Suck It, Wonder Woman!: The Misadventures of a Hollywood Geek (2 page)

For some reason,
when I was thirteen years old, I thought it would be really neat to wear only clothes that were Disney themed. Fucking everything. My preferred outfit: Mickey Mouse shirts, socks and hair clips, finished off with blindingly white Keds sneakers. Sexy, I know. (Note: If you’re a preteen kid about to move to a brand-new school in
a completely different country
it is fate that you’re reading this right now—put down the Donald Duck shirt and pick up a gun! Trust me, it will only end badly.)

From the moment I sat in my first-period class on the very first day at my new military school in Japan, I knew things were gonna be bad. There was a group of girls sitting in Science staring me down and whispering amongst themselves. I could make out a little of it:

“Who does she think she is?”

And:
“Is she really wearing that?”

Oh, and also:
“God, she looks like such a

bitch…and a slut.”

Delightful.

I pretended not to hear and picked a random seat not that far from the cackling cunts. Why did I choose a seat so close to them? I didn’t want them to think they were intimidating me. Because the moment they thought they made me feel inferior, it would be over. I decided at that moment that I would never show fear.

The only problem with this plan was that I was scared shitless. I was terrified that no one would like me. That I’d have zero friends—apart from Mickey and Minnie, of course. But these girls apparently saw something that I didn’t. Did I have food in my teeth? Were my shorts too tight? Did I pee in them? What the hell were they whispering about?! I calmly excused myself to the restroom to take a quick look.

Standing in front of the mirror I conducted a fast check: White button-up shirt? Check. Blue Esprit shorts cuffed at the bottom? Check. Mickey Mouse ankle socks with blue rim at the top? Oh, hells yeah, check. Turn around. Yep, there’s the whole gang on the back of my shirt: Mickey, Minnie, Goofy, Donald. What could they possibly be saying about what is clearly a genius outfit? I really had no idea. I honestly had no idea that some people might regard me as a preppy douche upon which Walt Disney had hurled massive, Technicolor chunks.

I’d like to say this is where things got better, but that wouldn’t make a good story…and it wouldn’t be true. I made just one friend in six months.

Her name was Eve. She had bangs and one long braid in the back, wore glasses and liked to fold up notes like little origami birds. She would sit with me at lunch and look away helplessly as the other girls would step up one by one and share their one-word descriptions of me.

“Bitch.”

“Slut.”

“Dickhead.”

Dickhead? Seriously? I was only thirteen years old and had never even seen a dick yet.

It was the weirdest thing to be called a slut. I mean, I was only thirteen years old and had never even kissed a boy yet. But, somehow by the grace of God I was, in fact, a slut. And because popular opinion rules in high school, that’s all anyone thought of me. And I got used to being bullied, harassed and having only one friend. At least I had Eve. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I didn’t have anyone.

But then one day, everything changed for me.

There was a new guy in school and every girl was talking about him. Not because he looked like Brad Pitt, but because we were all so bored. Any new blood was interesting. I’ll call him Sam. He was stocky and a little chubby. Had a splotch of acne on his cheeks and floppy blondish brown hair that fell over his eyes. The only other thing I knew about him was that he played soccer. And he wore his backpack straps on both arms—not the one-armed slingover all the cool kids were doing. Sam gave off an air of not caring at all what people thought of him, whether or not they liked him. He was my hero. I was in love.

He didn’t concentrate
too
hard and…yep, heard him die.
Definitely
Mario.

I watched him closely for his first week at school. He didn’t talk to anyone. He ate lunch by himself and played his Gameboy on a shady patch of grass beside the building. What was he playing?
Tetris
? No—too much finger movement.
Mario
? Possibly. He didn’t concentrate too hard and…yep, heard him die. Definitely
Mario
.

Sam was awesome at soccer. He was always practicing and could do all these crazy tricks. But the best thing about him? He was always alone. No one seemed to want to talk to him, not even his teammates. Soon word spread through school that everyone thought he was “weird” and “retarded.” Wait—so that was why he didn’t have any friends?

That’s why he didn’t have any friends? He was so cute and talented…but because he had a little acne and played a Gameboy in his spare time he had some sort of mental retardation? These dumb bitches were as dumb as they were my first day.

One night I made a decision while going through my closet, picking my outfit for the next day—Daisy Duck tank top and jeans: so cute! I decided I would tell Eve to spread the word that I wanted Sam to be my boyfriend. She did; it moved like wildfire or crotch fire or what have you.

The next day it was all anyone could talk about. The school had this low buzzing as its soundtrack:
Olivia likes Sam. Sam likes Olivia. OMG! OMG! OMG!

