You’ll Never Blue Ball in This Town Again Page 10

  When I heard that, my stomach started feeling really nervous, like I needed to take a big shit. What the hell am I doing? I thought. I didn’t have a lot to live for when I signed up six weeks ago. Part of my attitude was that life would never get better than it was for me in college. If I died, at least I had fun so far. I don’t know if some of Daniel Penn’s inspirational talk did seep in, but suddenly I was hopeful for my future. I thought maybe I could make it doing something I loved—stand-up comedy and acting—and I didn’t want to die a virgin! How bad would that suck? My mother was so proud of this fact that she’d probably put it on my tombstone. It would read, “Loving daughter, sister, aunt, and virgin. May she rest in peace with her hymen still intact.”

  No. I don’t want to do this. Why couldn’t I have Carol’s pro Mark with all of his tandem jumping experience? Had I not passed out in the sun, maybe I would have learned that Amy had tandem parked more times than she’d tandem jumped.

  At this point, the tandem groups started to stand up and walk toward the open door. I couldn’t hear what they were saying when they stood at the edge of the plane. But I could tell they were counting as they rocked back and fourth, “One, two, three,” then they’d jump and disappear. Whenever a group left, a single skydiver with a video camera jumped out after them to catch the fall on tape. I thought, Oh great. I’ll finally get the tape I need for my acting reel. Ironically it’s just me falling to my death. No matter how dramatic it is, it’s going to be difficult to book acting jobs when I’m dead. Maybe I’ll make the six o’clock evening news and they’ll show my head shot, since there are three hundred in my backseat right now. That will be the highlight of my career. It was almost our turn as we took tiny steps together to the edge. I looked out at the clouds below me and Amy started to rock us back and forth as we said, “One, two,” and then she suddenly pushed me out into the atmosphere. The bitch didn’t even wait to get to three! But to her credit maybe she knew I was considering bracing the sides and chickening out, and then she wouldn’t even get one jump in for the day and she really needed it to build up her jumping résumé.

  As I spread my arms and legs out like a frog as instructed, I realized that maybe playing a Rollerblading-bathing-suit-wearing frog had helped me somehow for this very moment. The air felt so refreshing against my skin. Of course, in the video, it’s that refreshing air that caused my cheeks to flap in the wind. I’m sure it would look great on my reel if I was auditioning for the part of half woman/half blowfish.

  After what seemed to be about twenty seconds, Amy told me to pull our parachute’s cord. But I couldn’t move my arms; the wind pressure was so strong. I told her to do it, and when she did, we were expelled into space like a rocket. The contraption holding the shoot that fit on the outside of my jumper sucked up toward my vagina with such pressure that I had terrible inner thigh bruises for weeks afterward. When noticed, skydiving was not the first explanation that came to people’s minds.

  As Amy and I floated down, I knew we were safe and I finally relaxed. We talked about the restaurant Amy worked at, how she skydived the first time just thirteen months ago. I pretended to be impressed instead of pissed that my life was in the hands of an amateur tandem jumper. I couldn’t blame anyone. I put myself in that position because of my lack of self-esteem by having such little faith in my future.

  In the end, it wasn’t the smoothest landing, much like the rest of my life at this point, but I was happy knowing I had lived through air trauma. I fell on my knee and bruised it again just like my recent close-up as a relative of Kermit. Nevertheless, I was alive and determined to make a life for myself in which I would never feel the need to skydive again. From now on, I would remain seated in airplanes, preferably first class, or at United economy with extra leg room space, and I would do this by working hard, pursuing my dream, or marrying someone rich, whichever presented itself first.

  About eight months later, things were going well. I was making money in real estate and performing stand-up. When I ran into Phil again at the beach, I was feeling pretty confident. In those days, I actually used to swim in the Pacific Ocean. I mean swim—like I could have been eaten by a shark. I went deep. I liked that people were impressed not only by my wet hair, but that I also body surfed. My motivation for getting in the water was usually twofold. First, I liked the way ocean water made my hair wavy and gave it natural highlights; and second, I needed to pee. Immediately after consuming any liquid, I felt you could see it in my stomach as it began to pooch out. Therefore, peeing it out into the vast ocean waters allowed my stomach to return to its flattest state.

