Instant Mom (4 page)

Three months later, I nervously asked one manager about my script. She looked annoyed, then found it on the floor behind her chair. She placed it on her desk as if it had a crusty coating of herpes and looked at me coldly. With one finger, she flicked it across the desk at me and said, “You’re an actress; who ever told you you could write a screenplay?”

There are a lot of fear-based people in any business. You know them. They claim to want something different but when you give it to them, they shoot it down. While I’m not saying the screenplay was brilliant, at least I was trying to get a job, admittedly by uncommon and unorthodox means. At this point, it’d been over three years of trying to get acting jobs by playing by the rules. I’d tried to be a good girl. I did everything agents and managers had asked me for. I’d paid for new headshots, acting lessons, and casting workshops. I’d been banging my thick head against a brick wall. It felt like when I was trying to get cast in Second City Toronto by playing by their rules and auditioning, and ended up getting in by going onstage from the box office. That time I had stared at that impenetrable brick wall, then pulled a brick out and shimmied my big butt through it. But now, I was being chastised for not playing by the rules. And waiting. For what? I’d had years of that theater school teacher telling me I was too fat, and now agents and managers telling me I still was not enough for the roles that were out there: not fat enough, not pretty enough, not thin enough, not old enough, not young enough, not talented enough. I was never right for the part; I was never supposed to do anything but wait for that elusive job. Now I stood there holding my script, embarrassed to be told I shouldn’t write because I was an actress.

I just couldn’t be a good girl anymore.

I told the managers it’d be best if we parted ways. I felt pretty sure I had a real movie in my hands. It wasn’t just brassy conceitedness. I had already gotten up onstage at comedy theater open-mic nights and read parts of it out loud—and people had laughed. Strangers found it relatable. They’d tell me afterward that it sounded like their own crazy families.

But I now had no agent, no manager. My phone simply did not ring with a job offer. So I called myself.

I realized if I wanted to perform, I could just get onstage and tell my family stories in the style I had seen Julia Sweeney and Jeff Garlin do. I sent the screenplay to the Library of Congress to copyright it, then turned the material into a solo show. With the money from my voice-overs and Ian’s sitcom work, I rented a local theater. My set was a typical Greek living room: a couch with lace doilies on the armrests, and every other surface adorned with Parthenon knickknacks. Then, I just walked out onstage and told the story by playing all the characters. First, just friends from my Second City days came to support me, which was really nice. I am grateful for my circle of actors and writers who actually support each other—we cheesily call ourselves The Core. (Believe me, we know how dumb it sounds and that’s mostly why we like it.)

But I had ninety-nine seats to fill once a week. So I went to church and at the after-service coffee hour, I boldly handed out my show flyers. When I told my parents, they went silent at my effrontery. Then my mom said, “Did the icons weep?”

Well, those Greeks came to the show. A lot of Greeks. Then the Greeks came back with their non-Greek neighbors. And the non-Greek neighbors came back with their families. And the stage show sold out week after week. I was losing money on it. The theater rental alone cost over $400 a night. Add in the cost of flyers, posters, etc., and it’s an expensive endeavor that never made money at ten dollars a ticket.

But I was creatively exultant. I was performing again. Sure, I idealistically hoped an agent would come to the show; then I could get the screenplay read by a studio, made into a film, and play a role. Since I didn’t have an uncle who ran a studio, I needed an agent to get my script even read. I didn’t know anyone in this industry who could help. (I didn’t think to ask my lawyer, Jon Moonves, who to this day remains my personal friend and professional ally-attorney. Jon did my voice-over contracts and is such a gentleman, I didn’t know then he is actually a high-powered super-hotshot.)

After a while of
running the show, in 1997 I decided to try to make an income off it: if I could pull in mainstream Los Angeles theatergoers, then maybe I could expand the amount of nights I was doing the show. I took out an ad in the
L.A. Times
. It cost about $500 for an approximately two-inch-by-two-inch ad. Rita Wilson saw that ad the day it ran and called the reservation line. I answered. Our home phone number had always been on the poster and was now on that ad, so during the day, I used a different voice to take reservations. My point is, I knew she was coming that night and was thrilled. A while back, during an awards show, Rita’s husband, Tom Hanks, referenced being married to a hot Greek babe and whenever he spoke of her in interviews, it was always with such joy. I had always hoped to meet her because she was a very funny Greek actress I admired.

