You’ll Never Blue Ball in This Town Again

by Heather McDonald

  “Fuck you, Lily,” I laughed.

  “No, I just mean you’re pretty, but...” I cut her off.

  “Lily, I just can’t. I can’t imagine getting together with him.” She went on and on with his résumé, where his mansion was located, how he could have any woman in LA, and how I should be so thrilled. She finally convinced me to go to some black-tie charity event with the three of them. Since I never went to events like this, I was curious, and any opportunity to dress up, I so loved. We sat at Clive Davis’s table, who I was told was big in the music industry, but I had no idea who he was until American Idol came on some years later and realized that I was at a pretty spectacular event with Clive Davis, the man who signed Kelly Clarkson and discovered Whitney Houston. If Lily had done any research besides financial on these people, I could have leaned over and told Clive how much I loved The Bodyguard. Richard, like his fifty-eight-year-old best friend, was smart and fun and charming, but I just could not force the attraction angle.

  What if I really was a gold digger and learned to fuck really well so that he was pussy whipped and I got him to marry me? Then, like the rest of the Beverly Hills gold-digging wives, I would get bored and wait for him to simply die. But, I mean, let’s face it—old people are just not dying like they used to. You see this type of woman all over Beverly Hills. She’s about sixty, with her shiny face, due to one too many dermabrasion treatments, pulled back so far that she can barely see through her catlike eyes as she pushes her ninety-year-old husband in his wheelchair, cursing the day Viagra was FDA approved. This was clearly not her plan when she was thirty and married her sixty-year-old billionaire groom. Her plan was that after ten years he’d die and she’d only be forty and still hot, but things don’t always work out as planned, especially when part of marital duties include counting pills and emptying colostomy bags.

  After the charity event, Richard called me a few times, but I did not return the calls. I wasn’t in the music industry, so I couldn’t even talk myself into going out with him one more time for the sake of connections or networking. Some time passed and Lily’s fifty-eight-year-old refused to let her move in, so she decided to put her foot down and only fuck him on the weekends, because it was summer and he had rented a beach house in the Malibu colony for three months.

  So on a Thursday night, Lily picked me up for a night on the town. We decided to begin with drinks at the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills. At the time, their bar was pretty happening with rich, successful guys. At the bar we had a few drinks bought for us and were talking to a small group of businessmen when I noticed Jerry Seinfeld walk in and sit at a small table with another writer-looking guy. Now, Lily was in the fashion industry and not entertainment. Even though when I first introduced her to Bill Maher, she didn’t know who he was, after fucking him, she attested to his huge penis, however she did know who Jerry Seinfeld was. I gritted my teeth like a ventriloquist auditioning on America’s Got Talent and said to Lily, “Jerry Seinfeld is right there. Don’t look to your left.” She managed to look nonchalantly. This was during the eight or ninth season of Seinfeld. He was single and I always felt that I was kind of a Catholic Shoshanna Lonstein. Shoshanna was the big-busted girl he had dated for six years, but they had broken up. I kept thinking to myself, Seize the day. Take advantage of this situation. Just say something. Do it, goddamnit.

  “Lily, I’m going to say something to Jerry Seinfeld.” “You are?” she questioned. For someone who clearly didn’t make the best decisions, even she was apprehensive about this move.

  “I need to take control of my life, and luck is where opportunity meets preparation. Here is my opportunity. He’s in front of me and I’m prepared to say hi. Besides, I don’t get much cuter than this,” I said with confidence. However, there is no place in that luck-meets-preparation aphorism that mentions what happens to luck when you throw three Cosmopolitans into the mix. But there was nothing stopping me now. I opened my Lancôme powder, checked my lipstick, and walked right over to Jerry’s table and said, “Hi, Jerry. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m Heather McDonald and I’m a comedian, too.”

  Jerry looked at me, smiled, and very nicely said, “Hi Heather. This is my friend Bernie.”

  “Hi Bernie,” I said, and then I felt so welcomed that I pulled a chair over from another cocktail table, and plopped down. “I just love the show,” I said enthusiastically. Their table for two was up against a wall, so naturally I sat at the side that was open in between them.

