The Chronicles Of Jessica

I've been looking for work lately and I'm constantly running across ads for "energetic people who LOVE the environment" or "make up to 500 dollars a week - just by caring!" I think to myself, Well, I do have energy. And I love the environment, I recycle after all. (For a while I was even trimming the little plastic windows out of envelopes so I could recycle those, but it felt kinda forced.)

But then I realized what these jobs actually entail: Standing on street corners to stop people walking by, and asking them for money.

This is not something I could ever get involved with. I pass these people all the time on my way somewhere, and they're incredibly tenacious, they're like terriers with clipboards. "Can you spare a minute for the environment?" "Can you spare a few minutes for starving children?" "Do you love puppies?" I mean who in good conscience can sidestep them? What if someone you know saw you ducking these people and they spread that around and then the next time you're out on the town everyone's saying, "JD, why do you hate staving acid-rain-ravaged baby seals?" Then you look like a shitheel.

I try to hear them out at least. But of course, they don't just want a few minutes of your time, they want your cash monies. And though their cause be worthy and their courses just, you can't get blood from a turnip, kids. I always have to say no and then I always have to feel guilty. I have plenty of guilt as it is, so my usual tactic is to pretend like I'm talking on my cell phone. But I'm such a guilt-ridden pile of neuroses that I wait until I'm out of sight to shut the phone and put it away, in case the terriers should see me and suspect that I have cellphon-ied them, that I didn't really have a call at all, that I avoided them on purpose! Their feelings might be hurt! What do you have then? More guilt! (I told you I have energy, can you imagine the extent of the effort that is being wasted on these little self-created dramas of which I am the unwitting star? I could probably power my damn hair dryer with it.)

And why can't I get something like this going on my behalf? Does the environment have a cornerstone on charitable impulses? Maybe I could have a team of volunteers around the city, hanging out in front of Bloomingdales and Saks inquiring, "Hey, can you spare a few minutes for the JD?" And on their clipboards they could have my 8 x 10 and some copies of good reviews of me in plays, or show photos or something. Maybe a page of testimonials of people who like me and would like to see me succeed, or at least pay the rent. People might give money if I looked pitiful enough! Marcus could probably design a little powerpoint presentation with my bank statements, that would do it. (Interested parties please leave your number in the comments section with which shift you want. Clipboard not provided.)

In the meantime I have a new way to deal with the charity terriers, I look them right in the eye and say as directly as possible, "I'm an actor."

"Ohhhhh", they murmur sympathetically. "Well, have a nice day."

After a series of hurdles, I managed to get the aforementioned restaurant job. The savvier of my new york readers will no doubt be able to discern which restaurant it is, but I won't name it specifically so that I can freely complain about it whenever I want to. Which I suspect will be frequently.

It's weird being a waitress again after such a long time. Among actors there are generally two versions of the 'day job'; office work and restaurant/bar work. I've dabbled extensively in them both, and in general I'm more comfortable in an office setting. No one has ever found steel wool in their fettucine and threatened me with litigation while I was in an office setting. I've never accidentally locked myself in the huge walk-in refrigerator in any of the offices I've worked for. And for the most part, the office work is a little friendlier on your feet.

However, the restaurant route has definite perks as well. Cash pay. Free food!

I literally cannot think of a third.

Anyway, this job in particular has an unusual fringe benefit: frequent opportunities to gawk at celebrities.

I don't know why or how, but this restaurant has become a sort of unofficial hangout for celebrities and other industry people. It's a place to see and be seen, while paying three dollars and fifty cents for a glass of iced tea. (A hefty price tag for a drink, to be sure, but it does include unlimited refills.) They come before they go to the theatre, or for some sustenance after the play lets out, or they come to talk business with their agent or manager or interior decorator. They come, I suppose, because they always have; it's like the famous person's version of the emperor penguins returning to the breeding grounds.

I'm sure that you're all just chomping at the bit to find out exactly which celebrities I've waited on, and who am I to keep you hanging on? Chris has suggested that I should create a bar graph showing which ones tip the best, but I think that cheapens us both. (Matthew Broderick - 30%)

So here's an unofficial list:

Bernadette Peters
John Lithgow
Jodi Foster
John Turturro

Lorne Michaels
(can I get some appreciation for how freakin' difficult it was to NOT show off or try and be funny in front of Lorne Michaels, for god's sake? I showed some serious restraint.)

Jack Lemmon
Tracey Ullman
Nathan Lane
Marsha Mason

Actually, Jack Lemmon is dead. I just wanted to make sure you were paying attention.

It's interesting at first, getting this up close glimpse of these really famous people. There's something just inherently neato about shaving parmesan onto Ferris Bueller's rigatoni. But there's something that's really a bummer about it, too. I don't know what it is exactly. The fact that they can afford to eat there, and I can't? The fact that they are incredibly successful in their respective careers and I'm, um, whatever it is I'm doing. (Regrouping? Yeah, that sounds good.) Whatever else it is, it's the fact that there is no way any of them could have the slightest clue just how talented the girl fetching the cappucinos really is.

But, hey, I'm optimistic. You just never know where all this celebrity interaction might lead, do you? With one phone call, any one of these people could change the whole course of my life by giving me some opportunity that I couldn't come close to getting on my own. A meeting with a casting director! An audition for an agent! A movie contract, perhaps!

Or if nothing else, the chance to shave some parmesan in far fancier restaurants.

I had a meeting today with a commercial agent that Kelly recommended me to (thanks, Kelly!) Commercial agents are the people who get actors work doing the really humiliating stuff, like that Verizon guy who goes around muttering, "Can you hear me now?" That guy bugs so hard. He's worth like a million dollars though.

I found myself sitting there in this waiting room reading over this copy, which I was supposed to prepare to read in front of the agent. It went vaguely like this:

"I hate ordinary things. That's why I discovered Ruffles potato chips - the ones with the ridges! I used to just serve them at parties and such, but now I eat them with everything. 'Cause they taste better!"

Ruffles are good, I'll give them that. Too bad my dignity has such a bitter aftertaste.

There is just something so inherently surreal about sitting in an office trying to get turned on about a potato chip. I'm getting better at this stuff but I don't know if I'll ever actually like doing it. I remember one commercial I auditioned for in Chicago where I had to pretend to be one of those lottery balls that pops up into the machine when they pick the winners. I didn't really book that one, which I should probably have anticipated, since I never win the lottery, either. I always wind up staring at the ticket going, "Hm...there must be some mistake. None of these numbers are the same as the winning ones. How vexing."

But I would be more than happy to be making a few bob off a commercial instead of the restaurant gig. I think I am getting too old for this. I keep having these waiter nightmares where I just run around pouring iced tea refills all night long and I wake up feeling like I never left work at all. So, maybe I have mental health issues concerning the food service industry. But I'll hock the shit out of some Charmin or whatever else someone wants me to whore for. Don't get me wrong, I mean I have standards, but not when it comes to my career.

Ahem.

In other news, the Post featured my landlord in a front page story about New York's top ten worst landlords. Apparently he snagged one of the coveted positions! Congratulations, Baruch Singer. Is there a greeting card for this? I don't want to commit a serious tennant faux pas by failing to acknowledge this honor.

Apparently there have been a host of really grody problems in his buildings, and I don't just mean rats and vermin and the like. He had a building with a staircase that collapsed from disrepair and killed like four people. Death! His building caused death! Remind me to shut my piehole next time I get the jones to complain about my water pressure.

I don't know why it should surprise me that I have one of the top ten worst landlords. I've had one of the top ten worst haircuts, the top ten worst cab drivers, the top ten worst sex partners (not you, sweetie. Also, confidential to Mike Long - nipples aren't chew toys. Your future wife will thank me.) If there's someone or something in the top ten worst, it's bound to intersect my life at some point. At least now I know how to avoid the substandard potato chip.

You learn something new every day.