Our first date began at a trendy wine place, sipping on rosé. At the next bar, with early 2000s songs playing, he asked if I wanted to go home with him. Normally, I would decline the invitation, making up some excuse like a good girl. But the combination of wine, music, and Los Angeles made me bolder. In New York, I was at my lowest point: single, exhausted from auditions, and just had a fight with my best friend. But a month-long stay in Los Angeles felt like a fresh start. So, I kissed him and said: “Let’s go.”
In his apartment, as we undressed, I felt like I was in a movie. Instant butterflies. The spontaneous way we hopped from one bar to another. And all I wanted was to be in a movie. Being an actor often means exposing yourself, hoping to be loved, and hearing “No, you’re not the right fit” a thousand times. It’s like dating, but paid (hopefully) and without sex (although sometimes there is). And that was before the strike turned the whole industry into a “no.”
In the morning, we made plans to go out for dinner the following week. He suggested L’antica Pizzeria Da Michele, famous for being the restaurant in Eat Pray Love. Not the original one in Naples, Italy, where Julia Roberts fell in love with her margherita pizza, but the new franchise that had popped up in Hollywood. I couldn’t wait for the second date.
I was staying in a guest room at my friend’s mother’s place in Beverly Hills. I had just gone through a major breakup, a fight with my best friend, which felt like an even greater disappointment. For almost three years, she and I had been a duo. We spent many nights brainstorming comedy sketches, plotting crushes, crying over boys who didn’t like us, and planning our brilliant future. I loved being part of the dreams she wrote on her giant whiteboard; it made me feel like anything was possible.
But our similarities got in the way. We wanted the same things and constantly clashed. On one of our last good days, we both auditioned to play a girl with debilitating acne who cancels plans with her friends. All the comedic actresses I knew in New York showed up. She got the part. And soon, she was canceling plans with me.
The breakup was slow at first. She arrived late to our monthly comedy show that we did together, coming from a birthday party to which I wasn’t invited. She didn’t want to grab drinks afterward; she was heading to a café with friends who were podcasters at the time, but now have recognizable names. When we were in a room with brighter people, I felt invisible. I didn’t know how to tell her, so I drank. It hurt, and tequila helped. I started showing up less on the whiteboard.
The end came quickly. She broke up with me over email; she was moving and wanted some distance. It wasn’t surprising that it ended, but seeing that message in my inbox was. Our friendship was no longer making us happy.
I wrote to her, “I hope you have an amazing time in Los Angeles. I have no doubt you’ll be incredible because you are incredible.” And I meant it, even though it hurt.
Six months later, I wanted to distance myself from New York and the feeling of being left behind. Los Angeles is a big city, and maybe there would be enough space there for my dreams too. I am an actress because that’s what you’re supposed to say, even when you’re almost 30 and have an empty IMDb page. If you blink, you won’t see me in Family Codes because they cut my role in the edit.
This guy and I had matched on Raya, the dating app for celebrities. He wasn’t famous, and neither was I; two DJs referred to me on the app. In Hollywood, it’s about who you know, and I knew two DJs.
I liked being part of something exclusive, passing in the app because of a DJ’s photo, another DJ, a photographer, an art gallery owner, Trevor Noah, another DJ. There are rumors that Pete Davidson has a profile on the app, although I never saw it.
On Raya, you create a slideshow to attract potential matches, choosing a dozen photos and a song to showcase your personality, like at a bat mitzvah. If there’s one thing heterosexual men are bad at, it’s slideshows. But not him. With celluloid photos and a Summer Heights High song, his profile was the perfect mix of sexy and funny. He claimed to have a GED, or “Great Energy for Slideshows,” playing on the acronym for high school equivalency diploma.
The first time he messaged me, he wrote, “Hi, I’m the person who’s going to kill you, disappear without a trace, or fall in love with you.” He was referring to a question on my profile about what I was looking for in potential partners.
“When you kill me,” I wrote back, “these messages will be a great clue for the police!” But I liked the third option better.
It took less than a week to run into my ex-best friend at a party full of comedians. I didn’t know she would be there, and when I saw her, I froze.
Luckily, the house was Hollywood enough for us to ignore each other for three hours on opposite ends of a massive pool. When leaving, I couldn’t avoid her without being rude to the hosts. I thanked them for having me.
“Nice to see you,” I said.
“Likewise,” she replied.
We played our parts perfectly with those two sentences. I went back to my room and sobbed. I wondered if she did too.
My new guy and I scheduled our second date after my paid class with a casting director. For just under 200 dollars, I would have the opportunity to make a good impression in a gray classroom to someone who could change my life. After going through a few of those sessions, you could be destined for a role with three lines of dialogue in a sitcom.
After performing an assigned scene from Superstore, I headed to the pasta place we agreed on and arrived 20 minutes early. In the bathroom, I put on a sexier blouse and messaged my date saying I was looking forward to seeing him.
He replied that he had a tough day at work and would be late, so I ordered a cocktail and chatted with the waiter, who was also an actor, of course. In Los Angeles, waiter means actor. Barista means screenwriter.
Twenty minutes later, my date messaged me saying he was leaving work. Just in time, I was about to finish my cocktail. Fifteen minutes later, another message: “Would you be mad if I told you I want to go home, smoke something, and go to bed?” He had told me he would either kill me, disappear without a trace, or fall in love with me. Well, the second option is better than the first. I messaged back: “I’ll be a little mad. I’m already here.” But I wasn’t just a little mad. I was devastated.
I had left New York with the foolish hope that maybe a change of scenery would make “it” happen: love, a career that wasn’t my day job. I wanted to be chosen just once after enduring a million embarrassments: telling a guy I was excited to see him, paying 200 dollars to perform a Superstore scene in front of 20 other hopefuls. I was exhausted from giving my all and being rejected: by strangers, by guys I met on the Raya app, even by my closest friend.
“Wait, what? Are you there?” he wrote.
Of course. I had been waiting for 45 minutes. I’m a New Yorker: I had walked down a strange street in an un-walkable city! I had put on a revealing blouse in a restroom: I’m from New Jersey!
He messaged me, “I’m so sorry. I feel awful.”
Not as awful as I did. I was causing a scene, shouting and crying alone in the restaurant, like Julia…
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