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The
Big Bounce PAGE
TWO: "Little Avocado has two Daddies, so he desperately misses breasts. Here, you try!" And he thrust the child into my arms. Avocado immediately spit up all over my Ralph Lauren suit. (I've had similar male reactions to my breasts -- not to say it wasn't still alarming). I composed myself. This was an interview after all, and it required an elaborate dance -- one that had come to define my life in LA. I had to show Avocado's Daddy how fantastic I would be for the job without showing him how badly I wanted the job and how desperately I NEEDED the job. Need is bad. Never show need. Instead, you have to show apathy. Absolutely, positively not giving a fuck gets you hired. I held the baby; while inside my head, I was screaming, "Fuck you and your fucking stupid, lame-ass, utterly ridiculous gates and your pathetic son with his pathetic name and how dare you -- I got dressed up for this and gave up five hours of writing time to sit in my fucking station wagon on the fucking freeway and your fucking horrible show is going to get cancelled after three episodes anyway. So why the fuck should I care what you think about my resume?" Even though I did. But instead I said: "Oh, how sweet. But, really, my breasts are nothing special." And producer man laughed and I rocked his son to sleep while he asked me about everything on my resume except the most interesting parts. Then he changed Avocado's diaper on his $25,000 oak desk and I tried not to look. After that, the interview was pretty much over. The producer didn't even offer to pay my dry cleaning bill, let alone thank me for soothing little Avocado with my breasts. With my most apathetic voice, I wished him luck with his show. I followed the eight pages of Mapquest directions back to the freeway. And that's where I broke. I started crying -- violent, mushy, oozing tears -- while parked in traffic in the center lane. An ICM agent in a black Mercedes was parked next to me. He looked over at me, bawling my eyes out, then rolled up his window and turned on the radio. This just made me cry harder. I thought about the producer and how shitty he had made me feel, and what a dysfunctional man Avocado was going to become, and how I missed New York, and snakes, and chickadees, and felt lost in LA. The two selves playing tennis in my head started a championship game. The bashing was overwhelming. I tried to meditate, but I didn't know how. And then traffic started to move. I guess I must have been thinking about Dr. Moo because my car sort of drove itself to his temple of peace. When I arrived, there was a man waiting to see him. He looked vaguely familiar, but I didn't know from where. Let's just call him Terry. As it turns out, Terry was an Emmy award winning writer who's written for practically every show I grew up loving and a few I still positively adore. He looked at my suit, sticky with baby spit and just smiled. Not a vicious, "Oh God, she left the house looking like THAT?" smile. It was more of a, "Yeah, I've been there too" smile. For the first time, I understood what people mean when they say that someone has good energy. I wanted to talk to Terry for hours. Dr. Moo's assistant, Hurricane, came out and said that Dr. Moo was going to be awhile and so I told Terry about my chickadee and snake memory. Afterwards I said: "LA has an alarming lack of chickadees. Perhaps this explains why no one here understands the brilliance of bouncing. See, bouncing is all about coming back for more. And in Los Angeles, people just hit the pavement with a big, nasty thud and then wait around to get eaten by the snake." Then, Terry laughed. It was clear and round and echo-y and when he was finished laughing he asked me how long I'd been coming to see Dr. Moo. I said it was only my second time, and he recommended I keep coming. Apparently, Dr. Moo is absolutely brilliant at solving my particular kind of problem. When I asked Terry why, he said: "Dr. Moo doesn't take everything so seriously. I think you'll be a lot happier when you stop looking for meaning in LA."
I didn't get the job with Avocado's Dad because the show never made it on the air. I still see Dr. Moo once a week. He's teaching me how to meditate, and the table tennis game in my head has turned into a bunch of old ladies playing mah-jong in Palm Beach. Apparently this is a sign of increased wellness. I don't have the falling dream so much anymore. My new dream is that I'm in heaven and I'm sitting by the pool sipping banana daiquiris with Albert Einstein. Mozart is sun bathing in the nude and Shakespeare is complaining that the kitchen staff didn't put enough artichokes on his pizza. Then, Dr. Moo shows up and spends seven hours analyzing Einstein's shame cycles. Einstein is so moved by the experience that he convinces God to bring Dr. Moo back to life. When Dr. Moo returns to earth, he signs with CAA, books a pilot, lands a development deal and gets Oprah to produce his special, "Moo Goes Home Again". I wake up smiling. Not a "God, I've become a raving loon!" smile. More of a "Yeah, I've been there too" smile. Terry was right. You can't be too serious about living in LA. Every day, something else will scoop you up and fling you to the ground. But that's OK. You can just bounce right back.
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The baby's name was Avocado and so already you know he's destined
for tabloid hell. But, little matter. We sat up in the producer's
office and he asked me about all the fancy, Hollywood people whose
names are on my resume all while his son was screaming his guts
out in the other room. For the first couple of minutes he ignored
the baby and said things like, "So, what was it like working
with ________ ? I've heard she's a raving loon." But Avocado
soon became impossible to ignore. The producer got up and left,
then brought the baby into the office and rocked him back and forth.
But to no avail. Then, he said the most disturbing thing anyone
has ever said to me in a professional setting. EVER. And, I have
worked with __________ and she IS a raving loon. He said:
