by Traci Lords
He asked me to come to him. Walking toward him, I noticed the wineglasses and the candles burning on our coffee table. He dropped to one knee.
“Will you marry me?” he asked.
“Yes!” I said, and excused myself to the bathroom to throw up.
40
Father Waters
Brook and I were married in Baltimore, Maryland, in the fall of 1991, in a church only a few blocks away from his parents’ house. But before that could happen, the first order of business was for me to get baptized. During the required marriage counseling before the wedding, I realized the minister assumed we were both baptized, and the truth nagged at me. I certainly didn’t need any strikes against me going into a marriage. Who wants to piss off God? So I brought the problem to John’s attention.
Boasting he was an ordained minister, John offered his services and support. At first I thought he was kidding, but when we met the following afternoon at his Baltimore home, he’d changed into a fancy dark jacket and wore a very serious expression. He asked me to be seated. Brook stood nearby rearranging some dark purple-black tulips as John recited his résumé as a minister. He had indeed performed several weddings.
“Hmm…” I said out loud, “is this going to hurt?” I’d never been to a baptism before and was nervous.
“Perhaps,” he shot back, his eyebrow rising. “The removal of original sin is a difficult process. As a matter of fact, I might have to charge you double for my services!”
I burst out laughing, his teasing manner lightening a surprisingly intense moment. I’d had little experience with organized religion in my twenty-three years on the planet and I didn’t know how I felt about this ritual. But I was comforted by the warmth in the room. And with John and Brook by my side I was sure of one thing: I believed in love, and God was said to be just that.
Cheek-to-cheek with John Waters at my wedding reception.
The collection of Traci Lords
Father Waters removed my sins, and about half an hour later, Brook and I went to city hall, sin free, to collect our marriage license. We were married the following day.
The reception took place at a gorgeous private club overlooking the harbor. It was all a big surprise for me. I really just showed up for the wedding. I didn’t know what kind of flowers or food we were going to have. I had been in Los Angeles running around on auditions while Pat organized the day perfectly.
My dress was designed by Cry-Baby costume designer Van Smith, and made by Grandma Grace’s personal seamstress, Paulette. The food was catered by an old friend of the family and the casting was perfect. It seemed everyone in town had a part in Pat’s production of our special day. Life was funny; the woman who’d cast me in Cry-Baby had unknowingly given me a permanent role in her family. It was a wonderful, weepy day. We were surrounded by a hundred and fifty guests and both our families. My mother and sisters had even flown in from Los Angeles. Brook and I danced the night away, finally retiring to the bridal suite of a lovely hotel across town. It was an unforgettable evening.
In the morning I caught a plane for Vancouver, British Columbia, by myself, as I’d been cast in an episode of MacGyver. No one was surprised that Brook and I went right back to work, though. We were a show business family.
41
Patio in Tow
Brook and I moved into a cozy house in North Hollywood. We called it the Hansel and Gretel house because it had a stone walkway that led up to a sunny porch overlooking a big garden. Wearing our beekeeper hats, large ridiculous bonnets we’d purchased in Chinatown, we dug around in our blooming garden. We planted sunflowers, tulips, and parsley, exercising our green thumbs. Our cat—previously known as “Rat”—had been renamed Mr. Steve McGarrett, in homage to my favorite actor as a child, Jack Lord of Hawaii Five-O. We had a wrought-iron gate about six feet high in front of the house, and although our yard wasn’t completely private, with the exception of the occasional nosy neighbor, no one bothered us.
At twenty-three years old, I was happily married. I spent a lot of time hanging out with girlfriends like Christina Applegate, fixing dinners, playing pool, and drinking wine on the front porch. I was also making a decent living as a print model. My pinup posters hung in rock band bathrooms all over the city, and Christina liked to remind me of the days when she briefly hung out with the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Anthony Kiedis. Apparently my swimsuit poster hung above the toilet in the band’s bathroom and she was scarred for life—unable to get the image of me staring down at her, as she peed, out of her head.
