The First Time You Are On TV
Or, how many pairs of shoes it takes to become an actor
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I didn’t come out of my 4-year theatre program from a university nobody’s heard of, guns a blazin’ expecting anybody’d ever see me on TV. It’s not that I didn’t want to, or that I didn’t believe my family members when they told me I made faces just as good as Amy Adams’s faces - I just couldn’t imagine where to start.
My truest inner artiste feels so alive on the stage, but also… this was the era of Breaking Bad and Dexter and Weeds and Lost-before-that-finale-happened and, truly, the character arc of Peggy Olsen on Mad Men made me realize I wanted to tell stories on TV too! A few years after college, I landed an agent in Atlanta. A real live agent! They were mostly for commercial, industrial, and modeling kind of work, but still. Possibilities abound!
Two of the first jobs I received through my agent were as an extra in a non-union Little Debbie commercial and a newspaper hander-outer at an airplane convention. Did you know that, when hired to hand out newspapers, it’s part of your job requirement to wear a tight, red flight suit? And also heels? And makeup? Doesn’t seem very Newsies to me, but whatever! I’ll stand at the top of an escalator in the Georgia World Congress Center and get so bored with the other girls - who look exactly like me but with different hair - that I wrangled ‘em into developing a little comedy routine together until The People In Charge asked us to just smile and hand out the papers!
‘Little Debbie Extra’ is a more casual yet even more boring job! Spending a day being still in a folding chair made me yearn for the good ol’ days of standing, smiling, and newspaper handing! But at least I could wear my black ballet flats with the black pleather roses that I purchased on clearance at the Payless Shoe Store. I stared at them while I sat, wondering what exactly kind of career path this is and why exactly I needed a college education to do it and how exactly these rounded ballet flats were doing anything for my already short legs.
Fast forward a few years to 2010; I’m playing a dream role, Emily in Our Town, for about $400 a week. Kenny Leon directs us and then goes straight to Broadway to direct Denzel and Viola. People who need only one name to be recognized. It’s an exciting, transformational time.
“Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? - every, every minute?”
The two TV shows filming in the southeast region at this time were Army Wives and Drop Dead Diva. Ask any ol’ actor who lived here in the mid ‘00s and early ‘10s how many times they auditioned for each one before they booked it. There are always a good number of co-star roles in each episode, so they’re a perfect way for fresh actors with the experience of Little Debbie extra (and also playing Emily), to get our foot in the door.
You’d get an email from your agent on the exact time and day to show up to the audition and you’d tell your day job(s) that your grandmother was dying (again) next Wednesday and you’d have to go be with her but could probably be back by 6 pm. It was glorious. The possibility of speaking a single line on a TV show! You were gonna get to offer someone their coffee and get paid more money than you made doing four weeks of Shakespeare. It made no sense. But it’s hard out here for a pimp and maybe it’ll all make sense one day. Trust the process and whatnot.
So, there I was, ready to read for Drop Dead Diva in front of the casting director, Mark Fincannon, and the director of the episode, Melanie Mayron. I was ready. In the waiting room with 5 or 6 other white girls in our 20s, all in cardigans and side parts and rounded ballet flats. All 5’2” - 5’4”. This role would never be filmed standing, but she needed to feel like a small person. I never felt like a small person inside my insides, but I’d been well trained in acting small. I didn’t know it yet, but it was my specialty. Feeling big but acting small.
I had my printed resume, cut to fit and stapled to my printed headshot. I had my printed sides. I had my printed Mapquest directions. I walked into that room with the confidence of a Big Person performing Smallness. I could tell Melanie was taking to me right away. I had like 4 lines and a whimper - the whimper made them giggle and I knew I had it. My Little Debbie extra days were over! I’m headed for the Big Times of 3 - 5 lines on any TV show I can get my paws on. Let me at ‘em! Put me in coach! I’m reeeeeeeeeady to play!
And as I left, I performed the meekness of a character that would whimper, and thanked them with a shy smile. On my way out, I waved to the other close-to-5-foot girls, “have fun in there”, but inside I’m all like “bless all their hearts, this Receptionist on one episode of Lifetime Television, TV Made for Women, is MINE.”
And I was right! I’ll never forget answering that phone call from my agent, Chase Paris, telling me I had booked it. We were both so happy!
There was just one little bitty problem.
I told them, when I auditioned and they asked me if I had any conflicts, that I did have conflicts. I was playing Emily; Mondays and Tuesdays were the only days I had fully clear. Drop Dead Diva booked me for a Wednesday. Huh? They couldn’t shoot those 4 lines on a Monday or Tuesday? Utterly confusing. Okay, fine, Wednesday.