  As I came out of the water tanned, soaking wet, with a flat stomach like a brunette Bo Derek in the movie 10 minus the cornrows, Phil was standing there with a big smile on his face. I acted as nice and friendly as ever and told Phil and the couple he was with all about my stand-up and what I’d been up to. I invited the three of them to see me at the Belly Room in the Comedy Store the following night. Besides wanting to impress Phil with my witty routine, I needed to bring at least three people with me in order for them to allow me to perform. I hadn’t met anyone new that week, so this was perfect.

  Phil called the next day to get the details of where my big show was. In the conversation the subject of my virginity just naturally came up.

  “So have you dated anyone seriously since we went out?” he asked.

  “Yes, I did, but I recently broke up with him,” I said with confidence.

  Technically I did break up with “Divorced Dad Dan from the Marching Band,” as my girlfriends and I would often refer to him. But I knew what he was hinting at, so I just went for it and said, “If you’re wondering if I’m still a virgin, you can just keep wondering.”

  “I don’t think you are anymore,” he said with intrigue.

  “I think you may be right,” I said as I gave a sexy giggle afterward.

  Yes, that’s correct. I was lying. I really don’t know why. I guess I wanted him to think he missed out and that I boned the shit out of the very next guy after him. Hopefully, Phil regretted blowing me off.

  That night, Phil and the couple came to see me. There were some pretty dreadful comics before me. Following bad acts always makes me nervous that the crowd will begin to tire and start to leave before I get up on stage, but luckily they didn’t. As I performed my routine, my three audience members laughed a lot. Afterward, the four of us had drinks and I was on fire, making sassy remarks, whipping out one-liners, making fun of Phil and his hand modeling career much to his friends’ delight.

  At the end of the night, Phil walked me to my car and we made out up against it. He tasted and smelled as delicious as ever, and I loved feeling that perfect body wrapped around me. He asked me to come over, but as much as I wanted to dry hump all night, I wanted to get a real date out of it, so I said, “No, I’m too tired tonight. What about tomorrow night?” Phil agreed and he called the next day. We made plans for him to come pick me up and take me out to dinner.

  At dinner at Crocodile Café, I felt the conversation was going great. I continued to make jokes and jabs at Phil and our relationship. I was having a blast. I felt so confident. I loved the fact that he believed I was no longer a virgin, so he wasn’t afraid to pursue me. Who knows—if we continued to date, maybe I would lose it to him without him knowing it. After dinner I assumed we’d go back to his immaculate apartment and see where things would take us. When he passed his own street in Santa Monica and began heading toward Brentwood, I said, “Don’t you want to hang out at your place? You know, my roommates are all home.”

  “I know they are. I’ll just drop you off,” he said.

  “Why? What’s wrong? Do you have to rest your hands and make sure they get their full eight hours of beauty rest for their close-up tomorrow?” I joked.

  “No, I think you’re just a little too much for me right now. I thought it after the comedy club but wondered if you were just coming off your comedy high or something. But after tonight, I think we sho
uld just be friends.”

  I was shocked. He believed I was no longer a virgin, meaning sex was most likely around the corner, but I went so out of my way to prove how confident I was that I became downright obnoxious and a turnoff?

  That was the last I saw or heard from Phil. However, I swore I spotted his thumb and forefinger on a coffee mug in a Folgers coffee commercial, and every time I heard, “The best part of waking up is Folgers in your cup,” I felt a sting of nostalgia but no regrets.

  5 Video Vixen

  After finishing a truly decent stand-up set at a half Chinese, half Mexican restaurant where you could get taquitos dipped in sweet-and-sour sauce, the emcee, a woman in her late thirties—who did her own routine about her Russian mother performing LL Cool J’s rap songs—approached me at the bar. “You vetty, vetty funny,” she said in her heavy accent. “Jew know I book other vrooms around dis town.”

  “Great. I’d love to get up more often.”

  She continued in her broken Russian. “Me also produce vetty, vetty small vilms. You have a veel with acting scenes you done?”

