Friends: A Love Story (26 page)

As soon as I arrived in Phoenix, I encountered apartment drama. The apartment I had rented for $3,500 a month smelled like dog. I already thought I was paying too much, but there hadn't been much available when I looked. The other girls—Lela Rochon and Loretta Devine—had found an apart
ment complex I liked better. I was still dealing and living in the smelly apartment when I received an unexpected floral delivery, a bouquet of beautiful wildflowers—“Thank you for the date” flowers. From Courtney. The last person I wanted to get flowers from. I figured that if I didn't respond, maybe he would get the message and go away. But a few days later the phone rang.

“Hey, Angela, it's Courtney.”

“Hey, Courtney. How are you?”

“I'm fine. I just wanted to say hello and make sure you got the flowers.”

“Yes, I got them. They were nice.” Then I changed the subject as quickly as possible and ran down my apartment drama. That seemed to work without being rude. I did like him—just as a friend. The call ended quickly and he didn't call me back. Months later when I had returned to Los Angeles, I was certain I'd made the right decision. I kept running into Ahren. One time I was parked on the street and she walked right in front of my car. Out of all the people in this big city. Another time I ran into her in the supermarket. I couldn't imagine saying, “Hey, Ahren, great to see you! Courtney and I are dating.” I took all these sightings as a sign—an omen, really—that he and I weren't supposed to date. After being together so long, I couldn't imagine them not getting back together. So I said, “Hey, Ahren, I'm having a birthday party. Why don't you tell Courtney to bring you.” And he did.

 

Filming
Exhale
was a lot of fun. First off, I fell in love with the director, Forest Whitaker, who's also an actor. You know him from playing roles like Charlie Parker in
Bird,
Ghost Dog in
Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai
and Marcus Clay in
Deacons for Defense.
Forest was gentle with all of us. We could just sit back and talk about the character or the relationship and how we saw it or wanted to play it. He was open to anything you wanted
to try. I thought he was wonderful. I also got to work with some really great co-stars—Whitney, Loretta and Lela. And some really good guys came on board—people like Wesley Snipes, who I was happy to hear joined the cast, since we had arrived in New York at around the same time; as well as guys like Michael Beach, Gregory Hines and Wendell Pierce. Forest was trying to bring the best actors on board.

The environment on the set was so warm and loving—it was perfect! So comfortable that Forest let us eat snacks and watch the dailies together. We had a great time laughing at our mistakes, our little flubs or whatever. We were just
silly!
And he was very sensitive. I guess it
was
a little rude of us to laugh at our coworkers. You're going to make mistakes; that's why you do scenes a couple of times. But I guess once was enough of our laughing at each other; he banned us all from the screening room and wouldn't let us see the dailies anymore.

One of my most memorable experiences was the scene where Bernadine tore up the closet. I threw myself into the scene—just a little past the point of technique, unfortunately; I remember feeling a little out of control, banging into something, cutting my hand on a coat hanger, drawing blood. But I just kept going. I was into it, feeling the endorphins, the hormones, imagining, feeling enraged. When I torched the car, I felt like the most dramatic, empowered and hurt woman in the world. I also loved Bernadine's relationship with Wesley Snipes's character. Wesley's character was in love with his wife, but she was at home dying of cancer. He slept in the same bed with Bernadine—they were intimate—but they did not have sex. I liked the way our characters didn't cross any lines.

I also liked Wesley as a person and a friend. When I observed, “He's single and doing well. I'm single and doing well. How come people like us can't seem to get together and enjoy each other's company?” I couldn't find a brother—well, at least an actor brother. It seemed like all of them liked girls
who weren't actors. I wondered, If I were a successful man, wouldn't I want a successful wife? That would make them a power couple, right? I thought that was a good thing.

Wesley play-flirted a little bit. “We should get together.”

“All right, but I don't go for no shit!” I laughed. I'm still waiting for him to call.