So I did the only thing that made sense: I started freaking out. I might have even thrown up on myself. I don’t remember. Suddenly there was all this attention on me. Suddenly all those bitches who hated me wanted to quench their gossip thirst, acting like they were my friends just to get the scoop. It was crazy.

“Are you gonna say yes?”

“Are you gonna put out?”

“Are you gonna love him even if he has Down Syndrome?”

Holy. Crap. I freaked. Did I really want him to ask me out? What happens once we’re boyfriend/girlfriend? Are we supposed to go to dinners and movies? Get married and have babies? I’m only thirteen! I still wear Minnie Mouse underwear, for God’s sake!

I saw Sam part the crowds in the hallway and head straight for my locker. I was so scared. I looked around for someone—anyone!—to talk to. Someone to divert my attention so I could avoid him. I still wanted to be his girlfriend and wanted him to ask me out, but I couldn’t stand all the attention.

Now everyone is standing at the sides of the hallway, leaning up against the lockers and watching Sam walking toward me. EVERYONE is looking. So my one and only friend is not by my side but up against a locker with the rest of the herd, staring at the reality show playing out before their eyes. Sam was steps from me, he could reach out and touch me if he wanted…We locked eyes, took a breath…OMG he’s gonna ask me! He starts his first syllable…and I turn and walk away.

Wait, what!? Why the hell was I walking away? What’s wrong with me? Later I heard he just stood there for a second, looking at the empty space where I had been standing. Then he turned around and walked back through the hallways, the teenagers still parted and backed up against the lockers, now with their mouths agape and there is a high-level whisper suffocating the building.

Eve chased after me. She found me crouched down behind the Health building. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She knew it was just all too much. This sad spectacle was my life—and I couldn’t take it. After several minutes of thinking about how shitty everything was, about all my feelings of inadequacy it dawned on me that Sam must have been feeling really badly, too. My face went white and my mouth dried up. My inner girlpower forced me to stand up and go find him.

He was sitting on the soccer field, playing his Gameboy. I walked up and sat down right next to him. No more prying eyes, no whispers, just us. I saw on the screen that I was right:
Mario Brothers
. We sat there in silence until the familiar sound of Mario dying rang across the field. He put the game down and, without lifting his head to make eye contact, said, “Will you go out with me?”

I said yes immediately. We sat there for a few more minutes. Then we stood up together, held hands, and walked back to class.

In just thirty seconds, I was convinced that he was the best boyfriend ever.

A new semester was starting the following week and Sam and I had one class together. He sat behind me in History and everything was great. We were typical, happy thirteen-year-olds who were going out—which meant we never talked or really acknowledged one another. It was wonderful. Everyone just knew we were together.

I was so excited that first day of the new semester. To be honest, I’d never really heard him speak—just the one sentence when he asked me out. We smiled at each other and sat down. I felt content, like everything was going to be okay. I had a friend and a boyfriend and would not have to worry about being attacked anymore. I felt for the first time since moving to this new school, that I would survive.

Ten minutes go by, and all of a sudden Sam grabs my chair, shakes it furiously and screams out what seems to be half of a joke, “…AND THEN SHE WAS HIT BY A BUS!” followed by an uproarious laugh, and…wait…What was that? Was he barking? No. He wasn’t barking. He was telling a joke. “Gggrrr…Ruff! Ruff!” Umm, yeah. That was a bark. What. The. Fuck?!!!!

I wasn’t sure what to do exactly so I did what I was best at back then: I froze. Just like…freakin’ ice. The Ice Teen Girlie Girl Cometh. Oh yeah, if you freeze, no one can see you. It’s common knowledge.

And that was not all—no, that was not all. Because next came the freak-show grand finale.

“Grrrr…ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff ruff…” With spit flying from the corner of his mouth like a Saint Bernard.

Umm, yeah. That was definitely a bark. And not some Lassie shit either—this was much closer to Old Yeller, but the Old Yeller after he gets the rabies and they have to kill him with a shotgun…yeah,
that
Old Yeller.

I turned around slowly in my seat and looked at him. I was a little afraid but I was also annoyed. Why had he not told me about this sooner? Oh, right, because we had never really spoken to one another. Smooth move, that.

“What are you doing?” I asked, dreading the answer, whatever it was. Sam swallowed hard, took a deep breath and said, “Ggggrr Ruff Ruff! I have Tourette’s…RUFF!”

God. Damn. Hi, karma, I’m Olivia. I’m sorry for whatever I did in my past life…can we move on now?

