Traci Lords: Underneath It All

by Traci Lords

  Yayyyy! I finally had an agent!

  When I was a little girl I baked tiny cakes in my Easy-Bake Oven. I considered myself a fine baker indeed and once thought I would grow into a jolly old plump woman with rosy cheeks who lived on a big grassy hill and baked breads and cakes for the little Russian village I came from.

  It’s a weird thing, self-image, but at my new home in Woodland Hills I found myself constantly venturing into the kitchen to play chef. Although I hadn’t cooked much in my life, learning wasn’t difficult. My father once told me that the best thing about cooking was that you get to eat your mistakes, and he was right.

  Cynthia Levine. Copyright Divine Entertainment

  As I stood in my kitchen remembering his words, I was filled with a longing for him to be near me. How could he have let so many years slip by? Where was he now and what did he think of me? Was he ashamed? Would he be surprised to know I’d dug through his Playboys as a kid?

  Did he realize how much he scared us when he drank and slapped our mom? Was he sorry it all turned out to be such a mess? Did he have the same desire to fix everything that I had?

  Did he know how much I needed him?

  The kitchen became my outlet for self-expression. When I was angry, the sauces were bold and spicy; when I was sad, I whipped up garlic mashed potatoes and homemade chicken pies.

  I cooked because I loved it.

  Christmas came and I invited my mother over to help me roast a turkey. Just as I had once found common ground with my father in the kitchen, I found it again with her. My mother and I were growing closer.

  January greeted me with a few auditions that led to a few forgettable, but clothed, roles in lame B action movies. I was presented with the opportunity to make some money doing an exercise video with Scott. I’d only been to the gym a dozen times in my life, and although I was in good shape from running, I didn’t know anything about “jazzthetics.” No one seemed to care. Scott, apparently no longer afraid to be associated with me, put the video together quickly.

  Tanya Everett, one of the teachers from Strasberg, was hired to choreograph the video. She was so good at what she did that I actually looked like a professional dancer. Scott directed the video, choosing a two-piece yellow leotard for me to wear. I thought I looked ridiculous, but Scott said it was perfect. I learned all the required dance moves but paid no attention to the shots Scott set up during filming. Oblivious to camera angles and lighting, I was mortified to see the final product. It was an embarrassingly cheap video with crude angles and a cheesy soundtrack. The exercises themselves were shot in a vulgar manner that exploited the otherwise innocent bending and stretching I did, and as I watched the camera pan invasively up and down my body, I wanted to strangle my boyfriend. “How could you do this?” I demanded.

  He seemed to have no clue why I was upset.

  Looking back now, I think, Man, was I stupid or what? The guy was only out for himself! What did I expect? Good taste? But at the time, I naively believed Scott wanted to better himself and make films he could actually show to normal people. Gullible? Absolutely! He had been plugging away in the back office of our house, trying to raise money for the same softcore movie that he’d been “casting” since the first day we met. I couldn’t ignore the obvious.

  I spent the following week looking for a new apartment, going on auditions, and avoiding my boyfriend. I couldn’t believe how much money it cost to move! How would I make it on my own? I could get a roommate. No, I was still too vulnerable. A new boyfriend? I’d been down that road and I didn’t want to step into something worse, so I saved my money and bided my time.

  The opportunity I’d been waiting for finally arrived in the spring of 1989. My agent, Don Gerler, called to say a director named John Waters wanted me to audition for a role in his new movie Cry-Baby. I’d never seen a John Waters film before but I was excited just the same. A famous director wanted to meet me! After months of doors slamming in my face and the workout-video fiasco, I was eager to meet a real filmmaker. I tried to picture him in my mind, remembering a television interview I’d seen him do a few years earlier.

  I think he has a very skinny mustache, I thought to myself as I drove over to my agent’s office to collect the script.

  30

  Cool Waters

  It was a gorgeous spring day in Los Angeles.

  Eager to meet John Waters, I got up early and ate some Cheerios. I hadn’t slept well. I’d rehearsed the two scenes I was supposed to perform a zillion times while walking around our backyard, determined to give a great audition.