But Wesley aside, in real life I wondered if successful men just weren't interested in successful women, if they found successful women intimidating or what? I didn't consider myself intimidating. Yet my career
was
growing nicely.
Waiting to Exhale
was a box-office success. In 1995 after it was released, it grossed over $65 million at the box office, which was a lot more money than some people ever envisioned a movie starring four black women would earn. My name recognition increased to another level. After doing
Strange Days, Vampire
and
Exhale
back to back and having each come within two weeks of the other, even I felt a little overexposed. But my bank account was growing quite nicely. My accountant told me I could afford to buy the house I'd always dreamed of owning.

House hunting was the slightest bit anticlimactic; I had always thought I'd buy my first home with my husband. Taxwise I couldn't wait. “The husband ain't here,” I told myself. “You're going to have to do it alone to keep Uncle Sam out of your wallet. I'm going to have to buy another house with a husband.” It wasn't the worst problem to have. I thought about it and concluded that maybe a successful woman
can
intimidate—but only an intimidateable man! I knew I deserved better.

W
hen I arrived in Los Angeles, I immediately liked it. It was holistic, and there was a lot of sunshine. Many of my buddies were already there. I moved into a gorgeous old apartment building in Los Feliz, one of the older, settled areas up near the famous Hollywood Hills sign. I connected with my agent, settled into my rhythm of walking Bottom and began to figure out what the touchstones in my life would be. I loved the weather as well as the people; even the customer-service reps who set up the phone and TV service seemed nicer. The rhythm in New York was faster and that was reflected in people's speech patterns. People in New York spat words at you: “Yeah. Whatever. Hold on. You talkin' to me?” In L.A. they said things like, “How may I help you? You're welcome. Thank you.” At first I was taken aback. “What do you mean, how can you help me?” I thought. What's wrong with you? Why are you being so nice? After living in New York for so long, I had gotten accustomed to being mistreated.

That's not to say that people in L.A. are nicer than people in New York. In fact, I have had more instances in which people have helped me when I was in need in New York than in L.A. Suffice to say, the two cities are very different.

For a year after my move, I continued therapy with Dr. K. once a week over the phone at 5:00 a.m. PST to anchor me. The lure of pornography was fading and I was getting healthier, but I knew I wasn't ready for another relationship—after what I'd done to myself and Ahren. I was clear; I didn't want to hurt another woman. I couldn't do that again. Still, I missed their companionship. Dr. K. and I started to talk about how I could have women as friends. To keep things clean, I would have to practice being honest and letting women know where I was emotionally, and what I wanted and didn't want. I wasn't going to get romantically involved just because a woman liked me. But if I could be open and honest, I wouldn't have to back away if they wanted the relationship to deepen, and leave them hurt.

I started interacting socially again. Unlike in New York where you see people at auditions, you see people at the theater, you see them in the subway—you see and run into people every day—in Los Angeles you have to make a point of socializing. Especially if you're single, it's hard to meet folks. Everything is so spread out. Everyone lives in their little house or apartment and travels around in their car. You have to drive thirty miles here and thirty miles there, then at the end of the day you have to drive thirty miles home—in L.A. traffic, which is a nightmare. People aren't down for all of that. It's not like they're in a subway or cab. So people gather in people's homes. You meet folks at house parties. I reconnected with friends. I got into the L.A./N.Y. acting scene out there.

Actors, I learned, would also see each other at the premieres of movies. Premieres become a way and a reason to get together. The movie is supposed to start at seven-thirty but, especially with a group of black actors, might not get going until eight-fifteen, because everyone is trying to catch up with each other.

“Hey, what's up?”

“How have you been?”

“What's going on?”

“What are you working on?”

We'd share leads and opportunities, celebrate each other's successes, catch up on our love lives, talk about who was getting married or divorced, who'd had a baby, was sick, who had died. New actors are passing out cards and picture résumés. Everyone's pressing the flesh—that's what they do. That's what you gotta do to break into the L.A. scene. Lots of times they have to dim the lights a couple of times to get people to go sit down. After the movie is over you look up and people are gone. They have to drive the thirty miles home. Unlike in New York, where people would stay out late, L.A. closes down at ten or ten-thirty. Nobody hangs around. So at house parties and movie openings I would see the same people over and over—Angela Bassett, Blair Underwood, Don Cheadle, Michael Boatman and a bunch of other folks. We stayed up on each other's lives. In some ways they became like my extended family.

