by Traci Lords
We spent the entire morning practicing the jitterbug. The mood was jovial as the cast got to know one another. We had fun laughing at our poor dance moves, and the choreographer, Lori Eastlake, had the patience of a saint.
By that afternoon I’d grown more comfortable with the gang. I got to know Johnny, Ricki, Amy, Darren Burrows, and finally Kim McGuire, who played Hatchet-Face. She was the palest woman I’d ever seen, and her tiny five-foot frame and ice-blue eyes were a huge contrast to her booming Broadway voice. She reminded me of a Great Dane trapped in a poodle’s body. Like her character in the movie, she was the loudest of the bunch.
Darren was a handsome but gangly guy who towered over us at about six three. His lighthearted personality made him impossible not to like. On the dance floor, he was like a puppy that hadn’t grown into its paws yet, and trampled through his routine as gracefully as an ox. Ricki Lake swooned like a schoolgirl, sneaking peeks at him every so often. She was by far the best dancer of the bunch. Her effortless moves won both the praise of our instructor and Darren’s attention. Amy Locane had already been in several big movies and was a seasoned actress. Clearly intimidated by her more grown-up cast mates, she seemed to be searching for the same thing I was—approval.
Johnny was the quiet one—or was that me? We both took up space in opposite corners of the room, with him close to the window. He listened carefully to the teacher’s instructions and was very focused in learning his moves, grabbing smoke breaks between dances and flicking his ashes out the window. He had a gentleness about him, and when he spun Amy Locane around and around, they looked great together.
I liked these people.
John Waters turned up at the dance hall just as we were finishing for the day. He’d come by to check out our progress, remarking that it was a good thing we’d started rehearsal early as he watched us with a raised eyebrow. I guess we weren’t quite there yet. Or maybe he was just razzing us. He had a sharp tongue and an odd sense of humor that made it hard for me to tell when he was serious.
As homework, he brought me several videos from the 1950s to watch. One was called Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! I giggled at the title. Not understanding why he wanted me to view the tapes, I told him I didn’t have a VCR in my room. Johnny spoke up, casually saying I could use his room. I thanked him, blushing at the thought of being in his room. Waters smirked as he took in the exchange, telling me the tapes would help me understand the time period. He wanted Wanda to be a sexy, tough Russ Meyer bad girl. I was nervous I wouldn’t please him.
I hopped a shuttle with the rest of the cast back to the hotel. Johnny stopped me in the lobby and handed me the extra room key he’d gotten from the front desk, innocently saying he’d be gone all afternoon working through the script with John and that I was welcome to watch my videos in his room. I took the key, thanked him, and raced away, only breathing again when the elevator doors closed.
Taking a shower, I contemplated Johnny’s offer. Why did the thought of being in his room make me so nervous? What was I afraid of? I was just being weird. It was no big deal and I wasn’t going to let myself make it one. He’s just being nice. He had a girlfriend anyway—some actress named Jennifer Grey. I wondered if she was pretty.
Oh, crap! I thought I should call Scott, but what was I going to say? I’d been gone for two days! I couldn’t just keep ignoring him because all my stuff was at our house. I just needed to keep the peace until the film was over so I could collect my paycheck and move on. Just call him, I told myself. I’ll tell him Waters is keeping me running, which was not a lie! Okay—here I go. I dialed his number. Scott answered, his tone unmistakably cool. He was very curt, and halfheartedly asked how it was going. I told him that I really liked everyone and I was going to a cast gathering later that night. He said he missed me. Then he hung up.
I hadn’t even thought of him since I arrived.