When I first moved
out to Los Angeles, I had one sorta-kinda contact. He was a manager. Norm was an old-timey manager—the I’m-Gonna-Make-You-A-Star-Kid type—with a face tight from plastic surgery. I couldn’t tell if he was always happy to see me, or in a perpetual state of shock.

I dressed up to go in for my first meeting with him at his office. (Side note: How you dress in L.A. is vastly different from how you dress for important meetings in, say, Oklahoma. In L.A. it’s all about looking effortless, like you didn’t try. Jeans, flip-flops and a T-shirt. But the jeans should be just tight enough to still be sexy, yet also seem as if you just threw them on. Voila! It should also be noted that I was never alerted to this and so I traipsed into Norm’s office in heels and my best dress—they call that your “Sunday Best” where I come from.)

I walked into a room that was covered in magazines, mostly of the tabloid variety. There were posters everywhere of all his clients—in their respective soap operas. Still, I walked in with very high hopes. I hoped that he would sign me as his client, sprinkle me with a pinch of pixie dust, and send me off on my merry way to the Spielbergs’ Fourth of July BBQ.

At that moment, all my dreams were riding on this meeting. He was my only connection and only hope. My Obi-Wan Kenobi, if you will (and I think you will).

He checked me out from head to toe and smiled. I think. Okay, no, wait, he just always looked like that—good to know. So he looked me over and…went back to reading his magazine. While reading he told me I had to go to an acting class and perform for the teacher. And if the teacher thought I was good enough, he’d represent me. End of meeting!

So I go to this class. Bad news: The teacher said I was too late to be in the acting showcase where agents and managers come and watch actors perform. But, good news! I
could
serve the Chinese food to the agents and managers while they watched the show. I just wanted to see what it was like, so I said yes. Hell, maybe I’d meet an agent in search of an egg roll.

During the performance I snuck in through the back and watched the actors on stage. I saw Norm, with that big maybe smile, sitting in the back. Somehow, despite the endless grin, he looked very bored.

But then someone came on and caught his eye. She was a former Ms. Texas. Blond and beautiful and couldn’t act for shit. I looked over at Marv and noticed that he had really perked up since she came onstage. That’s when I realized he would never in a million years represent me. Norm only wanted someone gorgeous who could be plugged into a soap without out any effort at all.

I sat down, defeated. I went back to spooning more and more sweet-and-sour sauce onto plastic plates. The orange goop coagulated in great, gross stains. There is an old adage that says: It is while spooning bright orange sauce onto plastic plates that destiny often finds us. Okay, not really. But the truth is, at that moment, a manager approached me. He thought I had a “great look” and wanted me to call him on Monday. OMG. It worked! I didn’t have to perform at all, I could just fling plastic soy sauce packets and the universe would take care of the rest. Score!

I called the manager the next day and he quickly set up a meeting with an agent. Soon after that, I walked into the agency, finally dressed down in jeans, tank top and boots. No effort at all. The office was cluttered with magazines—
Vanity Fair
,
US Weekly
,
People
, the works. On the walls were photos of random famous folks: Barbra Streisand, Madonna, Tom Hanks. Now, I’m no Photoshop genius, but it crossed my mind that the broadly grinning guy standing next to all these celebs was Photoshopped in. Not a great first impression. But I pressed on.

Behind the desk in front of me I saw red hair, a headset and a computer. I couldn’t make out what was on the screen, but it must have been important because this agent was screaming at whomever was on the other line. I took a seat and tried desperately to understand his conversation. Was it a big-budget movie he was negotiating for a client? A new TV series? Oh, I know! Tom Cruise was calling and he was creating a show and all of his clients were going to be in it for a million each!

He finished his phone call with sweat drops pooling around his collar, ripped off his headset and threw it onto a pile of magazines. Then he spun around to face me. Smiled, I think.

“I was just trying to get these Madonna tickets,” he said. “The seats I wanted were really hard to get, but I fuckin’ threw down the cards to get it. Whatever. It’s worth it. Hey—what are you doing next week? Wanna house-sit for me?”

Seriously. That’s how it went down. I’m sure if any of his clients knew that he spent his days searching online for concert tickets, they would have a better understanding about why their careers had stalled.

I told this maniac that I had absolutely nothing to do and would be totally down for house-sitting. Honestly, I was excited. I didn’t know how Hollywood worked. I figured this meant he wanted to represent me. Or at the very least, he’d feel guilty and be unable to reject me because I had done him a big favor. And then he dropped this on me: “Why don’t I have you come over early to meet my girlfriend so she feels comfortable around you.” Yeah, okay. That made sense. What with the fact that you just asked a complete stranger to watch your house for you.