  “So what do you talk about in your act?” Jerry asked.

  Well, now that just opened the floodgates. I talked on and on and on about The Groundlings. I explained that I talked a lot about dating. Suddenly, I had an out-of-body experience, much like those who die for a few minutes and watch themselves from on high while being revived by paramedics. That’s what happened to me. I saw myself literally dying and I couldn’t stop the tragedy. I started getting really physical, doing bits from my act, laughing at my own jokes, grabbing my own breasts to make a hilarious point when we were interrupted by the cocktail waitress.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked. Jerry and Bernie’s drinks were full, so I said, “I’ll have an Amstel Light, thanks.” Then I turned to Jerry and Bernie and said, “No worries. I’m not going to stay here all night. The second I get my beer, I’ll leave.”

  I continued with what I thought was entertaining when Lily came over to the table. I introduced her and then she said to me, “We have to leave soon. My friend Amir said he could get us in to SkyBar, but we have to meet him there by eleven.” What an idiot she was! Who cares about Amir and the SkyBar? Hello— I’m talking to Jerry Seinfeld here; there could be a guest spot in my future. “OK, I’ll be right there,” I said to Lily. “Don’t mind her, anyway. What was I talking about? Oh, that’s right, me, anyway...” Just then, the cocktail waitress returned with my beer and left, but I simply continued. “So I’m supposed to be showcasing for the HBO Aspen Comedy Festival this year, but…”

  At that point, Jerry interrupted me and said, “Heather, I thought you said when you got your beer you were going to take it and leave.” I just about died.

  “Oh, of course. I’m so sorry,” I said. “It’s just that we need to discuss some business here.”

  Jerry said disgruntled, “Let me pay for this.”

  As I dug into my purse, I could only find two dollar bills with M.A.C. lipstick smeared all over them. “Wait—let me pay for my beer,” I insisted as I frantically searched for a five- or ten-dollar bill.

  “You don’t have to. Really, it’s fine,” Jerry said. Of course, it’s fine. He’s making over a million dollars an episode, but I continued to insist on paying for myself.

  “No, no. Well, here you go. Good luck on your ninth season, like America isn’t tired of that,” I said laughing, getting in my one last attempt at a joke. Having no other cash on me, I left the two crumpled lipstick-stained dollars on the table and joined Lily at the bar.

  “We have to get out of here now,” I said, pulling her off the bar stool.

  Driving over to the SkyBar, I was still reeling from the experience. At first, I thought Jerry was a little rude. Then I realized how obnoxious I was.

  I learned a valuable lesson. For example, carpe diem, seize the day, does not mean accosting someone important while they’re trying to enjoy some tiger shrimp at a restaurant.

  “I knew it was bad when I saw your hands flying everywhere while you were telling a story. That’s why I went over there to try to save you and get you to leave,” Lily said.

  “Well, thanks for the attempt. It’s the thought that counts.” This wasn’t the first time Lily had saved me. I went through a brief stage where I wore a hairpiece I bought at a kiosk in the mall to give me that height I love at the back of the head without having to tease my hair. I adored this hairpiece until the night I was talking to a cute guy at a house party and I leaned up against a gothic-style wall sconce and when I went to follow him to the bar I rea
lized I was attached to it. My hairpiece had gotten stuck on it and was lifted off my head and hanging there in the hallway. So I quickly went back up against the wall and fit my head back under my Bump-it-type hairstyle for a good hour, until I was able to summon Lily to get me loose. She was thrilled it happened because she was annoyed I was wearing, with my naturally thick hair, what she described as a “dead squirrel” on my head in the first place.

  “Hopefully, SkyBar will be fun. Something needs to save this night,” I said, exasperated.

  SkyBar was at the Mondrian Hotel on Sunset Boulevard and was the total hot spot. It was outdoors around the hotel’s pool, and there were big white beds for hanging out and sipping cocktails. About an hour into the party, I noticed Vince Vaughn. The hit movie Swingers, which starred Vince, had come out about six months earlier. He was there with one of the other cast members from the movie who was not as famous. They were right by us, so I ended up talking to the less famous guy, who was very friendly.

