“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’m gonna go to the salon later. Maybe get some highlights—”
“Laura.”
Damn it, I could avoid everything in my life except her piercing look.
“I know,” I said.
It was the first time I’d ever admitted it. My aunt Sheila is the only person in my family to have become sober. She told me what it’s like, what AA meetings look like, that it’s fucking hard, but if I didn’t try I could die. She recounted the stories of when she almost did die.
I promised I would try.
I remember that night, sleeping in my childhood bedroom. My pink flowery wallpaper was peeling off and my mom had moved this infomercial stair climber next to my bed.
But there was one thing that stayed the same: this photo of me, when I was about twelve, swimming underwater. I had it blown up really big because underwater cameras were a big deal at the time.
I was smiling so big, trying to keep my eyes wide open even though chlorine was stinging them like crazy. My arms were above my head, trying to keep me underwater as my body naturally tried to float.
I looked so fucking happy.
I flew back to LA and stayed on my sister’s couch. I found an AA meeting to check out at a place called the Log Cabin Community Center.
When I walked in, I saw people laughing. They were happy. What the fuck? I was expecting some depressing-ass dark room like I saw on TV, but this was light. Maybe everyone was high. I sat down with the group in one of their dinky chairs, wishing I was high, too.
My first meeting couldn’t go by fast enough. I listened to other people’s stories and prayed that I wouldn’t have to talk. I wasn’t ready. At the end of the meeting we all took one another’s hands and did something called the Serenity Prayer. We thanked God. What the fuck? I didn’t sign up for church; I just wanted to get sober. I was freaked out.
When the meeting ended, I tried to rush out. But someone walked next to me. A kind-looking woman. She asked me if it was my first time here.
“Yeah. It is.”
She stared at me, waiting for me to talk more about myself. What was I supposed to say? That I was a fucking failure? That I was a horrible person that hurts the people around me? That I got high because I couldn’t deal with real life? That I was a fucking idiot?
“My name’s Laura.”
She smiled. “My name’s Tricia. What do you do?”
“Um. I’m an actress.”
“What have you been in?”
I really just wanted to sit back down. “Um, have you seen any commercials in Spain? I was in a Spanish phone commercial.”
“I haven’t.”
“Great.” I walked faster to try to leave her behind. But she kept up.
“I think you’re very brave for coming today, Laura.”
Brave. I didn’t feel brave at all. I felt scared out of my mind. But I suppose bravery is not being unafraid, it’s being shit-your-pants-scared-out-of-your-mind and doing the damn thing anyway. I was finally doing it. Sort of. I at least went to the meeting.
I stopped walking for a second and looked at her. “Thank you.” She smiled back at me, then went on her own way.
It would be years before I would finally become sustainably sober. It would be a roller coaster of ups and downs. I was trying to do the most difficult thing I’d ever done. My addiction is a fatally progressive disease. It has a voice that used to speak loudly. I work every day to speak louder than it. This was just the beginning of a long road ahead. I wasn’t unafraid, but for the first time, I was brave.
CHAPTER 7
Look, Mom! I’m on TV!
Colleen’s couch was not the most comfortable bed, you guys. It wasn’t even a futon. And Colleen’s roommate, Rebecca, was not too pleased to see the hot mess that I was sleeping in their living room every night.
Colleen was so generous for letting me stay with her (I mean, it was also her sisterly duty), but I could tell that she was getting a little antsy. We’d come a long way from our couch-surfing days, and she had gotten used to having her own space. I was getting antsy, too! I was back in LA with a whole new mindset now. I was ready to get work as an actor. With a couple AA meetings under my belt, I was drinking and using drugs a lot less than before (it’s hard to quit cold turkey, okay? Don’t judge me!) and I felt ready to work. The problem was that I was so terrified. What the fuck happened to me? I knew I could act. I used to have this unwavering faith that I was going to make it, but now it was clouded by fear.
And now that I didn’t have Rudolf . . . or Damon . . . or copious amounts of drugs to distract me . . . I came face-to-face with my goals in a way that I never had before. The time I had always been waiting for was NOW.
I needed to get off Colleen’s couch.
I went to Samuel French Bookshop on Sunset Boulevard and found a book that listed all the agents and managers in Los Angeles. I wrote out a cover letter, updated my résumé (not handwritten this time), and got a better headshot. I sent these out ten times a week to almost every name listed in that book, until someone wrote back.
Anyone.
Anyone?
No one?
After weeks of annoying everyone in both the film industry and the postal industry, I got a phone call. It was my mailman, asking that I stop harassing him. JUST KIDDING, IT WAS AN AGENCY! Progressive Artists Agency liked my headshot and was asking to see my reel! They represented Peg fucking Bundy from Married with Children! I had made it.
At the time, my reel only consisted of one Spanish cell phone commercial, one experimental student film where I painted my face blue, and one student thesis film where I played a girl who had hit her head on a diving board and was in a COMA for the ENTIRE film. Although my coma face was spot-on, I was not about to send this reel to Progressive Artists.
Side note: There was one scene in the diving board movie where the boyfriend had to pull my lifeless body out of the pool, and I could not stop laughing. Everyone on set was furious with me. After the sixteenth take, the twenty-year-old director looked like he wanted to put me in a real coma. I shall stick to comedy.
Without a reel, the agency asked that I prepare a monologue to come in and perform for them. Okay! I could do that. The blue paint thing didn’t let my true talent shine, anyway.
I read monologue after monologue, searching for the one that would show off my comedic abilities, BUT NONE OF THEM WERE FUNNY TO ME.
I was putting a bit too much pressure on myself. It’s just . . . this seemed like it was my only shot. And I swear to God, I couldn’t find one that felt like . . . me. It did not help at all that so many roles written for women are just plain one-dimensional. It wasn’t the way I wanted to present myself. This was a problem. Now, I could drink and ignore it and not show up to my audition, or I could solve the fucking problem.
This time, I decided to solve it. I wrote my own monologue. They wanted to see me do a “professional work” but . . . how would they know if it was professional or not? I wrote a scene that took place on a bus, where I played an eccentric girl talking to strangers. I went into the agency and performed it for two agents, a man and a woman. I had them in the palm of my hand. Laughing exactly when I wanted them to, silent and engaged when I wanted them to be.
“Wow, Laura, that was really good,” said the woman.