I’ve been in worse places, I’d told her.
My acting career was moving along slowly. I did a lot of episodic work, guest-starring on MacGyver, Sweating Bullets, and twice more on Married with Children in different roles. Christina and I got to know each other during those long Friday-night shoots and I came to feel that she had it all. But it’s true—the grass is always greener. We spent many an evening sitting on my front porch with Steve McGarrett talking about boys and business. She longed for a solid relationship, fully in awe of my marriage. I longed for a solid career, fully in awe of her success. She was only nineteen years old. She had a fortress in the Hollywood Hills, drove a brand-new car, and had men falling at her feet. She had everything but no one to share it with. I adored her, never understanding how Mr. Right hadn’t swooped her up yet.
Mr. Steve on the porch of our Hansel and Gretel home in Studio City.
The collection of Traci Lords
Our little house was the hangout. Our friends had the fancy homes, but Brook and I had the joy and everyone wanted a piece of it.
My mother-in-law, Pat, became an even more important part of my life. We were really close. I traveled a lot in those days modeling all over Europe and it was decided by the family that I needed a chaperone. “Patio” in tow, I traveled to Paris for the Thierry Mugler fashion show. I hadn’t been to France since the final porn movie I’d shot in 1986, and was a little nervous about returning to the scene of the crime. But it was nothing like I remembered. It was a completely different experience now that I was living in another world, no longer a teenager or abusing drugs.
I arrived in Paris hours behind schedule. Pat had flown in beforehand and I was sure she was looking for me by now. The flight was late and I had no time to relax or even check into the hotel before I went to work. All I could manage was a birdbath in the backstage bathroom sink before I was rushed into makeup, greeted by an excited Patio. The makeup area was a big open space with a dozen mirrors. Makeup artists scrambled to ready the faces of Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, Rachel Williams, and Debi Mazar. The place was wall-to-wall six-foot-tall beauties in various stages of undress. Racks of clothes lined the walls with models’ name tags attached. I could hear the crowd chanting out front. The champagne flowed, the music pounded, and finally the show began.
Models scrambled to take their places and I had no time to be intimidated or impressed by the spectacle. My makeup was slapped on in a gorgeous-mess kind of way, my hair teased into a more extreme Brigitte Bardot style, and I stripped naked next to Cindy Crawford, who wiggled into a space outfit of some sort. I hung on to Pat’s shoulder as a dresser dusted baby powder on my lower half so I could slide into a pair of candy-apple red latex pants. The rhinestone bra I wore pinched my nipples, turning them into razor-sharp weapons. It was good to be armed in a sea of unruliness, and Pat and I tried, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.
I felt like an Amazon in my platform heels, my five-foot-seven-inch frame raised to six feet. It was a long way down! I moved cautiously toward the bathroom, my full bladder demanding attention. I carefully rushed along, only moments away from being called onto the stage, when a woman’s foot tripped me. I fell down the small flight of steps, barely stopping myself as I grabbed for the railing. I looked over my shoulder at the platinum blonde perpetrator. A famous blond singer stared back. I wasn’t sure if she’d tripped me on purpose or not, but she sure didn’t apologize as her entourage laughed at my flailing limbs.
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br /> “Cow!” I said, hissing, as I entered the bathroom.
I walked the runway three times that evening for Thierry Mugler, and each costume was more bizarre than the last. I was the latex rodeo queen, the sci-fi space goddess, and finally a glittery angel. Pat watched from backstage, helping me change costumes. We were jet-lagged, exhausted, and utterly giddy at our current surroundings.
A handsome but rather dumb-looking man in his twenties walked by our changing area several times staring at me. I met his eyes, but his sour expression told me he wasn’t a friend. Pat already had the scoop, having made friends with all the stylists backstage. She said he was a gay porn star named Jeff Stryker. Never having heard of him, I shrugged my shoulders. Okay—what did he want? She told me he was mouthing off backstage about how I “wasn’t all that” and if I could get as far as I had in Hollywood with such limited talent, he was sure to be a huge star.
