Underneath It All (14 page)

It was a gorgeous spring day in Los Angeles.
Eager to meet John Waters, I got up early and ate some Cheerios. I hadn't slept well. I'd rehearsed the two scenes I was supposed to perform a zillion times while walking around our backyard, determined to give a great audition.
Scott thought I was nuts. I'd asked him what he knew about John Waters and he just laughed, telling me a horrible story involving an actor eating dog poop in one of his movies.
Jesus
, I thought,
he's kinkier than the Japanese sploshers!
Thankfully, I found his new script
Cry-Baby
to be turd free. It was a PG comedy romp set in the 1950s. The central character was a bad-boy Elvis Presley type named Cry-Baby, and Johnny
Depp was to play the role. I'd seen Johnny on TV before when he'd starred in a series called
21 Jump Street
. He was a real babe.
John wanted me to read for the role of Wanda Woodward. She was a member of Cry-Baby's gang, a tough-talking teenager who wasn't really bad; everyone just thought she was. I hadn't done much comedy in my career, and while I loved the idea of it, I was scared that I wasn't funny.
I waited for my turn to audition in an empty waiting room at Imagine Films, repeatedly mumbling the scene's dialogue to myself. I was so nervous that I couldn't keep my Cheerios down, and thankfully made it to the ladies' room just in time to toss my breakfast. Oh no! Horrified I might smell, I ate a pack of mints and splashed cold water on my face. I studied my appearance closely. I looked younger than my twenty years, which was a darn good thing considering I was supposed to play seventeen for this role. Pleased with the Levi's and white T-shirt I'd chosen to wear, I headed back to the waiting room amid was stopped in my tracks by a voice that inquired, "Miss Lords?"
I turned to be greeted by the pencil-thin mustache of Waters. I had to force myself not to stare at it, wanting to watch his lips make the little black line jump.
He smiled warmly, a twinkle in his eyes.
Leading me into an office, he introduced me to the producer, Rachel Talalay, who said my audition would be taped by an assistant sitting in the corner. John told me I should play the part "real." He didn't want camp. So I did the scene, often distracted by John mouthing along the words as I said them, and finished with a snarl, saying, "I wouldn't be caught dead in a full skirt!" John laughed. Then. I thanked them all for their time, and was out the door and on my way home.
I had no idea if I'd done a good job or if Mr. Waters was just being nice.
I wanted to know if I had the part. Why did they always make actors wait? It was torture! I needed the role of Wanda Woodward for many reasons. I thought being hired by Imagine Entertainment/Universal Pictures could be the endorsement I needed to put my past behind me. If a big studio hired me, maybe other studios would take that risk as well. Also, the prospect of working with a famous director on location in Baltimore for three months was the answer to my personal problems. Baltimore was a long way from Los Angeles and. I definitely needed the space from Scott.
I fantasized about working on a big Hollywood movie.
Would the actors have stars on their dressing room doors? Would the crew look at me funny, trying to remember where they'd seen me before? Was I still just "that porn girl"?
I tried to push these thoughts out of my head and concentrate on the actual work.
Was I really ready to do a musical comedy? What if I was still too green? What if my singing voice was embarrassing?
I'd never sung professionally before and there was a big difference between singing into a hairbrush and performing in a movie.
Man, if I get this role, could I pull it off?
I waited for the call all afternoon, the agony of not knowing eating away at me. Scott was on the phone in the back office, talking on his private line about the success of my recent appearance on the first MTV Music Awards show. That had been a wild experience.
My entertainment lawyer, Alan Dowling, had passed along an appearance request from another client of his who was managing a band called Guns n' Roses. The band was set to perform at the awards and they were also up for Best Artist of the Year, but lead singer Axl Rose didn't want to accept an award and then have to play right after that. His manager, Alan Nevin, said it was too distracting, so I was asked to accept the award if they won.
Scott took the call and urged me to accept this nonpaying appearance. I was leery of the media, having only recently been left in peace, and wasn't sure if I was ready to face the wolves again. But Scott convinced me that it would be good for me to be seen with successful people. All I had to do was walk across the stage and smile. What could go wrong?
