Obviously, I didn't kill myself. After that rock-bottom night, I began the hard, slow task of pulling my life back together.
The first thing I did was decide that the quality of my life mattered more to me than my so-called acting career. And quality of life meant getting out of my Great Aunt's house and getting my own apartment. And getting my own apartment meant getting a real job with a real paycheck. And getting a real job with a real paycheck meant putting myself first. And putting myself first meant no more following other people's agendas for my life.
I definitively cut Semi-Homeless out of my life.
He continued to stalk me by telephone, sobbing into my answering machine and begging for this, that and the other. One day, he even resorted to leaving me a gift basket along with a poignant love letter: "You dropped something – my heart."
Oh, ick.
My mystery STD turned out to be trichomoniasis. A week of antibiotics vanquished the horrible parasite that had been stinking up my panties for nine months.
I advised Semi-Homeless to get tested, and replaced him with a guy from my acting class.
A white guy from my acting class. A 6'2", 200-pound, body-builder white guy who once doubled for Ah-nuld as a stunt man.
Was it a long-lasting, close, satisfying relationship?
No.
It was a relationship of sexual convenience.
But at least it was sane. Stunt Man looked good, smelled good, turned me on, owned his own home, and most importantly, had good sense.
I started packing. I didn't have a place to go yet, and I didn't have a job yet. But I was 100% clear that my days as a nursemaid were over.
Mr. Sweet Talker tried to lay the guilt on thick. "You are all that old lady has got. Don't leave her. She loves you. If you leave her, I don't know what will happen. You know, she doesn't have long to live."
Thank God, I didn't listen. Great Aunt outlived Mr. Sweet Talker. She outlived Neighborhood Watch. She even outlived her nephew, my Uncle Gaunt, who moved in after I left. She lived to be nearly 101. It took another 12 years before she finally passed away.
If I had stayed, she certainly would have outlived me. Because I would have slit my own throat.
Less than a month after nearly ending it all, I got a $35/hour gig, proofreading and formatting a sales proposal for AT&T. That was my moving money. And this time, I didn't let an abusive psychic con me out of it.
A few weeks after that, I had a job offer. It was a sucky secretarial job, but it was enough to live on. (And it led to me finding the love of my life. More on him later.)
A month after that, I found my own apartment, in the Mar Vista area of West Los Angeles, 12 miles and a world away from the grime and crime of South Central. I moved in September 1997, and it was the beginning of the rest of my life.
Not an easy life. Not a perfect life.
But a much, much better life than the casting couch / semi-homeless nightmare I'd just barely survived.
Showing posts with label Great Aunt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Great Aunt. Show all posts
Monday, March 16, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
My (Thirty) Five-Year-Old Boy
The problem with Semi-Homeless was that he didn't need a wife. He needed a mommy. And the problem with me was that I believed God was playing some hideous trick on me by sending me that fool and calling him my soul mate. It never occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, dating a smelly dufus wasn't a life sentence from Almighty God, it was a personal choice.
Semi-Homeless and I settled into a dysfunctional and totally stifling routine.
Initially, on days when he worked and actually got paid, I might spend the night with him in a $30/night ghetto motel. Where he might suck on my toes even though I've always hated people touching my feet. Or worse, despite the fact that he never brushed his teeth, he might lick my privates, while I secretly worried about germs making my already-infected lady parts even more drippy and disgusting.
I say initially, because eventually it devolved to me paying for the ghetto motel more often than not, with money I didn't have. He was always going to pay me back, but somehow never did. And it wasn't just motels. Often, I found myself reaching into my purse $3 at a time, even as I fumed, Why am I buying a hamburger for a 35-year-old grown man?
He wasn't just a drain on the little money I had, he was also a drain on the money I was trying to earn.
I had decided, at the urging of Mr. Sweet Talker, to stay with my Great Aunt. Mr. Sweet Talker bribed me with a salary of $800 a month, on top of the free room and board I already had. It was just enough to pay my car note, my phone bill, my acting class. In exchange, I tried to turn over a new leaf, sitting with Great Aunt more often, cooking occasionally, taking her to the doctor.
Meanwhile, I found a part-time job reading tarot cards on a psychic line. I could set my own hours, and I could work from home. It wasn't the easiest job in the world, listening to the problems of redneck housewives and ghetto girls, of blue-collar cowboys and hard-luck home boys, none of whom could afford $3.99-per-minute amateur advice. My tiny piece of the action was $.25 per minute, and the clock started only when a client was on the other end of the phone.
In order to make money, I needed to be disciplined and work at least six hours a day. Most days, I worked no hours a day. Or two hours. Or three.
There were the inevitable Great-Aunt distractions. She constantly wandered uninvited into my room to ask pointless questions, even when I was on the phone. Or I'd plan to spend the morning on the line, but instead find myself searching every conceivable and inconceivable place in the house for her missing teeth, only to find them three hours later wrapped in paper towel at the bottom of the kitchen trash can.
But Great Aunt was nothing compared to Semi-Homeless.
In addition to paging me 10 zillion times a day and leaving 10 zillion messages on my answering machine, our dates and get-togethers were a study in wasted time. A one-hour dinner break would turn into a three-hour, multi-stop excursion through the streets of South Central L.A., as I ferried him here, there and everywhere on his various shoeshine-boy errands.
By the time our relationship finally ran its course, he had progressed (or regressed) from paying for motels to me paying for motels to sleeping in my Great Aunt's garage to showing up unannounced in the middle of the night so I could let him in the house.
What finally made me give Semi-Homeless the boot? Urine and a drug-addicted uncle.
Semi-Homeless and I settled into a dysfunctional and totally stifling routine.
Initially, on days when he worked and actually got paid, I might spend the night with him in a $30/night ghetto motel. Where he might suck on my toes even though I've always hated people touching my feet. Or worse, despite the fact that he never brushed his teeth, he might lick my privates, while I secretly worried about germs making my already-infected lady parts even more drippy and disgusting.
I say initially, because eventually it devolved to me paying for the ghetto motel more often than not, with money I didn't have. He was always going to pay me back, but somehow never did. And it wasn't just motels. Often, I found myself reaching into my purse $3 at a time, even as I fumed, Why am I buying a hamburger for a 35-year-old grown man?
