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Authors: Rob Lowe

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BOOK: Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography
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It was intense and full throttle from the get-go, the kind of euphoric mutual connection that I hope my boys will not have to suffer. Every spare moment was spent together, and we drove our parents crazy shuttling us the fifteen or so miles to each other’s houses. I was a fifteen-year-old walking hormone. And after years of disinterest from most of the female set, I couldn’t quite believe that a girl like her could like a guy like me, someone who never really fit in. But she did—and it changed my life forever.

*   *   *

The pilot comes on to tell us that we are at our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet. I look around the plane and I want to throw myself out an exit and plummet to the ground. I am on my way to my annual sojourn in Ohio and I am miserable. I want to be back in Malibu with my new girlfriend. It is torture to go a full day without seeing her and now I’m to be gone for five weeks! I am sentenced to a summer of tennis in 90 percent humidity and walks to the Dairy Queen with my brother, while she will be lying out topless on the beach or sunbathing on her roof, covered in Crisco, while the local sheriff’s helicopter circles her house. That scenario would make even Hugh Hefner insecure.

After a week back in Dayton, I’m dying. Even my ability to consume as many beers as I want doesn’t dent my depression and longing. Corrie and I talk on the phone, but she’s rarely home—it’s the summer in Malibu after all. I’m stuck inside, avoiding the midwestern humidifying oven outside, staring at the phone, waiting for the moment we can connect.

Finally, the phone rings. It’s my agent. He tells me there is an open audition (i.e., cattle call) for a new TV series I might be right for. If I can fly myself back to L.A. next week, he can get me to read for the producers. I jump at the chance. “One way or another, I’m coming back,” I say.

My dad and mom have a moment of détente and take pity on me. They okay my return. As I pack to fly back to L.A., I’m giddy with excitement. This is what I’ve been dreaming of, what I’ve been wishing for with such passion. I’m going home to my girlfriend. And, oh yeah, I’m also going to audition for a new TV series. It’s called
A New Kind of Family
. It is for ABC and the story focuses on two divorcées and their young kids sharing the same house. (Years later, this exact premise will be redone to great success in
Kate & Allie
.) I have never had a proper audition. For commercials, they basically just ogle you and send you home. Now I will have to attempt the horrific gauntlet that is The Hollywood Audition.

Apparently there is not yet a script, so for my reading I am given a scene from
Happy Days
. I will be reading the part of Richie Cunningham in a scene where he has a malt with Fonzie. Obviously, this has absolutely nothing to do with the premise of the new show or the character I would be playing. But what the hell? They’re the experts, right?

Back in Malibu, if I’m not at the beach with Corrie, I’m studying my lines. I have no coach, no feedback from anyone whatsoever. I don’t run lines with anyone and I prepare just like I have been since the days of Peanut Butter and Jelly. I also am still so green that I’m blessed by ignorance of the odds against me. There are probably hundreds of actors auditioning for this part and very likely there is a “list” of ten actors that the producers are likely to cast. I am too inexperienced to know that getting this part is akin to walking into a 7-Eleven, buying a lottery ticket, and winning the Powerball.

Mom is behind the wheel of our shitty Volvo, making a rare journey into the toxic summer smog of L.A. Although I am sometimes pissed that she won’t give me a lift into Hollywood, I secretly admire that she finds it just as important to drive my little brother Micah to a playdate as to facilitate my budding career. My mom will never be in the ranks of eight-by-ten-clutching, armchair-directing, aggressively hustling stage mothers who haunt every waiting room in show business. Hers is a different kind of support. From her I get ownership of my own life and a confidence to go my own way. On occasions like today, when it is really important, she will hold my hand. But mostly she guides me from the sidelines, quietly. And the message to me is:
This game is yours to win
.

In Hollywood, it works like this: You don’t get an audition for anything unless you have an agent. He or she gets a call from a casting director who is working for producers who are casting a role written by a writer. In movies, the writer is weak and has little to no say about anything having to do with the script they wrote. The producers have a big say (executive producers do not) and the director has the final word. However, in recent times, all of these players have been trumped by the desires of the “foreign sales” and “marketing” departments. These are the sole entities that choose the actors in 95 percent of all movies made today. In television, the writer is king, the director is weak and the producers are grunts, and the executive producers hold the power. Some executive producers write as well and that makes them “show runners,” and they truly rule the TV roost. However, once they make a decision, they go to their bosses for approval, the vice presidents in charge of programming (although the actual title for this position changes year to year and network to network), who then vet everything for the head of the network, who is God.

