kind-looking man walking toward me. It does?!
He told me he saw the accident and that he knew I wasn’t texting or speeding, that I was just . . . not a very good driver. And he stuck around until the policewoman showed up and told her the same thing (female cops are not huggers, by the way), after which this angel of a man gave me the number of a lawyer, should I have need of one. He wasn’t even the lawyer on the card. He was just being nice! He even hugged me before turning to go—which was when I saw his yarmulke.
He was an Orthodox Jew. He’d be in heaven with my brother and Meryl Streep. I extra-doubted I was ever getting there, now that I had HIT A PERSON. I suddenly felt a need to take advantage of my brother’s (and by association, my own) position in the Orthodox community and . . . name drop.
“Do you know my brother, Jeff?!” I called, hopefully, proudly. “He’s Orthodox, too!”
The man didn’t know my brother Jeff, but I could swear he liked me more just knowing I was Jeff’s sister.
My son’s psychiatrist was another Orthodox Intervention. Already at the end of my rope, having tried dozens of therapies and therapists for Jesse—none of which had provided him relief from his anxiety so far—I arrived at this new shrink’s office an emotional wreck with very little trust and with shame to spare.
Within moments of first meeting Jesse, this extraordinarily kind man demonstrated a soothing confidence that immediately minimized both Jesse’s anxiety and my own hysteria about it. Leaning forward in his chair to write the prescription that would save my child (and Todd and me), I was able to see the wooden Star of David around the doctor’s neck, though it wasn’t until he walked us to the door that I finally noticed the tzitzit of the prayer shawl he wore beneath his civvies.
“My brother Jeff is Orthodox . . . So. You know . . .” I mentioned casually. “His name is Jeff . . .?”
He didn’t seem to know my brother either, but I was pretty sure I could now count on him to answer his phone at eleven on a Tuesday night should I accidentally leave Jesse’s anxiety pills in a Starbucks bathroom. Chances were, I’d need him to, since I had done exactly that many more times than once.
Then there was the entire Hasidic family who came to my aid on a flight to LA from New York, where we’d gone for a family wedding. Four-year-old Phoebe, overtired and oversugared, had spilled juice all over herself ten minutes after takeoff and then, somewhere over Kansas with hours to go, had wakened me and everyone else on board with a meltdown and her (only) backup outfit soaked in pee.
I was begging flight attendants for a spare blanket and dousing Phoebe in mouthwash when an Orthodox man in full regalia—right down to the hat and payot—walked up the aisle, holding a Torah-looking book. He had sensed (or perhaps smelled) my trouble.
“Does she need clothes?” he asked. When I nodded, he turned a few rows behind. “Rivka!”
A young woman in a wig appeared and, a few Yiddish words later, I had my pick of children’s outfit sizes from her suitcase (apparently most of the kids on the flight were theirs).
Phoebe was thrilled—it was the first floor-length skirt she’d ever worn. I was humbled. Yet opportunistic.
“My brother and sister-in-law would love this outfit, since they’re Orthodox . . . the cousin of Hasidic . . . ism . . .” I gushed, wrestling the long-sleeved shirt over Phoebe’s head. “His name is Jeff—maybe you know him . . .?”
They didn’t know Jeff but said we could keep the clothes anyway.
I was completely blown away by the kindness of all these strangers. But I wouldn’t dare share these experiences with my brother, of course. The last thing I needed was for Jeff to feel validated and justified with his immersion into what I still looked upon as a cult.
I would also never tell him how I exploited his connection to God for my own personal gain—hoping nepotism was as standard in religion as it is in the entertainment business. Besides, I was careful to use it sparingly and only for important shit.
“Are you there, God . . .? It’s Jeff’s sister . . .” I’d start, looking heavenward. “I know I’m not in touch with you a ton, but you guys are pals . . . so, would it be possible to make my bosses like my script and not give me a big rewrite? I really want to go to yoga this week. Also, there’s this sweater I need to go on sale. Also, that person I hit? Can you make her okay?” I HIT A PERSON!
• • •
IN THE CAR now, heading over to Little Israel, I checked my phone every five seconds to see if there was any movement on the #MeToo situation. I lost Internet service for a whole twenty-five seconds and, in that time, there’d been no news or solutions offered.
I decided to use this time wisely.
