Working Pearl

Navigating the want somethings

Polaroid taken by Frankie Bruno, our adored on set costumer. My first promo shoot.

Can a person have FOMO for something that took place in the past? I wondered as I watched the opening of episode 4, Five Votes Down, jealous as the cast did the enormous, masterful, more complicated-than-you-know, ten-page walk-and-talk. On the couch in my pajamas, I could feel the hustle and the excitement, the compression of time and space as the scene went on, the peril of being the one to tank it by forgetting a line or tumbling in your evening dress down the stairs. I screamed at my TV, missing out retroactively: where the heck is Donna?! Even now, I can feel the pang of bittersweet longing, of wanting not only to be in that scene, but to be in every scene, in every moment, of every single solitary show.

I watched this gorgeous opening several times and found new moments to admire with each run-through. Richard, so light on his feet, so relaxed, that actual laugh when Bartlet tells the young couple to get a room. The mirth he carries without an ounce of effort is a marvel. And please, CJ, navigating the stairs as she asks Josh if she has a big neck—stop it, Allison. You're too good. And Aaron’s writing! All of these little moments, seemingly off the cuff, track and reappear later, satisfying an itch he himself created in the first place. There's just too much good writing to contain.

And when Donna appears, what a nugget. I recall hearing back then that Tommy Schlamme, our director-in-chief, used to encourage Aaron to not worry about each actor so much. He would promise him that we would survive missing an episode, that he didn’t need to service every character every time. And while I wasn’t privy to these conversations, to what Aaron might say in response, you could feel through his writing the desire to please every member of his company, even me. In my tiniest scenes—episodes where I tore through my script and realized I was barely in it—he would invariably offer a tasty morsel, something sweet and sassy to chew on. This running joke of the smoking jacket in this episode and how Aaron crafted it, gifted me, really was wonderful. The hilarious back-and-forth about Sarah Wissinger was delightful—something I had not remembered even a little bit, but recognize my good fortune now, even if then, I could never be totally satisfied.

When my son was a toddler, he used to stagger around our apartment in the West Village, moaning through his pacifier, “Want something!!” Panicked, we would follow him, offering puffy rice in small plastic bowls and blankies, cuddles and clean jammies, but nothing worked. It was existential, we eventually realized, not practical, his artist soul settling in, taking root. So he may have gotten his pouty lips from me and his deep blue eyes from his Dad, but he got that craving from us both. “Want something” is a family trait.

I hate vacations and days off. I prefer Mondays to Fridays and would rather work than play. I love getting up early and heading out to a set before the city wakes, my coffee in my mug, my hair wet from the shower. My dad was like that. Working as a hairdresser for 60 years, he would sit in his salon with an empty schedule, sure that his day would fill up. And it always did. When he had to quit work a year before he died, his long days holding him down in heavy pointlessness, his will to live dwindled. And I don’t mind that. People need a reason to get up in the morning. My dad and I understand.

I had an audition the other day and what fun. I took the subway to my friend Olli’s apartment, where he put my work that I had painstakingly attended to on tape. We used to go in person to a casting director’s office to audition; running into friends, grabbing a bite after, was the creamy topping of what could be a grueling process. But after COVID, auditions IRL never came back, and actors were left with only their phone and whatever friend or family member they could wrangle into taping them. Olli and I talked about the huge film he had been a part of, a magical, long experience. He told me a friend had asked him if he would trade this one perfect adventure for a lifetime of just fine, steady work, and he thought about it and promised no. But on days when just your cup of coffee and a place to go and do your job would be enough, I wonder.

I remember when I was freshly off the show, I would walk into auditions, a room filled with actors, beauties slumped in folding chairs with their scripts on their laps. They would look at me, crestfallen, sure that a big show, a massive success would one day exonerate them from auditioning, from the constant effort of finding work. I also used to promise myself that I would never audition past the age of forty, then forty-five, then fifty, and now, well, I have erased that finish line. Because life isn't like that, is it?

I have the privilege, no matter my age, to sit and write, to be a mom and wife and an actor still grappling and managing the fierceness that made me an artist in the first place. I'm not ashamed to like work, to have ambition, and to think I still have much to offer. The difference is now, with perspective and time, I can see the light alongside the pain of, “Want something.” I have a gorgeous, weird life like everyone, and here I am still living it.

So, I’ll get on with my day. But before I do, I might watch that walk-and-talk one more time, or maybe skip forward to watch Allison once again maneuver her way around John Spencer, attempting to grab the pearl choker he got for his wife. (Why?! How is she so brilliant?!) But most likely, because I know myself, I’ll make a third piece of toast with extra butter and strawberry jam, then check my emails for the tenth time, to see if, maybe, just maybe, I got myself a pretty nice job.