Underneath It All (19 page)

I opened the front door of our Sherman Oaks home and a monster jumped out at me, its snarling fangs tearing into my leg. A lit of hysterical laughter followed my shrill screams of terror. I knew immediately who the culprit was: Brook, now the puppet master, emerged, a perma-grin on his face.

"Very funny." I slammed the door in protest, realizing he must have gotten the job working on the monster movie. I looked from my husband to the gremlinlike creature he held protectively in his arms, worried I might retaliate and rip its face I growled back at it, making them both jump. Continuing grumpily down the hallway, I looked forward to a hot shower.

I'd just finished work on
Tales from the Crypt
that evening am! was stiff as a board. I stood in the shower wondering how I was going to drag my weary bones to the airport later that night Drying off and popping two aspirin, I could still feel the hands of the episode's lead actor, David Paymer, around my neck pre tending to strangle me.

I had hoped to spend some time with Brook before I left for North Carolina to film
Bandit
, but time had run out. I kissed him good-bye and reminded him of his promise to visit me on location. He said he'd try, sending me off with an unsettling feeling in my guts.
Try hard, baby . . . real hard. . . .

As the mechanical bird carried me off to another hotel room, to another group of people to win over, and to another credit on my resume, I was grateful to have the job but uncertain of the price my absence would cost me at home.
Was I too obsessed with my career? Was I a bad wife? Was I driving my husband away?

On the surface I didn't think there was anything wrong with our marriage, and I couldn't put my finger on it, but I knew there was trouble in paradise.

Chanel!" exclaimed the six- foot platinum blonde drag queen blocking my path as I walked through the nightclub.
"Be gone!" demanded my cross-dressing cohort, Vincent Domini Fauci, snapping his fingers in front of the intruder, reminding me of the grandmother Endora from Bewitched.
"See that, honey? I told you, you look fierce," Vince said, dragging me deeper into the pounding walls of the flesh-throbbing gay club. He was proud of the smoky eyes he'd painted on me. I was his makeup showpiece as we made our way toward the bar, where buff boys in short shorts danced on platforms.
Androgynous fashion plates chatted animatedly as they kicked back cocktails. I surveyed the dim room. RuPaul 's "Supermodel" boomed and strobe lights danced off the club's walls, disguising the beard stubble of the woman next to me. But the meaty paw holding her martini told another story. Being a gay man in North Carolina was a dangerous thing. The gorgeous cow-grazing fields gave way to streets filled with beer-drinking good old boys who didn't take kindly to "sweet meat." This club was an oasis for the young gay population of the North Carolina hills. It was their safe zone. I was pretty sure I was the only female by birth there.
I tugged at my skintight fishnet dress as we positioned ourselves to get the bartender's attention. Catching my reflection the mirror behind the bar, I laughed. I was a gay man's creation. I looked like an old Blondie record cover with my thick Hack eyeliner turning my lids slightly catty and my eyelashes miles long. I smiled at my glitter-covered pal. He had been nonstop entertainment since I arrived a month ago.
Vince was my makeup artist on the show
Bandit
, where we'd become close after a minor mishap. The first day of shooting I walked into his trailer and took a seat in his chair. He carefully applied my foundation, his hands shaking so bad I thought he was going to poke me in the eye. Finally I asked him if he was all right, and he started to say something. But I wasn't listening. My eyes were drawn instead to his obvious erection. Adjusting his crotch, he burst into tears and walked out of the trailer.
I just sat there processing this odd occurrence.
I found Vince on the steps of the makeup trailer. He wouldn't look at me. "Hey, man, what's up?" I said teasingly.
"I'm so sorry," he gushed. "I just think you're such a goddess. Apparently my body agrees. But I swear to God I'm gay! Please don't have me fired!"
After that, I became the goddess of Vince's world. I hadn't been familiar with diva worship but caught on fast. He painted my face every weekend before we hit the town, and we shopped for ridiculous outfits in the conservative shopping mall in city. Vince and I favored latex, finding our best treasures in sex shop down the street. I'd never had the nerve to walk into a sex shop before, fearing I would see myself staring back at me from a porn video. But my world was different now. That fear no longer held the same weight. I was with Vince and I 'd covered an acceptance in his world—the gay community. I'd never known before. In this company, I wasn't the only the who'd been persecuted because of sex, and I was certain no matter what I bought in a sex store, I still wouldn't be judged.
I saw the same old faces on the porn covers displayed in the "New Releases" section, happy not to be one of them. Trying not to stare, I headed off toward the dressing rooms, the image of Ginger Lynn's latest porno cover fresh in my mind. It was unbelievable that she was still doing porn all these years later.
My God — how had she survived it? I'm do glad that isn't me,
I thought as we abandoned our shopping spree for Mexican food.
Over carnitas my thoughts returned to Brook, and I poured my heart out to Vince, worried that my marriage was really in danger. Vince did his duty as a good friend, listening to me ramble on through dinner about my marital blues. Brook and I had been battling over the phone since I arrived. We couldn't agree on the smallest things. Bottom line: the distance had done its damage.
He canceled his visit to see me and I felt snubbed.
"I thought I was the most important thing to you," I spat over the phone.
He said he couldn't leave town. He was waiting to hear about another job.
"It's just a weekend! Come on! I miss you."
I hung up feeling more uncertain than ever. My husband had stood me up again, breaking his promise to visit me on location for the umpteenth time. He always found a reason why he couldn't come. 1 didn't expect him to follow me around the world, but I guess I secretly wished he would. His decision not to fly down came at a time when I already doubted his commitment to our marriage.
Thoughts of that tarty actress filled my head and, not privy to his comings and goings while I was out of town, my imagination conjured up the worst.

