Idiot

by Laura Clery

  This pilot led to Michael Patrick King hiring me to guest star on 2 Broke Girls. It was an incredible time in my life, when I felt like I was leading with faith instead of fear. I felt like the world was open to me. Every moment felt like an opportunity.

  There was one day that I got locked out of my apartment. It was eleven a.m., and Jack was going to be at work until five. Normally I would have just cursed the world for twenty minutes, then found some drugs and got high to pass the time. But I was sober now. So . . . uh, shit. What do sober people do? What was second best to drugs? Ah yes. Coffee.

  I walked down to the coffee shop on the corner of the street, ready to kill six hours until Jack got home to let me in. I got a coffee and sat down. I didn’t have anything to read or work on or look at. GOD I WAS SO BORED. This would not do. I’m going to talk to people. I sat down at a table across from an eighty-year-old man that was also staring off into the distance. I asked him if I could sit . . . and then went on to tell him my life story. Then he told me his: he was an army veteran turned hot-air-balloon driver turned farmer. When he had to leave, I bought another coffee and sat down across from a woman I found out was a dancer turned dance instructor turned detective turned stay-at-home mom. I’m sure by my fourth hour of this, the introverts in the café were starting to be a bit afraid of me.

  Then I saw a guy who looked weirdly familiar to me. I was FEELING THE COFFEE BUZZ to say the least, and I sat right down at his table.

  “HI. YOU LOOK FAMILIAR,” I said. “Do we know each other??”

  “Uhhh. No.” From his face you would have thought a wild monkey jumped down from the ceiling onto his table.

  “Well anyway, I’m Laura and I got locked out of my apartment until like five p.m. tonight so I’m just here killing time—” I stopped, seeing his bewilderment. “Oh, sorry. Are you meeting someone?”

  “Yeah, I am,” he said, kind of annoyed.

  “Oh. Sorry. Well I just thought you looked familiar! Bye!” I awkwardly backed away from his table. At least it was almost five p.m.! I walked back to my apartment to be let in.

  A few weeks later I got a call from an unfamiliar number.

  “Hey Laura, it’s Peter!”

  “Sorry . . . who?”

  “Peter! We met at Kings Road Café a while ago. You just sat down at my table and started talking?”

  “How did you get my number??”

  “Well I figured out why I looked familiar to you. I’m friends with your sister’s fiancé. We met at one of their parties.”

  “Oh! Okay cool.” Where was this going?

  Peter continued. “Anyway, I’m a director and I’m casting this series for AMC. I’d love for you to come in tomorrow and read for a role.”

  “Wow, I’d love to! What’s the role?”

  “Her name is Cornelia and she’s a certifiably insane actress. I think you’d be perfect for it.”

  “I absolutely would be.”

  The next day, I went downtown and read for the role of Cornelia, the crazy actress, and booked it. Suddenly I was acting in a scene across from Jeffrey Tambor and Adam Goldberg in AMC’s first digital series. We did three episodes and they never moved forward with the series, but it was okay. I had the tools to accept the things I couldn’t change and appreciate the positive things that had come from this. Like, damn, I should get locked out of my apartment more often.

  I’d be lying if I said that sobriety was a walk in the park. It was hard. Some days felt like they lasted forever. It made me isolate myself from my friends, who still loved to go out most nights. If I went out, I was afraid that I would drink. I was getting more and more lonely.

  One night, I was tired of it. I was going to go on a date. I met this French guy at my yoga class a couple days before and he asked me out. It didn’t hurt that he was very, very hot. I was compromising my form just to be able to sneak a peek at his downward dog, you guys. I’m not proud.

  I called him to confirm our date. I was a little nervous about going out again, but I was sure I’d be fine. I had two months of sobriety by now! I pretty much had it in the bag. That’s how that works, right?

