True Stories from an Unreliable Eyewitness
Page 16
A harried nurse sticks her head into the room. “Catherine?”
“Ah, gotta go! Time for my nip!” She gathers her coat and purse. “Good luck with that . . . mole.”
Every muscle in my back is seizing up. I go back to the receptionist. Before I can say another word, she sings, “You’re next, Ms. Lahti.”
“Shh. Thanks!” I duck back into my little corner. I try to stretch a little. Do I really want to do this? What about all the actresses who’ve had too much work done, and that’s what ultimately, ironically, has ruined their careers? It’s so fucking unfair I want to cry, but I can’t; it would ruin my three layers of Dior Black Out mascara.
But what’s so wrong with just a subtle little lift? I’ve been fine with the Botox and fillers I’ve tried. Well, mostly fine. No matter how little I used, I never told anyone except my husband, who thought I was crazy. Then there was that lovely time I became allergic to a filler that the doctor swore was nonallergenic. Instead of looking younger, my skin looked like the surface of the moon.
But come on, Christine, you’ve dyed your hair for a hundred years. You’ve pierced your ears. Your lashes were put on by a Korean lady on Fourteenth Street! Why is this such a big deal?
In spite of the fact that all these doctors told me I’d just look “well rested,” like I went on a vacation, I’ve never seen a facelift that doesn’t look like, well . . . a facelift. When I see those people on-screen, I’m not looking at their faces, I’m looking at all their “work.” So if I just want to keep working as an actress, is it better to look old but real or to look younger but strange? One doctor told me recently that I looked “haggard.” Another said it was definely time for surgery because “the covers had fallen off the bed.” Ugh, enough! Why does any of this fucking matter?
I look at my watch for the fiftieth time. I have to go. Fuck it. I’m done with these stupid consultations. I am not mutilating myself for the sake of some oppressive idea of beauty! I know I’ve said this before, but I mean it this time. I am going to try to age gracefully and be at peace with my sagging face as I carry it around Hollywood in a wheelbarrow.
I rush up to the desk. “Look, I can’t wait anymore. I’m going to be so late for this—”
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Lahti. Would you like to reschedule?”
“Yes . . . no . . . no, I don’t . . . I don’t actually want another appointment.” And with that, I run out of there as fast as my sixty-three-year-old SoulCycled legs can carry me.
I get on the 405 and drive like a lunatic. I park illegally. I dash backstage. It’s a get-out-the-vote rally focused on women.
“Oh, great, you’re here! You’re on!” says a young woman wearing a headset. I rush up the steps of the stage and stand before a giant audience of mostly women.
“Ahhh, hi! Thank you all for coming!” I say, out of breath. “Sorry, I’m late. I was stuck in the waiting room at a . . . a . . . never mind. Anyway, I’m here to help, um . . . empower women! One of the best ways we can do that is by voting next week! Did you know that in every election there are millions of women who don’t vote? Your vote counts!” The audience starts to clap, and I catch their energy. “Your voices matter! We can’t wait anymore for men to value us. We need to value ourselves as we are! What are we waiting for?”
The crowd applauds. I look down. Shit, there’s a line of press in the first row. I didn’t know there were going to be TV cameras here, and shooting from below? I stand there, my hand resting casually under my chin, wishing I didn’t care but secretly missing my little invisible adhesive neck “lifts.”
I quickly finish my speech. Just as I am about to escape the tyranny of the cameras, a song starts blasting through the huge speakers.
What you want, baby, i got it. What you need, you know i got it. All i’m asking is for a little respect, just a little bit . . .
I scan the audience. All the women are singing along and dancing. r-e-s-p-e-c-t, find out what it means to me!
After about a minute, I step off the stage and drift into the middle of the electrified crowd. r-e-s-p-e-c-t . . .
. . . and with my arms reaching to the sky, I start singing and spinning around and around, my hair in a tempest around my flushed face, as hopeful and . . . undecided as ever.
I got to have . . . Just a little bit . . . A little respect . . . Just a little bit . . .
R-E-S-P-E-C-T
Acknowledgments
I have many people to thank for encouraging me to take this journey and for supporting me along the way.
First and foremost, my husband and life partner of almost thirty-five years, Tommy Schlamme, who not only encouraged me every day but read almost every draft of every one of these stories and gave me invaluable feedback. My daughter, Emma, who was the first to suggest I might have some worthwhile stories to share and to start writing them. My sons, Wilson and Joe, who also greatly inspired me. Jessie Nelson, Kathy Najimy, and Gloria Steinem for their brilliance and for leaving me breathless in the wake of their belief in me as a writer. Calvert Morgan for his early, much appreciated support. Michael Moore, Bryan Gordon, Lisa Kron, Mark Poirier, Di Glazer, Alan Zweibel, Philip Himberg, Robin Morgan, Brian Mann, and Rob and Michelle Reiner for their insightful feedback and encouragement. My amazing writing coaches, Elena Karina Byrne, and Xeni Fragakis. My book agents, Laura Nolan and David Kuhn, and Sarah Levitt for their wisdom and editing talents. My kick-ass, remarkable editors at Harper Wave, Karen Rinaldi, Sarah Murphy, and Hannah Robinson. Robin Hirsch at the Cornelia Street Café Downstairs, Shanta Thake at Joe’s Pub, Maggie Rowe and Jill Soloway at Sit N’Spin, Paul Crewes and Justin Masterson at The Wallis Annenberg’s Sorting Room, Eva Bernstein at Beyond Baroque, and Terry Mintz from “Word” for letting me develop and workshop many of these stories at their fabulous venues. Danny Goldstein, John Cerna, Carolyn Cantor for all their support and guidance during these readings. Finally, I want to thank my parents for teaching me that if you work hard enough, the sky is indeed the limit.
About the Author
CHRISTINE LAHTI is an acclaimed director and stage, television, and film actress with a career that spans over forty years. She won an Oscar for her short film, Lieberman in Love, an Oscar nomination for Swingshift, a Golden Globe Award for No Place Like Home, an Emmy Award and a Golden Globe Award for Chicago Hope, and an Obie Award for Little Murders. On Broadway, she starred in God of Carnage and The Heidi Chronicles, among many others. Some of her films include Running on Empty and Housekeeping. TV shows include Jack and Bobby, Law and Order SVU, and The Blacklist. She lives in New York City and Los Angeles.
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Copyright
The names and identifying characteristics of some of the individuals featured throughout this book have been changed to protect their privacy.
true stories from an unreliable eyewitness. Copyright © 2018 by Christine Lahti. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
first edition
Cover design by Robin Bilardello
Cover photographs by Peter Ash Lee
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition APRIL 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-266369-6
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-266367-2
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