LaGuardia Airport, New York. March 2007.
Bing! The sound of the seatbelt sign switching off acted like a gunshot at the start of a race.
It didn't matter that we were in the first-class cabin; as soon as that little chime went off, people were on their feet faster than Olympic sprinters.
I reached up and opened the storage compartment above my seat and pulled out first Cadbury's utilitarian satchel, Anita's overstuffed bean bag chair of a purse, and my own Uniqlo HP collection computer bag.
We were the first to be let out. "Thank you for flying United." The money train moved up the aisle and out the door while the economy peasants jostled behind the closed curtains. I wiggled my jaw to pop my ears as my turn came up. "Thank you for flying United. We hope to serve you again."
"Thanks." I returned the farewell with a smile, but quickly grew confused when I felt her slip something into my hand.
Normally, boarding passes are handed to the flight attendants by the passengers on entry. In my case, however, I'd been handed a different kind of pass on my way out.
As the three of us made our way towards the arrival hall, I stroked the card paper between my fingers and couldn't help but wonder how common this phenomenon was getting to be. "Don't think for a second I didn't see that hussy pass you that love note. You're not keeping it."
Caught as I was, I brought out the card and waved it. A name, a phone number, and a hotel. The most blatant aspect, however, was the bright red smooch, which abandoned any pretense of what this was. "Can't I keep just this one? She's a stewardess! Surely that's an adequate call for extenuating circumstances."
"You are blind to red flags if you view the world through rose-coloured glasses." Cadbury scooped out a dollop of wisdom. She was referring to the caliber of person my admirer was - I was still over a year off from being on the market as it was - so certainly she wasn't exactly a paragon of judgement.
That, or Cadbury, was making fun of my brand new Michael Westen sunglasses.
"There's a bin right over there. I expect you to toss it. God knows you're probably the tenth stamp on that rewards card. You sure you can stomach that free frozen yoghurt?" Wasn't that just the most lovely mental image? Her phone got a half a ring in before she answered. "Specter." She snapped her fingers and stabbed her painted nail at the rubbish bin.
Who wouldn't sigh in my position? But I'd rather lose out on my mile high club membership than face Anita's snarling pearly whites. I took a whiff of the card. She'd sprayed perfume on it - vanilla and florals; had to be J'adore. "Au revoir, my air hostess." I chucked it.
"Bad news, Tropic Thunder lost another prospective actor for Alpa Chino. Some guy called Kevin Hart said no."
What a waste.
–
Silvercup Studios, Queens NYC. March 2007.
"It's not Rockefeller Plaza, but I've spent enough time in studio 8H to tell you that there isn't a more accurate representation anywhere else in the world." Tina Fey gave me a guided tour of the 30 Rock set.
"I've never been, so I wouldn't know. My time in New York has usually been reserved for brief premiere appearances before I'm parceled and returned to sender. Nice to be here for an extended period this time. D'you think Tracy Morgan would show me around the city if I ask?" The studio was all well and good, but I'd rather get a local bite of the big apple.
"Not a chance. Your agent gave me a heads-up about you. No way I'm putting you two wild animals in the same room unless I want it torn down." When did fun become a taboo?
"When I signed up to be your boy toy, I wasn't expecting such a tight leash."
"You should be more grateful I'm not whipping out the ball-gag and riding-saddle. Speaking of, get ready to meet our resident desk jockeys."
I spied a laminated sign labeled as the writer's room. "Is that our heading?"
"And I thought you were just a pretty face." Facetiousness - thy name is Fey.
She slammed the doors open and hollered at the startled scribes. "Rise and shine, monkeys!" Specifically the ones with typewriters. "Bas Rhys, may I present to you the illustrious writers of 30 Rock." They were somehow even more disheveled than they were portrayed on the show. "Take a deep breath and drink it in."
I heeded her advice, much to my detriment. Coffee, ketchup, body odor, and that slight waft of ganja underneath.
In other words, nearly identical to the rest of New York. "So you're the degenerates who want me lusting after an older woman?" Pot calling kettle black, Bas. "What's the episode title again? Cougars?"
Leave it to comedy writers to take my amateur attempt at humour in stride.
They graciously got up and welcomed me. "Thanks for playing along. These nerds have been casting spells at each other ever since I told them Harry Potter was gonna be joining us for an episode. I promised them a private meet and greet to keep them motivated."
"No worries." I shook another hand before a familiar one reached out. "Probably behooves me to make a positive impression on the brains of the operation, isn't that right?"
I was met with a firm grip and a gummy smile. "Donald Glover. It's so cool to meet you, Bas!" Troy before Abed. Lemon pepper wet before Atlanta.
Ah, that was right, wasn't it? I'd almost forgotten he'd gotten his start in showbiz writing for 30 Rock. "Call him dong lover. The rest of us do." Thanks Tina.
"Please don't."
"Wouldn't dream of it. That'd be childish…" Gambino.
–
["Oh my god, who ordered the veal?" Jane Krakowski crazied up her face to embody Jenna. "Am I right, guys?" I saw her hand go up for a high five as I distributed the prop coffee to the actors pretending to be writers.
"Ugh, Jenna, that guy is a baby!"
"Lutz?" I did my best impression of a Starbucks barista.