I knocked on Johnny’s door to make sure he wasn’t there, then walked into the living room. He had an incredible view from his penthouse perch. The windows were open and the white curtains floated in the breeze. The room smelled faintly of cigarettes. The VCR was not in sight. I found it in a cabinet close to his king-sized bed. Popping in the video, I settled back on the bed, wondering if I should be sitting on a chair instead…
The movie was nearly over when I heard the front door open. My heart raced as if I’d been caught doing something wrong. Johnny walked into the bedroom, put his script down, and climbed into bed next to me. He smiled and asked how the movie was. I pretended to be fully engrossed in it, but in truth I was nervous as heck with him so close. We watched for a few moments in silence. Uncomfortable being there with him, I asked about the read-through with John. He said it had gone really well, and then commented on how cute my new bangs were. Reaching over, he pulled the hair band out of my ponytail and smiled, saying it looked better down. His fingers in my hair freaked me out. His face was way too close to mine. I tried to ignore the closeness of his lips and act cool, yet I felt anything but. The film mercifully ended minutes later, and I thanked him for letting me use his VCR and tried not to run from the room.
ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG! Why was I so nervous with men? I slammed the door to my room on the way in, embarrassed at how totally flustered I’d been. Had he noticed? I wasn’t sure.
John Waters had referred to my character Wanda as “a sexual terrorist” just days after I’d arrived in Baltimore. Was he confusing the defiant teenager who had once used sex as a weapon with the twenty-year-old who was trying to figure out who she really was? Had he made a mistake in casting me? Was I doomed to fail? How was I going to pull off a role driven by sexual power when I was so unnerved by it? How could an ex–porn star explain to anyone that I had these kinds of head trips? Who would believe me? Clearly I had urges, and God knows I’d had sexual experiences, but it was all so tangled up inside. I didn’t know how the whole dating and sex thing worked in the real world. The majority of my sexual experiences had taken place stoned in front of a camera. Would a normal guy like…say…Johnny expect me to be amazing in bed? What if I wasn’t? How could I possibly date anyone, let alone sleep with him, with all this pressure? True, sex hadn’t been a problem with Ken, but I knew I was leaving Canada the next day. Was that the buffer I needed? Was that the real problem? I wanted to be respected. Arggggg! What did any of it mean?
I was ready for a real boyfriend but scared of making a bad choice. Was I a good girl or a bad girl? Was it possible to be both? That’s where the fear came in. I was afraid of what might happen if I just let loose. What if a sexual terrorist lurked within me? Would she behave reasonably or wreak havoc? Where would sexual freedom take me?
And what would people think?
I unpacked the rest of my luggage and got ready to go to the Celebrity Lounge, choosing snug jeans, cowboy boots, and a pair of big hoop earrings. I walked in late to a packed house, the underage cast drinking anything they could get their hands on. The mood was loose. Darren and Johnny were sitting at the bar and everyone was letting their hair down.
Waters and a few crew members showed up with the casting director, Pat Moran, whom I’d met at my audition. She was a red-haired fireball. She was about five feet tall, her sky blue eyes vibrant beneath thick red-framed glasses, and her voice boomed through the bar. She sat like a queen with John, drinking martinis and talking loudly. I relaxed amid the chatter of my cast mates and downed a beer at the bar with the boys. My new earrings pinched at my lobes and annoyed me, so I took them off and laid them on the bar. Johnny and Darren helped themselves, wearing one earring apiece and looking like pirates. We laughed and listened to the latest Sinéad O’Connor. My beer buzz signaled an end to the evening and I excused myself, leaving my pirate costars with the earrings.
Getting to my room, I crashed out in a deep sleep.
I woke the next morning with a crashing headache. I swallowed some aspirin and quickly headed over to dance rehearsal, cursing my hangover. It had been a long time since my pa
rtying days and I was shocked at what a lightweight I’d become. Man, if a few beers had me hurting like this, what would anything stronger do? Kill me? I’m too old for this, I decided, huffing and puffing as I climbed the stairs to dance class, cringing at the blaring 1950s music that thundered through the room.
The cast arrived slowly. From the looks of things, the boys had pulled an all-nighter. They looked green as they entered the room, and I couldn’t help but smile at Johnny’s obvious pain, glad to be in on the joke. John entered moments later and lectured us on being “responsible teenagers” as he turned up the music. “Heavy hangs the head that last night wore the crown.” I believe he enjoyed punishing us for staying out late. He said we were on his dime now, and then made us work even harder. We moaned, staggering our way through class and sweating out the night’s mischief.
