by Gina Ranalli
“I haven’t seen any of your movies, Rimona. I’m not into porn.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me! Even with those?” She looked down at my hands.
“Even with these. Just not my thing, I guess.”
“Oh, honey, you’d make a fortune with those! Well, you know, not as much as me, but a lot!” She giggled and added, “There aren’t many people with 3 vaginas though!”
Instead of replying, I took a bite out of my apple.
She leaned forward in her chair and whispered conspiratorially, “You don’t have three vaginas, do you?”
“No,” I said, still chewing. “I have a clock.”
“Oh.” She sounded almost disappointed. “How big is it?”
I shrugged. “Not very. Maybe the size of a kiwi.”
Rimona squealed, making me jump and drop my apple. “Shit, Rimona! What the fuck?”
“That’s pretty big!”
“It is?”
“Yeah, most of them are the size of cherries or so. At least the ones I’ve seen anyway.”
“Hmm.” I drank down the rest of my coffee and went to throw the paper cup away.
“You really should meet my manager. He’s a hoot. I know he’d be dying to see a clock that big. Probably get you lots of work.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. Like I said, I’m not into porn.” I started walking away but she said my name. I stopped and looked at her. She smiled what I’m sure was her best porn movie smile. “I wouldn’t mind seeing one that big myself.”
I nodded, thinking she was crazy. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said and then got the hell away from her.
After that, Rimona was always flirting with me, making it hard to concentrate and remember my lines. When we were asked to pick a partner to do a scene with, she always picked me and then kept whispering to me about my clock, often getting us scolded by the instructor.
She even began telling other people that she was interested in me, going so far as to tell another girl about my clock and then she too spent a good part of the night flirting with me.
“Tit clock, tit clock,” Rimona would chant at me. “Time is precious you know, Sky.”
“Tongues and tits and clocks, oh my!” The second girl joined in. “We should have a threesome!”
“No,” Rimona disagreed. “I want Sky all to myself. At least the first time!”
Then they both burst into fits of cackling laughter and I had to get out of there.
29
I didn’t go back to that particular acting class again after that, but not entirely because of Rimona and her unwanted sexual advances. Mostly, I didn’t go back because I had to take on another night at the laundrymat. Work had dried up again and I was becoming more and more frightened that I’d made a terrible mistake by staying in LA.
But as it always happens in my life, just when I’m at my most desperate and about to give up, something comes through for me.
This time it came in the shape of a television pilot for a sitcom. It was called “Chrome Cowboy,” about a Split-Mue-his lower half was a unicycle-touring the country as a rodeo clown. I was hired on to play Ponderosa Lollipop, a cowgirl clown with a knack for boxing bulls. Though I was still only 16, I was smart enough to have my doubts about “Chrome Cowboy.” Franz, however, considered it a paycheck, another good thing to put on my resume and of course, he was correct.
We taped 9 episodes of Cowboy and in the meantime the episode I did of the popular drama finally hit the airwaves. Suddenly, I was slightly famous. People recognized me on the bus and at the laundrymat and they always asked the same question: “What are you doing here? You’re a famous actor!”
Their illusions were further encouraged when “Chrome Cowboy” was finally released. It played on Fox for a total of three weeks before they yanked it. Part of me was relieved. I was fairly certain that I didn’t want to get stuck playing the same character for months, maybe years, on end.
But the tide was turning in my direction now and once it turns, like it or not, there is no stopping it.
30
The next job I got was a TV movie, playing a character with ESP, but only through touch. It was supposed to be a scary thriller but I’m not so sure it succeeded in that regard. It did, however, keep me working for over two weeks, meaning I had to quit my regular job and focus solely on acting.
These kinds of little roles and odd jobs lasted for over six years. I was a professional actor, actually making my living at doing what I loved and what I’d set out to do, but I wasn’t making a lot and I still had far to go in order to consider myself a true success.
It was during these years, when I had a recurring role on “Gimp Country,” the popular nighttime soap, that Franz called me up one day sounding a bit distressed.
“I got a call just now,” he said. “Someone named Zion said he was your brother and wants to get in touch with you. Do you know anyone by that name?”
I released the breath I’d been holding and said, “Nope, I sure don’t.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I told him you don’t even have a brother.”
“That’s right. Must have been one of those crazy nut jobs.”
“I guess so. You’re getting to that place where they’re starting to notice you, I suppose. Time to start being careful.”
“Right.” I faked a yawn. “Well, thanks for telling me, Franz. I’m exhausted though. I’ll call you in the morning?”
“You do that, babe. Sleep tight.”
“I will. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Though I really had been sleepy before his call, by the time I was hanging up, I was wide awake.
31
At the age of 22, after 7 years of struggling, I finally had my “big break.”
It came in the unlikely form a cable TV show called “Exquisite Afterlife.” Finally, I had a script in my hands that I genuinely loved. It was funny, but in a smart way, serious, but not sappy, tooth-decaying syrup.
The premise was this: a band of Mues, one of each kind, are killed in a plane crash and returned to Earth in the form of angels to try to save the other victims of the crash and figure out the evil government conspiracy behind it.
