My Zen story goes like this: During this year of horror and fear when no one knew what was going on, I went to a barbershop. There were three chairs. Two of the barbers were old Italian men who had been cutting hair their entire lives. The third chair opened up. The barber was a young, painfully thin gay man, probably in his late twenties.
I sat in his chair with some hesitation. He smiled and told me not to worry. I wouldn’t catch anything. He started cutting my hair. He told me he had come out from Indiana. He wanted to be in show business all of his life. It hadn’t worked out but fortunately he had been to beauty school and could work as a barber. Then he had gotten sick. His condition was fatal. His mother wanted him to come home, but he was going to stay in Los Angeles with his friends and work as long as he could.
For his mother, he decided to do something he had never done. He would write the story of his life and give it to her as a parting gift. He told me he had one practical problem. He knew how the story began, and how it would end, but he had no middle chapters.
The face of that young man haunted me for years. And like many things that have come into my life unexpectedly, it has often been unappreciated.
It took me years to realize that the boy from Indiana was a blessing. He taught me that there is always hope for a life well lived. You just have to tell your story. The middle chapters start on any afternoon when you decided not to give up. For me, they may have started that day.
7.
THE FLIGHT OF THE BUMBLEBEE
HOLLYWOOD HAS MANY gatekeepers but few gates. There are legions of people whose only purpose is to send you packing. Agents, assistant agents, receptionists, casting directors, assistant casting directors, retired casting directors, acting teachers, friends of acting teachers. They all seem created to tell you no.
Acting students often ask me, “How did you start your career?” This is a civilized way of asking a series of far more terrifying questions: “How do you get an agent?” “How do you get auditions?” “How did you get your first job?”
The answer is both depressing and liberating. Here it is: there is no way to get started. It’s like scientists who say that according to the principles of physics, it is impossible for a bumblebee to fly. They can’t do it.
Yet they do.
When I arrived in town I was so desperate to make inroads into the impenetrable, I tagged along with a couple of my friends, also unemployed actors. Our plan was to hang out with a friend of theirs who was a more experienced unemployed actor. This friend’s cachet was that he had just been accepted into an acting class that was supposed to be “really good.” What that meant was that some of the students in the class had worked professionally.
Through this friend we aimed to get the connections to pay someone money to take an acting class where we could do scenes with someone who at one point in time had an agent. That was Plan A.
Every Thursday at eleven p.m. we would go over to the apartment of the grand dame of the “good” acting class. Her name was Giva. She was around seventy, had dyed red hair and false eyelashes. She had been a longtime member of the class. Her claim to fame was that several decades ago she had been an unemployed actress in New York. The New York thing was the selling point.
This was our way of networking. We would sit up for hours and drink red wine and listen to Giva talk about the business. She would give us tips as to how to succeed and how to get ahead. Occasionally, someone would gain her favor, and she would offer to put in a good word for him or her to get on the waiting list to get into the acting class.
But networking always comes with a price. At about one a.m. Giva would start to cry and talk about her husband, Lou, who had just died. They had been married for years and years and were inseparable. It broke my heart. She spoke of his kindness and generosity, his powerful intellect and his humor. Then I noticed after sharing her tales of love and loss for about an hour, the monologue would take an almost Sybil-like turn into what a self-centered bastard Lou had been. He was abusive and controlling. She never could please him. This part of the evening went on till about three a.m. or until the bag of Fritos was gone, and I had to excuse myself.
Every week was the same thing: show business advice until one; then the flood of tears and a deification of Lou until about two; followed by burning him at the stake until dawn. I was confused. Sympathy always requires a well-defined protagonist. My late nights with Giva left me with an uneasy feeling that my new world had no clear boundaries.
One week, Giva turned her attentions on me. She used me as an example of a “lost cause.” She told our little group that she could never recommend me for the acting class. It would be a waste of time. She pointed out I could never succeed because I wasn’t “a man’s man.” My voice needed to be deeper. My physique more powerful. My demeanor more dangerous.
Not only was I insulted, but it was clear my weeks of networking were a bust.
My first instinct was to take the low road. I asked her how she thought she could judge me. She had never seen me perform. I told her that I was a comedian. I didn’t need to be a man’s man.
A gigantic silence descended on the room. No one looked at me. I decided to keep speaking. Always a mistake. I told her that it was inconsiderate to go on and on about Lou every week. That there was no way we could participate. It was unpleasant to listen to her tear him down. Even worse, it was boring.
Again, silence. Giva mustered a tear and told me that I was an insensitive man. I told her she was right. I was. But no one had ever accused me of not being a real actor. And to prove it, one of the attributes of being a real actor is that you have to know when to get off the stage. I did. I left.
I always felt pretty bad about being mean to Giva. I knew I should have taken the high road. I was just going too fast and missed my exit. My only consolation was that in the middle of it all, I saw from a twinkle in her eye that I didn’t really hurt her feelings. She had a strange little smile. The actress in her was thrilled to be center stage again.
