Starry-Eyed (53 page)

I grew up in New York City, the son of Chinese immigrant parents. They escaped the Communists (very
Joy Luck Club)
and came to this country with two hundred dollars and a pair of suitcases, crashing on friends' couches in Chinatown when they first arrived. They saved every penny they made, working blue-collar jobs in the garment industry and the restaurant business. They could only afford to have one kid (me), and they placed all of their hopes and dreams on this one child-to-be. Like so many immigrants, my parents came to this country to achieve the American Dream. To them, the Dream was a monetary one. I'm sure that when my parents first held me in their arms in the hospital that cold, January day I entered the world, they saw in me an Ivy League degree that would then result in a six-figure-a-year job as a doctor or a lawyer or an engineer. The last thing they wanted me to be was a starving artist. “Actor”
and “artist” might as well be four-letter words in my family.

I was eight years old when we went on a family vacation to Boston. It was a guided bus tour, but my dad decided to ditch the tour guide and take me to Cambridge. We stood outside the ivy-laced gates of Harvard University. He held my little eight-year-old hand and said to me, in his soft-spoken, heavily accented voice: “Son, do not do restaurant business like your father. You study hard. Go to Harvard. Become Doctor. Lawyer. Engineer. Make a lot of money. Then, you buy a nice Rolex for Daddy.”

So—I did just that. I studied hard and got stellar grades. My parents were so proud to have their son on the honor roll (scoring not just As, but A pluses on every test). It made me happy to see my parents so happy at my scholastic success. All that hard work hitting the books paid off when I was accepted into one of the specialized high schools in New York City, Stuyvesant High School. I was on my way to Yale or Princeton—maybe even Harvard. My parent's American Dream was about to come true. I was on my way to that six-figure job in a steady, respectable profession.

Getting into that dream college also meant working hard on the SATs, and I went to every Princeton Review and Kaplan test-prep class I could. It was a grueling schedule, and I couldn't wait for the whole daunting college application process to be over. I took my SATs on a Wednesday morning, and when it was all done, I wanted to give myself a treat—a reward for busting my butt in school. I decide to buy a ticket to a Broadway show. I'd saved up my allowance money, and so I walk over to the TKTS booth in Times Square, where they sell discounted tickets to Broadway shows.

There, I see 50-percent-off tickets for the revival of
Hello, Dolly!
starring the legendary Carol Channing! I am about to witness a living theater legend, performing her star turn for, what would likely be, the last time she'd do it in her career. (Although, Carol is
still
going strong these days, and still performing all over the country. It wouldn't surprise me if she put that red dress on again and descended those Harmonium Garden stairs in yet another revival.)

Suddenly, the storm clouds roll in and the biggest torrential downpour I've ever experienced completely drenches me from head to toe. But, it doesn't matter. I have a front mezzanine seat to see Carol Channing, and “a little fall of rain” isn't going to stop me now. (Can you tell I like musicals?)

I take my seat at the Lunt-Fontanne Theater, and by the end of the overture, my teeth begin to chatter. Being soaking wet in the intense air-conditioning in the Broadway theater was not a good combination. But Carol was electrifying. The whole production was a masterful recreation of the original Gower Champion production, and I felt like I had jumped into Marty McFly's DeLorean and gone back in time. I didn't feel cold or wet at all.

Carol begins her big closing number at the end of Act One. She is center stage, and it's at this moment that I understand why she's an enduring, timeless talent. She doesn't have the most technically proficient, trained, polished voice in the world. What she
does
have is the ability to make everyone in that Broadway theater feel like she's singing right to
them
. It's a personal, intimate experience. She is a brilliant communicator, and there is something about her performance (especially as Dolly Levi) that breaks your heart because you feel like she is reaching deep into the core of your heart.

When she began to sing “Before the Parade Passes By,” I knew right then and there. I wasn't going to Harvard. I wasn't going to become a doctor, a lawyer, or an engineer. I was going to do what I wanted to do. I was going to pursue a career in acting. I was going to have a career on Broadway, and make a life of it, just like Carol had all of these years.

Carol Channing ended up giving me one of the
worst
colds I'd ever had. But she also gave me a new perspective—and a personal show biz anthem. A new perspective. She gave me the courage to follow my heart and live my life—before the parade of life passes by.

T
ELLY
L
EUNG's
Broadway credits include
Godspell, RENT
(final Broadway cast),
Pacific Overtures
, and
Flower Drum Song
. TV credits include
Glee
(Wes, Dalton Warblers),
Broadway or Bust
(PBS documentary), and
Law & Order: Criminal Intent
. Other favorite roles include Sammy in the world-premiere of Broadway-bound
Allegiance
at the Old Globe, Angel in
RENT
at the Hollywood Bowl (directed by Neil Patrick Harris), and Song in
M. Butterfly
at the Philadelphia Theatre Company. His debut solo album,
I'll Cover You
, is available on the Yellow Sound Label. Website:
www.tellyonline.net
. Twitter:
@tellyleung
.

A DATE WITH DESTINY

Josh Pultz

INT.—IAA OFFICES, CONFERENCE ROOM—AFTERNOON

The view is spectacular.

This is one of my favorite parts of the day. Not algebra, not biology, not even lunch (which is usually spent outdoors, sitting in the courtyard reading some celebrity gossip blog or tweeting about some big Hollywood scandal on my iPhone).
This
part. The part of the day after the final bell rings, when I get to walk down Avenue of the Stars from Los Angeles PS 3 to my father's office, go through the revolving door, and be ushered up to the very top floor of the building.