It didn’t make too much sense if you thought about it too hard, but it was still entertaining with enough twists and turns to keep you guessing.
Plus, I was working with two very well known, very respected actors: Dove Sabotka, one of the worlds most famous Unie Mues, was hired to play the head angel Woodrow. As you already know, Dove could morph his limbs into any shape or color he desired, which was perfect for his character. Gorgeous purple Skin Lavinia Camano would be playing his second in command, Jardena. That alone was enough to make me ecstatic, but our entire ensemble cast was phenomenal. There was myself, playing the wisecracking, gum-chewing Outie angel Star, David Fredrickson would be the not-so-bright Split angel, Sacheverell and for the chilly but beautiful four-armed angel, they cast the Norm, Lucia Housner.
David, Lucia and I were all relative unknowns but the producers told us we had “youth appeal.” We didn’t give a shit what they said; we were just stoked.
And so began the long lustrous chapter of my story called “Exquisite Afterlife.”
It was easily the best chapter yet.
32
I was not prepared for the amount of work that went into producing a fifty-minute once a week cable show.
My mornings now began at 4:00 am, with a 6:00 am makeup call. I was picked up every day in a white Lincoln Towncar by a driver named Lotus. Lotus was fairly amusing. She had no idea who I was or what was going on. She saw the place where I lived and clucked her teeth in sympathy. I agreed with her that it was a dump and hoped that the show would do well and I could finally move to a real place and not be afraid that I’d have to move right back to the slums again.
Every day, I was happy to get up and go to work, but I was also happy when, at midnight or later, Lotus dropped me off and we said our goodnights. It took a long time t
o adjust to the exhaustion and even longer to adjust to the fame that was suddenly mine. Of the three of us newbies, I think I had the hardest time coming to terms with it, but David wasn’t the greatest at it either. Lucia seemed fairly comfortable with the insanity, maybe because she’d always expected it.
The cast and crew of Afterlife became my new family, the only one I’d known since my carnival days. We instantly bonded with each other and I took a particular liking to Lavinia, who played a tough bad-ass angel on the show but in reality was the sweetest Uni I’d ever met in my life. Whenever I watched her work, her delicate purple skin so perfect for the camera, those high cheekbones, I knew I was watching a legend. Of course, she was too young to be a legend back then, but she still had a lot of time and projects under her belt and there was just something about her that made you know she’d be remembered forever. Part of me, I know now, was a little bit in love with Lavinia, but so was the entire world. She was magic.
There was sometime early on the show, maybe our fifth or sixth episode, when one of our guest actors suddenly died shortly after completing his part. He was a very young man, about the same age as me and we’d had most of our scenes together, along with Lavinia.
When I heard the news, I couldn’t stop crying. It was impossible for me to work. I kept trying to say my lines in a scene with Lavinia but I kept bursting into tears. Finally, the director called for a break and I went to Lavinia and said, “How are you staying in character so well? Aren’t you sad?”
She gave me a compassionate look and stated, “What I am is irrelevant. Jardena isn’t sad.”
Then she walked away, off to her trailer where I suspect she may have done a bit of her own crying, but that was Lavinia crying, not the bad-ass Jardena. On set, she was her character and no one else existed.
33
“Exquisite Afterlife” was nominated for Best New Cable Drama our first year out. Dove was nominated as Best Actor and we also received a few nominations for things like set design and screenplays and costumes.
Everyone was thrilled that people had noticed and liked us, but I was somewhat apprehensive. “Doesn’t this mean we’ll have to go?” I asked David while we sat in our chairs waiting for the light guys to finish lighting the set.
He looked up from his script. “Go?”
“Yeah. To the Emmys.”
He smiled. “I would imagine so, love.” He replied, his limey accent just as appealing off-screen as it was on.
I groaned. “All of us?”
“Hey, it’s not my country. I just live here.”
“Fuck. I don’t want to have to get dressed up and all that bullshit.”
“You get dressed up and all that bullshit every day.”
“It’s not the same.”
David just continued to smile and went back to studying his lines.
A couple hours later, when we were finished with our scene, I went and knocked on Dove’s trailer door. He called that it was open and I climbed inside to find him doing yoga on his kitchen table. “What’s up, Frenchy?”
Frenchy was Dove’s nickname for me since the first day we met; it was in reference to my tongues.
“I don’t want to go to the Emmy’s,” I whined.
“Why not?” He was always completely direct.
“I don’t know. I just think I’ll be uncomfortable. You know me. I don’t want to have to wear some frilly dress and a ton of makeup and all that happy horse shit.”
Stretching a foot up behind his head, Dove said, “All that happy horse shit is just part of the game, Frenchy. You just have to learn to play it.”
“I don’t want to. What does it have to do with acting anyway?”
“Absolutely nothing. Like I said, it’s part of the game.”
“You’re not helping, Dove.”
He seemed indifferent. “Sorry.”
Out of everyone I spoke to, no one understood my reluctance to be a part of that “game”, as Dove had put it. They all agreed that it was no big deal, one night out of the year.
