Eric Roberts II: Los Angeles on $1 a Day
The first thing that I remember about Los Angeles was the seashell palette of the architectural landscape. The adobe buildings in this low-rise world were an explosion of soft pinks, butter, creamy meringue, mint green. So delicious, like a giant confection dolloped on the gently undulating curves of a succession of green hills and mountians running along the northern edge of the city clear to the ocean. It was dazzling and so different from the dark Victorian brickwork of Toronto with its bitter winters and the steamy chestnut vendors on every street corner.
Neither Lance nor I knew how to drive so he'd convinced one of the many new friends he'd made in the months he'd been here to take him to pick me up at Union Station. It was a rattling, coughing jalopy like many of the cars on Los Angeles streets in this equal-opportunity ownership city where rust never takes out an automobile as it lives out generations of recycled lives until something finally gives way in an whisper of twine and chewing gum. We bumped along miles and miles of tile-roofed neighborhoods until we finally arrived at our West Los Angeles destination, a room in a house we were to share with an assortment of immigrant flotsam.
Greeting me were two Japanese girls attending an ESL school who giggled and bowed repeatedly until they disappeared into their room, and a reticient, taciturn guy around our age who was currently unemployed and was soon to be replaced by a succession of similar hard-luck stories. The house, four bedrooms in a compact suburban layout, was owned by a large woman whose legacy to me was an unshakeable phobia of Los Angeles tap water (don't drink it - contaminated beyond belief she said though it never proved to be true) and a lifelong hatred of flowered mumus, which she favored over all other forms of clothing. Sheila, who was divorced and living off our rent checks, was fond of bulk-bin health food, ice-cold showers and boiled celery-juice fasts followed by enemas. The first week I was there I lost eight pounds and you could count all of my ribs. Lance had two pieces of furniture in his (now our) room: a gigantic waterbed left over from the previous tenant, and an ancient vanity with a freckled mirror and two tiny drawers for all our clothes.
Given that I had no money and apparently Lance had not much more, it became evident we would both have to find work as soon as possible. The fact that we were both illegal aliens hadn't even factored into our concerns, and back it didn't seem to matter much because work history and the question of citizenship was still on the honor system. Plus we weren't Latino or planning to work in a sweat shop so the chances of our being caught were next to nil.
Since I could type I found work first - as a receptionist in a podiatrist's office. I was the proud owner of a brand-new social security card, obtained through semi-legal means with advice from the informal network of illegal Canadians living here. There's something about immigrating to a new country - you seek out everyone and anyone from your homeland and share a lot of information and tips on how to navigate the system.
My boss, Harvey, was a real piece of work and I quickly found him to be as repulsive as apparently a number of women had once they found out what a lying, cheating, hound he was. All of five feet two inches, he had thinning hair and a large blonde moustache that he like to twirl between his fingers, occasionaly licking it with enthusiasm when a particularly comely patient came in to have her feet tended to. Which wasn't very often because, friends, the podiatry business is not a pretty one. Lots of old folks with horny callouses and twisted hammertoes, and most of them with very smelly appendages requiring a good soak in the hot, soapy foot-baths Harvey kept going all day. Harvey told me that he'd once had a patient with diabetes who hadn't realized that two of his toes had gone AWOL until he pulled off the man's socks and found the toes still in them.
Though briskly efficient as the receptionist/transcriber/file clerk and part-time surgical assistant (don't ask), the queasy nature of this daily grind and the sound of callouses giving way under Harvey's sander was enough to set your teeth on edge. That, plus the white nurse uniform I was forced to wear (stockings & shoes included) took its toll on me very quickly and it wasn't long before I was desperate to get out of the rut I was sinking into fast.
So I started taking an acting class in Hollywood. By then we'd moved from our room in Sheila's house to a tiny studio apartment just off Sunset Boulevard in Silverlake, a newly emerging hip, scruffy neighborhood where Lance found a job at The Soap Plant, a store featuring oddball and bizarre collections of 20-something approved nicknacks. I took the bus to my class where I had my first brush with fame (my teachers were Malcolm McDowell of A Clockwork Orange fame and his wife, Mary Steenburgen). Although Mr. McDowell said my classroom exercises were reminescent of a young Maureen O'Hara, it was a notice pinned to the bulletin board outside the school that changed my life forever.