He wasn't just a drain on the little money I had, he was also a drain on the money I was trying to earn.
I had decided, at the urging of Mr. Sweet Talker, to stay with my Great Aunt. Mr. Sweet Talker bribed me with a salary of $800 a month, on top of the free room and board I already had. It was just enough to pay my car note, my phone bill, my acting class. In exchange, I tried to turn over a new leaf, sitting with Great Aunt more often, cooking occasionally, taking her to the doctor.
Meanwhile, I found a part-time job reading tarot cards on a psychic line. I could set my own hours, and I could work from home. It wasn't the easiest job in the world, listening to the problems of redneck housewives and ghetto girls, of blue-collar cowboys and hard-luck home boys, none of whom could afford $3.99-per-minute amateur advice. My tiny piece of the action was $.25 per minute, and the clock started only when a client was on the other end of the phone.
In order to make money, I needed to be disciplined and work at least six hours a day. Most days, I worked no hours a day. Or two hours. Or three.
There were the inevitable Great-Aunt distractions. She constantly wandered uninvited into my room to ask pointless questions, even when I was on the phone. Or I'd plan to spend the morning on the line, but instead find myself searching every conceivable and inconceivable place in the house for her missing teeth, only to find them three hours later wrapped in paper towel at the bottom of the kitchen trash can.
But Great Aunt was nothing compared to Semi-Homeless.
In addition to paging me 10 zillion times a day and leaving 10 zillion messages on my answering machine, our dates and get-togethers were a study in wasted time. A one-hour dinner break would turn into a three-hour, multi-stop excursion through the streets of South Central L.A., as I ferried him here, there and everywhere on his various shoeshine-boy errands.
By the time our relationship finally ran its course, he had progressed (or regressed) from paying for motels to me paying for motels to sleeping in my Great Aunt's garage to showing up unannounced in the middle of the night so I could let him in the house.
What finally made me give Semi-Homeless the boot? Urine and a drug-addicted uncle.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
My Great Aunt's Memorial Service
Those of you who have been following my Semi-Homeless Diaries are familiar with the trials and travails I went through with my 88-year-old Great Aunt. But if you assumed she was a sad old lady who wasn't long for this world, ha! My aunt lived to be 100 years old. She passed away Feb. 3, 2009, and yesterday, I attended her memorial service.
I wish I could say that her twilight years were happy and fruitful and filled with love, but honestly, I believe her last years were mostly a bewildering blur of loneliness. By the time I moved in with her, most of her loved ones were long gone. She had lived with her parents most of her adult life, even after she married. Her parents? Gone. Her siblings? Gone. Two husbands? Gone. Even Mr. Sweet Talker and Neighborhood Watch. Gone.
Most of the people at the memorial service were senior citizens, but their primary memories were of how kind Great Aunt was when they were kids. When you reach 100, real peers are hard to come by.
At one point in the service, the minister said, "If Great Aunt were here, she would say..." and then he inserted a Bible verse. I wanted to laugh out loud. Granted, my aunt was a Christian woman who regularly attended church, but I never heard her utter a Bible verse of any kind.
She didn't talk about the Bible. She talked about puppies. Her parents. Traveling. How her younger brother (my grandfather) used to call her a "green-eyed monster." How Century Boulevard, a busy Los Angeles thoroughfare, was still orange groves when she arrived in the 1940's. How when she moved to her South Los Angeles neighborhood in the 1970's "there were hardly any blacks."
The last time I sat and talked to her was at her 100th birthday party. She was wearing a silly birthday tiara and some comfy clothes that she wouldn't have been caught dead in 12 years earlier. If she could have really seen herself, she would have given a self-deprecating laugh and exclaimed, "Oh, gee! I look a mess!"
She didn't really know who she was. She didn't know who I was. She didn't know who all the people in the house were. She didn't know what all the fuss was about. I was able to hold her hand and sit with her and let go of some of the bitterness, resentment and guilt that I felt when I lived with her.
I wish that the 25-year-old me had been able to be more patient with her, more kind to her, more able to give her the love and nurturing and attention that she needed at the time. But I couldn't. At the time, she got on my nerves. And to be fair, I got on hers, too.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Mall Solution to My Nightmare Situation
I started living in malls the day after Great Aunt's friends accused me of beating her. It was God's will. You see, I'd read somewhere that writing with your non-dominant hand was a great way to tap into divine wisdom. So I kept asking God how to deal with my situation, and the burning bush that was my left hand answered back: Try to be gone from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m. every day, even if all you do is sit in the mall and read.
On day two of my mall exile, I came home to an answering-machine message from Mrs. Battleaxe, who had apparently declared herself my supervisor. When I called her back, she pulled out a list and began ticking off chores.
"First of all, there's that food situation. Well, I just want to know: DO YOU KNOW HOW TO COOK?" It was deplorable for Great Aunt to be eating the TV dinners she'd been eating for decades. Now, according to Mrs. Battleaxe, "They should be for emergencies only. And about Great Aunt's skin. It looks terrible. I have never seen her skin look like that."
"Mrs. Battleaxe, I am doing the best I can."
"Well, I know you are. No one is BLAMING you. It's just that no one has told you these things before. No one has TOLD you to cook before, have they?"
I took 60 percent of the sarcasm out of my voice, then added 15 percent saccharine and 2 percent rat poison. "As much as I appreciate your instructions, Mrs. Battleaxe, I am really not absorbing them very well right now. I have had a very exhausting day. Thank you very much for calling."
God had instructed me to go to the mall. Those were the only instructions I was following.
About a week into my mall exile, Neighborhood Watch called me to apologize. He was sincerely sorry he'd accused me of hitting my aunt. And something else was on his mind. He was in love with me.
"I been wantin' to make love to you so bad, 'specially when you was wearin' all those short dresses ... Ain't no chance, huh?"
Great. He had a key to the house. And I had no lock on my bedroom door.
What I did have was a big audition. The musical Rent, which had taken Broadway by storm the previous year, was about to have its Los Angeles premiere. I was up for the role of Joanne, and I was totally freaked out. I was scrambling to find the songs, then trying to learn the songs. With a cold. In my car. While driving to and from various malls.
The nerve-wracking Rent audition happened about two weeks into my great mall escape. I gave it everything I had, but knew immediately I would not be making Los Angeles theater history.