I spent my last melt in Charlotte, North Carolina, with Vince and some friends. We left the
Bandit
set after wrap in search of a tattoo parlor. Vince was no stranger to ink. His back was covered with Egyptian artwork. I teased him that tattoos looked silly when they sagged and that at his ripe old age of thirty-three, he might want to consider another hobby. He gave me his best bitch look as we pulled into the parking lot of his favorite ink joint. My palms grew sweaty as I imagined the pecking of a tattoo needle digging into my skin. I loathed needles and was a tattoo virgin. Brook was amazed that I didn't have a single one. He himself sported a Japanese dragon he'd gotten years ago oil his left arm.
I nearly chickened out as Brutus the tattoo artist showed me the sanitary needles he was removing from their protective sleeves. Gulp. Perhaps getting a tattoo was too permanent a statement.
Oh no, you don't. . . . You're not backing out now. I need reminder
. I handed the artist an old crucifix I had bought from a beggar on the streets of Italy years before. I'd carried that crucifix in my pocket ever since. I thought of it as a symbol of strength, one I really needed at the moment. I felt weak, tempted by the nightclubs' offers of sex, drugs, and rock and roll.
How do people stay on the straight and narrow? How had I? Why had I all these years?
Man, I knew the deal. I also remembered the price. At times it was just hard to stay present and sober in a world that could be so mean.
Doesn't everyone self-medicate in their own way?
I wasn't thinking about hard-core drugs at this point, just a few beers and a hot guy. I couldn't believe I was fantasizing about such things.
It was definitely time to go home.
The needle poked holes into my soft inner ankle, leaving behind a blue-gray cross. Brutus carved away, freehand, on my flesh. The slicing sensation brought me back to reality and I welcomed the pain. It slapped me right back in line.
I caught the red-eye home to Los Angeles around midnight.
It was ten in the morning on a cool October day when Mr. Steve greeted me as I walked in the door. He meowed at me and I meowed back.
"I missed you too, fella," I told him, stroking his soft fur. "Where's your daddy?"
He was all purrs as he wrapped himself around my bare legs, irritating the freshly carved tattoo on my left ankle. The house was quiet as I made my way inside. Hanging up my coat in the front closet, I continued down the hallway, setting my suitcases down beside the washing machine. I had weeks' worth of dirty laundry. And from the look of things, so did Brook. The house was a mess. He must be working long hours. I paged him, letting him know I was home.
I was loading dirty dishes in the dishwasher when I heard the front door open. Brook bounced into the kitchen and engulfed me in a bear hug, kissing me and telling me how sorry he was for not visiting me on location. "Yeah, that sucks," I replied, not letting him off the hook so easily.
"What's so important that kept you away from me? I thought we agreed I would take the job and you would support me by showing up? You know, I had a lot of volunteers willing to spend time with me," I teased, wanting to get a rise out of him.
His brow furrowed, clearly jealous, and he kissed me hard. "Don't fuck around, Traci."
As much as I wanted to drop the attitude, I couldn't quite do it. I backed off, taking in his sweet familiar smell.
How could I love someone and want to fight with him at the same time? I left--not him.
Why am I pissed? Is it because I'm scared?
Both of our careers were going really well, so well we had little time for each other. I felt like I was missing out. . . . I felt like I was losing him. . . .
I settled onto the sofa in the living room, stubborn but willing to talk. We just stared at each other. He broke the silence by telling me he had big news. He'd been offered the resident prop master job on Barry Levinson's new television series
Homicide: Life on the Street
. It was a steady gig, which meant he'd have to relocate. It was filming in Baltimore. His mother was already set to run the casting department so it would be a family affair. "It's the break we've been waiting for, Traci," he said.
My head was spinning.
"It sounds like you've already made up your mind," I said quietly. "I think it's an amazing opportunity, but it's so far away from home. What about us?"
I tried to hide the tears that stung my eyes.
"Hey," he reminded me, "we always said, the first one of us to get a series, the other one would go."
"You want me to move to Baltimore?" I tried to imagine it.
What would I do for a living? I can't act in Baltimore.
"Don't you get it?" he said. "That doesn't matter anymore. Quit your little hobby, work in a coffee shop or something. I'll buy you a house, we'll have a kid, it'll be great. Otherwise we'll have to do the distance for a while."
I was stunned by his choice of words.
"Quit my little hobby?" He thinks of my career as a "little hobby"?
I was fuming as I excuse I myself, needing some time to regain my composure. I really didn't want to say out loud what I was thinking at that moment:
My own husband doesn't take me seriously!?
I returned to the living room ready to let him have it. I le pulled me close, oblivious to how upset and insulted I felt about his decision to take the job no matter what. I felt abandoned. It hurt that he could walk away so quickly.
My anger turned to tears as he held me, and I couldn't say a word. But I got it. I knew I would do the same thing. Our work was number one for both of us and that admission to myself tore at me. Once again I wondered if seeing my name in lights was worth it.
Brook left for Baltimore a week later without me. I couldn't hold up my end of the bargain and go with him. I just didn't see myself working in a coffee shop and I certainly wasn't ready to be a mother. The choices I had weren't options. I couldn't live someone else's dream. I had my own. And ultimately I chose the same thing he did — a career. He said he understood, and although it took another six months for us to completely walk away from the marriage, I felt it had really ended before my trip to North Carolina.
I was heartbroken.
I filed for divorce that winter. Not only was I losing my husband but I was also losing a family. I hoped we'd all be friends again one day, but it would take some time for the wounds to heal.