  He took me to a really fancy restaurant, where the portions are the size of your thumb and waiters put your napkins on your lap for you. Weird touch, but okay. After we sat down and were “napkined” by the waiter, my date took one glance at the menu and immediately asked, “May I have two glasses of your finest pinot noir?”

  Oh shit. I can’t drink wine. But also, damn what a sexy French accent. Focus, Laura. I opened my mouth to say something, but I was embarrassed. If I told him I was sober . . . what would he think? He’d see me as someone who can’t control myself. Who can’t handle alcohol like an adult. He’d see me as a child.

  The waiter brought the wine over. I took it in my hand. He sipped his. I chugged mine.

  Suddenly I was drunk and ordering more and more wine. I called the waiter over and slurred: “One more glass of peenwah, please? Just one more peenor. Thanks.” I had relapsed.

  By this point, the French guy was looking at me like I was crazy. But drunk-me took this look as bedroom eyes. “We should probably go back to your house, shouldn’t we?” I asked.

  “But this is the first date. Why are you so forward?”

  I grabbed his shirt and yanked him toward me. “Because I am.” Solid reasoning, drunk-me.

  In addition to having a relapse, that date was a one-night stand.

  The next day, I felt so . . . gross. It’s like waking up from a nightmare, only to realize that everything you thought you dreamed actually happened. I was so ashamed. The entire two months of sobriety were gone, right before my eyes. I needed to do better.

  It was in this moment that I started to understand that my addiction was a fatally progressive disease. It’s not something that gets better with time. It’s not something that I can beat. This would be something that I would have to tackle every single morning when I opened my eyes, and every night when I went to sleep.

  Well, there goes my dating life! There was no way I was going out for a while. I just . . . I couldn’t risk it. But whatever. I didn’t need a guy anyway! Dating was fun, but ultimately I was enjoying being single. I went back into my antisocial cave, trying to gain back my confidence and consecutive days sober.

  I slowly worked my way back up one day at a time. It was like training for the Olympics. I was exhausted, but I was doing it. The longer I went, the stronger I got. I dove into my work, and I barely even noticed the fact that I was . . . literally talking to no one. My friends had stopped trying to get me to come out with them. I was on their “do not call” list.

  The only person who still bothered to try was my sister Colleen. She really made it her mission to incorporate me back into her life. All my other friends were afraid to push me out into the world, but Colleen knew that if I was going to ever lead a normal life as a sober person, I couldn’t stay isolated all the time.

  “Just go on a fucking date! Go!” she’d push me.

  Fine. There was this entertainment lawyer named Ben who asked me out a few weeks ago. I could call him up and set up a date. So I did—I started seeing him. It was nice. He was busy with work and so was I. It was the perfect dating scenario for two people who put work before anything else. Canceling at the last minute was no problem. Awesome! Canceling at the last minute is my favorite thing to do. The only bad thing was that he didn’t really understand my sobriety. He would say things like, “You can’t just have ONE glass of wine with dinner? You can’t just have ONE drink?”

  Nope, I can’t.

  I didn’t mind that he didn’t completely understand me. I kind of thought no one ever would. Sobriety was something I did on my own. Ben and I saw each other pretty consistently—as consistently as two people in LA working in the industry can, but we weren’t exclusive by any means.

  I worked my way up to fifty-nine days sober again, seeing the lawyer on and off. And then Colleen called me. “Laura. Stop being such a bummer.”
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  “I’m not a bummer! But I can’t talk long, I’m going to bed soon.”

  “It’s seven thirty.”

  “Your point?” There was a long pause. I could feel her judgment. “I need my ten hours!”

  “Come out to my party tonight. Please. This isn’t a request, it’s a friendly demand. You’re coming.”

  Colleen had found this group of friends in Los Angeles who were all British. She is a total anglophile. After two weeks of hanging out with them, she started speaking in a British accent, “Laura, would you like a spot of tea?” To which I would reply, “Colleen, you’re from Chicago.”

  “Okay fine, I’ll go. Let me see if Ben can come.”