Fortunately, I had lined up what I thought would be a well-paying day job with a completely flexible schedule. I would be a tarot-card reader on the psychic hotline made infamous by a fake Jamaican urging the desperate and foolish to "Call now for ya' free psychic readin'!"
Of course, it was impossible to work, because my aunt would wander aimlessly into my room asking if I'd seen her scissors or her checkbook while I tried not to scream. I could only work late at night, after she passed out, or very early in the morning, before I escaped to the mall. Any mall.
Three weeks into my mall-hopping adventure, I was starting to feel like a vagabond. Not surprisingly, I met a vagabond. The unattractive, smelly vagabond who became my instant lover.
On day two of my mall exile, I came home to an answering-machine message from Mrs. Battleaxe, who had apparently declared herself my supervisor. When I called her back, she pulled out a list and began ticking off chores.
"First of all, there's that food situation. Well, I just want to know: DO YOU KNOW HOW TO COOK?" It was deplorable for Great Aunt to be eating the TV dinners she'd been eating for decades. Now, according to Mrs. Battleaxe, "They should be for emergencies only. And about Great Aunt's skin. It looks terrible. I have never seen her skin look like that."
"Mrs. Battleaxe, I am doing the best I can."
"Well, I know you are. No one is BLAMING you. It's just that no one has told you these things before. No one has TOLD you to cook before, have they?"
I took 60 percent of the sarcasm out of my voice, then added 15 percent saccharine and 2 percent rat poison. "As much as I appreciate your instructions, Mrs. Battleaxe, I am really not absorbing them very well right now. I have had a very exhausting day. Thank you very much for calling."
God had instructed me to go to the mall. Those were the only instructions I was following.
About a week into my mall exile, Neighborhood Watch called me to apologize. He was sincerely sorry he'd accused me of hitting my aunt. And something else was on his mind. He was in love with me.
"I been wantin' to make love to you so bad, 'specially when you was wearin' all those short dresses ... Ain't no chance, huh?"
Great. He had a key to the house. And I had no lock on my bedroom door.
What I did have was a big audition. The musical Rent, which had taken Broadway by storm the previous year, was about to have its Los Angeles premiere. I was up for the role of Joanne, and I was totally freaked out. I was scrambling to find the songs, then trying to learn the songs. With a cold. In my car. While driving to and from various malls.
The nerve-wracking Rent audition happened about two weeks into my great mall escape. I gave it everything I had, but knew immediately I would not be making Los Angeles theater history.
Fortunately, I had lined up what I thought would be a well-paying day job with a completely flexible schedule. I would be a tarot-card reader on the psychic hotline made infamous by a fake Jamaican urging the desperate and foolish to "Call now for ya' free psychic readin'!"
Of course, it was impossible to work, because my aunt would wander aimlessly into my room asking if I'd seen her scissors or her checkbook while I tried not to scream. I could only work late at night, after she passed out, or very early in the morning, before I escaped to the mall. Any mall.
Three weeks into my mall-hopping adventure, I was starting to feel like a vagabond. Not surprisingly, I met a vagabond. The unattractive, smelly vagabond who became my instant lover.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Kitchen-Table Confrontation
I didn't even have time to take my coat off before the tribunal of bourgie b*%#tches started in on me, attacking me for not properly taking care of my 88-year-old Great Aunt.
Betty Boop, the least concerned for Great Aunt's well-being, was the first to attack. You see, 11 days earlier, I had committed an unforgivable sin. I had escorted Great Aunt to Mrs. Battleaxe's New Year's Eve party looking absolutely stunning. Better than Betty Boop, if her reaction was any indication. She had pursed her lips.
Now she simpered, "I didn't like your attitude yesterday."
"Her attitude toward you?" Mr. Sweet Talker asked.
"No, she was fine toward us. Her attitude toward Great Aunt." And Betty Boop began to rattle on about how "mean-spirited" I was.
It didn't take long – probably less than five minutes – for me to completely lose my temper.
"I was asked to come here to look after Great Aunt!" I shouted.
Great Aunt suddenly showered her stubborn, ill-tempered side. "Then go home!" she croaked.
"I will gladly do so," I spat. I glared at Mrs. Battleaxe and Betty Boop and said, "Y'all can deal with this sh*t on your own."
I stormed into my room, with about 10 gallons of steam coming out of my ears.
I could hear Neighborhood Watch signifying from the kitchen. "I always knew she had it in her!" Mr. Sweet Talker remarked that he'd never seen me like this, while Betty Boop kept adding logs to the fire with her catty comments.
When I calmed down enough, I re-entered the kitchen, ready to do battle: "All the sh#t you've been saying behind my back, you can now say to my face!"
I started with Betty Boop. "There are three people in this room who take care of Great Aunt: me, Neighborhood Watch and Mr. Sweet Talker. You and Mrs. Battleaxe are nothing but invisible friends."
Did they think I enjoyed pulling Great Aunt off of bloody floors in the middle of the night? As far as I was concerned, I hadn't received an ounce of appreciation or support from anybody but Mr. Sweet Talker, and I had sacrificed months of my life for nothing.
That's when Neighborhood Watch decided to open his big, loud mouth.
"God, forgive me in my heart if I'm wrong," he began dramatically. "But I believe you slapped the sh*t out of Great Aunt. I don't believe she fell on no flo'! She been drinkin' fo' yeahs, an' she ain' neveh fell till you come around."
I was stunned, furious, upset.
Neighborhood Watch rested his case. "See, you mad now! An' you know what I think that is? 'The truth hurts.'"
I looked Neighborhood Watch dead in the face. "F*ck you."
And since he wanted to talk about the truth, I added, "The truth is, you know in your heart that Great Aunt needs to stop drinking, but you're not going to let her stop drinking, because as long as she drinks, you drink free."
I told them that if this was the thanks I got, I was leaving. And when I left, there wasn't going to be anybody there to notice when Great Aunt left the gas on or put metal pots in the microwave.
Neighborhood Watch grudgingly admitted, "Yeah, Great Aunt do leave the gas on."
Great Aunt responded, "I don't do it every day, do I?"
The bourgie little kangaroo court was beginning to worry that I might pack up immediately, leaving Great Aunt completely unsupervised and a danger to herself.