  Scott thought I was nuts. I’d asked him what he knew about John Waters and he just laughed, telling me a horrible story involving an actor eating dog poop in one of his movies. Jesus, I thought, he’s kinkier than the Japanese sploshers! Thankfully, I found his new script Cry-Baby to be turd free. It was a PG comedy romp set in the 1950s. The central character was a bad-boy Elvis Presley type named Cry-Baby, and Johnny Depp was to play the role. I’d seen Johnny on TV before when he’d starred in a series called 21 Jump Street. He was a real babe.

  John wanted me to read for the role of Wanda Woodward. She was a member of Cry-Baby’s gang, a tough-talking teenager who wasn’t really bad; everyone just thought she was. I hadn’t done much comedy in my career, and while I loved the idea of it, I was scared that I wasn’t funny.

  I waited for my turn to audition in an empty waiting room at Imagine Films, repeatedly mumbling the scene’s dialogue to myself. I was so nervous that I couldn’t keep my Cheerios down, and thankfully made it to the ladies’ room just in time to toss my breakfast. Oh no! Horrified I might smell, I ate a pack of mints and splashed cold water on my face. I studied my appearance closely. I looked younger than my twenty years, which was a darn good thing considering I was supposed to play seventeen for this role. Pleased with the Levi’s and white T-shirt I’d chosen to wear, I headed back to the waiting room and was stopped in my tracks by a voice that inquired, “Miss Lords?”

  I turned to be greeted by the pencil-thin mustache of John Waters. I had to force myself not to stare at it, wanting to watch his lips make the little black line jump.

  He smiled warmly, a twinkle in his eyes.

  Leading me into an office, he introduced me to the producer, Rachel Talalay, who said my audition would be taped by an assistant sitting in the corner. John told me I should play the part “real.” He didn’t want camp. So I did the scene, often distracted by John mouthing along the words as I said them, and finished with a snarl, saying, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a full skirt!” John laughed. Then I thanked them all for their time, and was out the door and on my way home.

  I had no idea if I’d done a good job or if Mr. Waters was just being nice.

  I wanted to know if I had the part. Why did they always make actors wait? It was torture! I needed the role of Wanda Woodward for many reasons. I thought being hired by Imagine Entertainment/Universal Pictures could be the endorsement I needed to put my past behind me. If a big studio hired me, maybe other studios would take that risk as well. Also, the prospect of working with a famous director on location in Baltimore for three months was the answer to my personal problems. Baltimore was a long way from Los Angeles and I definitely needed the space from Scott.

  I fantasized about working on a big Hollywood movie. Would the actors have stars on their dressing room doors? Would the crew look at me funny, trying to remember where they’d seen me before? Was I still just “that porn girl”?

  I tried to push these thoughts out of my head and concentrate on the actual work. Was I really ready to do a musical comedy? What if I was still too green? What if my singing voice was embarrassing? I’d never sung professionally before and there was a big difference between singing into a hairbrush and performing in a movie. Man, if I get this role, could I pull it off?

  I waited for the call all afternoon, the agony of not knowing eating away at me. Scott was on the phone in the back office, talking on his private line about the suc
cess of my recent appearance on the first MTV Music Awards show. That had been a wild experience.

  My entertainment lawyer, Alan Dowling, had passed along an appearance request from another client of his who was managing a band called Guns n’ Roses. The band was set to perform at the awards and they were also up for Best Artist of the Year, but lead singer Axl Rose didn’t want to accept an award and then have to play right after that. His manager, Alan Nevin, said it was too distracting, so I was asked to accept the award if they won.

  Scott took the call and urged me to accept this nonpaying appearance. I was leery of the media, having only recently been left in peace, and wasn’t sure if I was ready to face the wolves again. But Scott convinced me that it would be good for me to be seen with successful people. All I had to do was walk across the stage and smile. What could go wrong?

  The event took place the following afternoon. The band sent a huge white limo to pick me up. I arrived at the auditorium and was immediately whisked backstage. The guitarist of the band, Slash, introduced himself. He wore a top hat and under that had a mountain of curly hair even bigger than Leslie Abramson’s.