The event took place the following afternoon. The band sent a huge white limo to pick me up. I arrived at the auditorium and was immediately whisked backstage. The guitarist of the band, Slash, introduced himself. He wore a top hat and under that had a mountain of curly hair even bigger than Leslie Abramson's.
My white leather dress felt out of place in the dark sea of rock and rollers. I waited in the wings backstage. Peeking through the curtain, I was shocked at how many people filled the auditorium. The place was packed and totally unruly! Slash appeared at my side moments later, smiling shyly at me and saying he'd decided to walk with me "if" they won. I got the impresssion they already knew they had won, but kept the thought to myself, just glad I didn't have to walk out there alone.
Guns n' Roses won, and Slash grabbed my hand as walked across the stage to the podium.
Snap!
The photograph us holding hands was all over the place the following week. I could tell Scott was jealous. But he said nothing. It had been his idea.
People
magazine ran the photo with the caption "Guns and Poses" that implied Slash and I were an item. I was amused, Although Slash wasn't my new boyfriend, I did secretly like him. He was a rock star and I was intrigued. It was exciting playing a part in the early days of Guns n' Roses, even if I was only there as a press stunt. It was the kind of energy that sucked me in, and I couldn't resist saying yes when Slash asked me out and scribbled his address on the back of an empty cigarette pack.
The following afternoon at five, I arrived at Slash's rundown apartment above Sunset Boulevard.
Evidently rock stars don't get paid much
, I thought as I stepped over the smoldering cigarette butts embedded in the carpet outside his door. Knocking softly, I wondered what I was doing there.
Could this go anywhere or did he just want sex?
It had been a year since my fling in Canada and I wasn't interested in a one-night stand. This bizarre guitar slinger was kind of sexy. Perhaps this could be something more?
He answered the door looking like he'd just woken up and smelling faintly of last night's booze. He had company, another one of the guys from the band. He apologized for running late and invited me to have a seat while he and his friend went into the back room to finish up their business. I was settling into the sofa, feeling uncomfortable at being alone in Slash's living room, when something cool slid across my back. I turned around and there, slithering across the back of the couch, was the biggest snake I'd ever seen in my life.
Freaking out, I jumped up and ran out of the apartment as fast as I could.
I hate snakes!!!!!!!!!!!!
By the time I got home my fascination with Slash was a thing of the past. My brief glimpse into his world was enough to make me realize he wasn't for me. It was a little too fast, what with the snake, cigarettes, and rock and roll. I wanted a simpler life. He left a message on my answering machine saying he was sorry he had kept me waiting, thinking that was why I had left, and asked me to come back over. I didn't return the call, and I never told him about my encounter with his slithery friend. Instead, I chose to simply remain a fan of one of the greatest guitar players of our time.
That evening my agent finally called.
I got the role in
Cry-Baby.
I shrieked! Putting down the phone, I cried like a baby. What a day! It was one of those moments every actor dreams about and I was jubilant. It made up for the countless doors I'd had slammed in my face. It was a dream come true and I was on top of the world.

A week later, I checked into a quaint little Baltimore hotel called the Tremont. It was a few blocks away from the
Cry-Baby
production offices in the new Tremont annex. Many a film crew had passed through the doors of the Tremont, if not to rent a room, then to hang out in the Celebrity Lounge, a small bar lined with the head shots of actors who, like us, had lived at the Tremont while making their movies in town. As seasoned as t he staff was, we still managed to raise an eyebrow or two with our unruly behavior.
The cast of John Waters's
Cry-Baby
was a handful. At twenty-two, our faithful leader, Johnny Depp, was the oldest member of the cast. Darren Burrows, Ricki Lake, and I were all twenty, or closing in on it, and Amy Locane, who played Cry-Baby's girl, Allison, was the baby at seventeen. Our hotel morn and dad were Susan "Sue Sue" Tyrrell and one of the gods of punk, Iggy Pop, whom I always referred to as Mr. Pop.
