Underneath It All (17 page)

Cry- Baby premiered in Baltimore. Brook and I were flown in, compliments of Imagine Films, to participate in the press junket. I felt like royalty as we arrived in a stretch limo at the best hotel in town. The red carpet literally rolled out to welcome us. The lobby was grand. Our room was filled with flowers and gift baskets. A chandelier hung above the Jacuzzi. The marble hallway offered a private, fully stocked bar, and Brook and I laughed at the outrageous display of wealth, shocked to be treated like movie stars.
We called Brook's mom and told her she had to see this, and the whole gang turned up an hour later, with John Waters in tow. We hung out in our room, swapping stories. The junket was weighing heavily on John's mind. He warned me I'd better be prepared to answer questions about my past.
Oh no! Again?! Why? Hadn't I done enough interviews over the past four years? in spoken to
Hard Copy, A Current Affair, Entertainment Tonight,
dozens of local news stations, magazines, newspapers. What was left to say? How many times do I have to relive this?
I'd naively thought I'd already answered "those" questions.
John sighed deeply. "Honey," he said, "you'll be answering those questions as long as you live."
That statement knocked the wind out of my sails. Reality suddenly awakened me from the fantasy movie star world I'd walked into, but as I looked around the room, seeing Brook's family there, I felt comforted. No matter what anyone said, pornography was my past. Not my present. Not my future. It was my past, and I could deal with that.
I wouldn't crumble.
I woke up at seven the next morning and declined Imagine, offer of a makeup artist. I can paint my face better than anyone, I thought. Besides, I wanted a moment of quiet before the press onslaught. As Brook slept soundly down the hall I headed for the "greenroom," the hospitality suite for the talent. By the time I got there it was packed with the
Cry-Baby
gang, roaring with the excited chatter of old friends reconnecting. We headed down the hallway ready to meet the press. There were eight rooms filled with press people from all over the country. I had never seen anything like it. The cast was split up and sent in different directions to give interviews. It was a feeding frenzy.
I was nervous as I entered the first room. The public relations person from Imagine assured me that I could refuse to answer any question I didn't like. I just looked at her. The thought had never occurred to me! I'd always felt the need to explain myself, somehow wanting to make people understand that I wasn't really all bad.
I fed myself to the wolves, answering every question but not always seriously. I found myself snapping back when insulted, cringing at certain outrageous comments about my porn past,' and still naively believing that my new work would speak for itself. I was embarrassed to be asked questions like What's the difference between porn movies and mainstream movies? Did you enjoy making porn movies? How many films did you really make? I'd been answering those questions for years, but I'd never had to do it in front of fellow actors. It was humiliating to be put on the spot like that. I hated that it still got to me, but I couldn't resist defending my life. I was a sucker.
As the day wore on, I became more and more irritated that no one cared about my work in
Cry-Baby
. Try as I might to throw in comments about working with John and the others, the press only wanted to hear about my porn days. It was clear that I was being exploited for an easy headline. Yet I felt that if I stopped the interviews, Imagine Films would think less of me, and I wanted to prove I could hold my own. I wished I could turn back time. I would have given anything to erase the XXX from my forehead.
On the crisp spring evening of March 15, 1990, a long line of cars crept one by one toward the Senator Theater for the world premiere of Cry-Baby. Brook and I shared a glass of champagne while peering at the crowd of fans and reporters from the safety of our limousine. As the car crept slowly forward, we downed our drinks, hands sweaty with anticipation. Brook was no stranger to the press, having grown up with the Waters clan in Baltimore and sharing many a photo op with his godfather, Divine.
My deep purple dress clung to my body as I exited the limo, flashbulbs blinding me. Brook and I walked the red carpet hand in hand. I met Pat's eyes as she watched her son and me greet the media. She gave me the thumbs-up and I smiled back, feeling like I belonged on the red carpet and knowing that I had backup nearby. I laughed at the frozen smile of my petrified boyfriend, squeezing his hand to bring him out of his trance.
The film was met with screams of approval from the crowd, but I don't remember seeing the movie at the premiere. My body was in the theater; I was not. The adrenaline pumped through my veins as I sat gawking at my name on the huge movie screen. I squirmed in my seat, uncomfortable to see my giant face looking down at me. I was antsy. Waters must have felt the same way because I saw him sneak out for a cigarette a couple of times.
