Authors: Traci Elisabeth Lords
, I decided, huffing and puffing as I climbed the stairs to dance class, cringing at the blaring 1950s music that thundered through the room.
The cast arrived slowly. From the looks of things, the boys had pulled an all-nighter. They looked green as they entered the room, and I couldn't help but smile at Johnny's obvious pain, glad to be in on the joke. John entered moments later and lectured us on being "responsible teenagers" as he turned up the music. "Heavy hangs the head that last night wore the crown." I believe he enjoyed punishing us for staying out late. He said we were on his dime now, and then made us work even harder. We moaned, staggering our way through class and sweating out the night's mischief.
A week had passed since our descent on Baltimore and the cast, myself included, had made the rounds. We'd managed to stagger through dance rehearsals and tame the oh-so-proper Tremont housekeepers who no longer woke us at the crack of dawn to make our beds. And most important, we'd gained twenty-four-hour access to the hotel's restaurant/bar! Of course no one knew we were lurking in the stairwells in the wee hours of the morning. We'd sneak into the chef's kitchen to fix midnight snacks and then settle deep in the rear of the restaurant and light candles to conceal our trespassing. We were like a bunch of kids playing, hoping not to get caught but secretly excited by the possibility. We all became fast friends.
Although John encouraged cast bonding, he grew suspicious of our late-night prowling and sent around a memo warning that the hotel disapproved of underage drinking and mischief after dark. It tickled me to think of John Waters as our "keeper." He was as open-minded as they come, so while I felt the boozing of the cast was rather tame, I understood his fears. He clearly had his priorities in place, and I tried to be a young den mother, quietly encouraging my coworkers to behave.
In the front seat of the cast van, Ricki Lake sang a pitch-perfect rendition of Madonna's "Cherish"; Johnny and Darren were dead asleep in the backseat; and. Amy, Kim, and I gossiped happily as we made our way to the stages where we would start filming the following week.
John greeted us at an enormous building in the warehouse district of Baltimore, where the air reeked of butchered animals. He was wide awake at seven in the morning. Dressed in his standard uniform of casual suit and white shirt, he looked like he was ready for his close-up. He led us through the various sets, showing Ricki where the orphanage scenes would be shot, and Johnny went off to check out Cry-Baby's house, particularly interested in the pool table.
John showed me the massive champagne glass I was to sit in for an upcoming scene and invited me to climb on up. Just as I'd made my way up the ladder, one foot in, about to have a seat, the property master, Brook, appeared out of nowhere, anxious because an actor had intruded on his territory in his absence. He looked nervous, pacing around beneath us. John told him to relax.
As we made our way back to the van, I noticed my picture hanging on the wall in a cubicle marked "Art Department." It was the photo from Rolling Stone. I was lying on my side, tousled hair in my face, Mona Lisa smile on my lips.
Odd . . . no one else's photo was on the wall. . .
Catching up with my exiting costars, I felt like I was being watched. I looked around and locked eyes with Brook, who was staring at me from behind his desk. The horn of the departing van broke the trance and I took off out the door yelling for Cletis the driver to wait up.
Later that night, Darren Burrows's wife showed up unexpectedly. We were all hanging out in the Celebrity Lounge, watching cars zoom backward up the one-way street looking for a parking place. Teamsters sat soaking up beers, and a poker game raged in the back. The livid Mrs. Burrows rushed in brandishing the pirate earring that she'd discovered on Darren's bedside table. When he innocently told her it was mine and that Johnny had one too, she stormed out, convinced he was having an affair with me, the prime suspect.
Apparently, he hadn't been calling home much. I guess that was going around.
I thought the whole thing was ridiculous and would have said so if I'd been given a chance. I clearly had no interest in Darren, and "home wrecker" was not a role I wanted to play. I wondered if all this drama was really over an earring or if it was because it was
my
earring.
As the night went on, Mrs. Burrows's intrusion into our movie world was all but forgotten. Ricki and Darren hung out chatting at the bar and I had a dance with my pal Johnny in the center of the dimly lit room, moving to the slinky music of the Cure's "Lullaby." My eyes met Brook's. He sat in the corner of the bar, feet kicked up on a chair, and stared dead at me. I stared back. The moment broke as the song ended and I took my place at the bar with some of the others.
Who are you?
I wondered as I looked over my shoulder at him. He studied the large raindrops that splashed in the street. I stood there watching him watch the rain and I was drawn in. He was an odd mix of things, rock-and-roll tough yet calm and somehow soulful.
I finished my beer and walked outside into the pouring rain, feeling giddy as the droplets drenched my face and the water washed my mental cobwebs away. My skin was cool, my head
clear, and without even looking I knew Brook was watching me. I walked up the hill away from my costars, away from the hotel, away from my fear of the unknown.
Would he follow me?
My heart raced as I heard footsteps behind me, and I walked faster toward the city's monument. I was shaking in my drenched T-shirt, my long hair plastered to my head, adrenaline pumping through my body.
What if it wasn't him following me?
Panicking, I spun around suddenly and came face-to-face with Brook. We just stood there for a second, inches apart and staring into each other's eyes. Then without a word he kissed me so deeply I forgot who I was and what I was afraid of. It was like magic—fireworks—the kind of kiss that made every hair on my body stand up.
Instantly, I fell completely and hopelessly in love with him.
Alone in bed later that night, I felt like I'd been hit by something. I wasn't sure what had happened. I didn't believe in love at first sight. I wasn't even sure I believed in love at all.
Was the rush I felt when Brook kissed me pure chemistry? Was it lust at first sight? How could I be in love with someone I hadn't even had a full conversation with? What if he was just out to score? What if he was a porn fan?! What if he doesn't really like me at all! How could he? He doesn't even know me! /Wan, why do I think so much? Get it together, I told myself. I'm here to film my breakthrough movie! Don't get distracted. Just be cool, do your job, and proceed with caution.
I spent the night tossing and turning, getting no peace from my thoughts and wondering if rumors of the kiss in the rain would spread. Was I about to become the set "ho"? I thought of Darren's wife's accusing eye after she found my earring in his room.
Good grief, I didn't-do anything. I was innocent! Oh please—can I just get away with one little kiss?
Brook called the next day to invite me out. As nervous as I was about the consequences of mixing business with pleasure, I couldn't say no. I wanted to be near him and said yes, cursing my weakness as I hung up the phone.
No, no, no, no, no, no, no! That's not what we agreed on, self!
I was pissed that my laserlike work vision was being clouded by thoughts of boys. But denying there was something between us only distracted me further.
Taking control over the date the only way I knew how, I reserved a car and driver for the evening. It was a gorgeous, stormy night in Baltimore. Brook lived just ten blocks from the hotel and he was punctual, sliding across the backseat toward me right on time.
We headed downtown to an ancient movie theater called the Charles in the heart of Baltimore. I don't remember what was playing. I wasn't paying attention, distracted by my date. He gave me a little history of the place, telling me his mother, Pat, used to run the joint and he worked there selling popcorn as a teenager. Hoping he wouldn't expect me to talk about where I worked as a teenager, I shifted coolly in my seat. Mercifully, the opening film credits ended the conversation before I had to go there. When we left two hours later, we were in good spirits. Laughing easily, we climbed back into our chauffeured car and I felt myself relax. I liked being with this man.
I was glad I'd said yes.
Brook suggested we stop for a drink at one of his favorite watering holes, the Club Charles up the street, and I was happy to comply, not ready for the evening to end. And since the hotel was within walking distance of the club, we sent our driver home, thereby eliminating the only witness to our budding romance.
Brook and I agreed to keep our date a secret, since neither one of us wanted to be the topic of set gossip. But just as we were finishing up our drinks and flirting coyly with each other, a booming voice behind us announced, "I approve." The pencil-thin mustache of Mr. Waters wrapped over his martini glass. He looked tickled pink. Oh man! We were busted. My heart dropped. Would he think I was completely unprofessional by dating a crew member? Brook and I both automatically acted like we didn't know what he was talking about. "Oh please," his raised eyebrow proclaimed.
We all started talking at the same time.
"What does she think about this?" John said.
"Who's she?" I asked, turning to Brook. "Please don't tell me you're married."
"Oh, he doesn't have a wife, just a mother—and oh, what a mother." John laughed.
I was completely lost.
"What are you talking about?" I asked a bit defensively, thinking John meant that Brook's mother would have issues with him dating an ex—porn star. "Who's your mother?"
John nearly choked on his drink.
"I see," he said, disappearing into the club.
I turned on Brook. "What's the deal?"
"Traci, my mother is Pat Moran. She cast you in this movie —you know, the kooky redhead? Talks real loud?"