“Really,” I said, scanning the room looking for the twit. If it was that easy to do what I’d done, more people would have done it. I was fuming, but the expression on Pat’s face when she announced, “Oh, Traci, he’s just a big jealous baby,” was so priceless, I could only laugh. I realized how silly it was to take these jealous, petty comments seriously. You’re right, Patio, I thought, smiling at her. Someone was actually jealous of my success. I guess that meant I was making progress!
The fashion show finished to a standing ovation and the press ate it up. For once they seemed to really like me—but of course I couldn’t understand a word of French.
Pat and I arrived at our Parisian hotel long after midnight. We were exhausted and starving but room service was closed, so we lay on our twin beds in the dark playing the food game. I would say mashed potatoes…. Ummmmmmm, she would say turkey sausages…. Yummmmmm, creamy chocolate cake…. Ahhhh, vanilla ice cream…. Ohhh. And it went on and on until one of us fell asleep.
The next day was rainy and gray. We pressed our faces up against the taxi’s window as we snaked through the city en route to another photo shoot. The streets were filled with colorful umbrellas and the people were handsomely dressed in cashmere coats and leather gloves. It seemed so civilized there.
I was set to shoot some photos for Mugler and was the only model working that afternoon. They positioned me in an old elevator with a small French poodle and I stared at my Polaroid image thinking I looked exactly like Cruella De Vil. Finishing work early, we said our good-byes, then Pat and I headed off into the city once more.
“This is the ‘veppon,’” Pat said in a funny voice, pointing at the big black umbrella she was using as a walking stick.
“Ahhhhh,” I said, “you mean ‘weapon.’”
“No—it is the ‘veppon’!”
“Very well, then,” I played along, drawing my top lip back and lowering my voice. “Where shall we go with our ‘veppon’?”
“Why…to eat of course. Traci Elizabeth!!!!!!!!!!!”
Giggling like schoolgirls, we entered the first café we saw and pointed to items on the menu with a simple “oui” as neither one of us spoke any French. Then we took in the sights, walking through the streets of Paris hand in hand and drinking coffee.
I felt I’d reclaimed the city that day, and left behind a new history.
42
Have Your Cake ’N’ Eat It 2
Pat and I left Paris days later and pounds heavier, she for Baltimore and me for Los Angeles. I was already missing her as my plane took off into the clear blue sky, returning me to my husband and an audition for a miniseries called The Tommyknockers.
After the audition a few days later, I peeled into the driveway of our house bursting with excitement. I screamed for Brook, but he was nowhere to be found. I was dying to tell someone! I called Pat in Baltimore.
“I got the part!” I screamed into the phone. “I’m playing Nancy Voss in Stephen King’s new miniseries!”
“Yeah!” she cheered. “When do you start?”
“Next week!” I told her it would mean going on location to New Zealand for about three months, and that I’d heard it was beautiful there. But I was nervous about Brook’s reaction to my leaving again. He never complained, but I could tell he was growing tired of my whirlwind travels. I hoped he wouldn’t be angry. I had to do it! I was a fan of horror and Stephen King was my favorite! I was dying to play Nancy. I must! I must! And even more significantly, this would be my first big network job.
I was all wound up as I waited for my husband to come home.
Brook was working on House Party 2 and the hours were insane. He was wrecked. I’d spent the previous evening baking him cakes for a party scene they’d added at the last minute.
He walked in the front door covered in icing. I ran to him like an excited puppy wanting to share my news, but he wore a sour expression. He was covered in chocolate cake. Apparently he’d fallen asleep at the wheel, crashed his car into a tree, and the cakes went flying. He wasn’t hurt. The car had little damage but was a sticky mess. And he was in a foul mood as he scrubbed frosting from his clothing.
My good news was met with obligatory congratulations. It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy for me. He just missed having his wife around. It was hard trying to earn a living and nurture a marriage at the same time. In so many ways we were like every other couple in their twenties who are trying to find balance in their lives.