That day I received the copyright for the screenplay in the mail. I looked at it. It seemed I had sent it in so long ago. I was zealously enjoying performing my solo stage show and now understood the reality of how hard it is to get a screenplay read, never mind made. You have a bigger chance of marrying a terrorist as you get hit by lightning on your fortieth birthday when you win the lottery or whatever the adage is. It’s not that I had given up. It’s just that by that point, many industry people had come to the show and called me in for meetings. It usually went like this:

The first thing they’d tell me is that no, they didn’t want to read my screenplay, they wanted to just buy my story, have a “real” writer write the script, and change it all to Hispanic because there wasn’t a market for a Greek film. I’d explain it was vastly important to me to keep it Greek because it was about my real family, never mind that I had written it so I could play a bridesmaid. I’d get a hot stare back. I’d then say no thank you to the offer and, harder still, no thank you to the money. One producer offered me $50,000. Ian and I were still struggling to make rent. But I said no thank you and went back to doing my little stage show.

There was other interest but I now knew the reality of how hard it would be to get the screenplay produced.

At the show on this night, Rita Wilson and her Greek mom, sister, and nieces laughed so hard that I had to pause and pretend to drink water a few times. I kept my composure, but inwardly, I was giddily enchanted that they related to my story. If the story had ended there, I would have been satisfied.

After the show, I walked out through the lobby and Rita was waiting for me. Her first words to me were “I love you.” I was stunned. She is even prettier in person, and a beam of happiness seems to emit from her. She is vivacious and upbeat and kept hugging me. I was delighted by her and her warm family, very much like my own.

Rita then exclaimed, “This should be a movie.”

We always say I then handed her my screenplay so fast her hair flew back. She was going to read my script!

The next day, I got a call on my “box office” home line. For the very next show, Rita purchased four tickets for the males in her family: her dad, brother, son . . . and her husband, Tom Hanks.

On show nights, my husband, Ian, would sit in the box office area of this little theater and take people’s ten-dollar bills. The theater seating was first come, first served, but it was only ninety-nine seats, so all seats were good. But someone at the theater had heard Tom Hanks was coming to the show, so on this night they’d taped off four seats right smack in the middle. It was a small theater facing a small stage. I was the only one onstage. You could see and hear me from any seat, anywhere. You could’ve seen me from the lobby.

Anyway, on this night that Tom Hanks was coming, there were many Greeks at the show. And try telling a Greek they can’t sit somewhere. I was standing what could technically be called backstage, but really was just behind a thin and fake wall. I peeked through a crack and saw hefty audience members gesturing at the taped-off four-seat area, as in, “Why can’t I sit there? Why? Who are those seats for?”

I paced. I was worried. It was time to start the show. Ian came backstage and told me ninety-five ticket-buying audience members were in. Four patrons were missing. We stared at each other, not saying it: Tom Hanks was not there.

Ian ran outside to see if there was a problem. There was—the tiny parking lot was full. He then saw a shadow: running up the street from a parking meter was a small group led by . . . Tom Hanks. Ian gulped, ran back inside, got it together, casually gave them their tickets, and showed them into the theater.

I was on the other side of the fake wall peeking through the crack, watching the complaining Greeks—“But why can’t I sit there? Who are those seats for?” And then, I saw their faces as they saw him walk in. Tom Hanks. Tom. Hanks. They realized those seats were being saved for the one, the only Tom Hanks. Suddenly that was okay with them.

The audience lights went out, the show music played, and I was in a tizzy. I stood backstage, not moving. At all.

I don’t get nervous about performing—even in my years of improv, if a scene died, I could just shake it off and go back out there for the next one. But tonight was a ridiculous scenario. Here’s the thing: to me, Tom Hanks had always been The One. He was always my favorite actor. I truly loved his work. I had watched his movies over and over. I couldn’t even hear the theme music to
Philadelphia
without choking up at just the memory of his performance. I was about to perform for, never mind the world’s greatest actor, but for my favorite actor of all time? A guy I now knew was cool enough to marry a hot Greek chick? I could hear a raspy sound. It was my breathing.