That was the last evening I spent trying to get into the “good” acting class. My friends went back for a few more weeks. Giva still gave advice and talked for hours about Lou. It dawned on me that my experience with Giva was possibly a haiku of Hollywood: where you’re headed is not nearly as important as the road you travel to get there.
Anyone serious about acting professionally has to tackle the problem of getting an agent. It’s like getting a loan from a bank. If you need one, you can’t get one. I sent out pictures and résumés to various agencies with no response. There was a rumor that an associate of the big talent agency in Dallas was heading out to L.A. to open up a West Coast office. What made this rumor particularly tasty was the secondary rumor that all Dallas talent in L.A. was “automatically in.” I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Could it be possible that this impossible step was already a done deal?
No. It was not possible.
Kelley Green arrived in Los Angeles and set up meetings with all of her “Dallas people.” The meetings had to be scheduled around her regular job. During the week she sold rain gear on commission at the May Company, a local department store.
It wasn’t so much that I minded having an agent whose full-time job was selling umbrellas. I was more disturbed at having an agent who thought selling rain gear in a desert was a good idea. I didn’t feel Kelley was the right choice for me. Against my friends’ advice, I turned Kelley down and once again faced the wilderness.
I bought an actors’ newspaper that had a list of agents. I went down the list until a name jumped out at me: Carroll Farrell. It rhymed. I liked it. It sounded showbizzy. I called up for an appointment. The secretary called me back and said Ms. Farrell would see me. My first returned call! I wanted to open a bottle of champagne.
I went in with my 8 × 10 photo. It was taken in Dallas before I left. It was moody. I wore a black turtleneck against a black background. I looked like a severed head in a medical textbook. I typed out my pathetic résumé that
included two college productions of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, two productions of The Importance of Being Earnest, some anti–Vietnam War plays, and a couple of student films that would never be seen by anyone.
I sat in her waiting room about to pass out from stress. A lot rode on this meeting. She was in her office interviewing a working soap opera actor who was seeking representation. The walls were so thin I could hear every word. It was brutal. She was abasing him for not having any real professional experience. He protested that for the last two years he was a regular character on a soap opera. That wasn’t acting, she told him. My puny résumé shrank in my hand.
He left the room flustered and battered. Ms. Farrell called me into the room. She was not what I expected. She had a bouffant hairdo and wore a one-piece knitted jumpsuit. I sat down and she looked me over. She reached for my résumé and photo. Without changing her expression, she muttered, “You’ll need new pictures.” She looked over my résumé and put it down. I started to tell her I also had done a season of summer stock in New York. She interrupted me. “That doesn’t matter.” She continued to look at me. “What does matter is your name. I can never sell someone with a name like yours. Stephen Tobolowsky. Never. You’ll have to change it.”
I thought about my father and grandfather. I thought about the generations of my family in Russia and Poland lost to any written record by wars and persecution. And then I said, “What name could you sell me as?” She considered it for a moment and then answered, “Steve Adams. I could sell you if you changed your name to Steve Adams.” I said, “Great. Why don’t you tell people you represent an actor named Steve Adams. If they hire me, I’ll change my name.”
I called home that night and told Mom and Dad I had met an agent who wanted to sign me, but I might have to change my name. With almost no hesitation at all both Mom and Dad said, “Whatever it takes.” I was shocked.
I had some résumés made up that said “STEVE ADAMS.” I dropped them by to show Carroll the next day. She was on the phone. She multitasked and in midconversation she nodded her approval of my name change. I left. About two days later, I got a phone call. Carroll needed to see me right away. She had a job for me. I rushed over to her office. She asked me if I played basketball. I said, “Yes!” I told her I had even played on a team when I was eleven. I was a forward for the Carpenter Crusaders and had a scoring average of four points per season. I remembered crying a lot and getting knocked into the stands. I recalled being scolded by my coach for not wearing an athletic cup. Even though we never won a game, now I was thrilled. When you are an actor, everything is on the résumé. Your life is your palette. She asked me how tall I was. “Six foot three,” I said.
She looked me over and said, “Can you be six foot six?”
Pause.
I told her, “Yes. In three-inch heels.”
Carroll looked disappointed and said, “Then I don’t think this is going to work.”
Carroll was right. It wasn’t. It was important to have an agent that appreciated the traditional laws of physics.
But Hollywood was a place where the traditional laws of physics didn’t necessarily apply. One of the apartments I looked at during this period had an odd feeling to it. I was huge. I could barely get through the door. I felt like the Giant from “Jack and the Beanstalk” when I sat at the kitchen table. The landlord told me it was built to “Western proportions.” I had no idea what he meant. He told me in the old days of the silent Western two-reelers, they used to build all of their sets to seven-eighths of what their real size should have been, making the stars look bigger than they really were.
It was the opposite of telescopes. In astronomy, the great telescopes are rated not by how big they make something look but by how much illumination they allow. That was not the rule of Hollywood. Was I ready to commit my life to a world that made up its rules as it went along? Maybe somewhere I would find a like-minded soul, an agent looking for an actor.