The months after Brook and I split up were rough. Every song on the radio made me weepy and every black Bronco truck that drove by had me craning my neck to see if it was him. I thought I heard his voice in crowds and saw his face in my dreams.
What had I done?
I had serious doubts about my choice to remain in Los Angeles on my own. I was depressed to think it might all be for nothing. Relentlessly, I searched for an opening, needing an emotional outlet that acting just wasn't giving me. I spent my free time writing in journals and pouring out my heart on t he pages. I continued to take voice lessons, finding both a friend and mentor in my coach Robert Edwards. He encouraged me to search for a record deal, planting the initial seed in my head.
I met radio DJ Rodney Bingenheimer around this time, at a birthday party in the Hollywood Hills. He was a legendary presence in the rock-and-roll world, known for his bold tastes in music, and I told him of my aspirations as a singer-songwriter. At the time he seemed interested, but I didn't really think anything would come of it.
Weeks later I found myself at the offices of Gary Kurfirst, the man who managed my idol Debbie Harry! His independent label Radioactive Records was producing the soundtrack for a film called
Pet Cemetery 2
, and I was recommended by Rodney Bingenheimer to Gary's A&R person, Jeff Jacklin. Jeff hired me to record the track "Love Never Dies" and shortly thereafter I was signed to a development deal with Radioactive.
I worked closely with Jeff, a British A&R man named Brendan Burke, and an exceptionally enthusiastic young guy named Kent Belden, who was just starting out. Brendan was a pro, having been in the business for years, and he worked closely with the band Live. Kent was an eager twenty-two-year-old with a passion for all things Traci Lords. Together we defined my sound, one which would later earn me the title "Techno Queen" in the underground rave scene.
Radioactive arranged for me to fly to London in the spring of 1994 and put me up in a one-room flat above a coffee shop in Hampstead Heath. I was ready to begin work on my first record. I called my producer Tom Bailey, of Thompson Twins fame, and announced my arrival. I was a huge fan of his and remembered listening to his music when I was in school. I still had an old Thompson Twins T-shirt from a concert I'd gone to as a young girl, but decided to keep this information to myself, not knowing if he'd take it as a compliment. I couldn't believe the man I'd watched onstage as a screaming fourteen-year-old was now my producer!
Tom Bailey and Alannah Curry lived in a loft just outside London. Their recording studio was located up a set of winding narrow steps above their living quarters. It was an attic paradise. I tried to make small talk as we began to check sound levels, but I was so nervous that wit didn't come easily. I was intimidated to be working with one of my idols. Tom Bailey was a great singer and I felt completely inferior in his presence. I could not have felt more vulnerable standing there in the middle of the studio, mike in my hands, choking out the words to the first song. Tom understood and made light of my jitters, telling me he hated to sing these days.
"What?! Why? You're a genius singer," I blurted out, feeling like a geek as soon as the words came out of my mouth.