So on their way out, Mrs. Battleaxe and Betty Boop made a big deal of hugging and kissing me and saying they were so sorry I was so unhappy.
Mr. Sweet Talker whispered in my ear, "They won't even be back, so don't pay them any attention because Great Aunt needs you."
I no longer cared what Great Aunt needed. I needed to move out. Soon.
Betty Boop, the least concerned for Great Aunt's well-being, was the first to attack. You see, 11 days earlier, I had committed an unforgivable sin. I had escorted Great Aunt to Mrs. Battleaxe's New Year's Eve party looking absolutely stunning. Better than Betty Boop, if her reaction was any indication. She had pursed her lips.
Now she simpered, "I didn't like your attitude yesterday."
"Her attitude toward you?" Mr. Sweet Talker asked.
"No, she was fine toward us. Her attitude toward Great Aunt." And Betty Boop began to rattle on about how "mean-spirited" I was.
It didn't take long – probably less than five minutes – for me to completely lose my temper.
"I was asked to come here to look after Great Aunt!" I shouted.
Great Aunt suddenly showered her stubborn, ill-tempered side. "Then go home!" she croaked.
"I will gladly do so," I spat. I glared at Mrs. Battleaxe and Betty Boop and said, "Y'all can deal with this sh*t on your own."
I stormed into my room, with about 10 gallons of steam coming out of my ears.
I could hear Neighborhood Watch signifying from the kitchen. "I always knew she had it in her!" Mr. Sweet Talker remarked that he'd never seen me like this, while Betty Boop kept adding logs to the fire with her catty comments.
When I calmed down enough, I re-entered the kitchen, ready to do battle: "All the sh#t you've been saying behind my back, you can now say to my face!"
I started with Betty Boop. "There are three people in this room who take care of Great Aunt: me, Neighborhood Watch and Mr. Sweet Talker. You and Mrs. Battleaxe are nothing but invisible friends."
Did they think I enjoyed pulling Great Aunt off of bloody floors in the middle of the night? As far as I was concerned, I hadn't received an ounce of appreciation or support from anybody but Mr. Sweet Talker, and I had sacrificed months of my life for nothing.
That's when Neighborhood Watch decided to open his big, loud mouth.
"God, forgive me in my heart if I'm wrong," he began dramatically. "But I believe you slapped the sh*t out of Great Aunt. I don't believe she fell on no flo'! She been drinkin' fo' yeahs, an' she ain' neveh fell till you come around."
I was stunned, furious, upset.
Neighborhood Watch rested his case. "See, you mad now! An' you know what I think that is? 'The truth hurts.'"
I looked Neighborhood Watch dead in the face. "F*ck you."
And since he wanted to talk about the truth, I added, "The truth is, you know in your heart that Great Aunt needs to stop drinking, but you're not going to let her stop drinking, because as long as she drinks, you drink free."
I told them that if this was the thanks I got, I was leaving. And when I left, there wasn't going to be anybody there to notice when Great Aunt left the gas on or put metal pots in the microwave.
Neighborhood Watch grudgingly admitted, "Yeah, Great Aunt do leave the gas on."
Great Aunt responded, "I don't do it every day, do I?"
The bourgie little kangaroo court was beginning to worry that I might pack up immediately, leaving Great Aunt completely unsupervised and a danger to herself.
So on their way out, Mrs. Battleaxe and Betty Boop made a big deal of hugging and kissing me and saying they were so sorry I was so unhappy.
Mr. Sweet Talker whispered in my ear, "They won't even be back, so don't pay them any attention because Great Aunt needs you."
I no longer cared what Great Aunt needed. I needed to move out. Soon.
Friday, February 13, 2009
The Tribunal of Bourgie B*%#tches
Anyone who has ever had the displeasure of taking care of an elderly or disabled person knows that visitors are few and far between. Friends and family may come around for birthdays or special occasions, but day-to-day? Hardly. It's too depressing. Boring. Smelly. Weird.
In the days after Great Aunt's second drink-and-fall, three invisible friends decided to pay me a visit and give me a piece of their mind.
The first was Mrs. Battleaxe and her assistant, Betty Boop. Mrs. Battleaxe, a 70-something long-time friend of Great Aunt, lived in Baldwin Hills. Betty Boop was her 36-year-old personal assistant, a silly, vapid, pretentious, materialistic, keeping-it-young-while-still-posing-for-lingerie-calendars Los Angeles snob.
I was in my bedroom, about an hour into the three-hour job of braiding my hair, when they realized I was home and demanded that I join them in the living room. So there I was, half Buckwheat and half braids, facing down perfectly coiffed bourgie bitches.
Neighborhood Watch, the loudmouth from across the street, was in on the action, too. He had a key to the house and was a constant, nosy presence.
They were full of concern about bruised and confused Great Aunt. They'd never seen her look so bad. She was too thin. What in the world was the problem?
"You want to know the problem? This is the problem."
I shoved a recycling bin in their faces. It was filled with empty liquor bottles. One or two gallon-sized jugs of wine. Two or three empty bottles of hard liquor. All of it consumed by Great Aunt, with a little help from her drinking buddy, Neighborhood Watch.
The phones must have been busy that evening, because the next day, Cousin Inglewood paid me a surprise visit. I came back from early-morning grocery shopping to find her sitting in the living room. She had previously been cordial to me, but now she was fixing me with a hard, beady-eyed stare. Cousin Inglewood obviously thought Great Aunt had hit my fist, not the floor.
She watched me like a hawk as I stuffed a thousand TV dinners in the freezer.
"What? Y'all don't cook?!"
No, in fact, we did not.
Cooking was never my thing to begin with, but living with Great Aunt made a dreaded chore an impossible one. It took infinite patience to fix something as simple as a pot of grits. Because if I left the kitchen for even a minute, Great Aunt would turn off my pots.
So TV dinners it was. And the kicker was, that's all Great Aunt had eaten for years, even before too much vino and too much gin turned her wits to mush. She herself didn't cook.
I left the house and went to acting class. When I came home, court was in session.
Battleaxe and Betty Boop (who normally didn't visit at all) were back for their second visit in two days. Joined of course by Neighborhood Watch. And by Mr. Sweet Talker. He greeted me with, "You are the subject, and I am the predicate. Sit down here and join us."
