"You can pay $4,568 in back dues or you can pay $3999 to rejoin."
"So if I 'rejoin' we start fresh? I don't also have to pay the back dues also?"
"No. It's one or the other."
So I raced down to SAG, needing to take care of this before I could get on the plane at 8 that night to New Mexico to do this show the next day.
The amount I was going to make doing the show wasn't much more than this SAG bullshit so I would be working for them, but it was a bullet I needed to bite at some point so it might as well be now, though it further took the wind out of my sails about doing this job in the first place. I try to say "yes" to life, treating every opportunity as a wonderful mysterious chance to open up my life and get me out of the imprisoned, reclusive rut I can sometimes fall into.
Like taking a bath when I was little. I hated it until I was in... then you couldn't get me out.
But I hate flying. It makes me nervous. I hate acting. It makes me very tense. I hate hotels alone. They make me lonely. I hate waking up early. It makes me feel like I'm in school again.
So, basically, this job in Albuquerque wasn't very appealing, but it was offered by one of my oldest friends and I thought, like the bath analogy, it would be "good" for me to do so, after being on the fence for as long as I could, I finally agreed to do it.
SAG was depressing. They have old framed production stills from classic movies hanging on the walls and it always stirs my envy and yearning to see them. I paid my money, rejoined and split. On the shuttle back from the east side I saw something I had never seen in my life. It was a harbinger of things to come. Apparently this acting job was put into my life as a giant bath tub and I a giant child.
A homeless man was putting a golf ball over and over at a tall black trash can, his cup. He had put a newspaper in front of the trash can as a pre-target-ramp for the ball to hit first, after which the trash can itself could be struck signifying a successful put.
He was an angry elderly black man. Not terribly dirty or smelly, and not a very good putter. Maybe this was a recent hobby he had picked up. Tiger Wood's reach maybe? I didn't think he was an old school golfer because the six feet of hard concrete surface between him and the trash can offered a relatively true line for his golf ball to roll, and he hadn't hit the can in any of the four tries I witnessed before my train pulled away.
Sometimes I long for the simplicity of his life. Just make it through the day without getting killed. Find food and booze. And hit the trash can with the golf ball.
He could have easily been a high powered executive in a fancy office in midtown. A slim margin. A bad choice here and there. A stoke of luck here and there.
The irony of the newly decorated train car I was in was not lost on me. I had never before in my life seen a train car painted like this one. The second revelation. It was covered from head to toe, the seats, the walls, the ceiling, with bight glossy photos of people gambling at Foxwoods Casino.
I wonder what the odds were that Tiger would hit the trash can before he became the CEO of a Fortune 500 company.
I got home and jumped into the shower. I had already packed and had ten minutes before the car service arrived to get me. Since I was being hired by ABC, they were picking up my travel. First class air and car services to and from the airport. SAG law. That's the only way I'm flying first class.
I had made a sandwich for the plane and was boiling eggs.... I figured hard boiled eggs would be good to have for dinner since I don't eat plane food, even in first class. That shit is just fucking nasty.
My driver was Aibjib, a sweet Indian man who seemed a lot older than me but was 6 months my junior. He had been married for 15 years to a women his father arranged for him to marry. She was the daughter of his best friend and Aibjib's father gave her father 101 rupees and a hand shake symbolizing his son's commitment to marry her after he got his green card in America which was going to be three years in coming. Aibjib told me he saw a picture of her, liked her, and they spoke on the phone every day for three years. THREE YEARS, until he got his green card, flew home to India and they were wed, sight unseen. Now they live in Queens among the Greeks in Astoria and have two sweet daughters. One 6 and the other 12. His cell phone rang. He answered it.
"Be careful. I almost died last week trying to talk on the phone in the car."
"I know, Sir. I only use the hands free, Sir." He said in a thick Indian accent. "Hello?"
"Where are you?" His wife asked, sounding like the pants wearer of the family.
"I have a client. I'm going to Newark. I'll call you later." He said, not annoyed to be checked up on.
"Okay." She said, not annoyed to be called back and hung up.
"Your wife?" I asked.
"Yes, Sir. She's angry at me today."
"Why?"
"She doesn't like me driving in this weather." We had had a few inches of slushy snow earlier in the day but the roads were fine.
"She's scared for you?"
"Yes, Sir."
'That's sweet."
"And my daughter too, Sir. They're very angry."
"You're a lucky man to have a nice family."
"Thank you, Sir."
"What does she do?"
"She sits on the couch and watches TV, Sir," he said laughing.
"That's all?"
"Yes, Sir." He was still laughing.
"So you drive 18 hours a day in the snow and she watches TV."
"Yes, Sir." Smiling now, an after hearty laugh smile.
Tears almost welled. It was clear they had the best relationship in the world and always would. He was the kindest man. A man I wanted to be like. Not an angry bone in his body. A spirit man. An angel. At least I can see them. That's progress.
"Well I hope she cooks you dinner at least."
"Oh yes, Sir. Every meal. I go home for breakfast lunch and dinner."
"Wow. Traditional Indian food mostly?"
"Yes. Sir. Chicken Tikka Masala. Chicken Vindaloo."
"Mmmmm. I love that. I better come over for dinner one night."
"Anytime Sir. We would love to have you." He meant it.
He dropped me off at Newark and gave me his card with his cell number on it and reiterated the invitation. We shook hands and as I walked away I thought I really should call and have dinner with him. What a cool thing to do. The kind of thing that happens a million times in your life and when do you ever go for it. Dinner in Astoria on a Tuesday night at Aibjib's house. A home cooked Indian meal by his wife.
I was starving and getting nervous about the plane. I breezed through security having obeyed the 3-1-1 rule and therefore didn't get stopped for my cologne or toothpaste this time. It's amazing how smooth life is when you just go by the letter of the law.
I stood in front of a wall of fast food restaurants all part of the same food court. I wanted the greasy cheesesteaks, the gross General Chow's chicken, the A&W chili dogs and root beer floats and the Krispy Kremes and the MacDonald's. Anything but my hard boiled eggs but I knew I would hate myself if I gave in. I figured I'd just watch the girl make someone else's cheesesteak and see if it looked as good as it smelled before I made my decision...
It did. It looked divine. The thin beef diced with a metal spatula, fried up with butter splattered all over it with onions. Four slices of provolone melted on top and then perfectly laid into a super soft sub home. How could I not order that!
DON'T DO IT! But I must. DON'T! YOU'RE GONNA WANT TO PUKE AFTER! But I must. IT'LL OPEN THE FLOOD GATES! YOU HAVE TO BE ON SCREEN IN 24 HOURS AND YOU'RE ALREADY A FAT FUCK!!! But I must have the cheese steak!
There was nobody in line so I soldiered up to the counter...
To be continued...
Posted by Eric Schaeffer at 12:42 AM