Pretty Mess

by Erika Jayne

  As soon as I had moved in, I immediately started going to every audition I could find. I had an agent, but it was a boutique agency. It closed within my first year and a half in Los Angeles. None of the other agencies were clamoring to represent me, so I was left to my own devices.

  The audition circuit in LA was totally different from what I was used to. In New York, you would sweat your makeup right off your face on the crowded subway and then ruin your hair walking through the blustering wind. In LA, you got into your car and had air-conditioning. The biggest problem was maybe you struggled to find a place to park or got delayed by traffic, but that was it. You were able to arrive pretty much camera ready.

  There are also two different types of actors. In New York, they’re mostly theater people doing “legit acting,” as they call it. In LA, it’s TV and film actors, which is a very different look and feel. It’s a very subtle way of acting, because you’re performing for the camera, not the cheap seats in the back of a theater. Also, the casting directors in New York have less than zero time for you. LA is just as Machiavellian, but they are fake nice on the outside. You know they’re gonna fuck you over, but you can’t quite tell when, where, or how.

  I found Los Angeles just easier on the whole—as a place to live, operate, and do well. New York is very difficult. I could do it, but I didn’t want to. New York requires a completely different mind-set and philosophy.

  In New York, I always felt a little like a fish out of water. But from the moment I arrived in LA, I had a feel for the city. As hard as it might be to believe, I’ve never been lost in Los Angeles. I just instinctively knew my way around. And I knew that LA was where I needed to be professionally and that my life would open up there. I could tell that I would live here for a very long time. I knew that as hard as it was to temporarily be away from my son while he went to school in New York, eventually he would make his life out here with me. I could feel my future in Los Angeles, in a way that I never could when I was in New York.

  On the outside, my move looked crazy. But to me it made sense. I could see the endgame.

  I got some small parts. I was a guest star on a short-lived cop show called High Incident that starred Blair Underwood. I played a diner waitress with the improbable name of Cindy Butterworth. Cindy filed for divorce from her husband, who got so upset that he took her, and everyone else in the diner, hostage. Yeah, I wasn’t going to win any Emmys, but at least I was booking some parts.

  In that first year, I was mostly paying the rent by working retail. I worked at a small boutique that sold women’s contemporary clothing. I started in the Beverly Center and then moved over to their location in the Century City Mall, which is still there. I never cared for sales because the pay was lousy, the hours were all consuming, and it could be boring. I spent hours staring out at the vast beige expanse of the Beverly Center, waiting for my shift to end.

  In the golden age of Hollywood, Chasen’s was a famous restaurant opened in 1936 by comedian Dave Chasen. It was famous for serving chili and other southern staples. For many years, it was the home to the annual Academy Awards party, and it was there that Ronald Reagan proposed to Nancy. Its original location closed in 1995, but in 1997 the original owners’ grandson reopened in a different spot at 246 N. Canon Drive. (After a short run, it closed and was replaced by Mastro’s Steakhouse in 2001.)

  Sharon Lee, an acquaintance of mine, was working as a cocktail waitress in the new Chasen’s and said she could get me an interview. I talked to Grady Sanders, who was running the place. He asked me if I had any experience working as a cocktail waitress. I said I did, which wasn’t entirely untrue. I had been a cocktail waitress for a bit after I moved on from the go-go clubs in New Jersey, but that was only a brief stint. I figured that I was a quick study and I could pick it up on the fly.

  Grady gave me the job. He was an interesting character who drove a white Rolls-Royce, had a thick Texas accent, called a Heineken “Texas champagne,” and was always finessing and finagling things to go his way. He’s since died, and I hope he’s resting in peace. He always did right by me.

  The new Chasen’s was two floors. The formal dining room was downstairs, and the upstairs was more like a private club. It had a private dining room and a bar, which is where I worked. The decor was dark woods with chintz drapes in jewel tones, dark greens and burgundies. There was a large, semicircular bar and a big fireplace. It was very much like a club where you would see men drinking scotch in front of paintings of foxhunts. While there were just as many female customers, the vibe was very masculine.

  All of the cocktail waitresses wore floor-length emerald-green, sleeveless turtleneck gowns. They were made out of a very comfortable stretch velvet, which doesn’t sound really cute, but was actually quite elegant. I wore that every shift with a pair of very high black pumps.

  I look back on the work with fond memories. Sure, there were nights where I’d rather have been anywhere else, as I served drinks to self-important people. But compared to retail at the Beverly Center, this was better by leaps and bounds. I was in a pretty place that served quality food and drinks. I was wearing an elegant gown while making decent money. At that point, I had nothing. For someone trying to put a life together in a new city, I wasn’t doing too badly.

  When the restaurant opened, it was doing very brisk business. We had an older, wealthier crowd local to Beverly Hills, who were nostalgic for the original Chasen’s. This was a totally different place, though, even if we still served that famous Chasen’s chili. I tried it once and it was good, made from a nice cut of beef. I had never been to the original location, so I couldn’t tell if it was just as good, better, or total slop compared to what Ronald Reagan used to order.