Wanted: production assistants for a student film.
I stood in front of the paper for a long time, excitment mixed with disbelief that a career in the film business was only a phone call away but after a moment's hesitation I threw away several years of education, numerous summerstock accomplishments, and all my dreams of becoming an actress and took the other fork in the road. I resolutely tore off one of the little pieces of paper with a phone number on it and obsessed about it all the way home. American Film Institute, it read, with a guy's name below for further details. I came home excited beyond belief. Imagine, I could work on a film! No pay of course, and long hours, of course, but who cared......I was going to be in the film business!! Hooray for Hollywood!
Back then, The AFI was housed in the Greystone Mansion deep within the leafy enclave of Bevery Hills. Since I still didn't drive, I took a bus and walked the last three miles to the school where I was interviewed by a harried student producer for his film (now forgettable, alas, even in my memory) and promptly hired. He led me down a maze of dark passageways into the bowels of the former servants quarters (how apropos) and plunked me down at a long table with several busy people on phones.
My job: To call every name in the yellow pages and beg, borrow or steal anything they would give us. Got an extra dozen bottles of water? We'll take it! Got a coupon for a free sundae? We'll take it!! Got a case of ginger ale? We'll take it!!! My job was to find as many freebies we could use while making our shoestring budget, short-ends film stock, discarded film developer, 35mm movie as I could.
I took to the job with a ferocity that scared even my fellow production assistants and soon enough was summoned upstairs for a meeting with the film's production manager. He asked me if I would be able to take a month off my job and work full-time on their project. "Whaddya offering me," I asked cannily.
"Well," he said thoughtfully. "You can either be my assistant, which means anything from fetching film stock to sweeping the floors if necessary, or......." And I waited with baited breath, "You can be in charge of Craft Service." All I heard was "in charge of" and I took it. Had no idea what "Craft Service" meant but I was soon to find out.
Next: My film school education continues as I cook for 40 on a 2-burner stove.
Neither Lance nor I knew how to drive so he'd convinced one of the many new friends he'd made in the months he'd been here to take him to pick me up at Union Station. It was a rattling, coughing jalopy like many of the cars on Los Angeles streets in this equal-opportunity ownership city where rust never takes out an automobile as it lives out generations of recycled lives until something finally gives way in an whisper of twine and chewing gum. We bumped along miles and miles of tile-roofed neighborhoods until we finally arrived at our West Los Angeles destination, a room in a house we were to share with an assortment of immigrant flotsam.
Greeting me were two Japanese girls attending an ESL school who giggled and bowed repeatedly until they disappeared into their room, and a reticient, taciturn guy around our age who was currently unemployed and was soon to be replaced by a succession of similar hard-luck stories. The house, four bedrooms in a compact suburban layout, was owned by a large woman whose legacy to me was an unshakeable phobia of Los Angeles tap water (don't drink it - contaminated beyond belief she said though it never proved to be true) and a lifelong hatred of flowered mumus, which she favored over all other forms of clothing. Sheila, who was divorced and living off our rent checks, was fond of bulk-bin health food, ice-cold showers and boiled celery-juice fasts followed by enemas. The first week I was there I lost eight pounds and you could count all of my ribs. Lance had two pieces of furniture in his (now our) room: a gigantic waterbed left over from the previous tenant, and an ancient vanity with a freckled mirror and two tiny drawers for all our clothes.
Given that I had no money and apparently Lance had not much more, it became evident we would both have to find work as soon as possible. The fact that we were both illegal aliens hadn't even factored into our concerns, and back it didn't seem to matter much because work history and the question of citizenship was still on the honor system. Plus we weren't Latino or planning to work in a sweat shop so the chances of our being caught were next to nil.
