Stories I Only Tell My Friends: An Autobiography by Rob Lowe Read Free Book Online Page A

probably, then rightfully, belong: with the nerds and the other “pleasures to have in class.”
    One day as I’m killing time hanging out at the Mayfair Market parking lot, I see a bunch of kids running around in army outfits. They seem to be playing a sort of war game and are taking it very seriously. I ask the kid who looks to be the leader what’s going on. He is a chunky blond, with a runny nose that he doesn’t bother to wipe. He tells me that he is “filming” a Vietnam movie and he is using the market’s loading dock as a set. He shows me his 8 mm movie camera and introduces himself. “I’m Chris Penn. I’m the director.” Now this is exciting—kids shooting their own movie! I ask him who else is doing his movie, hoping he will ask me to be in it as well. “Well, I got my best friend, Charlie, my brother Sean, and maybe Charlie’s big brother, Emilio.”
    “You mean you guys are actors, too?” I ask. I already know that none of these kids are in the cool crowd—they don’t surf.
    “Nah, not really. We just like making movies. Charlie’s dad is an actor, though.”
    “Holy shit! A real actor?” I ask.
    “Yeah, he’s done a bunch of movies.”
    “Can I meet him?”
    Chris laughs. “Are you kidding? He’s been gone for almost two years working overseas on a film about war somewhere in the Philippines.”
    Later I learn the movie’s called Apocalypse Now and his name is Martin Sheen. But at this moment, I think to myself, now that’s a guy I’d like to meet someday.
    Chris tells me that when they make another movie, he’ll call me, but for now “we don’t have any parts for you.” I stick around and watch as they film each other getting shot in every conceivable fashion, slapping ketchup everywhere for fake blood. The Mayfair Market as Vietnam. The magic of Hollywood.
    At home later, Chad has exciting news as well. His elementary school is going to be used the next day for the filming of a TV series. I can’t believe it. My intense loneliness and longing for my father and friends back in Dayton begins to fade into the background. This place isn’t so bad after all.
    *   *   *
    The previous week at my brother’s elementary school, Chad’s teacher hid a kid in his class in a closet so he would not be kidnapped in an ugly custody dispute. As the kid’s mom and a team of lawyers scoured the school, the sheriff was called to rescue the poor kid, who was ensconced, like Anne Frank, in a broom closet of the art room. The father arrived, as well, and the staff oohed and aahed, as he was a legendary rock icon, but the kids were more excited to see the sheriffs running around with their guns drawn. The incident was soon forgotten. If the same thing happened today, it would be on TV and in the tabloids for weeks.
    I rush home from school to stand with Chad and watch a TV crew convert the principal’s office into a hospital emergency room with the help of giant lights and a caravan of equipment and trucks. People are crowding around to get a glimpse of the three actresses as they repeatedly enter and exit the “emergency room.” They shoot the scene over and over and to us it’s riveting each time. The three stars take a break and walk to their chairs. On the front are each of their names, Jaclyn Smith, Kate Jackson, and Farrah Fawcett, and on the back a cartoonlike logo of them holding guns and the title: Charlie’s Angels .
    Unlike Liza Minnelli, these gals have flocks of people surrounding them. There’s no way to get close, but eventually I strike up a conversation with someone on the TV crew. He looks important to me; he is hauling a lot of cables and lights and listening to a walkie-talkie. I ask him a barrage of questions culminating with the classic “How do you think I can get into acting?” The man tells me I should write to the producer of Charlie’s Angels , Aaron Spelling; he’s the biggest producer in the history of television. “I’m sure he would like to hear