I got my second returned call. It was from an agent who said he liked that I had theater training. A Midsummer Night’s Dream was one of his favorite plays. He asked me to come by his office Monday at noon. I did. He wasn’t there. The door was locked. I went home. I called and asked him if I got the time wrong. He called me back and said no. He was at lunch and just forgot. He suggested I come back in at the end of the week. I did. He wasn’t there. The door was locked. I went home. I called him and asked if he forgot again. He returned the call a few days later. He apologized and said something had come up.
He asked me to come back that afternoon. I asked if he was going to be there. If he wasn’t, I was going to have to hunt him down and kill him. He laughed, and said he would be waiting for me. I went back that afternoon. The office door was open.
He said he didn’t want to take me as a client unless I auditioned for him. I told him I was prepared. I had a modern monologue and a Shakespeare. I could do them right there, right now. He said no. He was something of a writer and wanted me to do some of his material. He handed it to me. It was some speech like you’d find in a Clint Eastwood Western where they couldn’t afford Clint Eastwood. It featured all the typical clichés like “the hot sun beating on your back,” and “the stench of being in this Mexican jail,” and “eating bugs for breakfast,” and “gettin’ lynched.” It was bad, but I was unsure of the boundaries of acceptability of my new world.
I told him I would learn it and come back. He said no. He wanted me to come to his house Friday night and perform it.
Oh dear.
I had seen The Graduate. I didn’t know what to do. If I don’t show up and he’s legit, I miss out on getting an agent. If I show up and he’s not legit, I take the chance of being drugged, raped, and sold for body parts. There was no contest. I needed an agent.
He told me to come by at eight p.m. I got dressed in my little sports coat and tie, and headed off with my Thomas Guide map book of the Los Angeles area. He lived up in the Hollywood Hills. I made my way through the labyrinth of alleys and one-lane byways around the Hollywood Bowl. I found the address and parked. I took a deep breath and walked up to a huge wooden door and knocked. A maid answered and showed me inside and, surprise of surprises, there was a party going on! There were about forty people all smartly dressed eating finger food and drinking cocktails.
I saw the agent on the far side of the room in a creamy silk shirt talking and laughing with one of his compatriots. He saw me and put his food down and shouted out to the room: “Everyone! Hey! Everybody! Quiet down now, we have a special treat tonight. We have a little extra entertainment. This young actor came to my office a couple weeks ago wanting me to be his agent.” There was a smattering of laughter and applause. He quieted everyone down and continued, “Tonight he is going to audition for all of us. So if everyone will grab a seat let’s watch, ah . . .” (He didn’t have my name quite memorized yet.) “Sorry, what was your name?”
“Stephen . . . Stephen”—(I didn’t know if I should say “Adams”—screw it)—“Tobolowsky.”
“Stephen.”
Everybody was a little shocked. I could see one woman looking as though this would be a lot of fun, then looking as though this was kind of weird, and then looking as though she would rather be anywhere else. I waited for everyone to get quiet. If nothing else, we would share the moment. If people kept eating shrimp, I stared at them. Everyone stopped. There was silence. I was thinking all I had left in this exchange was my dignity. If this guy wanted me to do a speech about bugs in the food at his party, that’s what I would do. I delivered the speech to one woman in the front row. I never broke eye contact. I finished. I bowed. I left the house.
I drove home. I never called the agent again. He never called me. I ended up running into him a dozen times over the next twenty years. I was always polite. I never spoke of the party or the audition. My evenings with Giva taught me to hold my tongue.
The lessons of Hollywood are never what you think. That’s because Hollywood has never been a part of civ
ilization. It has always been an antidote to civilization. It has been a refuge and an escape. It manufactures ways to kill time, and consequently it’s a war zone. And in a war, sometimes, discretion is the better part of valor.
8.
THE PRICE OF NOTHING
I WAS ONE of those kids whose entire life was supposed to happen in the future. Everything that was happening now was in preparation for it. I had to do well in grade school to get into the high academic class in high school. I had to do well in high school to get into a good college. I had to do well in college to get a good job. So in 1973, I had finished four years of college, and was qualified to do nothing except maybe give back rubs.
I had followed the plan faithfully, but I was in my midtwenties and already running out of options. When you aim at something so remote as being a professional actor, it’s easy to feel the panic of failure early and often. I started looking through the help wanted ads in the Dallas Morning News. I had to find real work to buy myself time.
I managed to land a one-day job. I got twenty-five dollars an hour on Election Day holding up a sign for a man running for the U.S. House of Representatives. The man’s name was Harold Column. I had no idea who he was or what he stood for. All I knew was that the poster had his name, Harold Column, in blue and white along with a picture of a column. It was symbolic of something, I’m sure. It could have meant he was strong, or supportive, or a ruin. I had no idea which.
I started pacing back and forth at my required one thousand feet from the polling place when an intelligent-looking young man came up to me and said, “Okay. I’ll give you five minutes. Why should I vote for your guy?”
My brain whirred like the chamber of a six-shooter with no bullets. All I could think to do was to act like politicians I had seen on TV. My face pulled into an Ivy League smirk, I nodded my head knowingly and said, “Well, the rumors of corruption are enough for me to want a clean slate.”
The Dangerous Animals Club Page 8