I had a school matinee and an evening show. The Drop Dead Diva set was about half an hour from the theatre, so if I got there around 2 and left by 6:30… Seemed doable. 4 lines - how long could that take?
$900 for the day on Drop Dead Diva. I thought, this must be how you make a living as an actor.
Yes, I was assured by my agent, they know you have another commitment. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he says.
I had no idea what to expect on set. I didn’t know who to ask. I don’t know what to ask.
I informed my stage manager of the situation several days beforehand. Technically, they’re supposed to let me out of the show if I’m offered a more lucrative contract. Technically, I had an understudy. “But they told me I’d be back in time for the evening show”, I assured the stage manager. “They know I have a show.”
In sports and in law, technicalities seem to make a huge difference. In the expressive worlds of love and art, technicalities don’t mean a thing. You can “technically” all you want with someone; it won’t make them forgive you or marry you or laugh at the same joke with you or prepare an understudy for you or ensure that you’re going to be able to get to your play on time. “Technically” will never make anyone respect you. “Technically” they will still see you as so, so small.
I finished the morning show. The ladies in the dressing room raised their eyebrows at me. I should’ve asked them if it was a bad idea. Maybe, it all happened too quickly, or maybe, I didn’t want to know, or maybe, I already knew but was refusing to believe it wouldn’t all work out - as though belief can transform into a technicality. As though belief has anything to do with what time an audience will arrive.
“Well, you might as well know right now that I’m not perfect. It’s not as easy for a girl to be perfect as a man, because we girls are more-more-nervous.-Now I’m sorry I said all that about you. I don’t know what made me say it.”
I arrived on a big set for the first time that day. For the first time, I explained to the man at the gate that, “I am not background, I have Lines To Speak.” For the first time, I was escorted to a honeywagon to wait. For the first time, I received a call sheet with numbers and abbreviations that made no sense. I had no way of reading it to understand when they expected to shoot my scene, and when they planned to wrap.
I don’t remember how long I sat in my trailer before I was escorted to makeup. But I remember that by the time I am sitting in that chair with all the lights, the music, the smell of lightly perfumed hair products smoldering under various heat sources - by the time I was in that chair, I was queasy.
I asked the makeup artist, “do you know when you’ll be getting to my scene? My agent told you I have a play tonight, right?” Bless her. She was awfully kind in that what-trial-hath-the-lord-brought-upon-me-today way that so many of these artists have. She said she didn’t know but looked a little queasy for me, which I knew couldn’t be good. She said I should ask the ‘Basecamp PA to talk to the Second AD’. At which point I was a goner. Because what even is that.
I called Chase. He told me he “thinks” they know - maybe there was some confusion and they only remembered the morning show. I remember being so terrified to bother him, piss him off.
When I was finally brought to set, I wanted to throw up. We had about half an hour for me to shoot the scene if I was to make it to the theatre by my call time. I am texting the stage manager the whole time. He seems completely convinced it’ll all work out. “We’ll hold the curtain if we have to,” he says, “just focus on your job and come on back.”
“Is the understudy ready, just in case?” I ask, panicked. “Maybe she could do Act 1 and then I’ll be there in time for Act 2? Just an idea!”
Silence.
Perhaps I am not just performing smallness. I never tell my agent or my stage manager how deeply they fail me that day.
“I’m sorry if it hurts your feelings. But I can’t be sorry I said it.”
Melanie is so happy to see me when I am brought to set. What a kind attitude for a director to have for a small co-star actor. In this situation, I normally would’ve been extremely shy and quiet. Instead, I am telling anybody I can - again, I don’t know who oversees what or to whom my agent has given this information - that I have a show that night. That I need to leave by 6:30. That people are counting on me. That I am Emily in Our Town.
“Oh, Mother Gibbs, I never realized before how troubled and how… how in the dark live persons are. Look at him. I loved him so. From morning til night, that’s all they are - troubled.”
6:30 comes and goes.
We do the star’s coverage first. She is a beautiful, thin blonde with perfectly tanned skin and long legs. I watch the wardrobe person take off her heels for her and slip on cozy Uggs when the shot isn’t on her feet - some TV acting magic.
I remember those Uggs - because I am staring at them between shots, trying not to cry. My feet will never appear in the shot, but remain in the low, slingback heels provided for me. I never take them off.