Johnny lived in the penthouse suite of the ten-story hotel and the rest of us lived on different floors below him. I was the resident of suite 801, with Sue Sue above me, Ricki Lake below, and poor Amy banished, for her own safety, to the new Tremont building down the street under the watchful eye of her mother.
On my first day I barely had time to unpack before I was summoned to the wardrobe chamber of designer Van Smith. As I walked to his office, I took in the local scene. Characters from all walks of life waited for buses, spit on the sidewalks, or strolled out of the local beauty parlor with fresh beehive hairdos. Some of these ladies reeked of Aqua Net and probably still wore chiffon scarves over their hair to bed. I was charmed by the thick Baltimore accent of the voices chattering up and down the street, and especially the local peculiarities. Everyone was called "hon," and rat sandwiches (American cheese with gobs of mayonnaise on sourdough bread) were the town staple.
Paranoid I'd be late, I left my hotel way too early and ended up in the lobby of the big Tremont about twenty minutes before my fitting. The scent of hamburgers cooking pulled me toward the deli in the corner of the lobby, but I ordered the local favorite instead to get a taste of Baltimore life. Rat sandwich in hand, I sought out the elevator and climbed aboard, chomping away at the tasty new delicacy as I pressed the button for the twenty-first floor.
Several businessmen entered and left on the way up, until I was left alone with a long-haired man in his twenties. He was sweating profusely and engrossed in his shoes. I followed his gaze and saw he was wearing Dr. Martens.
I hadn't seen combat boots since junior high school. Maybe they were in again?
By the looks of them they had traveled a few paths.
On the twenty-first floor, the shoe man zoomed out in front of me, practically knocking me over. What an oddball, I thought as I watched his chocolate-brown ponytail swing away.
Van Smith greeted me in the wardrobe department. He was a no-nonsense, been-around-the-block-and-built-a-shoppingmall type of guy who chain-smoked as he told me to undress. "Don't worry, honey," he said in his raspy voice, "I like dick." I giggled as my foul-mouthed fairy godmother put me into a knee-length white-gray tight skirt and an off-the-shoulder black top. The incredibly uncomfortable pointy bra gave me cone-shaped breasts, a thick red belt cinched my waist, and my feet were clad in short white bobby socks and black many japes. It was weird putting on those shoes! I remembered the last time I'd worn ones like them, as a little girl on a bus from Ohio to L.A.
Ensemble in place, I was presented to Mr. Waters. They started chatting about my hair, and just then a plump pretty girl walked in. Van pointed to her pin-curled bangs and suggested this hideous style for me. I silently voted against it. John told me the girl played Pepper, Cry-Baby's pregnant sister, and when I was introduced to her, the girl smiled sweetly and said, "Hi! I'm Ricki Lake."
The shoe guy from the elevator squatted in the corner watching the action. He had a furrowed brow and seemed very serious. John asked him something about Pepper's switchblade and he bellowed to an assistant named Lester, who brought in several blades for Ricki to try out. John called him Brook. He was the show's property master. I remember thinking he looked more like an Angus or Storm, something a bit more butch than Brook.
I was caught daydreaming by Waters, who wanted to know what I thought of pin curls. I told him they weren't my favorite. Van snarled, saying, "It's either that or baby bangs, hon." I didn't know what baby bangs were but chose them anyway and headed off to the hair department, thinking they couldn't possibly be as ugly as poor Ricki's pin curls.
I got my bangs cut super short —about an inch and a half below my hairline. Feeling silly, I twisted the back of my hair into a ponytail and tried not to look disappointed, but John loved the Wanda do so I was free to go. I went back to my room at the Tremont Hotel and collapsed into bed. Exhausted from the day's travails, I fell sound asleep.
I woke up to the blaring of my alarm clock. I had dance rehearsal up the street. A map had been slid under my door. I pulled on my jeans, grabbed a cup of coffee, and walked to the rehearsal studio a few blocks away.