Then I told myself this: in seventy-five minutes I could either be really proud of myself or really mad at myself . . . it was my choice. It was in my control.

So I walked out onstage and purposely looked past the middle section so I would not have to make eye contact with the biggest and best movie star in the world. But I couldn’t see any faces. I looked closer at the audience. There were no eyes. I saw just ears. All heads were turned toward those middle four seats. They were all looking at Tom Hanks.

I spoke the opening lines of the show and delivered the first punch line. Tom Hanks laughed. Loud and hard.

The entire audience seemed to realize at that point that there was a person onstage. They turned en masse and looked at me, like “uh-huh, go on.”

And the show went on.

I talked about my family and how they reacted to my wedding to a non-Greek. Tom is not Greek and he married Rita, a Greek. Miles apart, Rita and Tom, and Ian and I both had weddings in a Greek church, where we wore head wreaths, and led by a priest we walked around an altar three times to seal our vows. In the show, I talked about the family members who first greeted Ian with suspicion and eventually accepted him with an assuring pat on his cheek: “You look Greek.”

Like Ian, Tom had been enveloped and swallowed into a colossal and loving ethnic family. Like Rita, I had dared to bring a non-Greek, a
xeno,
into a fiercely proud family. On this night, as I told the story, I realized how similar our backgrounds were.

Then suddenly, the show was over. I was bowing and the audience was applauding and I ran off as usual. But they were applauding really hard. I looked through that wall crack and finally saw the face of Tom Hanks. I decided if this turned into a standing ovation I would go back out there. Suddenly, Tom leaped to his feet, the audience quickly followed in a standing ovation, and I ran back out so fast I’m sure I created a butterfly effect on another continent. I took another bow, looked right at him finally, and smiled. Just a “thank you for coming” smile. And Tom Hanks grinned back. Again, if the story had ended there, I would have been happy.

Two days later I received a letter from Tom Hanks. The letter says:

“Dear Nia,

“I know you. You are one of those Greek girls who come into the lives of men like me. Men who are not Greek. Non-Greek men. We see you, then we work up the courage to speak to you, then we fall in love with you and ask you to marry us. Then you do, in one of those Big Fat Greek weddings where you walk around a table three times. And then us non-Greek men live happy forever.”

Tom goes on to talk about the show, Rita, their family, signs it simply with his name and includes a P.S. “I look Greek.”

If the story had ended there, I would have been . . . you get it.

Well, a while later Tom Hanks called me and asked if his new company, Playtone, could make my script into a movie. I always say it doesn’t matter how many no’s you get, you only need one yes. Here was mine. Rita Wilson had started it all by saying yes to reading my script. With Tom Hanks on the line, I gripped the phone receiver and breathed. Of course I was about to accept with boundless appreciation . . . but I went quiet. After years of struggling to get on-camera work, I really wanted to be
in
the movie. I yearned to be cast in any role, even the lump on Aunt Voula’s neck. But I didn’t dare make this request—this was Tom Hanks on the phone. Timidly, I began to consent, vacillated . . . then thought of the Laurel Thatcher Ulrich quote: “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” I knew I was about to ask Tom Hanks, the best actor in the world, if I could play a bridesmaid. And what came out was . . . I asked Tom if I could play . . . the bride.

I was stunned at my audacity. I held my breath.

He said yes.

For Rita and Tom to get that movie made and subsequently released in theaters would be a complex and arduous process. This was problematic because I was a non-“name,” and we were independently financed. Rita was always adamant that I must play the lead—we became very good friends over the course of the production and since. Both Tom and Rita treated me with the utmost esteem and truly like a peer. Gary Goetzman, an independent producer Tom was wise to partner with, forming their company Playtone, was incredibly respectful and caring. I tell everyone: Rita, Tom, and Gary treated me like gold before that movie made a dime. They let me be in on every aspect of the film from editing to mixing to marketing. I asked boneheaded questions and learned a lot. It was a protracted, laborious production to complete yet clearly turned out to be enormously rewarding. I broke into an industry that had told me loud and clear I didn’t belong, and found success because I was tenacious, assertive, and obstinate.