  Again with the freakin’ reel, no, no, and no—not unless you want to view me losing in a Miss Tarzana Pageant, choosing an Israeli real estate developer on Studs, or Rollerblading in a one-piece bathing suit with a frog head on in the Sylmar reservoir.

  She seemed fine with the fact that I didn’t have a “veel” and gave me her address to come by and drop off my head shot.

  The next day, I found myself parking in front of her gray stucco building with huge “For Rent” red banners hanging around it. I walked past the security gate, which had been propped open by a brick, straight through to the pool area that had been drained except for a small puddle of brown water in the deep end with a few leaves floating on it. I imagined the awkward pool party conversation that must have gone on. “Is your pool salt water or sewer?” I walked up the steps made of tiny pebbles until I found her apartment on the second floor. Before I knocked, I could hear her screaming to someone in her Russian accent.

  She opened the door with a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “Heather, honey, ya come in. Come. Come!” She went back to talking on the phone. “That it, $150 a video or …” then some more in Russian, then … “vuck you.” Finally, she hung up, lit a new Eve 100, and turned her attention to me. “Listen, you vetty, vetty funny and you vetty pretty, too. I make dees videos.” Then she stressed, “No! Not porno! Nothing like dat, but it’s vetty easy money. What size shoe you vear?”

  I answered, “A nine.” I was a little confused about what was happening, but when someone asks me a question, my initial reaction is to answer truthfully.

  “Ah, dat’s OK. You can vit into an eight, vight?” she asked, puffing on her cigarette covered in her red lipstick while creating smoke rings the size of bangle bracelets.

  “Well, gosh. I’m pretty much a nine,” I said. I mean there was that one year my mom skipped going to the shoe store for new shoes and my feet had grown from a five to a seven. Subsequently, both my big toes are really codependent on the other four toes leaning right up against them. It’s not like I was a Geisha girl; it’s just that we didn’t get around to hitting Buster Browns that year. So I really preferred not to go smaller for fear that my toes would end up literally on top of each other like a pile-up on the 405.

  At this point, she had left the room to go down the hall and returned with a pair of black patent leather five-inch-high stilettos. “Here, try?” she said as she held them out for me to take.

  I replied, “Actually I can bring my own shoes that fit. By the way, what is this for?”

  “One of my clients, a veal sick vuck, like to see girls in high heels crush da bugs. He tired of seeing my veet do it, so I video you doing for ten minutes and you get da fifty bucks. You try them on,” she pressed. “They vetty pretty shoes!”

  Now, this is where growing up in the Valley with two parents who I have a great relationship with came in handy. I was never going to be that desperate for fifty bucks. If necessary, I could always move back home. It wasn’t like I was from Wyoming and would have to board a bus and be humiliated to return home to my small town and explain to customers at the Dairy Queen why I didn’t make it as a movie star. When I told the Russian woman I wasn’t interested, she tried to convince me to do it by telling me that she kept the bugs in a glass cage. I would stand in an enclosed area where she would dump the bugs and I would stomp on them like Lucille Ball crushing grapes in the classic episode. The Russian explained to me that they were an assortment of cockroaches and crickets and they didn’t bite.

  I immediately thought of PETA and knew this was a violation of their bylaws or whatever their governing laws were. In general, I was pretty freaked out by bugs and I knew this could not go on my prestigious reel. After having portrayed an amphibian on skates, I felt a bit of kinship with all living creatures. I also heard her say that she made $150 for each video, which meant she was going to pocket $100 when I was the marquis star! Screw that! I thought. Besides, I always had a soft spot for critters ever since I made them in my Creepy Crawlers baking set. I finally thanked the Russian chick for thinking of me and left. As I got in my Celica and began to drive away, I started to feel really bad for the bugs. If the actors weren’t even getting a fifty-fifty cut, think of the poor bugs risking their lives to be on camera. I imagined one bug standing on the tip of the pump in front of all the other bugs holding a small sign made out of cardboard and black marker with just the word UNION on it.

