On my second day as a resident of Los Angeles I was told that I would never make it as a writer in Hollywood. His reasoning: “You’re too nice. People like you, writers like you, never last in a place like this.”
He nearly choked on the word “nice,” his gravely voice unaccustomed to positive words. According this guy, “nice” was a negative, a weakness, something that should be surgically removed like a gall bladder, not necessary and sometimes fatal. In his thinking, “nice” negated talent and drive and made any sort of contractual negotiations impossible, which is a death sentence for writers who wanted to avoid becoming homeless. His speech was heavily peppered with expletives, euphemisms, football metaphors and huge vocabulary words that proved his Ph.D. in Linguistics. I had always wondered what an advanced degree in linguistics would get you. There he was, burnt out Hollywood screenwriter, teaching undergrad English for the health insurance and the promise of a steady paycheck, after years of living hard in the fast lane.
He never missed an opportunity to rant about his disdain for Los Angeles, the traffic and air quality, the Hollywood system itself, his tasteless agent, ungrateful sons and an alarmingly long list of ex-wives. He took pleasure in reminding the class that Los Angeles is not only the movie capital of the world, it’s also the porn capital of the world. For this reason alone, we should all go back to where ever it is we came from before Los Angeles can do anymore damage than it already had. Within the first fifteen minutes of meeting him, he asked us to leave, run for our lives while we are all still relatively “normal.” This was my welcome to Los Angeles. I was told it would be best if I left.
After turning in my first assignment, he collected our homework and shuffled through the pile, digging out mine. He read it out loud to the whole class and proceeded to ridicule every single line. Those sitting closest to me started shrinking away from me, thankful it was happening to someone else and fearful because I had looked promisingly competent when I walked in and sat down among them. What would he do to theirs when the time came? By the time he had finished ripping me a new one, I had realized two things. First, I would not be making any lifelong friends in this class. He had single handedly taken care of that for me. Secondly, in his own way, he was criticizing a piece of writing that he felt was worth spending time on. It was just hard to hear over all the cursing and insults. The assignment had been to write a page, introducing ourselves to him. How could there possibly be a wrong answer? In that moment, I decided that I would not, could not, take this lying down. He scribbled something on my paper and handed it back. I took it like I was being dealt a serious hand of poker. He was waiting to see if I would react, to see if I would give up and go home. I glanced quickly at the “A” at the top of my homework and back at him. He cackled and moved to the paper at the top of the pile continuing his bitter diatribe but the class was over and everyone was racing for the door.
The next class, I came in and sat down in the middle of the room. Not one person sat next to me. I’m not kidding. Everyone sat hugging the walls and avoiding eye contact with me. I had become the outcast, the leper.
As I left that night, I turned to him and said, “See you next week.” And then added quickly, “I’m not afraid of you.” I moved quickly toward the door because we both knew that I was, in fact, terrified. I’m really not much of an actor. His laugh followed me out into the dark parking lot.