I sit in the conference room at the end of a long hallway. I'm surrounded by glass. As far as my eyes can see, all that exists are tall, shiny buildings and palm trees. Right now, I am at the head of the polished rectangular table. I close my eyes and pretend that I'm the world's biggest pop star or an important actress here to talk about my next project. I pretend that I'm famous.

“Good afternoon, Imagine Artists Agency.”

I open my eyes and sigh. I hear Trish, my father's secretary, on the phone just outside the conference room. “How may I help you?” she asks in a crystalline voice.

While I sit, barely (not at all) concentrating on my homework, the office bustles with ringing phones, shouting voices, and the click of
computer keyboards.

Dad has been a talent agent at IAA for as long as I can remember. Whenever Dad and I are watching television together or spend a lazy Saturday afternoon at the movies, he's always pointing out all of the famous people he's met or talked to on the phone. Once in a while Dad'll take me along to a movie set or to a premiere. Those are the days I remember the best: all the lights and the cameras, getting to shake hands, and talk with Dad's famous clients.

FYI: I'm obsessed with celebrities. With fame. And truth be told, even though it may sound a little shallow, I want to stop
pretending
that I'm famous. I want to
be
famous.

“Hi, sweetie,” Dad says, leaning against the doorframe. He's wearing his usual work uniform—a crisp suit. Today's is blue with light gray pinstripes, and the black tie with tiny zebras on it that I gave him last Christmas. On his ear hangs a wireless telephone headset. Sometimes he looks like a crazy person, wandering around the office seemingly talking to himself.

“How was school?” he asks.

“Hi, Daddy,” I say, looking up from the
People
magazine hidden inside my social studies textbook. “School was great. Did you hear about the big breakup?”

His forehead crinkles. “G-Puppy and what's her name again?”

“First of all it's C Doggy and second of all, no!” I say, annoyed that he doesn't take this as seriously as I do. After all, Dad works in show business. He should know what's going on. I decide to let it go; I have bigger fish to fry with him today.

Dad walks over and kisses me on the forehead. Stealthily he reaches down and grabs the magazine from inside my textbook.

“A-ha!” he shouts, like a magician who has just pulled a rabbit out of his hat. “Is there going to be a quiz tomorrow on the summer's twenty hottest beach bodies?” He sits down across from me and tosses my magazine into the trash can. He leans back in the cushy brown leather chair and frowns. “If so, you're sure to get an A plus. Should I quiz you?”

“Just so you know I took that from the coffee table in your lobby.” I grin. “So, Daddy, I was just reading about the new Danny Roberts movie and that they're looking for a pretty, young, actress to play his love interest.” I pout my lips and twirl my hair, just for effect. “Can I ask you a question?”

Dad nods.

“Danny is your client, isn't he?”

“Yes. It's a very exciting project.”

I bat my eyelashes. “And who is the prettiest, most talented girl you've ever known in your whole life?”

“Let me see,” Dad says, tapping his finger to his chin, considering the question. “I mean, I've got so many talented people on my list. . . .”

“I was talking about me!” I interrupt.

“But you're not an actress, are you, Monica?” He pauses, letting his words sink in. “I mean, you won't even join the drama club at school. How can you expect to star in a movie with Danny Roberts?”

It's true. I haven't joined the Nuclear Re
ACT
ors, but that's because, in all honesty, it's a giant waste of time. No one in the drama club even borders on popular. I mean, most of them can barely dress themselves in matching outfits in the morning. Last week I got partnered with Molly Farkus in biology lab. Molly is the leader of the Re
ACT
ors and an A-class drama geek. I tried hard to give her a pop-culture makeover during our forty-seven minutes together, but it was hopeless. She couldn't have cared less about last week's best dressed list, and she thought Ryan Seacrest was a coastal town in Maine. I couldn't bear it.

“What good is having a high-powered agent for a father if he's not going to help me be a star?” He helps all of his clients realize their dreams . . . so why won't he help me?

“Monica Sarabeth Perlstein. I love you, but I've told you a thousand times: when you get serious about being in this business, then I'll get serious about you
being
in this business. Do you think Danny Roberts just woke up one morning with a movie deal? No, he went to school, and college, and studied music and acting.”

“This isn't fair.” I swing my chair away from my father. I stare out the conference room windows, silent.

“There's more to life than being famous, Monica,” Dad says after a few seconds. “The sooner you learn that lesson, the happier you'll be.”

I don't say anything.

“Okay, well, I have to get back to work. I'll see you at home later for dinner. Be sure to finish your homework before you pick up a magazine again, please. I'm asking nicely.”

“So what?” I turn around as my father is walking out the door. “I asked
nicely
for an audition and it got me nowhere.”

“It's about to get you grounded for a week.” Then he disappears from sight.

I feel deflated. Dad knows how important being a star is to me. I spend all of my free time reading magazines and tweeting and imagining what it would be like to be read about and tweeted about. I want to know what it feels like to walk down the red carpet. To have people look up to me, take my picture . . . for everybody in the world to know my name.

The walls in Dad's office are lined with movie posters and headshots of all the famous people IAA represents. As I sit in that conference room in the middle of Hollywood, so close to all of the celebrities I have grown to admire, I feel farther away from stardom than I ever have before.

“I'm sorry, he's not available at the moment, may I take a message,” I hear Trish say from her desk outside the conference room door.

I eye the
People
magazine poking out from the trash, but I decide to pick up my pencil and go back to social studies. Ugh.

“
Right now
?” Trish's voice sounds alarmed. “Well, we weren't expecting her this afternoon. Mr. Perlstein has a very busy schedule today. Perhaps we could find another time—”

I get up and poke my head out the conference room door to get a better listen.

“You're
where
?” Trish begins rapidly snapping her fingers, trying to get my father's attention through his open office door.

Dad reappears with a perplexed look on his face.