With Brook’s blessing, I took the job in New Zealand and left for Auckland the following week. I cried my eyes out all the way there. It was hard being away from him.
What if things changed? What if the distance took its toll?
Was my job really worth the risk?
43
Shed My Skin
The cast trailers sat in a clearing of a heavily wooded area of Auckland, New Zealand. The Tommyknockers had been shooting nights for the past few weeks. There’s something creepy about midnight filming in the jungle, with a full moon on a horror film set. My overactive imagination ran wild and I entertained thoughts of lurking beasts as I downed my second cup of coffee. As I made my way toward the set, my white stiletto heels sank into the moist earth. Thick worms wiggled by as I walked on tiptoe up the narrow path trying not to squash them. The full moon lit my way. Creatures rustled in the brush nearby.
I climbed into the vintage Mustang convertible and offered my coffee to my weary costar, Cliff De Young. He looked like he needed toothpicks to prop up his eyelids. Fighting off the evening’s yawns, we ran lines for the scene. We were postal employees whose romp in the woods led to an alien possession. In the scene my character, Nancy Voss, becomes “one of them,” joining the growing army of possessed citizens in a sleepy little town somewhere in Maine. Marg Helgenberger was our leader. Joanna Cassidy played the sheriff who tried to save the town, and Jimmy Smits filled the hero spot.
It was a large ensemble cast and I was the baby of the bunch. I had enormous respect for my costars but little in common with them. Marg had her children in tow. Joanna traveled around Australia on her days off. Allyce Beasley was a thirty-something yoga fanatic. Handsome, hunky Smits had his hands full with a gorgeous fiancée. And I was homesick, missing my husband.
I hung out with the show’s drivers and production assistants. They were all in their twenties and most of them had been born and raised in Auckland. They turned me on to the best clubs and took me to hidden nightspots that played awesome tribal music on the weekends. It wasn’t hard to love New Zealand. The gorgeous moss-covered mountains took my breath away.
One Sunday afternoon, we headed out in search of waterfalls. Otis, my driver, led a small group of us down a steep path that he claimed eventually emptied into the bottom of a waterfall. I’d left the hotel wearing a black dress and strappy sandals, completely wrong for the muddy hill we were approaching. I grabbed my new friend Shelby’s hand, giggling as we slipped down the hill, balancing ourselves against each other and nearby trees. Our legs were covered with streaks of mud and the path grew slicker. I fell, sliding on my butt with Shelby right
behind me the rest of the way down. We picked up speed as we squealed down the smooth cool muddy path. It was our jungle Slip ’N Slide and it took me back to Great-granny Harris’s hill from my childhood. My sisters and I used to lay down the plastic runner and connect the hose at the top to add water to our slippery runway on her hill. We then took turns running and jumping, sliding all the way down.
I’d forgotten that moment until then. I felt a layer release, freeing me from the pain and shame I’d held on to for so long. I had no idea why it happened then. Why in New Zealand??
When the path ended I was shot out into an ice-cold pond. With a rebel yell, I burst through the water, completely exhilarated and screaming at the top of my lungs, utterly giddy.
I was silenced by the beauty of the waterfall in front of us. I felt a part of the water and the wind and the sky. It was a moment of rare magic and I was overwhelmed with a deep respect for life.
Floating in that water, I felt as if I’d been reborn.
44
The Orange-Haired Fairy
Work in New Zealand was an adventure. I particularly relished my scenes with Jimmy Smits. He was a giant of a human, standing about six feet three or so, and I was the Mighty Mouse who brought him down.
I spent my free time in the hotel room staring out the window at the ocean below. Listening to a new artist named Tori Amos, I became inspired by the candid stories she told in her lyrics. She sang about being raped, and I found myself writing about the same thing, filling notebooks with random thoughts from years before. I titled that section of words “Father’s Field,” although it had nothing to do with my father’s field. My father’s backyard brought such vivid images to my mind that that’s where my story character was placed.