  Ben was in. We planned to meet about an hour later to go to the party together. But five minutes before I was supposed to leave, Ben called me to say that he got busy with work and had to stay late tonight. This was . . . perfect! I called Colleen back. “Ben canceled, so I can’t go tonight. Sorry!”

  “Laura. You are your own fucking person and you can go out tonight by yourself.”

  “But—”

  “YOU’RE AN ADULT.”

  Fine. I looked at Jack, who was currently passed out on the couch. He had one hand in a bag of Cheetos and the other down his pants, with a bong next to him. He was a messy gay stoner, but goddamn it, he was MY messy gay stoner. In a last-ditch effort, I pulled the pillow out from under his head to wake him up and took his bag of Cheetos away to use as leverage.

  “Come with me to a party or the Cheetos go in the trash.”

  “Bitch, I’m sleeping!” He snatched the bag back, put a Cheeto in his mouth, and dozed off.

  I guessed I was going alone. I made a mental plan to stay for an hour and then go straight home before I ruined everything.

  I arrived at the party. It had a theme: “Dress the Way Your Parents Did When You Were Born.” You might think this theme is oddly specific, but the last party was themed: “Wear an Outfit to Symbolize the Last Text You Sent”; and the one before that was “The Battle of 1812.” I wanted to wear a hospital gown with my ass just completely out, because that’s what my mom was wearing when I popped out . . . but I felt like the person with her ass out at the party can’t also be the first person to leave. I was born in ’86, so I found a pink-and-black-striped minidress, teased my hair, and slid on a bunch of bracelets. I called this look: “Phoned-In Eighties.”

  I parked my car outside her house and felt . . . stupid. I hate costume parties. Why would someone create an event where it’s mandatory that you look dumb? I was wearing a stupid dress and I was going to go to this stupid party and drink stupid water because that’s all I’m allowed to do.

  I walked into the garden area and I remember seeing this man standing with a group of friends. He was wearing this really beautiful vintage suit and laughing at something someone said. Like really, truly laughing. I remember thinking he had a great smile. I wanted to know what he was laughing about. I bet I could make him laugh. Then I saw he was holding a bottle of water. Hmmm, I do need water. And I wanted to talk to him. I decided I’d ask him where he got that water. Smooth, right?

  I used to go up to guys all the time in clubs. It’s easy to talk to people! But, I had always been drunk before in these situations. This time I had no false confidence, no liquid courage. What was I going to say? Okay, Laura, just say words.

  I had been standing in front of him and his group of friends, uncomfortably, for ten seconds already.

  Awkwardly, I interrupted his conversation. “Where did you get your water?” He cocked his head to the side, smiling. He looked confused by the question, so naturally I continued: “BECAUSE I just love water. It’s really important to stay hydrated, so I was just wondering where the water might be because water is my favorite beverage and I love it.”

  He raised an eyebrow and said, “Obviously you don’t love water or else you would have brought some yourself.”

  “Are you accusing me of not loving water? I just wanted to sample the specific water at this house. I probably like water more than you.”

  “I’m just saying, if you loved it as much as you say you did, you would have brought it like I’ve brought mine,” he said, grinning triumphantly. How did he get the upper hand here?

  “All right. Whatever. I’m going to go find some water.” I turned around and walked into the house. Real smooth, Laura. Man, I needed a drink. Of water.

  I found my dumb water and sat down to socialize with all the party people. It was fun at first. But . . . then an hour or two passed and everyone had gotten progressively more drunk and high . . . this was my limit. I was a little annoyed, I’ll admit. It was hard being the only sober person at a party. I didn’t want to be a buzzkill, so I needed to get out of there.

  I said my good-byes, and then figured I would find the water guy to say good-bye and catch him up on the fact that I found water immediately.

  “I’m leaving!” I said to him, one arm reached out for an awkward side hug.

  His smile dropped. “Oh, why are you leaving?”

