The following article was originally published in BACKSTAGE magazine
on December 28, 2000

Oh, the Things We Do
One actor reflects on the confusing business of being an actor.
By Rachel Zients

So this is me: an actor, living in a world supported by dreams that
is hard to understand, harder to explain, and hardest—but far grander
than all other options—to live in. It is a lifestyle fueled by the
ridiculous. But for those of us in the know, it is just par for the
course. No two paths for performers are the same, however, and not
every path leads to somewhere. In fact, many paths lead to fire and
cliffs—or if you're lucky enough not to crash and burn, just dead
ends. But we struggle on as waitresses and couriers, caterers and
temps, fighting off the wolves luring us with temptations of
stability or shortcuts for success without effort.

Luckily, we are creatures who thrive on make-believe, and pretending
to play other roles as we head toward our one true role is OK by us.

So this is me: fueled by an inescapable desire to affect people the
way I still feel when the lights go down and the show begins; who,
despite all the years, is still an innocent; who will always be that
little 12-year-old girl returning to theatre camp, summer after
summer, with hopes and dreams and dancing shoes, belting out, "The
sun'll come out tomorrow" to anyone who'll listen, knowing that this
must be her year, her year for the lead.

That little girl from camp may have grown up, but the thought still
whispers in her ear, "Maybe this year."

Over the years, I have ditched my college degree. I have lived in
apartments you wouldn't show your parents. I have tried not to lie. I
have tried. I have desired stability while pursuing uncertainty. I
have moved away from home on a whim. I have left my mother. I have
mistaken people's fancy jobs and status for their personalities. I
have trusted people I shouldn't have trusted. I have wasted time. I
have allowed selfishness and jealousy to be traits I am comfortable
with. I have put on basement plays with my own money, my own sweat,
my own friends, crying, "Who needs the movie business—as long as we
can act?" I have ruined those friendships over artistic squabbles. I
have quit my day job because I got a callback as a stand-in on
Saturday morning's Hang Time. I have faced that look that says, "I'm
trying to understand and, yes, by golly, support that little acting
thing you do," that some family members seem so fond of. I have had
$3 in my bank account. I have studied with the best and been
convinced that that and a headshot would be enough. I have been
humbled and humiliated on a set when the director yelled, "Don't
speak! You're just an extra!" I have stood on the sidelines as
friends walked the red carpet. I have been brilliant when no one was
watching and failed when it mattered. I have done things required in
auditions that I am sure are appearing somewhere on the Internet. I
have taken it all too seriously and not seriously enough.

I have also decided to live this way—to balance on the brink of
fabulous and failure. I recognize that.

Therefore, I try to make the most of it. But while pursuing what I
want, obviously, there are things I need. Hence, I must work.

So a waitress I became, at a comedy club, no less.

Playing the Waitress

I figured since all of L.A. is a canvas for learning, for
experiencing and gathering the tools needed to succeed in this town,
this way at least I'd be guaranteed exposure to the industry night
after night. Now there are some who advise, "Never get a job in the
industry where they can't see you for the artist you are. They'll
forever see you as a waitress, an assistant, a secretary. Work
clandestinely, so one day you can emerge as that eccentric performer
who supported himself all those years as a clock maker." But I say,
whatever works for you, works for you. And what worked for me was
Waitress U.

On the road to wherever it is I am headed, I have shown you to your
table. I have paid attention during seating: to the person who is
scouting and taking notes, to the person they talk to after, to those
comics who leave us behind for network TV, and to those who still beg
for an open mic. I have watched it all.

And this is what I've learned: Tomorrow may not be full of auditions
or appointments (or the sun coming out, for that matter, though in
L.A. it's a good bet). An empty day can breed an empty soul. So I
take pleasure in my tangible accomplishments: good service, boosting
my confidence, adding to my strut, knowing that baby steps can lead
me to where I need to go just as well as long strides.

I've also learned that the power of the laugh is impressive—and the
discipline of performing comedy even more so. Top comics will come
into the club and work out material late at night—comics you wouldn't
think would need to. In fact, the ones you wouldn't think would need
to are the ones doing it the most. That's how they became who they
are. And I stand there in the corner, watching and feeling honored
that my survival job allows me these moments, realizing that the
struggle of the artist never ends, it just changes.

And I take a deep breath and face all that I have bitten off, all
that is ahead. And I continue on my path. Sometimes that path has led
me astray, made me go in circles, or plopped me down right at the
beginning. But ultimately it is my decision to get back up and try
another route. Surprisingly it was not years of Meisner training, nor
years of singing and dancing, nor that theatre company in which I
really got to strut my stuff that got me my biggest break so far. It
was simply a case of "right place, right time." I was "The Improv
Waitress" in Milos Forman's Man on the Moon. Go figure.

Every little break counts. We find ways to justify our lives. The
brief moment of true clarity we experience when really listening to
our acting partners balances out hiding away in our studio
apartments, smoking a second pack of Camels before noon, and
listening to the same depressing song repeat, as bills pile up and
those we went to high school with become homeowners and parents,
productive members of society.

It'll Make a Great Story

So this was me: fresh out of drama school only a few years ago, prior
to all I learned in L.A., sitting on a subway, heading out to
Brooklyn, an hour and a half each way, to earn my first paycheck as a
professional actress—in dinner theatre. Murder mystery musical dinner
theatre, actually.

The initial thrill that they picked me over the hundreds willing to
do this job had faded, and I sat and sulked, mumbling to myself and
to anyone else who'd listen, "I am a trained actress."

So I entertained myself with thoughts of Dominick Dunne. Vanity Fair
will eat this up! "We had to wait for the bar mitzvahs to be over,"
I'll explain. "I almost had to sue to get my $60," I'll giggle.

Even better than that, my Tonight Show spot will rival
Bette's! "Dinner theatre, Rachel?" "Yes, Johnny!" (In my mind, it is
still Johnny, always Johnny.) "You sing? You dance? I did not know
that." We'll smile. We'll laugh. He'll cajole me into a number. I'll
oblige. I'll recall, in my best Brooklynese, zipping on the N train
from Bay Ridge to my waitressing job in upper Manhattan. Then I'll
sigh, all bright-eyed and shy, "Oh, Johnny, the things we do."

I will not tell him of my embarrassment during those years, how I
would not let anyone in my family come see me perform, no matter how
much they begged. I will not speak of the sense of entitlement one
needs in order to exist in this town, all the while mired down by a
looming sense of doom. I will not talk of the debt I accumulated in
order to pursue my dreams. I will not try to recreate the feeling of
turning on the TV or going to the movies and seeing those who had
beaten me to the job. I will not discuss my never-ending issues with
food that have found me trying to be cuter, thinner, prettier,
younger than the girl next to me. I will not explain, for I would not
know how to, that all of that and much more is actually accepted and
welcomed in exchange for the brief gift of an audience's laugh, a
lengthy bow, or even a deafening silence as I command the stage.

So this is me today: I can see the Hollywood sign when I drive home.
It seems so exciting lit up on the hill. And the simple truth is, it
is exciting. Whenever I am worn to my core, weeping or disgusted,
ready to rise up and denounce the business or, worse yet, ready to
quietly fade away, that excitement will sneak up and bite me with a
sting so deep, so full of excitement, glamour, and glory, that I
cannot even try to explain how fun this life can be. And I smile,
knowing it is all within my sight.