I was on trial, and before it ended, I cussed all my elders out.
In the days after Great Aunt's second drink-and-fall, three invisible friends decided to pay me a visit and give me a piece of their mind.
The first was Mrs. Battleaxe and her assistant, Betty Boop. Mrs. Battleaxe, a 70-something long-time friend of Great Aunt, lived in Baldwin Hills. Betty Boop was her 36-year-old personal assistant, a silly, vapid, pretentious, materialistic, keeping-it-young-while-still-posing-for-lingerie-calendars Los Angeles snob.
I was in my bedroom, about an hour into the three-hour job of braiding my hair, when they realized I was home and demanded that I join them in the living room. So there I was, half Buckwheat and half braids, facing down perfectly coiffed bourgie bitches.
Neighborhood Watch, the loudmouth from across the street, was in on the action, too. He had a key to the house and was a constant, nosy presence.
They were full of concern about bruised and confused Great Aunt. They'd never seen her look so bad. She was too thin. What in the world was the problem?
"You want to know the problem? This is the problem."
I shoved a recycling bin in their faces. It was filled with empty liquor bottles. One or two gallon-sized jugs of wine. Two or three empty bottles of hard liquor. All of it consumed by Great Aunt, with a little help from her drinking buddy, Neighborhood Watch.
The phones must have been busy that evening, because the next day, Cousin Inglewood paid me a surprise visit. I came back from early-morning grocery shopping to find her sitting in the living room. She had previously been cordial to me, but now she was fixing me with a hard, beady-eyed stare. Cousin Inglewood obviously thought Great Aunt had hit my fist, not the floor.
She watched me like a hawk as I stuffed a thousand TV dinners in the freezer.
"What? Y'all don't cook?!"
No, in fact, we did not.
Cooking was never my thing to begin with, but living with Great Aunt made a dreaded chore an impossible one. It took infinite patience to fix something as simple as a pot of grits. Because if I left the kitchen for even a minute, Great Aunt would turn off my pots.
So TV dinners it was. And the kicker was, that's all Great Aunt had eaten for years, even before too much vino and too much gin turned her wits to mush. She herself didn't cook.
I left the house and went to acting class. When I came home, court was in session.
Battleaxe and Betty Boop (who normally didn't visit at all) were back for their second visit in two days. Joined of course by Neighborhood Watch. And by Mr. Sweet Talker. He greeted me with, "You are the subject, and I am the predicate. Sit down here and join us."
I was on trial, and before it ended, I cussed all my elders out.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Mr. Sweet Talker (My Great Aunt's Lover)
When I moved in with my 88-year-old Great Aunt, one of the first things I noticed was that she didn't particularly enjoy the company of other women. She adored men. In fact, she was downright boy-crazy when it came to one particular man, Mr. Sweet Talker, a dapper 87-year-old.
Mr. Sweet Talker had allegedly been a friend of her late husband, who had passed away two or three years before.
I say allegedly because the other man in Great Aunt's life considered Mr. Sweet Talker to be a charlatan and a fake who appeared out of nowhere to swindle a forgetful, befuddled old lady.
The other man was her neighbor from across the street. He was an uneducated loudmouth who watched everything that happened in the neighborhood and had an opinion about everything that happened in the neighborhood. He checked in on Great Aunt every day, did odd jobs for her and last but not least, drank with her. Neighborhood Watch hated Mr. Sweet Talker.
"He ain't no frienda Late Husband. I ain't neveh, eveh heard Late Husband mention his name once. I ain't neveh seen him 'round here in all the years I been here. That Mr. Sweet Talker is a crook! He put his son's name on Great Aunt's house. And you don't have to believe me, you can go to the courthouse and look that up yo'self."
Was Mr. Sweet Talker a crook? Possibly. I'll never know for sure.
It's true that Mr. Sweet Talker did try to sign over Great Aunt's house to his son. It's also true that he drove Late Husband's Mercedes, which Great Aunt gave him as a gift. He controlled all of her investment accounts, retirement accounts and safe-deposit boxes, and directed all of her financial mail to his address. But he also handled all of her bills and taxes and paperwork, something she was clearly incapable of doing.
Great Aunt would gaze at him adoringly with her blue-green eyes and utter with heart-felt sincerity, "Oh, I just feel so safe when you're around! I don't know what I'd do without you."
When he'd call on the phone, her voice would instantly turn all musical and she'd start chirping like a little bird. Once or twice a week, he'd visit in person, usually bearing three chicken dinners. He and Great Aunt would hold hands across the kitchen table and make goo-goo eyes at each other and sing love songs from a bygone era.
Once, I came home and walked in on the two of them having sex. Thank goodness they were both hard of hearing. I tiptoed into my room, hid in the closet and tried to erase the memory of two naked near-ninety-year-olds going at it.
Too bad he was married to another woman, his gravely ill wife of many years. Other than that, the love story between Great Aunt and Mr. Sweet Talker would have been perfect.
I liked Mr. Sweet Talker. He was kind to me, and kindness had been in short supply ever since I moved to Los Angeles.
"You're just the sweetest little girl in the world," he would say to me, usually right before imploring me not to move out, something I'd been threatening since her first drink-and-fall months earlier. "She needs you. Don't go. She needs you."
After a second drink-and-fall left Great Aunt's face bruised, friends and family came out of the woodwork just long enough to accuse me of hitting her. Mr. Sweet Talker was the only one on my side.
Mr. Sweet Talker had allegedly been a friend of her late husband, who had passed away two or three years before.
I say allegedly because the other man in Great Aunt's life considered Mr. Sweet Talker to be a charlatan and a fake who appeared out of nowhere to swindle a forgetful, befuddled old lady.
The other man was her neighbor from across the street. He was an uneducated loudmouth who watched everything that happened in the neighborhood and had an opinion about everything that happened in the neighborhood. He checked in on Great Aunt every day, did odd jobs for her and last but not least, drank with her. Neighborhood Watch hated Mr. Sweet Talker.
"He ain't no frienda Late Husband. I ain't neveh, eveh heard Late Husband mention his name once. I ain't neveh seen him 'round here in all the years I been here. That Mr. Sweet Talker is a crook! He put his son's name on Great Aunt's house. And you don't have to believe me, you can go to the courthouse and look that up yo'self."