  “Because I’m the only sober person here!” I didn’t mean to sound so annoyed. I looked at him apologetically. But he just looked excited—exuberant, in fact.

  “I’m sober.”

  I was stunned. “Sober sober?” Because there’s “I’m driving tonight” sober and there’s also “if I have one drink I’ll lose control and die” sober.

  He smiled wide and nodded. “Sober sober.”

  “Stop it.” I hadn’t told him anything about myself, but suddenly we exchanged a look and it was like we knew more about each other than . . . anyone else. We had both been through the same war.

  It was too long of a look. He cleared his throat. “Do you know of any good AA meetings around here? I just moved here and I don’t know a lot of people or where to . . . stay focused.”

  “There’s one at The Log Cabin. It’s where I got sober. You should meet me there.”

  “Yeah. I will.”

  Damn. How awesome! Although that conversation would have been a lot weirder had I gone to the party ass-out. As I drove home, I quietly thanked myself for not choosing that particular night to dress like an idiot.

  The next day, Stephen met me outside The Log Cabin for the 11:30 a.m. meeting. We sat together inside, and afterward he asked me to lunch. At this time, I had been vegan for about year. But I always hated telling people this fact when I first met them. Because, you know, people hate vegans.

  I was always pretty into vegetables and clean eating though, even during my addiction. At one point during my addiction I thought the more kale I consumed, the less cocaine I would crave. I realized that didn’t work when I literally called my dealer from Veggie Grill.

  But back to Stephen, what if he wanted to get barbecue or something? As we walked to a restaurant of his choice, I slid my veganism into the conversation.

  “I don’t really eat meat,” I said.

  “Oh, me neither,” he replied.

  Okay, maybe he didn’t understand how serious I was about this. “I’ve been vegan for one year.”

  “I’ve been vegan for two years,” he replied. Are you kidding me?

  There were so many moments like this as we sat down and ate together. So many similarities between us. With Stephen I laughed more than I had in a long time. Suddenly three hours had passed. Oh shit, we were talking for three hours? I found out that he was a film composer, I heard about the town he was from, and I learned that his mom was a waitress and his dad worked in a furniture store.

  That night, I called Colleen. “You’ll never guess who I had lunch with today!”

  “Who?”

  “Stephen Hilton.”

  “Um. You can’t date him.”

  I wasn’t even thinking about dating him. It wasn’t a date. I was just excited to have made a new friend. I mean, I really wasn’t looking for a relationship. I was enjoying dating and being single. I was enjoying seeing (and canceling on) Ben. Hanging with Stephen w
as just . . . really, really fun lunches. As friends.

  “It wasn’t a date.” I paused. “But also . . . why can’t I date him?”

  “He’s married, Laura.”

  “Um . . . What?”

  Now, I stand by the fact that I wasn’t trying to date him. But . . . how had we talked for three hours with no mention of his wife? That was weird, right?

  A week passed, and then Stephen asked if I wanted to go to the meeting together again. I said yes, but was still feeling weird about what my sister had told me. I sat weirdly far away from him during the meeting, and then he asked me to lunch again. I decided to give him a chance to tell me about his wife. I planned to really subtly slide it into conversation.

  “So, have you ever been married?” I blurted out.

  Stephen laughed. “Who told you that?”

  “Colleen.”

  “I’m going through a divorce right now.” He explained the whole situation to me. He married a woman in his early twenties and they had been separated for three years now. She lived across the world, back in London. He was completely honest. Come on, Colleen! You got me all worried over nothing.

  Stephen asked me on a real date after that, and I really liked him. But . . . I was so excited to be single and not serious about anyone. I was living with my best friend in the world, going on auditions, and I felt strong. Why did I need a guy? The answer was . . . I didn’t! So I avoided Stephen for a bit. He kept calling to ask me out, and I would put him off, I was working so much and getting so close to my goals that I could taste it.