I spent the rest of the evening accepting congratulations from strangers at the after-party. We mingled with journalists and fans. The cast signed autographs most of the evening, and the next day the
Baltimore Sun's
headline read "Not a Tear at 'Cry-Baby,' " featuring a color photo of John, Johnny, Patricia Hearst, and me.
Brook and I headed over to John's house, which was located in a beautiful area of Baltimore. He owned a gorgeous three-story mansion not far from the university. John laughed that with all the press that had come out over the weekend, he'd been woken up twice by cars full of college kids screaming "Traci Lords!" in front of his house.
"I guess they think I have you locked up in the attic said.
He was in a fabulous mood, happy with the response t o film and telling us to keep our fingers crossed. He was anxious to hear the weekend's box office receipts.
We made our rounds, visiting friends of Brook's and hanging out with his grandma Grace. She was still all aflutter about the fabulous green lamé gown she'd worn to the
Cry-Baby
premiere.
I loved her. She was still every bit a diva.
We spent our last night in town with Brook's family enjoying an incredible meal prepared by his father, Chucky. After dinner we all piled onto their massive sleigh bed to watch CNN. We were like little kids lying at the foot of the bed. Brook, his sister, and I gossiped about Johnny Depp's new girlfriend, Winona Ryder, who had been unnerved by our gang at the premiere, not sure what to make of us. I was glad I wasn't the new girl anymore. I was happier than I'd ever been in my life and completely at ease in this family of oddballs.

Cry-Baby was only a moderate box office success. It made its money back, but by industry standards it was a bomb, which was a huge disappointment for all of us. But it was hardly a loss for me. I was one step closer to mainstream credibility.
My picture appeared in newspapers and magazines all over the world, and while the press hadn't hurt my career, it certainly hurt my ego. I discovered that few people actually read the articles accompanying the photos and was horrified to realize many people still thought—and would continue to think —of me as a porn girl. Is that why I was asked the same old questions over and over again? Weren't they bored with the subject yet? Was it impossible to change public opinion?
Where do I go from here?
The studios weren't courting me, and while small independent houses had made a few offers, most of them were for poorly written exploitation films. So I continued building my resume by choosing the best of what I was offered.
I accepted a role for an action movie called A Time to Die, opting to shoot people rather than perform the required nudity of a Roger Carman film. It turns out I was the perfect action hero.
I had an edge, loved the stunt work, and much to my surprise, I could handle a gun.
Slowly, I was climbing the ladder and staying true to my two rules: Make every film better than the last, and keep my clothes on.
One afternoon I came home late from filming. The walls of our house were vibrating with the wailing guitar of our neighbor, Rikki Rocket of the band Poison. He was rehearsing songs for a new album, and "Unskinny Bop" blared over and over as I headed for the shower. Stepping out of the bathroom, I noticed a trail of rose petals leading from the door down I he stairs. I wrapped myself in a towel and followed the trail, wondering what was going on.
As I walked into the living room downstairs, I heard Chet Baker playing softly in the background. Brook stood staring out the window at the cars rushing by on the freeway. He was wearing a black suit, and he was shaking.
"Is something wrong?"
He asked me to come to him. Walking toward him, I noticed the wineglasses and the candles burning on our coffee table. He dropped to one knee.
"Will you marry me?" he asked.
"Yes!"
I said, and excused myself to the bathroom to throw up.

Brook and I were married in Baltimore, Maryland, in the fall of 1991, in a church only a few blocks away from his parents' house. But before that could happen, the first order of business was for me to get baptized. During the required marriage counseling before the wedding, I realized the minister assumed we were both baptized, and the truth nagged at me. I certainly didn't need any strikes against me going into a marriage. Who wants to piss off God? So I brought the problem to John's attention.
Boasting he was an ordained minister, John offered his services and support. At first I thought he was kidding, but when we met the following afternoon at his Baltimore home, he'd changed into a fancy dark jacket and wore a very serious expression. He asked me to be seated. Brook stood nearby rearranging some dark purple-black tulips as John recited his résumé as a minister. He had indeed performed several weddings.
"Hmm . ." I said out loud, "is this going to hurt?" I'd never been to a baptism before and was nervous.
"Perhaps," he shot back, his eyebrow rising. "The removal of original sin is a difficult process. As a matter of fact, I might have to charge you double for my services!"