32
Just a Kiss Away
A week had passed since our descent on Baltimore and the cast, myself included, had made the rounds. We’d managed to stagger through dance rehearsals and tame the oh-so-proper Tremont housekeepers who no longer woke us at the crack of dawn to make our beds. And most important, we’d gained twenty-four-hour access to the hotel’s restaurant/bar! Of course no one knew we were lurking in the stairwells in the wee hours of the morning. We’d sneak into the chef’s kitchen to fix midnight snacks and then settle deep in the rear of the restaurant and light candles to conceal our trespassing. We were like a bunch of kids playing, hoping not to get caught but secretly excited by the possibility. We all became fast friends.
Although John encouraged cast bonding, he grew suspicious of our late-night prowling and sent around a memo warning that the hotel disapproved of underage drinking and mischief after dark. It tickled me to think of John Waters as our “keeper.” He was as open-minded as they come, so while I felt the boozing of the cast was rather tame, I understood his fears. He clearly had his priorities in place, and I tried to be a young den mother, quietly encouraging my coworkers to behave.
In the front seat of the cast van, Ricki Lake sang a pitch-perfect rendition of Madonna’s “Cherish”; Johnny and Darren were dead asleep in the backseat; and Amy, Kim, and I gossiped happily as we made our way to the stages where we would start filming the following week.
John greeted us at an enormous building in the warehouse district of Baltimore, where the air reeked of butchered animals. He was wide awake at seven in the morning. Dressed in his standard uniform of casual suit and white shirt, he looked like he was ready for his close-up. He led us through the various sets, showing Ricki where the orphanage scenes would be shot, and Johnny went off to check out Cry-Baby’s house, particularly interested in the pool table.
John showed me the massive champagne glass I was to sit in for an upcoming scene and invited me to climb on up. Just as I’d made my way up the ladder, one foot in, about to have a seat, the property master, Brook, appeared out of nowhere, anxious because an actor had intruded on his territory in his absence. He looked nervous, pacing around beneath us. John told him to relax.
As we made our way back to the van, I noticed my picture hanging on the wall in a cubicle marked “Art Department.” It was the photo from Rolling Stone. I was lying on my side, tousled hair in my face, Mona Lisa smile on my lips. Odd…no one else’s photo was on the wall…. Catching up with my exiting costars, I felt like I was being watched. I looked around and locked eyes with Brook, who was staring at me from behind his desk. The horn of the departing van broke the trance and I took off out the door yelling for Cletis the driver to wait up.
Later that night, Darren Burrows’s wife showed up unexpectedly. We were all hanging out in the Celebrity Lounge, watching cars zoom backward up the one-way street looking for a parking place. Teamsters sat soaking up beers, and a poker game raged in the back. The livid Mrs. Burrows rushed in brandishing the pirate earring that she’d discovered on Darren’s bedside table. When he innocently told her it was mine and that Johnny had one too, she stormed out, convinced he was having an affair with me, the prime suspect.
Apparently, he hadn’t been calling home much. I guess that was going around.
I thought the whole thing was ridiculous and would have said so if I’d been given a chance. I clearly had no interest in Darren, and “home wrecker” was not a role I wanted to play. I wondered if all this drama was really over an earring—or if it was because it was my earring.
Cynthia Levine. Copyright Divine Entertainment
As the night went on, Mrs. Burrows’s intrusion into our movie world was all but forgotten. Ricki and Darren hung out chatting at the bar and I had a dance with my pal Johnny in the center of the dimly lit room, moving to the slinky music of the Cure’s “Lullaby.” My eyes met Brook’s. He sat in the corner of the bar, feet kicked up on a chair, and stared dead at me. I stared back. The moment broke as the song ended and I took my place at the bar with some of the others.
Who are you? I wondered as I looked over my shoulder at him. He studied the large raindrops that splashed in the street. I stood there watching him watch the rain and I was drawn in. He was an odd mix of things, rock-and-roll tough yet calm and somehow soulful.