Holy crap! I'm messing with the casting directors son! What if it all goes sour and she hates me for breaking his heart? Then what? People talk in this business. Man, these are just the kind of complications 1 don 'I need!
Reading the look on my face, Brook just laughed. "She's my mother. She won't like that I'm dating a cast member, but she adores you and she wants me to be happy. It's a good thing," he said, kissing my fears away.
An hour later we'd picked up a bottle of wine and plotted our entrance into the Tremont. We decided to arrive separately. I went first, frantically straightening up my hotel suite before he got there. He knocked on my door minutes later, narrowly escaping the clutches of a drunk and horny actress. He said she'd groped him as he made his way to the elevator, and slurred into his ear he didn't know what he was missing. According to her, she had the "pussy of a twelve-year-old."
"Grossssssssssssssss!" I squealed. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," he said. "How does a person respond to such an invitation?" Beats me, I thought, pouring wine as we cozied up on the couch.
Listening to the Cult, the Cure, and Sinead O'Connor, we talked the night away. He told me about his life in Baltimore and spoke fondly of his family. He said they were like a version of the Addams Family, quirky but solidly together. His godfather was the late great actor Divine, with whom he'd traveled around the world, doing lighting for his/her concert tour. He'd even appeared in one of his "uncle" John-as-in-Waters's films as a nude child who played doctor with a little girl. Most of his adolescent years were spent walking around John's sets, dispensing props to all the actors.
Brook had seen a lot of death in his twenty years on the planet. His father died when he was a toddler, and his mother remarried an amazing man named Chuck. He was the only father Brook had ever known and he loved him. But his own father's untimely demise tugged at him. He said his dad died of an overdose. Of what, I don't know. He'd also lost many close friends to AIDS. Some of these people had been friends of his since he was a child, and his eyes burned with rage anti sadness as he spoke of music composers, stylists, and designers who "had IT." Thankfully, though, his mother had ingrained t importance of safe sex in him at puberty.
We were both disease free. But neither of us was an angel. Brook didn't ask about my porn days, but I suddenly felt compelled to explain them. I told him I'd been heavily into drugs and I didn't remember a lot of the specifics of those hazy days. We spoke candidly about sex and porn, and I was surprised at how willing I was to share my very private thoughts with him. He asked me if I liked kinky sex, and I laughed, saying I wasn't even sure what that meant. I was a virgin to anal sex, thankfully missing that phase in porn movies. "And I don't particularly like to be tied up," I said, "although a cool pie does feel rather nice sliding down one's body," I teased, breaking into hysterical laughter as I remembered the stories of sploshers.
"The only thing I ever really learned from porn was how to give a blow job without messing up my lipstick," I said, then excused myself and headed for the bathroom, fully aware of the amused look on his face. Unreal — I'd actually made a joke about the most painful part of my life.
The evening ended with us in bed. All thoughts of ulterior motives and what-ifs were gone. He knew who I was, what I'd done, and I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd even seen my old movies. But none of that mattered. I was crazy about him and fully aware of what I was doing. We played, laughed, and made love all night long. It was exactly how I'd imagined it would be ... just right.
Filming on Cry-Baby started in late April. We were like a traveling circus, wandering all over Baltimore on location. We shot in amusement parks, an old prison, and people's backyards. My mother on film was none other than Patricia Hearst, and we had an unspoken agreement: I didn't ask her about robbing banks and she didn't ask me about porn movies. We got along just fine. . . .
The dance lessons paid off. All of us bopped along well to the music and the atmosphere was like summer camp for juvenile delinquents. John was our faithful leader and set father. Pat Moran, Brook's mom, was definitely our set mother. We worked hideously long hours and pulled a lot of night shoots, going to work at seven in the evening and finishing at nine the next morning. Everyone was punch-drunk. As for me, well . . . I was dizzy in love. Brook and I were a hot item. We didn't even bother to hide it anymore, spending all our free time together. Pat was not surprised to hear of our relationship and her warm acceptance of me dissolved any fears I'd had.
The cast jitterbugged and snarled our way through the first month of filming and I had the time of my life, discovering the joy of working with an outrageous personality like Waters and the satisfaction or ending each day in the arms of a man I really loved. I was walking on air, a part of something bigger than myself and grateful for the extraordinary opportunity I'd been given. John's praise gave me confidence. He was a visionary, and I was thrilled to be part of that vision.