I burst out laughing, his teasing manner lightening a surprisingly intense moment. I'd had little experience with organized religion in my twenty-three years on the planet and I didn't know how I felt about this ritual. But I was comforted by the warmth in the room. And with John and Brook by my side I was sure of one thing: I believed in love, and God was said to be just that.
Father Waters removed my sins, and about half an hour later, Brook and I went to city hall, sin free, to collect our marriage license. We were married the following day.
The reception took place at a gorgeous private club overlooking the harbor. It was all a big surprise for me. I really just showed up for the wedding. I didn't know what kind of flowers or food we were going to have. I had been in Los Angeles running around on auditions while Pat organized the day perfectly.
My dress was designed by
Cry-Baby
costume designer Van Smith, and made by Grandma Grace's personal seamstress, Paulette. The food was catered by an old friend of the family and the casting was perfect. It seemed everyone in town had a part in Pat's production of our special day. Life was funny; the woman who'd cast me in
Cry-Baby
had unknowingly given me a permanent role in her family. It was a wonderful, weepy day. We were surrounded by a hundred and fifty guests and both our families. My mother and sisters had even flown in from Los Angeles. Brook and I danced the night away, finally retiring to the bridal suite of a lovely hotel across town. It was an unforgettable evening.
In the morning I caught a plane for Vancouver, British Columbia, by myself, as I'd been cast in an episode of
MacGyver
. No one was surprised that Brook and I went right back to work, though. We were a show business family.

Brook and I moved into a cozy house in North Hollywood. We called it the Hansel and Gretel house because it had a stone walkway that led up to a sunny porch overlooking a big garden. Wearing our beekeeper hats, large ridiculous bonnets we'd purchased in Chinatown, we dug around in our blooming garden. We planted sunflowers, tulips, and parsley, exercising our green thumbs. Our cat—previously known as "Rat"—had been renamed Mr. Steve McGarrett, in homage to my favorite actor as a child, Jack Lord of Hawaii Five-0 . We had a wrought-iron gate about six feet high in front of the house, and although our yard wasn't completely private, with the exception of the occasional nosy neighbor, no one bothered us.
At twenty-three years old, I was happily married. I spent a lot of time hanging out with girlfriends like Christina Applegate, fixing dinners, playing pool, and drinking wine on the front porch. I was also making a decent living as a print model. My pinup posters hung in rock band bathrooms all over the city, and Christina liked to remind me of the days when she briefly hung out with the Red Hot Chili Peppers' Anthony Kiedis. Apparently my swimsuit poster hung above the toilet in the band's bathroom and she was scarred for life —unable to get the image of me staring down at her, as she peed, out of her head.
I've been in worse places, I'd told her.
My acting career was moving along slowly. I did a lot of episodic work, guest-starring on MacGyver, Sweating Bullets, and twice more on Married with Children in different roles. Christina and I got to know each other during those long Friday-night shoots and I came to feel that she had it all. But it's true —the grass is always greener. We spent many an evening sitting on my front porch with Steve McGarrett talking about boys and business. She longed for a solid relationship, fully in awe of my marriage. I longed for a solid career, fully in awe of her success. She was only nineteen years old. She had a fortress in the Hollywood Hills, drove a brand-new car, and had men falling at her feet. She had everything but no one to share it with. I adored her, never understanding how Mr. Right hadn't swooped her up yet.
Our little house was the hangout. Our friends had the fancy homes, but Brook and I had the joy and everyone wanted a piece of it.
My mother-in-law, Pat, became an even more important part of my life. We were really close. I traveled a lot in those days modeling all over Europe and it was decided by the family that I needed a chaperone. "Patio" in tow, I traveled to Paris for the Thierry Mugler fashion show. I hadn't been to France since the final porn movie I'd shot in 1986, and was a little nervous about returning to the scene of the crime. But it was nothing like I remembered. It was a completely different experience now that I was living in another world, no longer a teenager or abusing drugs.
I arrived in Paris hours behind schedule. Pat had flown in beforehand and I was sure she was looking for me by now. The flight was late and I had no time to relax or even check into the hotel before I went to work. All I could manage was a birdbath in the backstage bathroom sink before I was rushed into makeup, greeted by an excited Patio. The makeup area was a big open space with a dozen mirrors. Makeup artists scrambled to ready the faces of Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, Rachel Williams, and Debi Mazar. The place was wall-to-wall six-foot-tall beauties in various stages of undress. Racks of clothes lined the walls with models' name tags attached. I could hear the crowd chanting out front. The champagne flowed, the music pounded, and finally the show began.