Since I could type I found work first - as a receptionist in a podiatrist's office. I was the proud owner of a brand-new social security card, obtained through semi-legal means with advice from the informal network of illegal Canadians living here. There's something about immigrating to a new country - you seek out everyone and anyone from your homeland and share a lot of information and tips on how to navigate the system.
My boss, Harvey, was a real piece of work and I quickly found him to be as repulsive as apparently a number of women had once they found out what a lying, cheating, hound he was. All of five feet two inches, he had thinning hair and a large blonde moustache that he like to twirl between his fingers, occasionaly licking it with enthusiasm when a particularly comely patient came in to have her feet tended to. Which wasn't very often because, friends, the podiatry business is not a pretty one. Lots of old folks with horny callouses and twisted hammertoes, and most of them with very smelly appendages requiring a good soak in the hot, soapy foot-baths Harvey kept going all day. Harvey told me that he'd once had a patient with diabetes who hadn't realized that two of his toes had gone AWOL until he pulled off the man's socks and found the toes still in them.
Though briskly efficient as the receptionist/transcriber/file clerk and part-time surgical assistant (don't ask), the queasy nature of this daily grind and the sound of callouses giving way under Harvey's sander was enough to set your teeth on edge. That, plus the white nurse uniform I was forced to wear (stockings & shoes included) took its toll on me very quickly and it wasn't long before I was desperate to get out of the rut I was sinking into fast.
So I started taking an acting class in Hollywood. By then we'd moved from our room in Sheila's house to a tiny studio apartment just off Sunset Boulevard in Silverlake, a newly emerging hip, scruffy neighborhood where Lance found a job at The Soap Plant, a store featuring oddball and bizarre collections of 20-something approved nicknacks. I took the bus to my class where I had my first brush with fame (my teachers were Malcolm McDowell of A Clockwork Orange fame and his wife, Mary Steenburgen). Although Mr. McDowell said my classroom exercises were reminescent of a young Maureen O'Hara, it was a notice pinned to the bulletin board outside the school that changed my life forever.
Wanted: production assistants for a student film.
I stood in front of the paper for a long time, excitment mixed with disbelief that a career in the film business was only a phone call away but after a moment's hesitation I threw away several years of education, numerous summerstock accomplishments, and all my dreams of becoming an actress and took the other fork in the road. I resolutely tore off one of the little pieces of paper with a phone number on it and obsessed about it all the way home. American Film Institute, it read, with a guy's name below for further details. I came home excited beyond belief. Imagine, I could work on a film! No pay of course, and long hours, of course, but who cared......I was going to be in the film business!! Hooray for Hollywood!
Back then, The AFI was housed in the Greystone Mansion deep within the leafy enclave of Bevery Hills. Since I still didn't drive, I took a bus and walked the last three miles to the school where I was interviewed by a harried student producer for his film (now forgettable, alas, even in my memory) and promptly hired. He led me down a maze of dark passageways into the bowels of the former servants quarters (how apropos) and plunked me down at a long table with several busy people on phones.
My job: To call every name in the yellow pages and beg, borrow or steal anything they would give us. Got an extra dozen bottles of water? We'll take it! Got a coupon for a free sundae? We'll take it!! Got a case of ginger ale? We'll take it!!! My job was to find as many freebies we could use while making our shoestring budget, short-ends film stock, discarded film developer, 35mm movie as I could.
I took to the job with a ferocity that scared even my fellow production assistants and soon enough was summoned upstairs for a meeting with the film's production manager. He asked me if I would be able to take a month off my job and work full-time on their project. "Whaddya offering me," I asked cannily.
"Well," he said thoughtfully. "You can either be my assistant, which means anything from fetching film stock to sweeping the floors if necessary, or......." And I waited with baited breath, "You can be in charge of Craft Service." All I heard was "in charge of" and I took it. Had no idea what "Craft Service" meant but I was soon to find out.
Next: My film school education continues as I cook for 40 on a 2-burner stove.
posted by vallie at 12:00 PM
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