  Even though I was wildly attracted to Vince from the moment I saw Swingers—from his height, to his face, to his fantastically fun personality—after the Jerry Seinfeld Poseidon Adventure, there was no way I was going to even look in Vince’s direction. Besides, girls were coming up to him from all directions. Then, somehow, he started talking to me! For the first time in my life, when someone I was attracted to talked to me, I didn’t flirt back. He asked me if I was an actress. I told him my deal, but this time nonchalantly mentioned The Groundlings, figuring he’d probably never even heard of it. But he was completely intrigued and asked a million questions. Each time another model-looking girl came up and interrupted us, he was polite and then immediately came right back and talked to me.

  I had never dated an attractive, successful actor. I figured I really didn’t have a chance, but Vince kept coming around all night, even when we began to leave. He stopped Lily and me and said, “Well, where are you guys going now?”

  “We’re going home. It’s two,” I said.

  “Well, I want to see you perform at The Groundlings,” Vince said anxiously.

  Finally, someone was impressed by The Groundlings, the same theater group that the William Morris agent/mauler and Jerry Seinfeld couldn’t give a shit about.

  “OK. I’m in the Sunday show, so it’s every Sunday,” I said rather unexcitedly I’d been through this before.

  “I’ll be there this Sunday. What time?” he asked.

  “It’s at seven p.m.,” I said cautiously. We exchanged numbers and I told Vince to call me on Sunday if he was coming. I told a few friends about how cute and nice he was in person, along with the horrific Seinfeld story. It made for a pretty eventful evening. I didn’t tell anyone about Vince wanting to come to the show, because I thought there was no chance.

  Around four p.m. Sunday, I checked my messages after rehearsal. There was a message from Vince saying that he wanted to come and to call him with the details. I called back, got his voice mail, and said that I’d leave two comp tickets for him at the box office. I still didn’t tell any of the other cast members, because I figured he wouldn’t show up. After the first few sketches were performed, I went out to the box office and asked if my comps had come. The answer was no. Fine, who cares, I thought. Now I don’t have to be nervous.

  Then in our group dressing room as I checked my makeup, one of the other members of Groundlings who was not performing that night said, “Hey, that guy from Swingers is here.”

  “What? Are you sure?” I asked in a bit of a panic. It was my turn to go out and act out my improvisation. I admit I was thrown and did not do my best at turning the audience’s suggestions into a hilarious scene. After my performance, Vince was there with a childhood friend who was visiting from Chicago. It turned out he didn’t use the comps that were offered and insisted on paying. What a class act! He was really complimentary to me and to everyone else in the cast. Admittedly, I felt like the hottest girl in Hollywood in front of my Groundlings friends for having a funny, babeish movie star there to see me. I turned to Vince and said, “Well, thanks so much for coming.”

  I was sure that was it, but then he said, “Well, are you going out with the rest of the cast for drinks? Do you mind if we come along?”

  “Oh, of course. We’re going to the Snake Pit, down the street.” This place fit the name perfectly. It was a total dive perfect for snakes. Vince bought everyone drinks. Then he said he wanted to go somewhere else with just me and his friend, so, of course, I was up for it. It was funny because he drove a similar car to the one he had in Swingers. It was some big classic boat, which seemed to float through the back road on our way to Los Feliz, where the hipper bars, all of which were featured in Swingers, were located.

  Vince was hilarious; he was incredibly quick on his feet and had me rolling with his obscure references and philosophies on life. The night finally ended at four a.m. in the parking lot next to The Groundling’s theater to retrieve my car. It was a little awkward, because the childhood friend was with us the entire night, including when Vince dropped me off. I kissed him anyway, with the embarrassed friend squatting in the backseat. Vince was a great kisser and he said he’d call me. I didn’t expect him to.

  The next day, I told my friend Josh, a fellow stand-up comic the whole story and he said, “You know, tonight we’re showing short films, and one of them is Swing Blade. It’s a parody putting the Billy Bob Thornton character into the set of Swingers. ” He added, “It’s hilarious. Trust me, you should tell Vince to come.”