So, if you are looking to get a part in a movie or TV show, regardless of how big or small the part might be, it is wise to think of yourself in a live-action version of the arcade game Frogger. Any one of these layers of folks can blindside you out of contention for any reason at all, and you must navigate your way over and beyond each gatekeeper you encounter. As I make my way through this process on
A New Kind of Family
, I, of course, have no concept of the agendas and personal fiefdoms I am conquering along the way. I just practice the same principles I use to this day. I know my lines, I give the character a point of view, and I keep it honest.

Mom pulls the Volvo into the headquarters of ABC, then located in Century City and known to me as the location of future earth in
Planet of the Apes
. We are early, so we get a soda and wait in the giant three-story lobby.

“How do you feel, Robbie?”

“Good.”

“You want to practice?” (My mom always said “practice,” like I was a baton twirler.)

“I’m okay, thanks,” I say, as out of the corner of my eye I see the casting director approaching.

“You ready?”

I nod. Mom gives me a hug and I follow the casting director through giant double doors. As I walk away from my mother I am also walking away from my childhood. When I come out of those big doors, I will have a full-time job, and that job will subject me to pressures and scrutiny that some adults never face. It will fulfill my dreams and break my heart and lead me to experiences beyond imagining. I will never be the same. I’m fifteen years old; my life is just beginning.

CHAPTER
7

The tiny agency that represents me has another young client who has just landed a big role. She lives in New York, is around my age, and is going to be in California for some meetings. My agent arranges for us to have lunch. My relationship with Corrie is the extent of my “dating,” so I’m a little nervous even though this is not a romantic meeting. Any time a young teenager spends with a member of the opposite sex is fraught with expectations. Will she like me? Will I like her? Is she cute? Will she think I’m cute? What if I make a fool of myself?

The scouting report says that she’s an extremely smart musical-theater actress who is taking Broadway by storm as the new “Annie.” Those are big heels to fill, so she’s gotta have some serious game. I’m nervous to meet her. I’m just one of four kids in a TV family but she’s fuckin’ Annie! After more consideration than you would use to choose the location of a multinational war council, I decide to host young Annie at a local Malibu restaurant called Paradise Cove—famous to me because I lost my virginity on the nearby beach, possibly famous to Annie because it is the home of Jim Rockford’s trailer in the legendary TV show
The Rockford Files
. I also bring my girlfriend with me because I am an idiot.

My mom drops Corrie and me off at the restaurant and I see my agent waiting outside.

“Hi, Rob. Glad you could do this. She’s excited to meet you.”

“Same here,” I say.

“Who’s this?” my agent asks, with a smile.

“This is Corrie, my girlfriend.”

“Oh.”

I can’t tell if my agent disapproves; it will take me years to understand the inner workings of agents.

“Well, come on in. She’s waiting.”

Sitting in a corner booth is a curly-haired, brown-eyed, slender girl with a shy smile.

“Hi, I’m Rob. This is Corrie. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You too,” she said. “I’m Sarah. Nice to meet you.”

Soon we are eating french fries and talking shop. I am in awe of Broadway and can only imagine how difficult it must be to play a role like hers. Of course I mention nothing of my musical-theater experience in Peanut Butter and Jelly, instinctively knowing that I am in no position to compete in a “credit swap.”

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Fifteen.”

“Do you have a … a boyfriend or anything?”

“Not really,” she says, glancing quickly at Corrie, who has been bored to death by our conversation. I begin to feel guilty. Corrie is a normal kid. She can’t relate to Sarah and me. Why would she? She stays quiet as two young actors connect over a mutual passion.

As we say good-bye, Sarah takes my arm.

“Will you do this forever, you think?”

“Do what forever?”

“Acting, silly.”

“I don’t know. I hope so. What about you?”

“It’s what I love,” she says, her eyes glowing with sweet intensity. “I hope I can do it forever.”

She says this with a solemnity that is so honest that it moves me. “Or at least until I’m an adult!” she adds, laughing.

We hug a good-bye and, as my agent drives her away, I wonder if I will ever see her again.