It wouldn’t kill me.
34
When the day of the awards show finally arrived, I was much less nervous than I’d initially been. By that time, I’d done a few spots on Entertainment Tonight, had a few interviews here and there and had generally grown into the whole fame thing to some degree. It still didn’t fit quite right, but neither was it completely uncomfortable.
To be more relaxed, I declined the offer of a limo and drove myself, got stuck in traffic and had trouble with the security guards who had no idea who I was, thereby making me even later, and by the time I finally got inside the show’s producers were furious with me.
“You’re going to have to hurry and look over this script,” one of them bellowed at me as we made our way through the building and then backstage. He shoved a script at me.
I frowned as we hustled along. “A script? What’s this for?”
“For your presentation?”
“My what?”
“This is why the actors need show up in the afternoon!” He was now speaking to his assistant who was jogging beside him. They both stopped suddenly and pointed to what looked like a long row of toll booths side by side. “Your friends are in there,” he said and hurried off to fix yet another catastrophe.
I made my way through a crowd and saw my name on the last toll booth box. I opened the door and stepped inside to see a little stool before an open window and smaller windows on either side. On the left, where the next booth was a couple feet away, David sat on his own stool facing his own forward-facing window.
I poked my head inside his booth and said, “What the fuck is this shit?”
He looked at me and burst into laughter. “Fuck if I know. They keep sending these reporters over to ask us questions, one by one. It’s completely retarded.”
Looking past him, I could see Lavinia in her booth and Lucia on the end. Beyond her was another booth, which was empty. “Where’s Dove?” I asked.
David laughed again. “He said he’s already done this bullshit and he’s not doing it again!”
“That bastard! He told me it was part of the game!”
“Bugger him! Here comes one of those reporter women now. They’ve been wondering where you were, asking us if you were a no-show like Dove and what it meant.”
“What it meant?”
“Yes, like if you were making a political statement or some such bullshit.”
“Oh, brother.”
And sure enough, a woman suddenly stuck her head in my window and thrust a microphone in my face. “Sky! Sky, what are your predictions for tonight’s show?”
David gave me a cheery grin and thumbs up and I could have kicked him.
35
There were hundreds of other, equally lame, questions thrown at me that night.
How did it feel to be an overnight sensation?
Did I care to speculate on what message Dove was trying to send the media?
Was there anything special I wanted to say to the fans?
Any advice I might want to give to aspiring young actors like myself?
What were my predictions for the next season of Exquisite Afterlife?
Would Star and Sacheverell hook up?
Were any sparks flying off the set?
Oh yes, and how did it feel to be an overnight sensation?
Over and over, around and around, until I wanted to scream and rip their eyes out by the roots.
Finally, the questions abated somewhat and the show’s director came over to me to ask if I’d looked over the script yet and did I have any questions. I had to tell him that, no, I hadn’t had a chance to look at the script but I would momentarily. He grimaced and made me promise.
“Fuck!” I said once my window was clear. “This is insanity.”
David continued to look amused. “By the way, love, you look quite stunning in that dress.”
“David, I’m not wearing a dress.”
“I know!” He laughed aga
in. “The studio is going to kill you!”
“Well, thanks. You look very nice in your tuxedo as well.”
He laughed loud enough to make Lavinia glance over at us, with an expression that said, ‘Good lords, I hope those kids don’t embarrass me.’
“You’re stoned, aren’t you?” I asked him.
He brought the magazine he was reading up to his face so that only his eyes showed over the top of it, nodding emphatically. “What am I going to bloody do?” His voice sounded panicked but he was still laughing.
I shrugged. “Drink some water or something. I don’t know.” Then I turned away from him. I had my own problems, the current one being this damn script I was supposed to already have memorized. Opening it up to where someone had stuck a tab with my name on it, I silently read what was supposed to be going on.
Apparently, Lavinia, Lucia and I were all to present the award for Best Sound Effects in a Drama and before doing so, we were to engage in pathetically non-humorous banter with each other, as well as read a few ads and sing a song!
“What the fuck?” I leapt off my stool and flung open the door of my booth, racing over to Lavinia’s booth, flinging open her door and repeating, “What the fuck?” while waving the script around.
She barely glanced up at me. “What the fuck what, Sky?”
“This thing says we’re supposed to sing some stupid jingle!”
“No, no, no,” She corrected with a pointed purple finger. “I am supposed to sing a song. You are supposed to sing the stupid jingle.”
I was speechless, turning nearly as purple as she was in my outrage. Finally, I coughed out, “What about Lucia?”
Lucia leaned in from her own booth. “I already told them I don’t sing.”
Lavinia looked at me. “She doesn’t sing.”
“What the fuck? I don’t sing!”
They both couldn’t have cared less whether I sang or not.
After a moment, I left Lavinia’s booth and went in search of someone in charge. Every time I saw a person who appeared to be part of the crew, I asked, “Who’s in charge around here?” Everyone pointed to everyone else. I kept muttering “Fuck” under my breath and moving on to the next person.