My fellow cast members greeted me as I walked through the door, but seeing them all in one room unnerved me. I wondered what they thought of my past. Had Waters told them I'd done porn? Did they think I was a trashy girl? Did they remember my face from the five o'clock news? Was I being paranoid? I swallowed hard, wanting to fit in. Johnny Depp saw me first. He walked right up to me and smiled.
"Hey, I'm Johnny. You must be Traci."
"Yeah," I said shyly, "nice to meet you."
He was so cute, it hurt to look at him. A sweet smile played across his lips and I felt my face flush, embarrassed by my attraction to him. Feeling like the geek of the century, I positioned myself on the other side of the room, hoping he hadn't noticed how nervous he made me, and scared of falling under his spell.
We spent the entire morning practicing the jitterbug. The mood was jovial as the cast got to know one another. We had fun laughing at our poor dance moves, and the choreographer, Lori Eastlake, had the patience of a saint.
By that afternoon I'd grown more comfortable with the gang. I got to know Johnny, Ricki, Amy, Darren Burrows, and finally Kim McGuire, who played Hatchet-Face. She was the palest woman I'd ever seen, and her tiny five-foot frame and ice-blue eyes were a huge contrast to her booming Broadway voice. She reminded me of a Great Dane trapped in a poodle's body. Like her character in the movie, she was the loudest of the bunch.
Darren was a handsome but gangly guy who towered over us at about six three. His lighthearted personality made him impossible not to like. On the dance floor, he was like a puppy that hadn't grown into its paws yet, and trampled through his routine as gracefully as an ox. Ricki Lake swooned like a schoolgirl, sneaking peeks at him every so often. She was by far the best dancer of the bunch. Her effortless moves won both the praise of our instructor and Darren's attention. Amy Locane had already been in several big movies and was a seasoned actress. Clearly intimidated by her more grown-up cast mates, she seemed to be searching for the same thing I was —approval.
Johnny was the quiet one was that me? We both took up space in opposite corners of the room, with him close to the window. He listened carefully to the teacher's instructions and was very focused in learning his moves, grabbing smoke I welt km between dances and flicking his ashes out the window. I le had a gentleness about him, and when he spun Amy Locane around and around, they looked great together.
I liked these people.
John Waters turned up at the dance hall just as we were finishing for the day. He'd come by to check out our progress, remarking that it was a good thing we'd started rehearsa I early as he watched us with a raised eyebrow. I guess we weren't quite there yet. Or maybe he was just razzing us. He had a sharp tongue and an odd sense of humor that made it hard for me to tell when he was serious.
As homework, he brought me several videos from the 1950s to watch. One was called
Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill
I giggled the title. Not understanding why he wanted me to view the tapes, I told him I didn't have a VCR in my room. Johnny spoke up, casually saying I could use his room. I thanked him, blush ing at the thought of being in his room. Waters smirked as In' took in the exchange, telling me the tapes would help me understand the time period. He wanted Wanda to be a sexy, tough Russ Meyer bad girl. I was nervous I wouldn't please him.
I hopped a shuttle with the rest of the cast back to the hotel. Johnny stopped me in the lobby and handed me the extra room key he'd gotten from the front desk, innocently saying he'd be gone all afternoon working through the script with John and that I was welcome to watch my videos in his room. I took the key, thanked him, and raced away, only breathing again when the elevator doors closed.
Taking a shower, I contemplated Johnny's offer. Why did the thought of being in his room make me so nervous? What was I afraid of? I was just being weird. It was no big deal and
I wasn't going to let myself make it one. He's just being nice.
He had a girlfriend anyway—some actress named Jennifer Grey.
I wondered if she was pretty.
Oh, crap! I thought I should call Scott, but what was I going to day? I'd been gone for two days! I couldn't just keep ignoring him because all my she was at our house.
I just needed to keep the peace until the film was over so I could collect my paycheck and move on. Just call him, I told myself. I'll tell him Waters is keeping me running, which was not a lie! Okay—here Igo. I dialed his number. Scott answered, his tone unmistakably cool. He was very curt, and halfheartedly asked how it was going. I told him that I really liked everyone and I was going to a cast gathering later that night. He said he missed me. Then he hung up.