"I'm Lutz." But before I could hand it off to the pudgy man baby it was meant for, Jenna swayed her way over and snatched the drink. "Thank you… Jamie." She glanced at the name tag pinned to my hoody. "I like what you've done with your eyebrows. You look like a young Alain Delon."
"Is that bad?" No, it wasn't. I'd seen pictures of him in Purple Noon.
"Oof. You're young."
"Give it up, Jenna. You're talking to an ultrasound." Tina - or more accurately, Liz Lemon taunted.
The line in the script, unfortunately, didn't reflect my strong affinity for older women, so I chose, instead, to improvise. "Give me a night out and I'll show you what a real ultrasound looks like. What are you doing this weekend?"
"W-what? Nothing. Shut up! I don't know…" Liz almost spat out her coffee.
"I do."
"Get out, already!"
I shot her my best charming but shy smile. "Alright, you wanna see me leave. I get it." I put a little pep in my step and left.
"That guy is adorable!"
"Ha. Frank's gay!"
"Maybe I am gay… for that little peach."]
–
The width and breadth of New York's culinary offerings stretched from Andalusia to Zambia, but whenever I came here, the first thing that I insisted on stuffing my mouth with was always a hot dog.
Half the dog, topped with sauerkraut, disappeared down my gullet in a single cavernous bite, while a fat smear of mustard tickled the tip of my nose.
Feeling the condiment precariously perched on and threatening to drip off my nose, I searched for a napkin before I ended up staining the latest version of the Tropic Thunder script Ben Stiller sent over.
I just had to send Cadbury to drop Anita off at the airport when I put myself in a position to be babied.
Emma was taking a flight down to LA to read for a prospective part, so Anita had to hold her hand for a bit. I couldn't even wipe it off on my clothes. I was in the wardrobe for my upcoming scene.
"Need a wipe?" Dong Lo- Donald Glover offered a tissue.
"Please and thanks." I set down the script and cleaned my bib-worthy face.
"What're you reading?" He took a seat beside me and peered at the screenplay.
"Just the script for my next movie."
"You mind if I..?"
"Knock yourself out." The pages ruffled as he flipped through. "Interested in writing movies, too?"
"Sure. Not just movies, though. I spend a lot of my free time writing songs and stand-up jokes as well. I've got a lot of ideas swirling around my brain, you know?"
I was well aware. His career was still in its nascent stages, but in the future he'd successfully classify himself as a modern-day renaissance man. "Just writing? You ever think about acting or performing?"
"Who hasn't? But there aren't a lot of roles out there for someone as fresh as me unless I wanna get typecast as token black best friend on some third rate sitcom. That or a gangster."
"Don't forget the third in the trifecta; rapper." I segued - and no, I didn't mean the vehicle overweight police officers used. "Why don't you try out for Alpa Chino? We're having a great deal of trouble casting that role at the moment." Brandon T. Jackson was alright, but there was a diamond in the rough sitting right next to me. Why wouldn't I try to borrow his hidden potential in an effort to better my movie? "No harm in trying to get your foot in the door."
Deer meet headlights. "Uh… That's generous…"
"But?" A little spine there, my man.
"But I'm barely five pages in and I saw mentions of blackface. So no offense, but I'm not sure how long my career would last." He put the script on the table, away from him as if it had the aforementioned mustard on it.
How silly of me to forget that part. "Do you really think I and the massive machine behind me would risk my career with a script that was in poor taste?" A quick dose of reason makes the coercion go down. I slid the script back towards him. "Read the whole thing first. If you still don't like it, then feel free to ignore me. On the other hand, should your knee jerk opinion change, let me know. The casting director will see just about anyone right now."
I stood up, shoveled the remaining half of the hot dog in my mouth, crumpled the napkin, and readjusted my threads. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to try and get some nookie by dancing the krump over Tina."
–
[I tucked Liz Lemon securely under my arm and pulled her into my torso as we looked at ourselves in the mirror.
The camera remained just off angle enough to not get spotted in the reflection. "Look at us. We look awesome together."
"Yeah, we do. Now I know why Demi Moore does this."
"Is that bad, too?"
"No-! Well, maybe… Let's not think too hard about it." I moved away while she stumbled and said my next line to the person waiting off frame.
"Alright, mom, I'm heading out!"
"Mom?"
"What made you think a twenty-year-old could afford this place?" I gestured at the fake apartment around us.
"Ok, honey, have a good night!" As Liz tried to get her bearings, her veritable twin walked out. "Oh, hi! I'm Beth." Same hair, same specs, same clothes, and the same arm hugging her into my body.
All the excitement drained out of Liz as I smiled and leaned into my fake mom like a dope. "Yup, that's what we look like." She turned on her heel, ducked her head, and went for the door. "Shut it down."
I couldn't help getting a last jab in. "Liz, wait!" My fingers wrapped around her wrist, "you've got the wrong idea. She's my stepmom!"]
She gasped, stared at me, and snorted. "I don't know why, but that makes it so much worse!" We cut.
"Should I refrain during the next take?"
"Keep the horror coming! I promise I won't laugh next time - or vomit. Where the hell does your mind go?"
"In the gutter with the other bloopers, I reckon."