  My white leather dress felt out of place in the dark sea of rock and rollers. I waited in the wings backstage. Peeking through the curtain, I was shocked at how many people filled the auditorium. The place was packed and totally unruly! Slash appeared at my side moments later, smiling shyly at me and saying he’d decided to walk with me “if” they won. I got the impression they already knew they had won, but kept the thought to myself, just glad I didn’t have to walk out there alone.

  Guns n’ Roses won, and Slash grabbed my hand as we walked across the stage to the podium. Snap! The photograph of us holding hands was all over the place the following week. I could tell Scott was jealous. But he said nothing. It had been his idea. People magazine ran the photo with the caption “Guns and Poses” that implied Slash and I were an item. I was amused. Although Slash wasn’t my new boyfriend, I did secretly like him. He was a rock star and I was intrigued. It was exciting playing a part in the early days of Guns n’ Roses, even if I was only there as a press stunt. It was the kind of energy that sucked me in, and I couldn’t resist saying yes when Slash asked me out and scribbled his address on the back of an empty cigarette pack.

  The following afternoon at five, I arrived at Slash’s rundown apartment above Sunset Boulevard. Evidently rock stars don’t get paid much, I thought as I stepped over the smoldering cigarette butts embedded in the carpet outside his door. Knocking softly, I wondered what I was doing there. Could this go anywhere or did he just want sex? It had been a year since my fling in Canada and I wasn’t interested in a one-night stand. This bizarre guitar slinger was kind of sexy. Perhaps this could be something more?

  He answered the door looking like he’d just woken up and smelling faintly of last night’s booze. He had company, another one of the guys from the band. He apologized for running late and invited me to have a seat while he and his friend went into the back room to finish up their business. I was settling into the sofa, feeling uncomfortable at being alone in Slash’s living room, when something cool slid across my back. I turned around and there, slithering across the back of the couch, was the biggest snake I’d ever seen in my life.

  Freaking out, I jumped up and ran out of the apartment as fast as I could.

  I hate snakes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  By the time I got home my fascination with Slash was a thing of the past. My brief glimpse into his world was enough to make me realize he wasn’t for me. It was a little too fast, what with the snake, cigarettes, and rock and roll. I wanted a simpler life. He left a message on my answering machine saying he was sorry he had kept me waiting, thinking that was why I had left, and asked me to come back over. I didn’t return the call, and I never told him about my encounter with his slithery friend. Instead, I chose to simply remain a fan of one of the greatest guitar players of our time.

  That evening my agent finally called.

  I got the role in Cry-Baby.

  I shrieked! Putting down the phone, I cried like a baby. What a day! It was one of those moments every actor dreams about and I was jubilant. It made up for the countless doors I’d had slammed in my face. It was a dream come true and I was on top of the world.

  31

  Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

  A week later, I checked into a quaint little Baltimore hotel called the Tremont. It was a few blocks away from the Cry-Baby production offices in the new Tremont annex. Many a film crew had passed through the doors of the Tremont, if not to rent a room, then to hang out in the Celebrity Lounge, a small bar lined with the head shots of actors who, like us, had lived at the Tremont while making their movies in town. As seasoned as the staff was, we still managed to raise an eyebrow or two with our unruly behavior.

  The cast of John Waters’s Cry-Baby was a handful. At twenty-two, our faithful leader, Johnny Depp, was the oldest member of the cast. Darren Burrows, Ricki Lake, and I were all twenty, or closing in on it, and Amy Locane, who played Cry-Baby’s girl, Allison, was the baby at seventeen. Our hotel mom and dad were Susan “Sue Sue” Tyrrell and one of the gods of punk, Iggy Pop, whom I always referred to as Mr. Pop.

  Johnny lived in the penthouse suite of the ten-story hotel and the rest of us lived on different floors below him. I was the resident of suite 801, with Sue Sue above me, Ricki Lake below, and poor Amy banished, for her own safety, to the new Tremont building down the street under the watchful eye of her mother.

  On my first day I barely had time to unpack before I was summoned to the wardrobe chamber of designer Van Smith. As I walked to his office, I took in the local scene. Characters from all walks of life waited for buses, spit on the sidewalks, or strolled out of the local beauty parlor with fresh beehive hairdos. Some of these ladies reeked of Aqua Net and probably still wore chiffon scarves over their hair to bed. I was charmed by the thick Baltimore accent of the voices chattering up and down the street, and especially the local peculiarities. Everyone was called “hon,” and rat sandwiches (American cheese with gobs of mayonnaise on sourdough bread) were the town staple.