I hadn't even thought of him since I arrived.
I knocked on Johnny's door to make sure he wasn't there, then walked into the living room. He had an incredible view from his penthouse perch. The windows were open and the white curtains floated in the breeze. The room smelled faintly of cigarettes. The VCR was not in sight. I found it in a cabinet close to his king-sized bed. Popping in the video, I settled back on the bed, wondering if I should be sitting on a chair instead...
The movie was nearly over when I heard the front door open. My heart raced as if I'd been caught doing something wrong. Johnny walked into the bedroom, put his script down, and climbed into bed next to me. He smiled and asked how the movie was. I pretended to be fully engrossed in it, but in truth I was nervous as heck with him so close. We watched for a few moments in silence. Uncomfortable being there with him, I asked about the read-through with John. He said it had gone really well, and then commented on how cute my new bangs were. Reaching over, he pulled the hair band out of my ponytail and smiled, saying it looked better down. His fingers in my hair freaked me out. His face was way too close to mine. I tried to ignore the closeness of his lips and act cool, yet I felt anything but. The film mercifully ended minutes later, and I thanked him for letting me use his VCR and tried not to run from the room.
ARGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!
Why was I so nervous with men?
I slammed the door to my room on the way in, embarrassed at how totally flustered I'd been. Had he noticed? I wasn't sure.
John Waters had referred to my character Wanda as "a sexual terrorist" just days after I'd arrived in Baltimore. Was he confusing the defiant teenager who had once used sex as a weapon with the twenty-year-old who was trying to figure on I who she really was? Had he made a mistake in casting me? Was I doomed to fail? How was I going to pull off a role driven by sexual power when I was so unnerved by it? How could an ex—porn star explain to anyone that I had these kinds of head trips? Who would believe me? Clearly I had urges, and God knows I'd had sexual experiences, but it was all so tangled up inside. I didn't know how the whole dating and sex thing worked in the real world. The majority of my sexual experiences had taken place stoned in front of a camera.
Would a normal guy like ... say . . . Johnny expect me to be amazing in bed? What if I wasn't? How could I possibly date anyone, let alone sleep with him, with all this pressure? True, sex hadn't been a problem with Ken, but knew I was leaving Canada the next day. Was that the buffer I needed? Was that the real problem? I wanted to be respected. Arggggg What did any of it mean?
I was ready for a real boyfriend but scared of making a bad choice. Was I a good girl or a bad girl? Was it possible to be both? That's where the fear came in. I was afraid of what might happen if I just let loose. What if a sexual terrorist lurked within me? Would she behave reasonably or wreak havoc? Where would sexual freedom take me?
And what would people think?
I unpacked the rest of my luggage and got ready to go to the Celebrity Lounge, choosing snug jeans, cowboy boots, and a pair of big hoop earrings. I walked in late to a packed house, the underage cast drinking anything they could get their hands on. The mood was loose. Darren and Johnny were sitting at the bar and everyone was letting their hair down.
Waters and a few crew members showed up with the casting director, Pat Moran, whom I'd met at my audition. She was a red-haired fireball. She was about five feet tall, her sky blue eyes vibrant beneath thick red-framed glasses, and her voice boomed through the bar. She sat like a queen with John, drinking martinis and talking loudly. I relaxed amid the chatter of my cast mates and downed a beer at the bar with the boys. My new earrings pinched at my lobes and annoyed me, so I took them off and laid them on the bar. Johnny and Darren helped themselves, wearing one earring apiece and looking like pirates. We laughed and listened to the latest Sinead O'Connor. My beer buzz signaled an end to the evening and I excused myself, leaving my pirate costars with the earrings.
Getting to my room, I crashed out in a deep sleep.
I woke the next morning with a crashing headache. I swallowed some aspirin and quickly headed over to dance rehearsal, cursing my hangover. It had been a long time since my partying days and I was shocked at what a lightweight I'd become.
Man, if a few beers had me hurting like this, what would anything stronger do? Kill me? I'm too old for this