“Are you there, God . . .? It’s Jeff’s sister . . .” I said to the roof of my car, wondering how jelly
got there. “Can you please make sure Jeff doesn’t get in trouble and have to write Saturday-morning cartoons for the rest of his career? I mean, it’s kind of your fault for making him not look at the Internet after sundown—what kind of stupid rule is that? You invented the Internet! And now you’re going to smite him. Or maybe it’s ‘smote’ him—you know which one I mean—and why do they have to wear wool all the time, anyway? You know it gets hot here—you made it hot here! Didn’t you?”
I was getting angry. Fuck, I may have gone too far. Even I knew that you don’t yell at God.
I checked my phone again to see if the slanderous comment in the trades was still posted.
It was. Shit. And now it had two “likes”! People were liking the accusation!
I was now barreling through Jeff’s neighborhood, careful not to hit anyone—because if you do that twice, you’re definitely that person. I was the only car on the road, a sea of Orthodox Jews lining the sidewalks headed north, on a pilgrimage to synagogue. I searched for my long-lost brother among the men in black hats.
It had been fifteen years later, and I still couldn’t understand why, if you weren’t born into the Orthodox life, anyone would ever willingly submit themselves to it. Why would you impose such restrictions on yourself? What if, by the time you died, heaven no longer existed? What if it did, but it was overrated? Or it was nothing like Defending Your Life—nothing is ever like it is in the movies! It would have all been for nothing!
I knew Jeff understood why the restrictions were imposed. But I didn’t want to hear the reasons. There was a time when Jeff tried to persuade Todd and me to follow his family into the fold. He’d been successful winning me over in the past, after all. With just a “Hey, Liz, you’ve gotta try this,” he’d gotten me to move to LA and pursue a career in comedy writing, got me into yoga and this boot camp run by ex-marines where they make you cry and carry giant rocks uphill wearing a wet bathing suit, but there was no way I was going to feel anything beyond a cultural connection to Judaism, certainly not enough to give up using electricity and driving on Shabbat!
And he’ll be thankful I didn’t, I thought as I drove. When he found out what had happened, he was going to lose his shit. I’d have to pry him out of a ball while shoving kosher Tums down his throat—or maybe he’d want the real thing, even if it had gelatin in it (also unholy, for some reason)! He’d see what was important, yes, he would, and he’d break the rules, get on the phone, and start doing damage control. Maybe he’d even throw his black hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore did in the opening credits! Free at last!
I would help him. I would be there for him, like he’d been for me so many times before. I wanted him to know I was panicking for him. His heathen sister wouldn’t leave his side.
After this crisis, he would be “normal” again. Like me.
Suddenly I spotted him. I couldn’t miss him, he was the same Jeff I’d always known—a little on the shorter side, kind of stocky, shoulders a little hunched. Walking with that little skip in his step, head tilted at an angle, his mouth curling up at the sides, smiling, like he was about to say or just said something he thought was funny. He looked happy, fulfilled—calm, even. He still thought everything was okay, that this lifestyle of his was acceptable, even in the entertainment industry. Basking in the glow of the day’s big announcement.
I almost felt bad telling him what had transpired. It was going to crush him. He wouldn’t be going to heaven if the accusation was at all true. Just before I pulled over, Jeff’s agent called.
“I’m on it,” I said, before he could get a word in. “I’m here, I see him. Hang on, I’ll just tell him about the comment, I’ll even hold the phone, so he can talk to you without touching—”
“He already knows,” his agent assured me. “He saw it. It was published right before he went off the grid.” While nothing had been resolved, he went on to explain that Jeff had understood and said he had to go because it was almost sundown, and he’d call after Shabbat.
I finally understood the restrictions. The rules. The “no Internet.” All at once, I got it.
Orthodox Judaism was Jeff’s salvation, his escape. No matter what was going on, no matter how crucial or mentally consuming, come Friday at sundown he checked out for twenty-five hours; he had to.
He had to take himself out of the chaos, the gut-wrenching stress, and ground himself in his family and tradition and something more reliable than a business where entire careers can be destroyed by as little as a false Internet comment—in this case, it turned out, made up by a male ex-assistant who wanted to get Jeff back for firing him for due cause. The comment was taken down almost immediately because it was false.
Jeff needed this break from the chaos. The thing I thought made him crazy actually made him sane. He was content. This was how he took care of himself. His people were kind and good. How annoying.