Twenty-one years later, I’m at the Golden Globes ceremony, nominated for Best Performance by an Actor in a Television Series—Drama for
The West Wing
. I don’t win that night, and while I’m disappointed, I’m thrilled when Sarah Jessica Parker does win for her smash,
Sex and the City
. She said she wanted to do it forever, I remember as she walks up to the podium.

*   *   *

There is not much to compare with the uproar that a successful child actor can cause in his family. Forget the esoteric touchy-feely discussions of the pluses and minuses of teen fame. The simple, logistical hurdles will kill you. What about school? Who is going to drive you back and forth? State law requires a legal guardian to be with you at all times; which family member will that be or do you hire someone to do it? If so, how do you find someone you can trust? My mom and Steve agonize over these decisions as Corrie and I celebrate the fact that I won’t be going back to Ohio and … I just might become a TV star.

I cram as much time as I can hanging out at Little Dume Beach with my friends before I start shooting the show. Corrie lathers on the Crisco oil, in her tiny leopard-print bikini. My buddies and I just laugh and boogie board. The Surf Crew, now calling themselves the Point Dume Bombers, are not impressed with my new job and still threaten to pummel me whenever they think I might try to actually learn to surf. I may become famous, but I ain’t gonna become a surfer.

My mom’s commitment to giving all her boys equal attention prevents her from spending twelve hours a day sitting on a set with me while I shoot. Chad and Micah have schoolwork and Little League and all the other activities of boys their ages. When Mom isn’t holed up for hours mysteriously writing God knows what in her office, she wants to be at home for her two younger sons. After meeting a number of candidates for the job as my guardian (including one of the Penn boys; I don’t remember which one, Sean or Michael, but one of them wanted to try acting and thought being on set would be a good way to learn), we settle on a big, shaggy-haired Bostonian named Clark. He drives a ridiculous old cruise-ship Cutlass, complete with big swatches of primer paint prominently displayed across its body. We will make quite an impression as we roll up to the soundstage. Clark is a huge sports fan and not averse to buying my friends and me the odd six-pack of Coors. I’m not sure what my mom’s criteria for a guardian were, but he certainly met mine.

The next step in organizing my life as a working child actor was dealing with my education. I was always a fairly good student with better-than-average grades. I actually liked learning (which did nothing to help my social standing), so I hoped that I would be able to easily handle the transition from school to private on-set tutoring, which law required to be a minimum of three hours a day. I was due to start high school in the fall (Santa Monica High began with sophomore year) and I would have to get their permission to stay enrolled while working. Many kid actors opt to drop out of traditional school to avoid the difficulties of social reassimilation and inevitable academic catch-up. I wanted to go to the same school as all my friends and be as normal as I could. After much wrangling, “Samohi” begrudgingly let me stay enrolled and accepted the state-sanctioned tutor as a legitimate proxy.

Rolling up to the soundstage for my first day, I feel the light-headed electric pulse that I imagine is common to any kind of dream fulfillment. A little over three years ago, I was a kid in Dayton, Ohio, having my showbiz illusions shattered by an aide-de-camp of Telly Savalas but still fantasizing about life as an actor. Now I’m about to work my first day as one of the stars of a show on ABC.

I meet the other actors and they all seem nice. The
real
star of the show is Eileen Brennan, a dry and very funny actress, hot off her role in the hit movie
Private Benjamin
. I will play her son Tony. My TV brother is David Hollander, a show-business veteran, who has already starred in countless commercials and episodes of big TV shows as well as movies, including the current hit
Airplane!
Lauri Hendler, a savvy back-talker, is typecast as my savvy, back-talking younger sister. In a harbinger of things to come, I will play the good-looking, vaguely uninteresting, and extremely underwritten straight-man (boy) part.

The other family that will share the house with us consists of a beautiful brunette, who is known for being married in real life to the commander on the hit TV show
CHiPs
, and her daughter, played by a cute blonde who appears utterly uninterested in any form of acting whatsoever.