Through this casual social network, I slowly started interacting with women. Over several years I met a few sweet, sweet women. For the first time in my life I could talk about my feelings with them. I could have an emotional conversation. “How do you feel?” “Well, I'm feeling this and that.” I was emotionally available. Yet I could also go to a movie or go to a concert and think she was nice and leave it at that. We didn't have to be intimate, although maybe we knew it could go that way. I learned that I could be honest and it was okay. When one woman liked me more than I liked her, I was up front: “I don't feel the same way about you that you feel about me.”

“I know, Courtney. It's okay,” she told me.

I used my good judgment. “No, it's not okay. We can't do this, because you're just going to end up hurt and mad at me. So let's just stop.”

We had a nice long talk about it and parted as friends. Of course, she told her girlfriend, who then called me up, asking, “How could you do this to her?”

“What did I do?”

“You've hurt her, she's destroyed!”

“I had a conversation with her. She and I talked. How did you get in it?”

“She's my girlfriend, and—”

“Thank you very much for sharing your opinion. I'm going to hang up now.”

I learned during this time that no matter how hard you try, there is always going to be hurt in relationships. All I could do was try and be as honest as I could.

I was finally becoming the kind, gentle, yet balanced soul that matched the person I imagined myself to be. For the first time in my life I was experiencing some sort of peace. Life was beautiful; work was great; I had female companionship. Everything was going along swimmingly. I even started feeling optimistic about being in a relationship again one day. But I didn't feel like I had to rush. I was comfortable taking things as they came. In the meantime, I had learned how to be patient. I'd tell myself, “I'll be tickled to see who God brings me.”

 

In the meantime, I also had to learn how to communicate clearly with Bottom. Bottom was getting old—he was eleven years old now—seventy-seven in “dog years.” His hips were starting to give him trouble. He reached a point where he couldn't get up off the gorgeous hardwood floors in my apartment, so I had to move to a small house with a yard and carpeting. Of course, I could not afford a house by myself in Los Angeles, so I needed to get a roommate. I found one in Tony Tolbert. Tony and I threw a housewarming party. I invited all my friends, and Tony, who is a lawyer, invited his. Because we were expecting a good number of people and the house was carpeted, we planned to ask folks to take off their shoes. We were in no way prepared for the hundred and twenty-five people who showed up. It was a great party and a lot of fun,
but the thing I remember most is that there were a hundred and twenty-five people at our house and we had no place to put their shoes!

 

I had been in Los Angeles for a year when, in January 1994, there was a major earthquake. Everything shook and a lot of people's houses were wrecked. Tony and I were standing in doorways when the phone rang and I picked it up.

“The last time there was an earthquake, you and Bottom and I were together in bed and I reached out on one side and you were there, and I reached out on the other and Bottom was there. I did that again when this earthquake happened. You weren't there. It let me know it was time to call you. I'm just calling to check on you. Are you okay?” My feet floated off the ground. It was Ahren!

Two years had passed since Ahren had told me that she would “never speak to me again in life.” I'd resigned myself to the fact that I'd never hear from her. Now that I was listening to her voice, I didn't know what to say.

“Yeah, I'm good. You good?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, good, I'm glad.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Okay.”

“Talk to you later.”

That was it. I walked out into the street and told Tony. “Can you believe it?”

I don't know whose idea it was or who made the first call—I think maybe I called her—but a few months later we agreed to meet for tea at a little spot on Melrose Avenue and test the waters. I didn't know if I would have romantic feelings toward her, but I definitely didn't want any romantic feelings I might have to enter into things. I let her set the pace. We had a nice, gentle, respectful, catching up kind of time. We talked about all kinds of things, and she got to see the new me in action.