  After enduring yet another career highlight, I decided to audition for The Groundlings theater, a sketch comedy and improvisation school. I had been accepted to another improvisation school in the Valley and they said I would be able to perform for audiences within months. The Groundlings required you to take four different classes. In each one, the instructor could either pass you, have you retake it, or say, “This isn’t the place for you.” I was so anxious to “make it” and be seen by the industry as soon as possible. I told my mom I was going to enroll in the Valley theater, thinking she’d be thrilled to see me on stage that much sooner. Instead, she said, “Heather, The Groundlings is the best. Don’t you want to be with the best?” I’m so glad I took her advice, because good improvisation is dependent on all the actors in a group knowing what they’re doing.

  I loved The Groundlings. It’s located on Melrose, and there were always cool bars and restaurants to go to after class. The first time I saw a performance there was on a Sunday night when the B-team performed. Will Ferrell did a sketch where he worked at an amusement park and sang everything that came to mind. Will had gone to USC, too, and had performed legendary pranks that I remembered hearing about. He was in the Delta Tau Delta fraternity. Besides laughing my ass off, I also realized: These people are normal. They’re not creepy, overly artistic theater people. They’re just funny. Plus, they were human and not insects. I liked the idea of working with humans for a change.

  I started level one the following week. It consisted of basic improvisation games. Then level two was more about writing characters and monologues. It took about a year to get to level three, where we performed. We presented the sketches and monologues we wrote and included some improvisation, where we’d get suggestions from the audience and use this to create a scene. Of course, my family and close friends were all there. After the show, I felt fantastic. Everyone loved my character based on my Aunt Clare from the Hamptons having a martini at a wedding. She dissected every aspect of the wedding to another guest with lines like, “And the bride wearing stark white, not even a cream color, she’s six months pregnant, who is she fooling? I’m not one to gossip, but is the groom even certain he’s the father?” I was eager to attend the after party at my fellow cast member Jen’s house and looked forward to lots of compliments.

  Jen shared a rental house off Laurel Canyon. As I was parking on the steep hill, I noticed a very good-looking guy getting out of a Porsche, which was a few years old, but a Porsche nonethel
ess. I had dated a Mercedes, a few BMWs, and a Ferrari, but never a Porsche, so naturally I was intrigued. At the party, we began talking, and Porsche introduced himself as Jason. He said he had been friends with Jen for a few years. He had seen the show and thought I was great. Since I thought I was great, too, we already had a lot in common. He told me how he had finished law school but did not pass the bar the first time and needed to take it again. I reminded him that JFK Jr. had to take it three times before he passed. He said he had to get going, but he hadn’t asked for my number. I must have been super confident after nailing that last improvisation about a Laundromat, where I showcased my incredible skills by folding towels in the air as I spoke in a Southern accent, because I said to him, “So are you going to ask for my number or what?”

  Jason said, “Ah yeah, sure. What is your number?” I wrote it down for him to ensure there were no mistakes. I added as he walked out the door, “You better call me.”

  Jen later approached me and let me know that they were just friends, but at one time they did date. I told her I was fine with it as long as she was, and even though she said she was, she seemed a bit hesitant. Jen and I liked each other, but we weren’t that close. No one at Groundlings even knew I was a virgin. I just acted like, of course, I’ve had sex with boyfriends. I joked that I would never sleep with a guy whose bed was a futon, because in order to get with me, you needed to have a proper mahogany carved headboard.

  Jason called the next day from the law office where he worked and we made plans for him to pick me up at my apartment. I shared it with my sister Shannon, who was also a lawyer but had passed the bar on the first try. (She was a little smarter than JFK Jr.) Once she finished law school in Northern California, she moved back to LA and we decided to live together. When it came to splitting up the phone bill, it was a lot nicer doing it with someone who was calling the same parents as I was. At dinner, Jason told me that he owned a house in Santa Monica that his parents bought for him when he started law school. I loved that he lived in Santa Monica and owned property, but I was disturbed to find out that while he was a proud homeowner, his parents were forced to rent. He was an only child and apparently very spoiled. What parents in their fifties would buy a property for their son when they couldn’t afford to buy one for themselves? It reminded me of another only child I knew in high school who got a brand new VW Rabbit convertible for her sixteenth birthday while both her parents drove clunkers. I asked Jason if he felt any guilt accepting such a nice home, but he insisted that his parents loved living in their one-bedroom rental.