I’m given an embossed red script binder with the title of the show on the lower right-hand corner. I receive it as if I’m being handed an original copy of the Magna Carta. We read through the script, try on wardrobe, and then are assigned dressing rooms, which is like being given the best clubhouse any fifteen-year-old could ask for, complete with a phone! I’m introduced to the wonder of a stiff cup of coffee and a selection of twenty kinds of doughnuts every morning, a love affair that continues to this day. I learn the hierarchy of the set, who does what, and where my proper place is in the army of two hundred people it takes to make an episode of television. For the first time in my life, I do not feel “different.” Even though I’m as green as a pine, I feel the satisfaction of fitting in—of
belonging
.

The lessons are coming fast and furiously. During a rehearsal I “step” on one of Eileen Brennan’s lines (which means that I start talking before she’s done with her line) and she gives me a withering look. I will never make that mistake again. I watch as she navigates the role of “star.” One day she reads the latest script and goes ballistic, demanding the producers and writers come to the set for a script meeting. We are sent to our makeshift classroom as a very heated and tension-filled meeting goes on outside. It will be years before I properly appreciate the pressure she is under and how necessary it is for the star to fight every day (if they can) for the best writing possible. Eileen didn’t win many of those battles on
A New Kind of Family
, as most actors don’t, and I’m sure the show suffered for it. Most actors are very good judges of what “works,” and yet they are always at the mercy of writers or producers, who can label them “difficult” or “divas.” Meanwhile, if the show flops, it’s always the star who takes the most blame. Which is not to say that there aren’t moronic actors out there who will ruin
Citizen Kane
if given half the chance. But in general, I’ve learned, an actor who’s made it to a certain level knows what works for him or her better than anyone else.

*   *   *

A New Kind of Family
was filmed before a studio audience of about two hundred people. They were tourists and folks off the street who were by turns excited and bored by the endless filming from seven thirty to midnight each Friday. When they could no longer be counted on to laugh at the jokes, a man would throw candy at them, which they would devour, and then they would cackle like hyenas, high on sugar.

A sit-com is basically a filmed play. You even have a curtain call (although unlike with a play, it comes at the beginning before you film). Even though it was my first big job, I had done enough theater to make me comfortable in front of the camera. We filmed six episodes leading up to our actual air date, and in early September 1979, our show debuted at 7:30 p.m. on Sunday night on ABC. I was too unsophisticated to realize that we had been put in the “death slot” opposite the number one show in all of television, CBS’s ratings juggernaut
60 Minutes
.

They crushed us. I mean it was a bloodletting. There were lots of tense long faces the next week as we prepped our next episode. I was too young to understand the pressure. I was living my dream.

It’s Friday night. The studio audience is full. The Doobie Brothers’ “I Keep Forgettin’” is blasting over the PA system. This is the week we will turn it around. This is the show we will
kill it
. It is also the first episode we’ve taped since our show’s debut. I come out for my preshow curtain call and the crowd erupts. They go absolutely bat-shit crazy. Up until this point, I’ve been greeted with midlevel, warm applause, so I’m stunned. I look around, not sure that this ovation is for me. Maybe the actual star, Eileen Brennan, is standing behind me. But she’s not.

The cameras roll. I enter. Bedlam. I hear for the first time in my life that particular, unique, high-pitched, piercing, hissing, sonic screech that is the sound of screaming teenage girls. We play the scene. Every time I open my mouth the girls go ape. Just last Friday I was happy if I got a big laugh. This Friday, after one show on the air, I can’t get one laugh because my new fans won’t shut up! It is a stark lesson in the power of television.

Eileen Brennan, being a consummate comedienne and veteran actress, is having none of this. I can see in her eyes that she’s livid. I hope she’s not pissed at me; I’m just trying to get through the scenes. Finally, it’s over and no one knows quite what to make of what has just happened. For my part, I’m at once shell-shocked, embarrassed, and (in truth) loving every minute of it.

As Clark and I arrive for work the next day, I head off to the makeshift classroom for my daily on-set schooling. I’m studying my tenth-grade French when a production assistant stops by with my very first fan letter.

“Here ya go, Rob. Got a bunch more up at the offices.”

I don’t know what to say, it’s all new. Someone has written a fan letter to
me
.

“Oh, and one more thing … from now on, no one under the age of eighteen will be allowed in the studio audience,” he says mildly as he heads out.

I don’t know whether to be upset or even whom to be upset with. I
do
know that this new edict marks the end of my ear-splitting receptions. I turn my attention to my fan letter. I open it carefully, excited to read it.

BOOK: Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography
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