“
You're
having an emotional conversation, Courtney?”

I didn't shirk from the difficult questions. Just to sit and talk was all I wanted. But though I was cool on the outside, on the inside I was thinking, Lord, what are you doing here? What are you telling me?

A couple of weeks later, we got together for tea again. It was nice. Again, I let her set the tempo. I figured we should only go as fast as she said or the Lord allowed. I was just happy to have a second chance to talk to her. It was beyond what I ever thought would ever happen again. By the time Ahren and I reconnected, Bottom's hips were pretty much gone. He was a big dog and now he could barely walk. The doctors had done just about all they could do. When I traveled for work, I'd had to put together a whole network of friends and dog walkers and give them detailed instructions for how to take care of him. Ahren and I talked about that and reminisced about our good times with him. But there is only so much you can catch up on in two hours and I wanted to be able to talk more while remaining in a “safe” environment.

“What if we took a drive?” I suggested about a month later. “We could pick a gorgeous day and just drive up the coast and come back.”

“Okay. That would be nice.”

We gently drove up the Pacific Coast Highway. It was a beautiful day and we were having a great time, so we didn't worry about the clock and kept going.

“It's going to be dark when we get back,” I told her. “What do you want to do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“Well, I know there's this funky little hotel up here. Maybe we can get separate rooms and just continue to talk. No stress, no tension.”

“Okay, that would be nice.”

After all of the tough, ditch-digging work and soul-searching
I'd done, I was thrilled—this was more than I could take. I would think, Lord, I don't know what you're doing but I'm grateful to be having a second chance. I'm having a great time. We spent the night in separate rooms in this very funky, famous pink hotel that reminded us of the Flintstones. We had the
best
time!

We drove back to L.A. the next day. Everything was great and we went on with our lives. We weren't in constant contact with one another. Every couple of months we would get together and do something casual. In the meantime, I just kept working, walking Bottom and paying attention to my dreams.

In addition to Bottom's hip problems, he was suffering from a host of other illnesses. He basically required 24-7 care. I just didn't know what I was going to do. I couldn't expect my dog-sitters to do everything I was doing for him. I knew I had to start thinking about putting him down. But how do you lay down a dog who's been your child, your rhythm, your life? I remember talking to him: “Bottom, what are we going to do?” One afternoon I asked him where he wanted to lie—on the front lawn so he could lie in the sun and watch what was going on, or in the backyard where the grass was soft. He wanted to go out front, so we went and sat out front for a while, then I went back inside and kept peeking out at him. Toward the evening, he wanted to sit on the grass in the back. So we walked back there together then I went back in the house. I must have fallen asleep or forgotten that he was out there. All of a sudden I remembered, “Ohmygoodness, the sprinklers—Bottom can't get up!” I ran into the backyard and was relieved to see him lying there chillin'; the sprinkers hadn't come on yet. But I looked at him again. Something was wrong. Brown stuff was coming out of his mouth.

“Bottom? Bottom!” He didn't respond. I was frantic. I picked him up—ninety pounds of dead weight—and carried him to the car. I drove him to the animal emergency room and rang the bell. They came out and looked at him.

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Sir, he's gone. He's gone.”

“Oh…”

“We'll keep him on ice until you decide what you'd like us to do with the body.”

I sat there in shock. I didn't know where to go. I didn't know what to do. So I called Ahren and broke down.

“Bottom's dead! I don't know what I'm going to do…”

She and I talked. I realized he'd stayed around just long enough for Ahren and I to reconnect. And then he left. The circle was closed. Now he could move on. To comfort myself I volunteered to start walking Wren's mom's dog.

One night a week or so later, I decided to get over my grieving and go hang out with some friends. I went out to the jazz club Catalina's with some of my friends and Angela was there. We had a great time listening to the music, catching up and having fun. Afterward, as we stood outside shooting the breeze, it suddenly dawned on me: Angela's not seeing anybody and I'm not seeing anybody. Maybe we should go out. So I asked, and she said yes.