  Lots of doctors, lawyers, entertainment executives, and the occasional celebrity came in. I once waited on Phyllis Diller, who said, “Hey, kid, you look a little like that actress Sharon Stone.” Diahann Carroll had her best gay tell me, “Ms. Carroll thinks you’re very beautiful.” I almost died when I waited on Debbie Reynolds. All I could think about was Singin’ in the Rain. My heart almost stopped when I waited on Cyd Charisse. She was so beautiful, and I think she’s one of the all-time greats.

  There was lots of old LA dough coming through the place. There were also a lot of broke Beverly Hills wannabes, too, pretending they were still able to afford that lifestyle. They’re the impossible ones who wanted everything and were so demanding, yet they never tipped and were the meanest to the waitstaff. The ones with the most money never complained. You could dump their entrées into their laps, and they would remain composed.

  My best friend at Chasen’s was a bartender named Randy. Much like myself, he is a blond who came from New York to LA to be an actor. He had booked a lot of commercials back when there was good money to be made in them. He worked at Chasen’s, then at the Peninsula, and then all over town. He was the kind of upscale bartender who people always wanted to chill with. People would come visit him from all around the globe. Wherever he was working, they would come find him. He knew everyone in town, and everyone knew him.

  There was this one customer both Randy and I hated. He would always drive his red Ferrari to the restaurant. He’d sit down at the bar, order the staff around, and treat everyone like dirt. He was the classic LA loudmouth. He didn’t tip, and no one wanted to deal with him. One day, during a lunch shift, Randy and I were working together. We saw a flatbed truck pull up in front of the restaurant. We watched out the window as this guy’s Ferrari got repossessed right there on Canon. Karma may be a bitch, but that afternoon her tab was on Randy and me.

  Here’s a friendly tip, be good to the bartender, because he sees and hears all your shit. I’ve been out of the scene for years now, but I knew the dirt on everybody, because my bartender friends would tell me. They knew who was coming and going, who was shacked up where with hookers, who was about to get fired, and who had just fucked some girl in the parking lot.

  Randy was a great friend. We had a lot in common an
d could always make each other laugh, especially when we were making fun of some of the more, how can I put this, “eccentric” customers. When I was learning golf, we’d go play together on the public course. I was awful and didn’t want anyone at the country club judging me. Randy was always encouraging, even though he was so much better.

  The most important thing about my job at Chasen’s is that I met my future husband, Tom Girardi, there. Tom is a world-renowned trial attorney and founder of Girardi & Keese, a downtown LA law firm. As a young man, Tom was the first lawyer in the state of California to win a $1 million verdict, which was for a medical malpractice suit. He is perhaps most famous for winning a $333 million case against Pacific Gas & Electric for the 650 residents of Hinkley, California. The company’s practices were giving residents high rates of cancer. This is the case that inspired the 2000 movie Erin Brockovich, for which Julia Roberts won her Oscar. Over the years, he’s won many billions for his clients in verdicts and settlements.

  Tom had a small investment in the restaurant. He would be there quite often, especially upstairs near the private club where I worked. Whenever he was meeting attorneys from a different firm, a journalist for an interview, or some colleagues for a glass of wine, he would always do it at Chasen’s. Tom had all of his office holiday parties and special events at Chasen’s, and he would sometimes bring his adult children in with him.

  Back then, Tom looked much like he does now, but twenty years younger: a dusting of gray hair, sparkling blue eyes, and the sweetest smile I had ever seen. He still had that solid build from when he was a college baseball player.

  What really attracted me to him was the way that he interacted with people. This man treats everyone with respect. Whether it is the busboy, the cocktail waitress, the server, the janitor—he acknowledges everyone and looks them in the eye. He was obviously wealthy, very well educated, and at the top of his field, yet he was so kind and generous. Everyone loved Tom.

  After getting to know him, I learned that he was divorced. After a year of working in the restaurant, one night I decided to slip Tom my telephone number. We were standing in front of the giant fireplace. “Did you hear I was single?” I asked.

  The next day, his secretary called me and said, “Mr. Girardi would like to know if you’re free to have dinner this evening.”

  “Absolutely not,” I told her. “Tell Mr. Girardi if he wants to take me out on a date, he needs to call me himself and ask me and give me enough time to prepare.” You know how men are, especially if they are successful. They expect you to drop everything right away. That’s not how I work, I don’t care who you are.

  He did call me back himself, and he asked me out on a date like a gentleman. For our first date, we went to Ristorante Peppone, which is a little Italian restaurant on Barrington Court near the 405 freeway. (I knew Tom was allergic to garlic but did not yet know he exclusively ate Italian food or steaks.) I was wearing a tight black sweater, black pants, and black Gucci pumps. I ordered chicken Parmesan.

  Tom and I have never really been apart since that night at Peppone. Since we had known each other for over a year, there was no getting-to-know-you period. I had already met all of his children and his colleagues, even though it was in my capacity as a cocktail waitress. Everything just kind of fell into place, and we gelled immediately.

  Tom is thirty-three years older than me. It was always a bigger deal to everyone else than it was to either of us. All a couple really needs is to have the same life philosophy. If you see things the same way, then age, race, religion—none of that comes into play. When you want and enjoy the same things, it’s more important than being born during the same presidential administration.