Was Mr. Sweet Talker a crook? Possibly. I'll never know for sure.
It's true that Mr. Sweet Talker did try to sign over Great Aunt's house to his son. It's also true that he drove Late Husband's Mercedes, which Great Aunt gave him as a gift. He controlled all of her investment accounts, retirement accounts and safe-deposit boxes, and directed all of her financial mail to his address. But he also handled all of her bills and taxes and paperwork, something she was clearly incapable of doing.
Great Aunt would gaze at him adoringly with her blue-green eyes and utter with heart-felt sincerity, "Oh, I just feel so safe when you're around! I don't know what I'd do without you."
When he'd call on the phone, her voice would instantly turn all musical and she'd start chirping like a little bird. Once or twice a week, he'd visit in person, usually bearing three chicken dinners. He and Great Aunt would hold hands across the kitchen table and make goo-goo eyes at each other and sing love songs from a bygone era.
Once, I came home and walked in on the two of them having sex. Thank goodness they were both hard of hearing. I tiptoed into my room, hid in the closet and tried to erase the memory of two naked near-ninety-year-olds going at it.
Too bad he was married to another woman, his gravely ill wife of many years. Other than that, the love story between Great Aunt and Mr. Sweet Talker would have been perfect.
I liked Mr. Sweet Talker. He was kind to me, and kindness had been in short supply ever since I moved to Los Angeles.
"You're just the sweetest little girl in the world," he would say to me, usually right before imploring me not to move out, something I'd been threatening since her first drink-and-fall months earlier. "She needs you. Don't go. She needs you."
After a second drink-and-fall left Great Aunt's face bruised, friends and family came out of the woodwork just long enough to accuse me of hitting her. Mr. Sweet Talker was the only one on my side.
Monday, February 9, 2009
Life After the Casting Couch? Initially, Just as Bad
I wish I could tell you that after my casting-couch ordeals, I immediately came to my senses and straightened out my life. But things aren't that simple. My life didn't change overnight. And, in fact, it initially got even stranger and even more embarrassing. Because my next relationship was with a semi-homeless man, who may or may not have been mentally challenged.
I met him at the Crenshaw Mall.
But before I describe how we met, let's talk about why I was in the mall in the first place.
I was in the mall because I practically lived in malls. My living situation with my 88-year-old great aunt had become so intolerable, my solution was to leave her house in the morning and stay gone until night. Malls were relatively quiet places where I could think, sit, read, write and just be. The little green hell house I lived in was a chaotic mess where I was monitored, insulted and pestered to death morning till night.
Living with my aunt meant dealing with an interesting cast of characters, starting with Great Aunt herself.
Every family has one person who represents glamor and success, and in my family, she was it. She was the well-to-do aunt who lived in Los Angeles and traveled the world and sent checks to my dad on holidays and special occasions. She had a Master's degree from the University of Michigan – a major feat for a black woman born in 1908. She was one of the first black school psychologists in the Los Angeles Unified School District. And last but not least, she was a natural blond with blue-green eyes. She could almost pass for white.
I'd met her on a few occasions. She had come to Detroit to visit once when I was in high school. Then, my last year in college, I came to Los Angeles to visit her on my spring break. To say I didn't know her well was an understatement. Especially after her husband's death, when she began to fall apart.
She'd been a closet alcoholic for decades. But outwardly, Great Aunt was a nice, prim, proper, well-dressed, middle-class, card-carrying member of the black bourgeoisie. And nice, prim, proper, well-dressed, middle-class, card-carrying members of the black bourgeoisie didn't have drinking problems. (That was reserved for those lower-class Negroes.)
Because she was a lady, Great Aunt didn't drink during the day. But 5 o'clock, like clockwork, the drinking would start. A glass or three of wine with dinner. Then a nightcap or 10 – hard liquor mixed with orange juice and a handful of peanuts. One after another, as many nightcaps as it took to make her pass out on her bed.
The problem was, she was starting to miss the bed and hit the floor.
The first time it happened, I had been with her less than two months. At 2 a.m., I was awakened by a sickening thud and found her in the hallway, lying in a pool of blood. A 9-1-1 call. Paramedics. An ambulance. Iodine and stitches in the emergency room.
Six months later, when I was emotionally raw from the casting couch and literally oozing slime, she fell again. This time, she busted her lip and scraped her arm.
And this time, I was accused of beating her.
I met him at the Crenshaw Mall.
But before I describe how we met, let's talk about why I was in the mall in the first place.
I was in the mall because I practically lived in malls. My living situation with my 88-year-old great aunt had become so intolerable, my solution was to leave her house in the morning and stay gone until night. Malls were relatively quiet places where I could think, sit, read, write and just be. The little green hell house I lived in was a chaotic mess where I was monitored, insulted and pestered to death morning till night.
Living with my aunt meant dealing with an interesting cast of characters, starting with Great Aunt herself.
Every family has one person who represents glamor and success, and in my family, she was it. She was the well-to-do aunt who lived in Los Angeles and traveled the world and sent checks to my dad on holidays and special occasions. She had a Master's degree from the University of Michigan – a major feat for a black woman born in 1908. She was one of the first black school psychologists in the Los Angeles Unified School District. And last but not least, she was a natural blond with blue-green eyes. She could almost pass for white.
I'd met her on a few occasions. She had come to Detroit to visit once when I was in high school. Then, my last year in college, I came to Los Angeles to visit her on my spring break. To say I didn't know her well was an understatement. Especially after her husband's death, when she began to fall apart.
She'd been a closet alcoholic for decades. But outwardly, Great Aunt was a nice, prim, proper, well-dressed, middle-class, card-carrying member of the black bourgeoisie. And nice, prim, proper, well-dressed, middle-class, card-carrying members of the black bourgeoisie didn't have drinking problems. (That was reserved for those lower-class Negroes.)
Because she was a lady, Great Aunt didn't drink during the day. But 5 o'clock, like clockwork, the drinking would start. A glass or three of wine with dinner. Then a nightcap or 10 – hard liquor mixed with orange juice and a handful of peanuts. One after another, as many nightcaps as it took to make her pass out on her bed.
The problem was, she was starting to miss the bed and hit the floor.
