There was even more to the monologue than this; it went on for three to four minutes and included a bit more detail about my time in the Congo and the loss of my basketball career. But you get the point. I hoped that they would, as well. I did not want to waste their time; I just wanted to let them know who I was and how much this meant to me. When I finished, the room fell quiet. Finally, Aaron broke the ice.
“Okay, I guess we’re done here. Congratulations, Blondy, you’ve got the job.”
Again, there was a moment of silence, before laughter filled the room. He was kidding, of course. I might have had the appropriate real-life background for the character of Mo Gosego, but I still had to prove I was capable of getting the job done. In short, I had to prove that I could act. Again.
Susan and I did the same scene we had read a week earlier, and again it went very well. They asked me to make some adjustments, to do it with more feeling, or more “action.” The audition went on this way for at least twenty minutes, with subtle changes and shading—I got the sense that they were not only testing my range, but my ability to take direction under pressure. This would help them know whether I was a professional actor, or an amateur with an interesting story.
When the audition ended, there was little fanfare. Everyone was polite, but noncommittal.
“Thank you for your time, Blondy,” Susan said. “We’ll be in touch.”
I walked out not knowing whether I would ever see any of them again, or if indeed my career was over before it had even begun. Frankly, it didn’t matter. Just to have made it this far was an accomplishment beyond anything I imagined.
And yet . . .
Oh, how I wanted the role!
THAT AFTERNOON I GOT a call from Becky Switzer.
“They loved you,” she said.
“Great! What’s next?”
“They want you to come back for one more audition. Can you stay three more days? Dan Fogelman is going to be in town, and he will be there, as well.”
I did not hesitate to answer. “Of course, I can stay. Thank you, Becky!”
“You’re welcome. Good luck, Blondy.”
I called my friend Damien and asked if I could stay with him for a few more days. He cheerfully said no problem. He also said he’d give me a ride. I was grateful for the help—until his car got a flat tire on the 405 on the way to the audition, several miles from the ABC offices in Burbank. At first, we tried to change the tire ourselves, but with seven lanes of traffic in each direction, it was much too dangerous. Damien decided to call Triple A, but as we stood by the car on the side of the road, with traffic backing up the way it often does in L.A., I felt a surge of anxiety.
“I’m going to be late, bro. I’m going to be late. This is so bad.”
Damien put an arm around my shoulder, tried to calm me down.
“It’ll be okay. Relax. The truck will be here in no time and we’ll be back on the road.”
“No, no, no. You don’t understand. I can’t be even one minute late for this meeting. Not one minute or I will be screwed. You can’t be late for an audition.”
“We won’t be late. I promise.”
I admired Damien’s optimism in the face of such a catastrophe, but he was wrong; there was no chance that we would get there on time. Gripped by panic, I reached out to Becky for help. Why? Because that’s what actors do when they’re in trouble: they call their agent! Instead of calling, though, I texted her a photo of our car on the side of the road, with a blown tire leaning up against the vehicle.
“I’m going to be late,” I texted. “What should I do?”
Her response was almost instantaneous: “Call Uber and get there as quickly as possible. I’ll let them know what’s going on.”
I felt bad about leaving Damien, but he understood, said he would be fine, and wished me good luck. My Uber ride arrived quickly, and we got to Disney only a few minutes late for the audition. I must have looked a mess, but everyone was gracious and understanding (Becky had forwarded the photo of our three-wheeled car).
This time there were only two of us left to audition. I went second, which was good, since it gave me time to stop sweating and gather my composure. Susan once again led the audition. As she guided me into the room, I was immediately struck by the size of both the venue and the audience. It was a huge conference room, and this time there were more than a dozen people in attendance: Susan and her assistant; Dan Fogelman; executives from ABC and Disney; the director, John Fortenberry; the writers, Casey Johnson and David Windsor; and the star of the series, Skylar Astin, who gave me a rather long and perplexed look. You see, when I had entered the building, I saw Skylar walking ahead of me. I had been alerted to the fact that he would be part of the audition, and I had read quite a bit about him online as part of my preparation. When I saw him outside, I had tried to get his attention.
“Hey, Skylar! Skylar Astin!”
He had turned briefly, then continued walking.
“Skylar!” I shouted again. “It is me—Blondy Baruti!”
There wasn’t a hint of recognition. I’m not sure Skylar even heard me, or if he simply thought I was a Pitch Perfect fanboy who wanted an autograph. Regardless, he did not respond. Instead, he disappeared into the building. By the time I reached the lobby, he was already gone. But now, here we were again, face-to-face in a Disney conference room, getting ready to share a scene together. As I shook Skylar’s hand and introduced myself, he smiled shyly. I could tell he was embarrassed.
“Wait . . . did I just see you outside in the parking lot? Yelling my name?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Blondy. I didn’t know who you were.”
I told him it was fine, no harm done. Sometimes I get carried away with excitement.