I look desperately to Melanie when it seems we are done with the scene. Maybe, I can still get to the theatre by curtain, and we can figure it out. Melanie looks so sorry for me. “Honey, I don’t know who dropped the ball here, but we’ve got to turn the shot around and get your coverage. It’s gonna be another hour at least.”
I hadn’t really noticed where the cameras were. I’ve just been doing the scene as best I can, over and over. Staring at Uggs until action was called.
The cameras haven’t been on my face yet. I didn’t even know.
“Listen”, Melanie tells me, “I’m really sorry this is happening. I’m coming back to Atlanta this summer to shoot a sequel to Mean Girls. You can still play a teenager right? How old are you? No, don’t tell me. You can still play a teenager. Anyway, we’re gonna move as quickly as we can tonight but I’m gonna try to find a spot for you in this movie. You’re funny.”
This should’ve struck me as a dream come true, but it just sort of washed over me as I held back tears. I am not a person who would miss playing Emily for a few lines on Lifetime TV. I thought I was a reliable, steady person. But I wondered - had I made myself too small to assert what I needed? Was I too small for this business? Was I so small, I would always fall through the cracks?
An hour later, I hugged Melanie goodbye. I texted my agent. I hung my costume on the hangers with care and left the slingback shoes.
I sat in my car in Peachtree City on the phone with my stage manager - he informed me they had canceled the show. They sent the audience home. The actors had removed their makeup and costumes without saying the words of Our Town. I was in tears.
“Mother Gibbs?”
“Yes, Emily?”
“They don’t understand, do they?
“No, dear. They don’t understand.”
The Stage Manager tells me he had never prepared my understudy. He had not informed anyone what was going on, as he believed it was going to work out. As though beliefs could transform into technicalities. He asked me not to throw him under the bus. And I never did. Unless this counts - over a dozen years later.
I was so shaken, I calmed myself down before driving home, where I collapsed in my bed and stayed all night and most of the next day.
I sent a teary email to my cast, explaining what happened and how devastated I was for letting them down. Most of them replied sweetly and hugged me when I arrived at the theatre, my shoulders slumped in shame.
I spoke on the phone with Kenny, while New York City bustled in the background. He was angry; how could I have done this? Did I understand the severity of the offense?
No one is angrier at me than me, though. I emailed the managing director of the theatre; offering to volunteer time, to call the patrons, or stuff envelopes for them, whatever they need.
My agency made a rule: in the future, they would not submit me for film and TV work while I was doing plays.
I did book Mean Girls 2. A strong supporting role, still in a honeywagon. Kenny eventually forgave me and hired me again. He technically didn’t have to. I left that agency 2 weeks before Chase Paris also left to become a casting director.
Sometimes I still perform smallness, because it’s what other people need. Sometimes that’s okay and sometimes it’s not. I’m still learning. But mostly now, I take the space I need and make sure others have the space they need too. And you can bet your 2010 pair of Uggs that whenever you see my face but not my feet on your TV, I’ve got on the cushiest pair of slippers I could find.
The thing about playing Emily in Our Town, is that you must play her when you are very young. But you will only understand her as you get older. And then, you must watch other young actors play her. You want to tell them the secrets to Emily, but some secrets are only understood with time. You want to go back and play her, live her, with what you know now. But you didn’t know it, you only had what you knew then. After all, no human being ever realizes life while they live it - not every, every minute. Not technically anyway. Well, the saints and poets, maybe - they do some.
And now, your weekly bonuses…
One Obsession Away
Wherein I share what I am obsessed with this week.
My Garden Overalls from Duluth Trading Company. This is not sponsored content (though, I wouldn’t be opposed to it… where you at, Duluth Trading marketing people??), I just love these overalls. So sturdy. So many pockets. So many hours will be spent in them in the dirt this spring.
Out: gardening in leggings? Running shorts? Jeans? Ew.
In: gardening like the stubborn ol’ man you’ve always been.
Notable and Quotable
“There are the stars - doing their old, old crisscross journeys in the sky. Scholars haven’t settled the matter yet, but they seem to think there are no living beings up there. Just chalk… or fire. Only this one is straining away, straining away all the time to make something of itself. The strain’s so bad that every sixteen hours everybody lies down and gets a rest. Hm… Eleven o’clock in Grover’s Corners. - You get a good rest, too. Good night.”
~from Our Town, by Thornton Wilder
*All italicized quotes in this essay are from Our Town
As much as I know this story, and remember this time, your written retelling is so perfect and lovely and hopeful and heartbreaking, I felt as though I was experiencing it for the first time. Love. <3
Keep it going! These are becoming the best reads of the week.