The first time it happened, I had been with her less than two months. At 2 a.m., I was awakened by a sickening thud and found her in the hallway, lying in a pool of blood. A 9-1-1 call. Paramedics. An ambulance. Iodine and stitches in the emergency room.
Six months later, when I was emotionally raw from the casting couch and literally oozing slime, she fell again. This time, she busted her lip and scraped her arm.
And this time, I was accused of beating her.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Dark Depression Meets Vaginal Discharge
The one-two punch of my agent's casting couch and Stripper Pimp's gamesmanship hurled me into a pit of despair so deep and so dark that nothing could penetrate it.
I still tried to go through the motions of building my acting career – sending out pictures, meeting with managers and agents, auditioning for any and every crap part I could get seen for.
But I felt like a loser. A stupid loser. A stupid loser who had been had. A stupid loser who had been had sexually, and now had nothing to show for it.
I was completely broke, except for what I could beg, borrow or steal from my 88-year-old alcoholic great aunt. And even though I was wholly dependent on her – or perhaps because I was wholly dependent on her – I hated her. I hated the pitter-patter of her tiny little feet; the high-pitched, mournful whine of her voice; her never-ending befuddlement; the way she barged into my room without knocking; her constant (and I do mean constant) interruptions.
I knew I needed to get a job, but I couldn't figure out how to work during the day and audition during the day at the same time. Or how to work at night, and be available for play rehearsals or casting workshops at night. Acting was an expensive, full-time, nonpaying, soul-destroying job, but it was the only job I ever wanted.
I was screamingly lonely. I missed my family, especially my three-year-old niece.
Loser, loser, loser was my mind's constant, taunting refrain.
I tried to combat the voice, but I felt defeated.
I restarted The Artist's Way.
I wrote affirmations. My dreams come from God, and God has the power to accomplish them.
I tried to pray. God, why doesn't anybody love me? Why don't I have a man? When will my life get better? Please, please, please help me.
I bought tarot cards and started teaching myself how to read them. This new hobby was the only bright spot in a pitch-black month.
I binge-ate Hostess fruit pies and ice-cream sandwiches and jelly doughnuts, all the while worried about my "weight problem," defined back then as being a size 8 in a size-2 world.
I had marathon four-hour phone conversations with my best friend in Detroit, resulting in a $286 phone bill.
And I tried to ignore the smelly, yellow discharge that was oozing from between my legs. At first, I called it a yeast infection. I squirted myself full of Monistat and hoped it would go away.
It didn't.
I went to my chiropractor, who gave me some naturopathic stuff that was supposed to help.
It didn't.
The psychic damage caused by sexual exploitation was no longer invisible. It was now a smelly, real thing that dripped down my thighs for weeks (and eventually, months) on end.
I still tried to go through the motions of building my acting career – sending out pictures, meeting with managers and agents, auditioning for any and every crap part I could get seen for.
But I felt like a loser. A stupid loser. A stupid loser who had been had. A stupid loser who had been had sexually, and now had nothing to show for it.
I was completely broke, except for what I could beg, borrow or steal from my 88-year-old alcoholic great aunt. And even though I was wholly dependent on her – or perhaps because I was wholly dependent on her – I hated her. I hated the pitter-patter of her tiny little feet; the high-pitched, mournful whine of her voice; her never-ending befuddlement; the way she barged into my room without knocking; her constant (and I do mean constant) interruptions.
I knew I needed to get a job, but I couldn't figure out how to work during the day and audition during the day at the same time. Or how to work at night, and be available for play rehearsals or casting workshops at night. Acting was an expensive, full-time, nonpaying, soul-destroying job, but it was the only job I ever wanted.
I was screamingly lonely. I missed my family, especially my three-year-old niece.
Loser, loser, loser was my mind's constant, taunting refrain.
I tried to combat the voice, but I felt defeated.
I restarted The Artist's Way.
I wrote affirmations. My dreams come from God, and God has the power to accomplish them.
I tried to pray. God, why doesn't anybody love me? Why don't I have a man? When will my life get better? Please, please, please help me.
I bought tarot cards and started teaching myself how to read them. This new hobby was the only bright spot in a pitch-black month.
I binge-ate Hostess fruit pies and ice-cream sandwiches and jelly doughnuts, all the while worried about my "weight problem," defined back then as being a size 8 in a size-2 world.
I had marathon four-hour phone conversations with my best friend in Detroit, resulting in a $286 phone bill.
And I tried to ignore the smelly, yellow discharge that was oozing from between my legs. At first, I called it a yeast infection. I squirted myself full of Monistat and hoped it would go away.
It didn't.
I went to my chiropractor, who gave me some naturopathic stuff that was supposed to help.
It didn't.
The psychic damage caused by sexual exploitation was no longer invisible. It was now a smelly, real thing that dripped down my thighs for weeks (and eventually, months) on end.
(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 15 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A Hungry, Horny, Desperate, Pretty Mess
Take smart, frustrated lapsed Catholic girl from the Midwest. Subtract job, friends, family and most importantly of all, food. Add a heavy dose of loneliness and libido. Shake violently, heat to boiling, and you get who I was at age 25, when I first met Stripper Pimp, a "talent manager" whose real talent was convincing girls to dance naked on tables and pay him a commission.
I can't blame Stripper Pimp for turning me into a slut. I was already a slut. I had waited until age 19 to lose my virginity, but man, oh man, and a few more men, I had made up for lost time. My sex tally now included more than a dozen lovers, including three married men.
At this point, the only thing I hated more than men was being a woman.
I felt like my brain was at war with my cunt. And my cunt always won.
Stripper Pimp entered my crazy, sexed up life at a particularly vulnerable time.
New to L.A. and Dealing With Family Trauma
I had been in Los Angeles for four months, and I was eking out a miserable existence in a tiny, blue hell. The walls, the carpet, the sheets on my twin bed were all a lovely shade of powder blue. I lived in Southwest L.A., in a neighborhood that had once been quite nice, with an 88-year-old great-aunt who had once been quite sane.
Now the thin veneer of gentility had more than crusted over. The neighborhood, only a few miles from the epicenter of the 1992 riots, was now crack-infested. And my great-aunt, a woman with a Master's degree from the University of Michigan, had sunk into an Alzheimer’s, alcoholic stupor.