I finished my beer and walked outside into the pouring rain, feeling giddy as the droplets drenched my face and the water washed my mental cobwebs away. My skin was cool, my head clear, and without even looking I knew Brook was watching me. I walked up the hill away from my costars, away from the hotel, away from my fear of the unknown. Would he follow me? My heart raced as I heard footsteps behind me, and I walked faster toward the city’s monument. I was shaking in my drenched T-shirt, my long hair plastered to my head, adrenaline pumping through my body. What if it wasn’t him following me? Panicking, I spun around suddenly and came face-to-face with Brook. We just stood there for a second, inches apart and staring into each other’s eyes. Then without a word he kissed me so deeply I forgot who I was and what I was afraid of. It was like magic—fireworks—the kind of kiss that made every hair on my body stand up.
Instantly, I fell completely and hopelessly in love with him.
33.
The Lipstick Trick
Alone in bed later that night, I felt like I’d been hit by something. I wasn’t sure what had happened. I didn’t believe in love at first sight. I wasn’t even sure I believed in love at all. Was the rush I felt when Brook kissed me pure chemistry? Was it lust at first sight? How could I be in love with someone I hadn’t even had a full conversation with? What if he was just out to score? What if he was a porn fan?! What if he doesn’t really like me at all! How could he? He doesn’t even know me! Man, why do I think so much? Get it together, I told myself. I’m here to film my breakthrough movie! Don’t get distracted. Just be cool, do your job, and proceed with caution.
I spent the night tossing and turning, getting no peace from my thoughts and wondering if rumors of the kiss in the rain would spread. Was I about to become the set “ho”? I thought of Darren’s wife’s accusing eye after she found my earring in his room. Good grief, I didn’t do anything. I was innocent! Oh please—can I just get away with one little kiss?
Brook called the next day to invite me out. As nervous as I was about the consequences of mixing business with pleasure, I couldn’t say no. I wanted to be near him and said yes, cursing my weakness as I hung up the phone. No, no, no, no, no, no, no! That’s not what we agreed on, self! I was pissed that my laserlike work vision was being clouded by thoughts of boys. But denying there was something between us only distracted me further.
Taking control over the date the only way I knew how, I reserved a car and driver for the evening. It was a gorgeous, stormy night in Baltimore. Brook lived just ten blocks from the hotel and he was punctual, sliding across the backseat toward me right on time.
We headed downtown to an ancient movie theater called the Charles in the heart of Baltimore. I don’t remember what was playing. I wasn’t paying attention, distracted by my date. He gave me a little history of the place, telling me his mother, Pa
t, used to run the joint and he worked there selling popcorn as a teenager. Hoping he wouldn’t expect me to talk about where I worked as a teenager, I shifted coolly in my seat. Mercifully, the opening film credits ended the conversation before I had to go there. When we left two hours later, we were in good spirits. Laughing easily, we climbed back into our chauffeured car and I felt myself relax. I liked being with this man.
I was glad I’d said yes.
Brook suggested we stop for a drink at one of his favorite watering holes, the Club Charles up the street, and I was happy to comply, not ready for the evening to end. And since the hotel was within walking distance of the club, we sent our driver home, thereby eliminating the only witness to our budding romance.
Brook and I agreed to keep our date a secret, since neither one of us wanted to be the topic of set gossip. But just as we were finishing up our drinks and flirting coyly with each other, a booming voice behind us announced, “I approve.” The pencil-thin mustache of Mr. Waters wrapped over his martini glass. He looked tickled pink. Oh man! We were busted. My heart dropped. Would he think I was completely unprofessional by dating a crew member? Brook and I both automatically acted like we didn’t know what he was talking about. “Oh please,” his raised eyebrow proclaimed.
We all started talking at the same time.
“What does she think about this?” John said.
“Who’s she?” I asked, turning to Brook. “Please don’t tell me you’re married.”
“Oh, he doesn’t have a wife, just a mother—and oh, what a mother.” John laughed.