And before he saw me, I got out of there and gave him a break.
From me, too.
Until sundown Saturday.
Tim Allen Tried to Kill Me
* * *
I was working on a show called Last Man Standing, starring Tim Allen. It was the first season, and Tim was making his return to half-hour TV for the first time since Home Improvement. In June, we began preproduction—that’s the eight-week period when the writers get a head start on coming up with stories and writing scripts before shooting starts and the shit hits the fan. We decide on season arcs for the characters—where we see them going emotionally, how we want them to grow and change, and how they will interact with each other—all in the funniest, most over-the-top but never-seen-before-on-TV way possible.
Preproduction always feels like the honeymoon phase of a new TV show, with everyone still getting to know each other, on our best behavior, laughing at each other’s jokes, not talking over one another yet. It’s also too early in the season to take notice of weird nose whistles, or twitching, or lip-smacking habits, or my giant guttural laugh, which, after those first few months and endless days (and nights) around a conference room table together, will drive us to the brink of insanity and/or homicide.
In late July, we were nearing the end of preproduction and things were going smoothly. Then I was blindsided.
I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, Facebook-stalking high school friends, when our head writer, Jake, walked into my office. We all really liked Jake—he was super laid-back, and though he was in his fifties, his thick black hair and daily uniform of Levi’s, sneakers, and old T-shirts made him seem eternally boyish and, up until that very moment (for me), a really cool guy.
“Tim wants a few of the writers to come to his lake house in Colorado for three days before we start production,” he said tentatively.
“That sounds horrible,” I laughed. “Have fun.”
“You’re coming,” he said, “and it will be horrible.”
I said I couldn’t possibly go—I had to be home for my kids. Jake reminded me that my self-proclaimed Stay-at-Work Mom status kind of blew that excuse. He also reminded me that back in the first week of preproduction, I had heartily volunteered to take any show-running responsibilities off of his shoulders. Not fair! Jake had been in this business long enough to know that any promises made in the throes of preproduction honeymoon bliss were never to be taken seriously. Anyway, I’d meant that I would help out with approving actor hair and makeup and do wardrobe checks—stuff that can be done on a set. In California.
Jake’s maniacal laugh as he walked out of my office pretty much said it all. I was screwed.
Granted, the childhood me would have been very thrilled that her adult self would know a star like Tim Allen, to say nothing of getting invited to his house in Colorado. But years in the business take the shine off stars, and I’d long stopped seeing actors of any stature as anything but people—flawed people—like the rest of us. No longer luminaries on billboards and in magazines, stars become the reason you work through the night to change jokes or—because the
y wield enough power and hate a storyline—the reason you can find yourself going to Colorado during your precious free time.
My dread kept pace with the details. Not only was I going to be spending three days with Tim Allen, I was going to be the only woman on the trip, and the people I was going with were all but strangers. Jake, who I knew a little; and Keith, an L.L.Bean–looking upper-level writer who struck me as just a little too muscular to be in comedy. Keith loved to talk about two things: himself and the fact that he’d single-handedly convinced Tim Allen to come back to television. So, this was all his fault. There was also Mitch—a comedy veteran whom I’d heard of for years but had never gotten to work with. Mitch was a sweet, intellectual type with glasses and collared shirts who’d just gotten back from an actual honeymoon (with his second wife) and got great pleasure from big words, the New York Times crossword puzzle, and his own jokes. I liked him in spite of all those qualities.
And then me.
Magical.
And also a little disturbing. Because while we knew we were going to Tim’s lake house in Colorado, no one knew quite where that was. Like the location, the purpose of the trip was also undisclosed.
Now, I’d worked on many shows where the actors would sometimes hang out with the writers. Kevin James would play poker with some of the guys. Christine Baranski liked to join us for drinks after show nights. Leah Remini invited me to her daughter’s first birthday party and also offered to put me on a diet (though technically that was more of an insult than a “social” thing).
But a trip? To Colorado? I couldn’t understand why on earth Tim, who’d repeatedly told us he didn’t know why he wanted to be back in TV, wanted to spend any downtime with the people he was back in TV with.
The idea was floated that maybe, since Tim was born and raised in Colorado—and the show was set there—he wanted to give us some insight into the place. The theory was shot down—isn’t that what pictures are for? Had anyone ever been sent somewhere on a sitcom fact-finding mission?