Models scrambled to take their places and I had no time to be intimidated or impressed by the spectacle. My makeup was slapped on in a gorgeous-mess kind of way, my hair teased into a more extreme Brigitte Bardot style, and I stripped naked next to Cindy Crawford, who wiggled into a space outfit of some sort. I hung on to Pat's shoulder as a dresser dusted baby powder on my lower half so I could slide into a pair of candy-apple red latex pants. The rhinestone bra I wore pinched my nipples, turning them into razor-sharp weapons. It was good to be armed in a sea of unruliness, and Pat and I tried, unsuccessfully, not to laugh.
I felt like an Amazon in my platform heels, my five-foot-seven-inch frame raised to six feet. It was a long way down! I moved cautiously toward the bathroom, my full bladder demanding attention. I carefully rushed along, only moments away from being called onto the stage, when a woman's foot tripped me. I fell down the small flight of steps, barely stopping myself as I grabbed for the railing. I looked over my shoulder at the platinum blonde perpetrator. A famous blond singer stared back. I wasn't sure if she'd tripped me on purpose or not, but she sure didn't apologize as her entourage laughed at my flailing limbs.
"Cow!" I said, hissing, as I entered the bathroom.
I walked the runway three times that evening for Thierry Mugler, and each costume was more bizarre than the last. I was the latex rodeo queen, the sci-fi space goddess, and finally a glittery angel. Pat watched from backstage, helping me change costumes. We were jet-lagged, exhausted, and utterly giddy at our current surroundings.
A handsome but rather dumb-looking man in his twenties walked by our changing area several times staring at me. I met his eyes, but his sour expression told me he wasn't a friend. Pat already had the scoop, having made friends with all the stylists backstage. She said he was a gay porn star named Jeff Stryker. Never having heard of him, I shrugged my shoulders. Okay — what did he want? She told me he was mouthing off backstage about how I "wasn't all that" and if I could get as far as I had in Hollywood with such limited talent, he was sure to be a huge star.
"Really," I said, scanning the room looking for the twit. If it was that easy to do what I'd done, more people would have done it. I was fuming, but the expression on Pat's face when she announced, "Oh, Traci, he's just a big jealous baby," was so priceless, I could only laugh. I realized how silly it was to take these jealous, petty comments seriously. You're right, Patio, I thought, smiling at her. Someone was actually jealous of my success. I guess that meant I was making progress!
The fashion show finished to a standing ovation and the press ate it up. For once they seemed to really like me but of course I couldn't understand a word of French.
Pat and I arrived at our Parisian hotel long after midnight. We were exhausted and starving but room service was closed, so we lay on our twin beds in the dark playing the food game. I would say mashed potatoes. . . . Ummmmmmm, she would say turkey sausages. . . . Yummmmmm, creamy chocolate cake....
Ahhhh, vanilla ice cream.... Ohhh. And it went on and on until one of us fell asleep.
The next day was rainy and gray. We pressed our faces up against the taxi's window as we snaked through the city en route to another photo shoot. The streets were filled with colorful
umbrellas and the people were handsomely dressed in cashmere coats and leather gloves. It seemed so civilized there.
I was set to shoot some photos for Mugler and was the only model working that afternoon. They positioned me in an old elevator with a small French poodle and I stared at my Polaroid image thinking I looked exactly like Cruella De Vil. Finishing work early, we said our good-byes, then Pat and I headed off- into the city once more.
This is the `veppon," Pat said in a funny voice, pointing at the big black umbrella she was using as a walking stick. "Ahhhhh," I said, "you mean 'weapon."
"No it is the `veppon'!"
"Very well, then," I played along, drawing my top lip back and lowering my voice. 'Where shall we go with our `veppon'?"
"Why . . . to eat of course. Traci Elizabeth!!!!!!!!!!"
Giggling like schoolgirls, we entered the first cafe we saw and pointed to items on the menu with a simple "oui" as neither one of us spoke any French. Then we took in the sights, walking through the streets of Paris hand in hand and drinking coffee.
I felt I'd reclaimed the city that day, and left behind a new history.