We’ve all been there.
But who to choose?
I thought of the monosyllabic wrestler in eleventh grade who on our one date got drunk, barfed, then successfully coerced me into making out with him. The manic-depressive white rapper. The drummer with unprecedented B.O.. The male model who said “supposably” and didn’t know who Aretha Franklin was. And the guy I chased around in college, then ran into a few years later wandering down Santa Monica Boulevard in full, fascinatingly ruined-looking drag.
But then, joyfully breaking free from the pack, came Ron.
* * *
Ron played The Waiter in a summer stock production of a play that my dad was in in the 1980’s, and he was a complete showbiz novice. This may at least partially explain why Ron was instantaneously mesmerized by yours truly. He reacted to my arrival (the play was in a different city) as if Steven Spielberg had just popped into town on a talent-scouting spree. The fact that I worked only sporadically, and that my last job had been playing a prairie woman in a miniseries for Oklahoma public television, did not seem to faze him. His awe-stricken enchantment with me, and, of course, the fact that I thought he was cute, led me down the old familiar road. Romance was in bloom.
I returned to Los Angeles, and the flirtation continued by phone, albeit by collect call, as Ron had literally zero money. He spent his end of the calls flattering me incessantly, pelting me with questions about “the business”. (Me, who just a year or so before, had wept with joy after being offered a guest role on an episode of “Murder, She Wrote”.)
I came to the conclusion that Ron must come to Los Angeles. To justify flying him out without feeling like I was employing a long distance escort service, I decided that his one line as the waiter in the play (which after all, I thought, had been delivered with a certain je-ne-sais-quoi) was a sign: Ron had star quality. I wouldn’t just be flying a guy into town on the off chance that he would become my boyfriend. No. I would be using my hard-earned savings to bring to the entertainment capital of the world a Person of Talent. And I would be the one to foist him upon the masses.
I was there to greet him at the airport, all of his earthly possessions not quite filling one small duffle bag. He approached me nervously. We hugged hello, then he suddenly took a step back. “Wait a minute,” he said, staring at me doubtfully, “I forgot what you look like.”
On our way to the car, Ron ogled every woman that walked past. Finally it proved too much. “I don’t understand how anyone could ever stay faithful in a place like this!” he exclaimed. “Oh, but you will, Ron”, I thought (and may have said), “You will.”
He moved in. I bought his socks and his underwear, paid for his fanciful food fetishes at the local supermarket, indulged all of his whims. And, delivering on my own private rationale, I got on the phone and arranged meetings for Ron with agents and casting directors all over town. I personally chauffeured him to all of these, willingly blowing off my own appointments to schlep him around. And lo and behold, it paid off– a good talent agency decided to take a chance on Ron.
This was my plan– and it was actually working! You think I’m a big shot, Ron baby? Well, check it out– you were right! Feel free to worship further at the altar of my greatness.
But something was different. And it finally occurred to me what that something was: Ron didn’t need me anymore.
And I was a total idiot.
* * *
As it so happens, Ron did have some talent. After he moved out (another girl, another free place to crash), Ron landed a role on a series. I could never bring myself to actually watch it, but I would see the commercials from time to time as I sat on my couch, stone-cold broke, having frittered it all away on Ron’s exotic fruits and vegetables from the Pavilion’s. But it did teach me a lesson. And in the end, that’s all you can really ask for.
Image by Gaetan Lee via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.