  I debated for a few hours and then I thought, Oh well. At this point, what do I have to lose? I left him a message, saying, “Hey Vince, its Heather. I’m going to Largo tonight, and I’m sure you’ve already seen it, but they are showing Swing Blade, so just thought I’d let you know. Bye.” I felt that was very low-key. I didn’t expect him to show up, so when I chose my outfit, I opted for a casual button-down shirt and navy miniskirt, an outfit that would have been appropriate to wear to a real estate showing in Encino. I didn’t even shave my legs. Though the hair wasn’t quite braiding length, but my legs weren’t the smooth silkiness I would have if I ever thought another human might be touching them.

  At the club, I sat with Josh and watched the acts. I watched the door for Vince. No Vince. See, I told myself, he’s not coming. The Swing Blade movie started to play, and halfway through the six-minute film, Vince walked in with the same friend. I stood up and brought them over to our table. I felt pretty cool having Vince Vaughn at my table. Comics who knew me but had never spoken to me before, because my comedy wasn’t perceived as “alternative” enough, kept coming over. They’d say hi to me, then immediately introduce themselves to Vince and compliment his work as an actor and then never look in my direction again during the conversation. I couldn’t help but wonder what a life like that must be like. What would it be like for a woman who is with someone of celebrity-level importance? Sometimes you can see it when the male star is being interviewed on the red carpet and then finally Joan Rivers turns to the wife and asks, “And who are you wear— … Oh, I’m getting word we’re going back to you, Melissa.”

  We hit a couple of more bars that night. Besides Vince’s childhood friend, some comic who knew Vince from kickboxing had invited himself and wasn’t really flirting with me but more challenging and pestering me at every turn. I asked Vince what this guy’s deal was and he said, “I think he’s like the kid in elementary school who pulls your pigtails because he really likes you.” Vince asked me what my dream job was and I said to star in my own sitcom. At the final bar, The Horse and Carriage—a total dive, a place where 90 percent of the patrons have never even heard the word loofah, let alone ever used it, but apparently cool to the hipsters in Hollywood—our bar stools faced each other and he suddenly grabbed for my three-day stubbly calves. I kept moving his hands so that he wouldn’t feel the patches of leg forest.

  Thank God we were interrupted by yet another girl coming up to Vince who had taken acting classes with him. She l
ooked at me politely and said hi, then got about an inch from Vince’s face in an attempt to have an intense conversation with him about the Meiser method. It was about emotions and some repetition exercise where two actors would look at each other and say, “I’m smiling,” and then the other actor would say, “You’re smiling,” and then back, “Yes, I’m smiling,” and so on. This could go on forever, so I was hoping they’d start doing it, because that way I’d have an opportunity to escape. I told Vince and acting-class ho that I was going to the bathroom. I started heading toward the back. When I saw that he could no longer see me, I ran out of the bar and started sprinting to the corner. I pressed the crosswalk button on Sunset about a hundred times, as if that ever helps, and ran to the Rite Aid across the street.

  In a total panic, I screamed at the cashier, “Where are the Bic razors?”

  The cashier was a black woman, who looked at me and said, “Ma’am, I am helping another customer right now. If you need help, you need to find another store associate.”

  “That’s OK. I’ll find it myself.” I didn’t want to piss “the associate” off and felt that based on basic demographics, she’d most likely never even heard of the movie Swingers, let alone seen it or understood the importance of me having smooth legs immediately. I ran through the store like a crazy woman, first going down the shampoo isle. Why isn’t it with the other toiletries? I thought. Come on, come on. Then I was in the toilet paper aisle, which only had paper goods. What the fuck? Finally, I found the little travel-size Bics. I grabbed a pack and some shaving cream and looked for the bathroom. Wait, I thought. That’s a crime. I need to buy them first. I started running down the aisle to the black lady with an attitude. There were three people ahead of me. I had already been gone for at least five minutes. I immediately added up the time zone and calculated, If I’m gone any longer, Vince is going to think that I left for good and go home with acting-class ho.