  I have a thirst for knowledge and Tom has a wealth of it. He is a great mentor, a great teacher, and somebody I really admire. He is adventurous, loves to travel, loves to eat, and loves to have a good time. He’s well read and educated. That kind of stuff is a powerful aphrodisiac.

  At work, I chose to keep our relationship secret. Because number one, you don’t date the customers. It just doesn’t look good, especially when you’re a young woman and the customer is a wealthy older man. Number two, I didn’t know where this was going, so I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. Number three, I know from experience, you must keep things close to the vest.

  Our dating life was pretty simple. We had a great time on that first date, and he asked me out again a couple of days later. We just kept meeting up. I still worked my shifts, and Tom would still come by. It was very normal. Tom was always very busy, so we didn’t have tons of time. We’d go out to dinner and then maybe out for drinks with his friends afterward.

  The more time I spent with him alone, the stronger the bond between us got. Tom has this incredible twinkle in his eye and a powerful lust for life. I just fell in love with the man who talked to me about the future and my plans for life. When he spoke, he made me feel like I was the only person in the room. Heck, he made me feel like the only person in the world. It was inspirational.

  Throughout our entire relationship, Tom inspired me to strive for something and to be ambitious. He taught me that life is good and I can achieve anything. That’s not a philosophy I’d ever experienced before. Renee’s views on life were much more negative. So were the views of most people in my life until then. It was always problems, problems, problems, there’s never enough, men are horrible, and so on. It was about operating from a sense of lack. Tom’s perspective comes from a sense of abundance. In his work, he is always bringing to light the harm that befell his clients, yet he manages only to see the good in life.

  That is so attractive. I wanted to run toward it. When someone is positive, successful, loving, inspirational—I gotta tell you right now, that shit is seductive. That is more enticing to me than six-pack abs and a chiseled jawline.

  Tom was excited to include me in his life and educate me about the law and what he does. If we went to dinner with another attorney and they discussed a case, they wouldn’t just talk shop and ignore me. Tom would say, “Okay, Erika, listen to this. This is the case we’re working on, and this is why he and I don’t see things the same way.”

  He would explain the particulars of the situation and the laws governing it. I would become a part of the conversation, and I’d walk away knowing something about the law. More important, I would feel included and valuable to the conversation.

  “What do you think, now that I’ve explained it to you?” he would ask.

  Then both men would listen intently. I gave my opinion, and they paid the utmost attention. I found out later they were interested in a layperson’s opinion of their case and its merits. That information comes in extremely handy when presenting arguments to a jury. But I liked how it made me feel. It was incredibly seductive.

  In my experience, most men are not really interested in teaching their partners shit. Rarely does a woman meet a man who will explain things to her without making it feel like he’s talking down to her. Tom explains things in a way that’s uplifting. It’s like, “Oh, let me show you this. Let me exchange this knowledge with you.” Tom would never “mansplain” something to me. He always values my intelligence, even if I wasn’t educated on a particular topic of discussion.

  I’ve always been attracted to smart, successful men. I’ve dated people with more money than Tom. I’ve dated people in more powerful positions than him. But he was someone who included me in the conversation and never took my presence for granted.

  Tom loves the law. He loves to share his knowledge of it, and he wanted me to be a part of something he loved so much. He made me love it, too. I loved every minute of it. I thought it was cool. I was there to listen and soak it all up.

  A few months after we started dating, I lost the lease on my apartment. I temporarily moved in with my friend Victor, who was nice enough to take me in. But that wasn’t going to last forever.

  “Where are you going to go?” Tom asked when I told him about it.

  “Oh, I’
ll figure it out,” I said nonchalantly. These things, while stressful, always have a way of working themselves out.

  “You know my house is really big,” Tom said. “You could leave your stuff in my garage while you look for a place, or you could just stay there while you figure things out.”

  “I don’t know,” I told him. I didn’t want to jump into anything. At that point, I had only been to his house one other time when he cooked dinner for me. But after a few more weeks on Victor’s couch, I reconsidered. We decided that I would live with Tom, just as friends, and I would have my own bedroom down the hall from his.

  Before moving in, I got rid of all my Ikea furniture. That day at Tom’s house, I just rolled up in my convertible.

  “Where’s all your stuff?” Tom asked.

  “It’s here in these trash bags,” I told him as we unloaded them out of the backseat.

  “All you have is a car and your clothes?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay. I thought you were going to have furniture and things.”

  “No, I don’t have any of that. I got rid of it all.”

  “All right then,” he said.

  As I was thinking about what my life in that house would be like, I fully realized just how sparsely furnished it was. Tom had the basics—beds, a kitchen table, a couch—but you could tell that a man lived there alone. Here we were, two adults in this huge house. Between us, we had barely any possessions at all.

  I set myself up in the room down the hall from Tom, which is the room where my son lives now. It’s a large guest room with a big fireplace. Our split living arrangement was a little foolish, because every night I would sneak down the hall into Tom’s bed, using him as my human body pillow. After a month, we dropped the pretense. I just moved into his bedroom.