About halfway through filming Scott started sending me flowers and calling the hotel at all hours of the day and night looking for me. Why he suddenly seemed so desperate for my attention, I don't know. I'd been gone for almost two months, and although I hadn't told Scott about my relationship with Brook, I did say I needed some space and that when I got back, it would be time for me to move out. I didn't want to hurt him or lie to him, but I couldn't bring myself to end it over the phone. It just seemed so mean. I don't know when he put it together or if he really did, but days later it all came to a head.
Brook and I returned to the hotel at about eight in the morning on a Saturday after spending all night on the set. We were wiped out from the week's filming and lounged in bed, munching on bacon and eggs and glad for a day off. Road workers were outside the hotel making lots of noise with jackhammers and we wanted to strangle them, but who wants to go to jail? So we ended up throwing water balloons at them instead. Laughing away our frustrations and satisfied with our retaliation, we finally fell asleep.
The phone started ringing a few hours later. I unplugged it and had just fallen back asleep when I heard someone banging on the door. Pissed off at housekeeping for ignoring the "Do Not Disturb" sign, I set off down the hallway to give them a piece of my mind. But I stopped dead in my tracks when I heard an angry and familiar voice ranting outside. It was Scott.
Creeping closer to the door, I peered out through the peephole and saw him pacing back and forth. I freaked out, rushing back into the bedroom and waking Brook.
"Oh shit. . . . My boyfriend or ex-boyfriend . . . whatever — he's here! Outside the door!"
Brook was out of bed, pulling on his jeans in seconds.
"What should we do?"
"You . . . you . . . got to hide somewhere," I muttered. "We don't want a scene."
"No way!" he said. "I'm no pussy."
I panicked, trying to reason with him.
"Listen, all my stuff is in our house in California. If it goes down like this it's going to be a nightmare tying up loose ends with him. Please don't make it harder." Brook finished dressing, walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water.
"Okay, Traci," he said. "Let him in. I won't do anything unless he does. I'm just going to stand here in the kitchen. Get rid of him, though —for good."
Oh man, oh man, oh man. Okay,
I thought,
maybe I just won't answer the door.
The pounding got louder. I could hear my neighbors complaining. I stood in front of the peephole watching Scott grow redder by the minute. He was screaming at the housekeeper to let him in.
Okay, enough:
I opened the door and asked him to be quiet. He stepped right past me and headed for the bedroom. I started praying Brook would take his cue and split so I could deal with this on my own. I followed Scott as he checked the closet. Hey! He pushed me out of the way and headed toward the kitchen. My heart pounded. I held my breath and braced for a brawl. Scott backed out of the kitchen when he saw Brook leaning against the back wall with his ankles crossed and arms folded, staring daggers at him.
Silence. Scott turned on me: "You're fucking this kid? I can't believe you're fucking this kid! You better go, buddy."
I saw a smirk on Brook's face at the word "buddy." Brook and I locked eyes. I nodded. He hesitated and then walked out the front door.
I spent the day trying gently to explain things to Scott. But he was so hysterical it made no difference what I said. I apologized for the way it had all gone down, and told him I'd had no intention of falling in love with someone else. But that only made it worse. He was beside himself. I felt bad. He seemed so distraught. But I really didn't get it. We hadn't been happy in a long time. I'd been looking to end the relationship for nearly a year now. Could this have been a one-sided desire? And speaking of desire —wasn't it clear we had almost none for each other? Did he think I had no sexual appetite? Besides, this was the man who directed me in porn films! Why was he so upset I was sleeping with someone? Hadn't he always encouraged that? Or was that just "my job" to him?
I got frustrated as he hurled insults at me, knowing full well that he was hurt but finding the whole situation ridiculous. Oh, get a grip, I wanted to scream, it's not the end of the world. I was suddenly pissed he'd barged in uninvited, threatening the peaceful existence I'd created among the other misfits.
What's his problem? Is he afraid of losing his meal ticket? Is that it?
Just as I was about to say exactly that, he said, "Traci, my divorce is final."
"What?! You mean you were married the whole time we were together? No wonder your ex' loathes me!!"
I was furious as he pitifully took a velvet box out of his pocket. It was a diamond ring. He'd come to Baltimore to propose to me.
"I'm so sorry," I said to Scott as he sobbed at my feet.
I was so sorry . . . I'd waited so long. . . .