He just smiled. He was a gentle, soft-spoken person, his demeanor anything but threatening. He fixed me a cup of tea and suggested I give the closet a try. "It could make a bloody good recording booth." He was right, and by the end of the day I'd found my nerve, recording "I Want You" in the privacy of Tom Bailey's closet. One lone candle burned through the darkness of my cozy vocal paradise as I sang "It's four in the morning and I'm praying for rain."
We worked together on three songs, "I Want You," "Fly," and "Just Like Honey," which later was rerecorded by Keith Farley of Babble (Tom Bailey's new group) with a different set of lyrics. In the end it was called "Father's Field," the words I'd written in New Zealand a few years earlier, finally immortalized in song.
Was I revealing too much? Well, I could always insist that it not be used
, I thought, walking through the cool London night air as I shook off the day's adrenaline rush and prayed for a good night's sleep.
My album was coming together. The songs I'd recorded with Tom had a sexy ambient vibe. Now I wanted something with a harder edge to add another dimension. I was introduced to producer Ben Watkins, who was known for his aggressive jungle beats. He was a wild man and very passionate about his music. I told Ben I wanted to do a song that had elements of rock and roll but with a techno vibe and he ran with it, creating a slamming heavy metal guitar intro on an insanely hyper track.
I teamed up with an American singer named Wonder and together we created the lyrics to my first single, "Control": "You say you're lonely. You say you're blue. You lost your lover. Let me console you." Although it had a dominant-female vibe going on, I was still nursing a broken heart. I missed Brook deeply and poured my emotions into the lyrics I wrote and the words I sang.
Next, Ben and I worked on "Outlaw Lover." I spent days scouring through cowboy stories and watching westerns, trying to get the lingo down. It had a real camp element to it. I cast myself as a woman in a small town who had been wronged, and I tell my unfaithful lover, "You best be warned I'm a woman scorned," before shooting him dead.
We finished up and rested for a few days. I slept until noon and took long, steamy baths. I joined the locals for a spot of tea in the café downstairs and treated myself to a rare cigarette. I knew no one in London except my producers, but I enjoyed my isolation, grateful for the quiet.
The following week I met Mike Edwards, the handsome lead singer of the band Jesus Jones. He'd also become a respected London DJ, moving away from his pop success. He was a fixture in the underground scene and I was a fan. I had all his CDs back home and I looked to him for advice on the music industry. He ended up writing the music for a hauntingly beautiful song that I named "Distant Land." A songwriter named Blue and I wrote the lyrics. It was the only ballad I recorded, a sad tale of a woman waking up lost and not knowing where she is, searching for light in a distant land.
Mike and I recorded "Say Something" next, then finally a silly over-the-top song called "Okeydokey Doggy Daddy." It was a goof track we'd recorded while having drinks at the end of a recording session. Mike asked me to ad-lib some lines as I finished off my beer. Looking around the eggplant-purple studio I started to make comments on my surroundings. "Here in my purple room, I'd like to thank you all so much for this" — fake sob of joy—"Oscar!"
Hollywood was clearly on my mind.
It was time for me to go back to Los Angeles and face my life. I had finished recording my first album. And. I felt like I'd accomplished something.
Maybe, just maybe, it was worth it after all.