  Paranoid I’d be late, I left my hotel way too early and ended up in the lobby of the big Tremont about twenty minutes before my fitting. The scent of hamburgers cooking pulled me toward the deli in the corner of the lobby, but I ordered the local favorite instead to get a taste of Baltimore life. Rat sandwich in hand, I sought out the elevator and climbed aboard, chomping away at the tasty new delicacy as I pressed the button for the twenty-first floor.

  Several businessmen entered and left on the way up, until I was left alone with a long-haired man in his twenties. He was sweating profusely and engrossed in his shoes. I followed his gaze and saw he was wearing Dr. Martens. I hadn’t seen combat boots since junior high school. Maybe they were in again? By the looks of them they had traveled a few paths.

  On the twenty-first floor, the shoe man zoomed out in front of me, practically knocking me over. What an oddball, I thought as I watched his chocolate-brown ponytail swing away.

  Van Smith greeted me in the wardrobe department. He was a no-nonsense, been-around-the-block-and-built-a-shopping-mall type of guy who chain-smoked as he told me to undress. “Don’t worry, honey,” he said in his raspy voice, “I like dick.” I giggled as my foul-mouthed fairy godmother put me into a knee-length white-gray tight skirt and an off-the-shoulder black top. The incredibly uncomfortable pointy bra gave me cone-shaped breasts, a thick red belt cinched my waist, and my feet were clad in short white bobby socks and black mary janes. It was weird putting on those shoes! I remembered the last time I’d worn ones like them, as a little girl on a bus from Ohio to L.A.

  Ensemble in place, I was presented to Mr. Waters. They started chatting about my hair, and just then a plump pretty girl walked in. Van pointed to her pin-curled bangs and suggested this hideous style for me. I silently voted against it. John told me the girl played Pepper, Cry-Baby’s pregnant sister, and when I was intro
duced to her, the girl smiled sweetly and said, “Hi! I’m Ricki Lake.”

  The shoe guy from the elevator squatted in the corner watching the action. He had a furrowed brow and seemed very serious. John asked him something about Pepper’s switchblade and he bellowed to an assistant named Lester, who brought in several blades for Ricki to try out. John called him Brook. He was the show’s property master. I remember thinking he looked more like an Angus or Storm, something a bit more butch than Brook.

  I was caught daydreaming by Waters, who wanted to know what I thought of pin curls. I told him they weren’t my favorite. Van snarled, saying, “It’s either that or baby bangs, hon.” I didn’t know what baby bangs were but chose them anyway and headed off to the hair department, thinking they couldn’t possibly be as ugly as poor Ricki’s pin curls.

  I got my bangs cut super short—about an inch and a half below my hairline. Feeling silly, I twisted the back of my hair into a ponytail and tried not to look disappointed, but John loved the Wanda do so I was free to go. I went back to my room at the Tremont Hotel and collapsed into bed. Exhausted from the day’s travails, I fell sound asleep.

  I woke up to the blaring of my alarm clock. I had dance rehearsal up the street. A map had been slid under my door. I pulled on my jeans, grabbed a cup of coffee, and walked to the rehearsal studio a few blocks away.

  My fellow cast members greeted me as I walked through the door, but seeing them all in one room unnerved me. I wondered what they thought of my past. Had Waters told them I’d done porn? Did they think I was a trashy girl? Did they remember my face from the five o’clock news? Was I being paranoid? I swallowed hard, wanting to fit in. Johnny Depp saw me first. He walked right up to me and smiled.

  “Hey, I’m Johnny. You must be Traci.”

  “Yeah,” I said shyly, “nice to meet you.”

  He was so cute, it hurt to look at him. A sweet smile played across his lips and I felt my face flush, embarrassed by my attraction to him. Feeling like the geek of the century, I positioned myself on the other side of the room, hoping he hadn’t noticed how nervous he made me, and scared of falling under his spell.