“Cool. You come over later, then,” he said. “And you need some help? I’ll represent you.”

Yes! Sure, it had started a little strangely with him ignoring me for ten minutes while he secured Madonna tickets. But I had an agent! I was so happy! And it was a good agency too, a fine agency. Totally midshelf. The Skyy Vodka of agencies. But for me—brand-new to Hollywood with only theater experience under my belt—it was the best I could do. I could worry about moving up later, right?

I went to his house later that night to meet his fiancée. It was a small house in a busy neighborhood. He didn’t own it, he rented—but he had the pride of an owner. He kept saying things like, “Isn’t it like a spa in here? It’s so serene and peaceful. We’re so lucky to have this place. One day, if you make it, you can have a place like this of your own. Isn’t it like a spa?”

Um, sorta?

I walked in and introduced myself to his fiancée. She seemed nice, well put together. Then I took my first good look at my new agent: curly red hair, short, stocky. He had mastered that whole studied-disheveled look that goes over so well in L.A.

He definitely had a bit of ye olde Napoleon complex in him, too—he had a lot of bravado and a profound need for everyone in the world to find him irresistible. (Note to agents: If you’re reading this book, you should know that you are actually resistible. And everyone can tell you have issues with your height. Your facial hair and scented candles do not distract us.)

It didn’t take long for me to realize that it wasn’t the girl he wanted me to meet; it was the dogs. He had asked me if I could house-sit, but never mentioned the dogs. Clever move! Let me just say, I like dogs as much as the next person—as long as the next person is someone who only likes dogs a little bit, but not that much.

But: three bulldogs? These were really big puppies.
Puppies
. They hadn’t been trained and had no idea how to calm the fuck down. As far as they were concerned they were the stars of a puppy porno and my leg was Jenna Jameson’s pug.

I held my tongue. God forbid I should lose my first agent in less than twenty-four hours.

“Do you like dogs?” he asked.

“Ohmygodareyoukiddingme?! I love dogs.”

“Great. This is Ruby, Jack, and Sam. Now, you have to make sure to address Ruby first,” he explained in a very intense tone. “She is the alpha dog. She needs to be loved, fed and touched first. And…you are the alpha human. Did you know that? You’re the human.”

Um, yeah. Go on.

“And you need to make sure they know you’re the human. So, what I want you to do is—wait, are those clothes expensive? Doesn’t matter. I need you to lie down on top of the dogs and establish dominance.”

Wait, no, don’t go on.

“Uuuumm…actually, I think I’ll try this little technique another time, if that’s okay?”

I was still hoping not to fuck it up and insult my first agent.

He agreed that it made more sense for me to “establish dominance” later when he wasn’t around. Because his presence would take away my leadership in the wolf pack. As they saw him as their paternal leader.

Okay, got it, dude.

We toured the house. I noticed the coffee-table books:
Raising a Champion
, and
Dog Owner’s Guide
and
How To Tell If Your Dog is Psychic
. There were
Vanity Fair
magazines piled everywhere.
Ev-er-y-where
. The bathroom smelled like a candle had thrown up. There were, like, no less than fifteen candles going at once, all with a different scent. The computer room was locked and I was not allowed in. And then there was the bedroom. He really wanted to show me this one piece of art. Not including the dogs, of course, it was the one thing he’d grab in a fire.

I stared at it, trying to take it in. To make some sense of it. The picture was a collage of black and white photographs. It was hard to make out what it was. My new agent stood just to the right of me, proudly watching me diagnose his masterpiece. I couldn’t puzzle it out, so I moved up close and put my face within inches of the piece. And then it hit me.

“My girlfriend’s vagina. In every position you can think of. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Is that…” I started.

“My girlfriend’s vagina. In every position you can think of. Isn’t it beautiful?”

To me, vaginas look like messy open-faced Reuben sandwiches…not mine, of course. But, this one looked like that. And so…this was his girlfriend’s vagina? The woman in the kitchen who was right now establishing dominance over the dogs? I was staring at her hairy snatch right then?

My mind, ever helpful, kicked in with an insta-mantra:
Don’t lose your agent. Don’t lose your agent. Don’t lose your agent.

“Wow…it’s really…amazing. I’ve never seen a vagina up close before…and wow. Great work.”

That was the last day I house-sat for him. And the entire time he was my agent, I never booked a job. Never did establish that dominance, either.

Lesson to be learned? You may be a desperate newbie and really, really, really want to make it. But if someone ever offers to be your agent, it’s not worth straddling his dogs and admiring his girlfriend’s hairy vadge.