She had no short-term memory. She didn't know what year it was. Sometimes, she didn't know that her loved ones were all dead. Even her mother, who had died 30 years ago, was sometimes resurrected long enough to want to go out to dinner. She didn't even know who I was or why I lived there. The only thing we could both agree on, memory or no memory, was that living together was not such a good idea.
The idea hadn't been mine. It had been my aunt's, my dad's sister. Great Aunt was getting up in age, she was lonely, she drank a bit too much, but her health was fine, she just needed some company. Aunt would pay my way to Los Angeles, and I could stay with Great Aunt rent-free, while I pursued my acting career.
It sounded like a great offer. I could leave Charleston, S.C., where I was starring in Piggly Wiggly commercials, doing community theater and working as a secretary, and try to succeed on a bigger stage.
I could also escape from my mom. She had just had a major manic episode. My older sister had locked her up in the loony bin against her will, and my sister and I had been arguing for days. When I decided to move to L.A., my mom was still incarcerated in the county crazy house.
My absolutely furious sister accused me of "running away from home" and leaving her with the dirty work. My mom – still manic underneath the heavy doses of medication – was equally furious that I was going to live "with the half-white side of your daddy's family that never cared about you anyway."
I arrived in Los Angeles emotionally spent, with no money, no friends and no support system, to a crumbling Great Aunt who needed a live-in nurse, not the live-in companion I thought I had signed up to be.
Desperate for a Break and Looking for a Shortcut
I responded by throwing myself headlong into my acting career. I started auditioning for anything and everything within six days of my arrival.
Four months later, I had no money. Every penny that I got (sometimes from Great Aunt's purse) went to headshots, acting class, stamps for my headshots, gas for my car.
I was going to make it if it killed me. After all, I had something to prove to my mom and my sister, who seemed secretly glad that L.A. was giving me my well-deserved comeuppance. And the sooner I landed that TV show or commercial, the sooner I could move out of the living mausoleum that was Great Aunt's house.
I was barely eating. Being in my aunt's company consisted of answering the same three questions over and over and over and over – please, dear God, don't ask me that again – and over and over and over. So I avoided being home. I had no money to eat out. And I needed to be skinny anyway. So I just didn't eat.
I had been in town just long enough to learn that I wasn't as good as I thought I was, and that being good wasn't even enough. Some of the people in my acting class were pretty damn good. And they were Hollywood nobodies that got a line here and a gig there.
I didn't want to be like them. There had to be a shortcut, and I was going to find it.
Enter Stripper Pimp and the casting couch.
I can't blame Stripper Pimp for turning me into a slut. I was already a slut. I had waited until age 19 to lose my virginity, but man, oh man, and a few more men, I had made up for lost time. My sex tally now included more than a dozen lovers, including three married men.
At this point, the only thing I hated more than men was being a woman.
I felt like my brain was at war with my cunt. And my cunt always won.
Stripper Pimp entered my crazy, sexed up life at a particularly vulnerable time.
New to L.A. and Dealing With Family Trauma
I had been in Los Angeles for four months, and I was eking out a miserable existence in a tiny, blue hell. The walls, the carpet, the sheets on my twin bed were all a lovely shade of powder blue. I lived in Southwest L.A., in a neighborhood that had once been quite nice, with an 88-year-old great-aunt who had once been quite sane.
Now the thin veneer of gentility had more than crusted over. The neighborhood, only a few miles from the epicenter of the 1992 riots, was now crack-infested. And my great-aunt, a woman with a Master's degree from the University of Michigan, had sunk into an Alzheimer’s, alcoholic stupor.
She had no short-term memory. She didn't know what year it was. Sometimes, she didn't know that her loved ones were all dead. Even her mother, who had died 30 years ago, was sometimes resurrected long enough to want to go out to dinner. She didn't even know who I was or why I lived there. The only thing we could both agree on, memory or no memory, was that living together was not such a good idea.
The idea hadn't been mine. It had been my aunt's, my dad's sister. Great Aunt was getting up in age, she was lonely, she drank a bit too much, but her health was fine, she just needed some company. Aunt would pay my way to Los Angeles, and I could stay with Great Aunt rent-free, while I pursued my acting career.
It sounded like a great offer. I could leave Charleston, S.C., where I was starring in Piggly Wiggly commercials, doing community theater and working as a secretary, and try to succeed on a bigger stage.
I could also escape from my mom. She had just had a major manic episode. My older sister had locked her up in the loony bin against her will, and my sister and I had been arguing for days. When I decided to move to L.A., my mom was still incarcerated in the county crazy house.
My absolutely furious sister accused me of "running away from home" and leaving her with the dirty work. My mom – still manic underneath the heavy doses of medication – was equally furious that I was going to live "with the half-white side of your daddy's family that never cared about you anyway."
I arrived in Los Angeles emotionally spent, with no money, no friends and no support system, to a crumbling Great Aunt who needed a live-in nurse, not the live-in companion I thought I had signed up to be.
Desperate for a Break and Looking for a Shortcut
I responded by throwing myself headlong into my acting career. I started auditioning for anything and everything within six days of my arrival.
Four months later, I had no money. Every penny that I got (sometimes from Great Aunt's purse) went to headshots, acting class, stamps for my headshots, gas for my car.
I was going to make it if it killed me. After all, I had something to prove to my mom and my sister, who seemed secretly glad that L.A. was giving me my well-deserved comeuppance. And the sooner I landed that TV show or commercial, the sooner I could move out of the living mausoleum that was Great Aunt's house.
I was barely eating. Being in my aunt's company consisted of answering the same three questions over and over and over and over – please, dear God, don't ask me that again – and over and over and over. So I avoided being home. I had no money to eat out. And I needed to be skinny anyway. So I just didn't eat.
I had been in town just long enough to learn that I wasn't as good as I thought I was, and that being good wasn't even enough. Some of the people in my acting class were pretty damn good. And they were Hollywood nobodies that got a line here and a gig there.
I didn't want to be like them. There had to be a shortcut, and I was going to find it.
Enter Stripper Pimp and the casting couch.
(Stripper/Casting Couch Diaries Part 3 of 17: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
(Stripper/Casting Couch Lessons Learned 1-2: 1 2)
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