Page 4 of Director's Cut

CHAPTER TWO

Trish and I slowly ease back into normal conversation as we get closer to my home in Hollywood Hills. Yes, I’m that asshole who lives in Hollywood Hills. I’ve wanted the BoJack Horseman view ever since I binged the show and like fifty pounds of Wendy’s in the months post-failed PhD and failed engagement with Emily. At least I think that’s where I got the idea to move here from. Truthfully, all I remember about that time period was sobbing into my older sister Gwyn’s shirt and asking if I was Mr. Peanutbutter or Diane. Gwyn told me I was the worst parts of both.

“You have anyone waiting for you at home? Anyone who could keep you company tonight?” Trish asks.

The farther I get from DTLA, the stronger the humiliation becomes. I know industry people deal with Actresses Gone Too Far all the time, but it feels like I’ve failed. I’ve been doing interviews for years. If I’d just stayed for another thirty seconds, there wouldn’t be headlines circulating. In an industry where being dramatic and unprofessional is nothing to write home about, I fucked up so badly that I’ll be a talking point. And I’m supposed to teach next week. There won’t be publicists and fixers in academia; my head’s already spinning thinking of it. If I can’t even do what I’ve been doing successfully for years, I cringe to consider how disastrous returning to teaching is going to be.

“I guess there’s Gwyn,” I say.

It’s so late that it’s more than a safe bet to say that my older sister by five years has commuted back from Beverly Hills, where she works as a GI doctor for old celebrities/old rich Jewish people. You know, the type who like asking her if she has enough time to mother her kids while she’s got a finger up their asses.

“You wanna call her?”

It’s almost midnight, so I opt for a you up text that I regret the wording of immediately.

But, within seconds, Gwyn’s name lights up on my phone.

“Are you having a flare-up?” she asks right outta the gate. Even though Trish is focused on her throwback disco music, I cross my arms self-consciously.

“Why would I call you at midnight over a flare-up?”

Short and skinny: if you were born ten weeks early in the nineties, you were at high risk of exposure to necrotizing enterocolitis. Some premature babies took antibiotics and had no damage. Some, like me, required major surgery to remove entire sections of viscera. It was a harrowing experience for my parents, and they never got therapy for it, but I’ve managed to survive with minimal but constant bodily inadequacies. A near constant stream of probiotics and IBS that supposedly only flares up when I’m stressed. Which would be cool if I wasn’t stressed 24-7.

“Because that’s all you ever text me about. Why? Is there something else up?”

My phone chimes, a text from Charlie. Charlie has been a weird, fluctuating presence in my life since we were in high school, including him being my Hollywood beard up until a year ago. Everyone loved the fact that we were “high school sweethearts,” still together after we’d both made it in acting. We were nearly inseparable when he starred in Oakley in Flames, but I haven’t heard much from him since we wrapped. I think he’s having a life crisis over the fact that, at twenty-nine, he’s too old to be a twink. I hate to admit it, but he’s been one of the last friends to be fully reintegrated into my daily life after I hid away post coming-out.

On the phone to Gwyn, I sigh. “The interview I just did went shitty, and I was hoping for some company.”

There’s a pause that’s a lot longer than I need it to be. “Have you eaten today?”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes; she’s such a fucking mom. “No. I had a photo shoot earlier.”

Another text from Charlie. I swipe it away and highly consider hanging up this call as my stomach tightens from post-interview stress. I’m not sure I could articulate the black hole of emotion I’m feeling right now if Gwyn asked me about it.

I needed to come out last year. At first, I thought it was even going well, that I could hire Trish and be my authentic self and reinvent myself properly with Oakley in Flames. But once postproduction ended, I realized that that media quiet I thought I was experiencing was just reality in waiting. Every interview I attended, whether it was trade cover stories, podcasts, or the silly Instagram AMAs I’d do when bored, the same questions would pour in. How long have you been gay? What made you come out now? Are you wearing that because you’re out? What lucky woman are you dating? I tried to swallow it and answer the questions quickly and blandly.

But after my answers were out in the world, I’d get another round of interviews and they’d keep asking them. Even while promoting acting roles that weren’t even gay, I’d get the questions. I’d get them at charity events, at Hollywood parties, while stopped on the street. I started only receiving scripts for roles featuring Character Name (late twenties, lesbian). Not complex lesbian roles either; raunchy sidekicks, tragic historical love interests who end up dead, action heroes where the character description in the script is the only place you’d even know they were queer. Decidedly less complex, emotional roles than my work before, all I’m sure because some executive said this movie needed authenticity. It was as if nothing I could ever say, no matter how insightful or impassioned I was, could compare to my sexuality or what I hoped to explore creatively. By the time I saw an SNL sketch teasing the photo I took to come out, I…well, I had no choice but to disappear.

Tonight has only solidified it.

I have to face the writing on the wall: even if the TV directing gig has aligned more with my passions in years, it’s misery to keep going like this. Even if we fix the PR fallout of the interview. That uncertainty wraps itself into my aching guts. I know I haven’t had a bad flare-up in years, but the possibility of one does enough damage.

I take a deep breath. Will the pain away.

“Val?” Gwyn’s voice sounds far away. It’s the tone she uses when she’s scared I’m going to react a certain way. “Why don’t you order a pizza and I’ll drive over, okay? Get Domino’s like you like.” She audibly exhales. “We can give the twins the leftovers tomorrow.”

It gets me to smile for what feels like the first time in hours. “Half cheese, half pepperoni and jalapeño?”

“Yeah, perfect.”

“I’ll get those lava cakes too, for good measure. The twins love them.”

“God, no! You don’t have to deal with them.”

“Eh, just give them heroin after. They’ll be fine.”

“Don’t have kids.”

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