We did exactly the scene I had performed in each of the two previous auditions, so I felt like knew the dialogue verbatim, and had a pretty good understanding of the emotion and character development it was meant to convey. But the real test was not to see whether I could act, but what sort of chemistry there was between Skylar and me. The success or failure of the pilot—and indeed the entire series—rested largely on the interaction between our characters. It was an improbable friendship between two young men from vastly different worlds, and if the audience did not invest itself in this relationship, then the story would crumble. I liked Skylar right away, and I think he liked me. Rather than feeling intimidated by his experience and résumé, I took comfort in it. Despite the obvious pressure of being a finalist for a role that would have a profound impact on my life, I felt oddly at peace. This was partly due to the fact that I had studied hard and knew my lines so well, and felt like I understood the process. But it was also because of Skylar, and the feeling of brotherhood he projected. I had been acting only a few years, and only in live theater, but I knew what it was like to work with performers who were selfish and insecure, and I knew what it was like to work with performers who were confident and generous.
Skylar, I could tell, fell into the latter category. He gave me lots of support and encouragement throughout the audition. By the end, I felt completely comfortable working with him. If there was one concern that everyone seemed to have about our working relationship, and how it translated to the screen, it was physical and not artistic. You see, interestingly enough, they were worried that there wasn’t enough of a height discrepancy between the two of us. As written, Mo Gosego was well over seven feet tall, while Jason, the translator, was supposed to be somewhat shorter than average height. In reality, Skylar was a solid 5-foot-10, and I was 6-foot-8. Never before in my life had someone told me that I wasn’t tall enough, but that was the impression I got on this day. We ran through our lines once; then, before filming the scene for studio executives, Susan rigged a makeshift platform for me to stand on, effectively adding three or four inches to my height. The idea was to present the appearance of Mo absolutely towering over his American counterpart.
We went through the scene a few times
, modifying it according to the director’s suggestions. By the end I felt comfortable and confident. Afterward, we all stood around for a few minutes and chatted informally—some of them had questions about not only my life in the Congo, but my theater background, as well. And then I was on my way, with no more assurance or resolution than there had been after the first two auditions. Just a pleasant but perfunctory “Thank you for coming, Blondy. We’ll be in touch.” This time, though, I tried not to read too much into it. This was the way things worked in Hollywood. All communication was done through representatives—agents and managers—so I did not expect anyone to tell me I had or had not earned the job. That information would come soon enough.
THE NEXT DAY I flew back to Oklahoma. Shortly after I arrived, I got a call from Becky, who proceeded to give me a crash course in Hollywood protocol. Susan had called Becky to suggest that I meet with a woman named Adena Chawke, a manager at Greenlight Management and Production in Beverly Hills. Here’s the thing about the entertainment business that many people do not realize (certainly I was unaware). Most actors employ not just an agent, but a personal manager, as well. There is considerable overlap between the two roles, and together they help an artist form the strongest possible team when trying to build a career. Since my agent was based in Oklahoma, it made sense for me to connect with a Hollywood manager. Susan and some of the others involved in our pilot were familiar with Adena’s work, so they recommended her to Becky.
Within two days, Adena was in Oklahoma City, sitting across a table from me, explaining the particulars of a management contract, and what she would do to earn her 10 percent commission. I was also paying Becky 10 percent, which meant I was giving up 20 percent of my income, which might sound like a lot, until you consider that my income at that point was . . . well . . . zero. If having an agent and a manger meant I’d be more likely to secure work, then I was on board. Once Adena and I came to an agreement, she shifted the conversation to another topic.
“ABC is going to offer you the role,” Adena said. She said this matter-of-factly, as if it were not one of the most amazing things I had heard in my entire life. Which obviously it was.
“That’s fantastic!” I yelped. “When do I start?”
Adena held up a hand. “Slow down. It’s not that simple. We have to settle on a contract first, and frankly I’m not happy with the offer.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“They want to pay you ten thousand dollars per episode—”
I know there were words that came after this, because I could see Adena’s mouth moving. But something happened that prevented me from hearing exactly what she said. The shock of those words—ten thousand dollars . . . per episode!—had apparently cut off the flow of oxygen to my brain. I was about to pass out.
“I’m sorry, Adena . . . did you say ten thousand dollars?” This was more money than I had earned in my entire life.
She nodded. “Yes. I know that sounds like a lot, but trust me, it’s not. It’s very low for a starring role in a network sitcom. I’m going to push for more based on your value to the project. Whether you have experience or not is irrelevant. They want you for this role and they know you’re the best person to play the part. It took them forever to find the right person, and now they’ve found him. You should be paid accordingly.”
“What does that mean?”
Adena smiled. “I’m going to ask for forty thousand.”
I nearly fell out of my chair. “Forty thousand! A week?”
“Well, per episode, yes. It’s not every week, but still . . .”
Yes . . . still.
“So, what next?” I asked.
“You let me handle everything,” Adena replied. “If anyone from Disney or ABC calls you, just refer them to me. I’m your manager now, and I will negotiate on your behalf. I know you are the first choice, so have faith. And try to be patient.”
I was not patient. In fact, I could not have been more impatient. Every day I woke and checked my email and text messages, praying for some news on the pilot—confirmation that I had gotten the job and that a fee had been settled. And each day there was no news, so I’d wait a few hours and then call both Becky and Adena, just to see if they had an update, which of course they did not.
“Sorry to bother you,” I’d say.
“No trouble at all, Blondy. Just relax. It’s going to work out.”
Three weeks passed and I was out having dinner with my friend Drew—I’d been staying with his family while in Oklahoma City. We were at a nice restaurant with the entire family: Drew and his wife, their kids, and his wife’s parents. It was a pleasant and fun evening. For a change, I wasn’t obsessing about work and acting. I was just trying to have a good time.
Until my phone lit up. It was Adena. Before I even answered, I held up the phone for everyone to see.
This is it!
I stood up from the table and began pacing around the restaurant, trying to find a quiet space.
“What’s up, Adena?”
“I just wanted to say congratulations,” she said. “ABC has agreed to thirty thousand dollars per episode.”
I was speechless.
“Blondy? Did you hear me?”
“Ummmm . . . yes. This means they want me?”
I could hear her laughing. “Yes, Blondy, it means they want you. And it means you are going to be a star.”
I held the phone above my head and turned to Drew and the rest of the table. By this point I was halfway across the room.
“Drew!” I shouted. “I got it! “I got the part!”
As Drew came running toward me and everyone in the restaurant stared in disbelief at the sight of a 6-foot-8 black man screaming at the top of his lungs, I fell to my knees. As tears filled my eyes, I looked up at the ceiling.
“Finally,” I said. “Thank you, God.”
CHAPTER 25
* * *
Almost overnight, it seemed, my life was transformed. My name and my photo appeared in the trades—Hollywood Reporter and Variety—and on Internet sites devoted to following every tidbit of gossip or legitimate business that comes out of the entertainment industry. There were enticing feature stories in which the parallel lives of performer and character were highlighted. It was an intoxicating time, to be sure. I was going to be a Hollywood star, making more money in a single week than I had seen in my entire life.
Of course, this was dependent on the pilot getting picked up by ABC and finding a place on the network schedule, but wasn’t that almost preordained? I mean, everything had happened so quickly and smoothly, in almost fatalistic fashion. My very first audition had led to an offer to star in a network sitcom. Looking at Mo Gosego was like looking into a mirror. The cast was stellar, the writing both heartfelt and humorous. Additionally, we had on our side that elusive thing known as synergy—thanks to the recent rise in popularity of the Golden State Warriors and their best player, Steph Curry. Our show was an ABC property, and ABC/Disney was a broadcast partner of the NBA.
When the stars are so properly aligned, how can anything possibly go wrong? Production began with a “table read” at ABC studios in Burbank. A table read is exactly what it sounds like: a group of actors sitting at a large table, reading a script, while the director, writers, and producers look on, occasionally making suggestions or otherwise offering notes. The table read is a warm and pleasant experience—a way for the cast and crew to familiarize themselves with the material, while also getting to know their coworkers in a casual setting. There are no costumes or sets for the table read. There isn’t even much acting. Just a lot of reading and laughing, and an enormous amount of coffee.
Since now I was under contract, ABC arranged to put me up in a Sheraton not far from the studio. Meals and transportation were covered, as well. I felt blessed to have no financial stress—a rare circumstance for me! At least in the short term, all I had to do was concentrate on my work. Memorize my lines, get into character, and become familiar with the rest of the
cast. This I did before even arriving. I spent endless hours on Google and IMDb, committing to memory the film and television credits of of Skylar Astin, Jami Gertz, and Ving Rhames, along with a dozen other actors playing supporting roles. I streamed video of their work, which made me feel both honored to part of this cast, but also a little intimidated. Still, excitement was the predominant emotion.
When I walked into the room for the table read, Jami was the first person I saw. She was every bit as beautiful as she appeared on the screen, and even warmer and friendlier than I had imagined.
“Jami Gertz!” I yelled from several feet away. She saw me, smiled, walked over, and gave me a big hug.
“Nice to meet you, Blondy.”
“Nice to meet you, too,” I said. “I am a big fan.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I loved your movie, A Better Life.”
Jami seemed genuinely surprised by this. Most people know her as a performer in mainstream movies or television shows, but in my research I had discovered that Jami’s production company was responsible for one of my favorite movies of the last few years. A Better Life tells the story of a Mexican laborer struggling to raise his son as a single parent in Los Angeles, while worrying about the possibility of deportation and the influence of gang violence on his impressionable teenage boy. It is a strong and emotional film that struck a chord with me for obvious reasons, and I loved it before I even realized that Jami’s company had produced it. So, I wanted to let her know what it meant to me.
The Incredible True Story of Blondy Baruti Page 26