“In Corfu, your girl almost went hungry because my credit card wouldn’t swipe through at the food stand, so I deliberately showed that guy my cleavage and he let me have a turkey and goat cheese sandwich for free. And girrrrl, the food on the ship was incredible. I was so undisciplined, I ate like anybody’s and everybody’s pig. The chef was a Fresh Prince fan and would make me anything I wanted. And the desserts were stupid. I must have put on at least ten pounds. Thank God I’ve got two months to get in shape before the Human Rights Campaign honors me in St. Louis.”
As we rode down Sepulveda to get on the heinous 405 Freeway, I saw a huge billboard for the new ABC show black-ish and asked, “Oh, how is that show doing?” Julia didn’t respond. When I turned to look at her, she had a silly, sweet smile on her face. “I was giving you a moment before I told you. They called. They want you to play Anthony Anderson’s mother. They want you for black-ish!”
I said, “Well, black-ish better have some greenish!”
Yeah, that quip was a good one, but underneath, I was thinking, Damn, I didn’t expect my Adriatic prayer to happen this fast! It had only been two nights ago when I was speaking to God. I guess I’ll be kissing the moon more often.
Julia continued, “And you’re booked to start in two weeks.”
I fell into a dead panic. “Bitch, are you insane? Did I mention I ate fried cheese every fucking day? And chocolate, and butter-drenched escargots, and crème br?lée for breakfast? That camera’s gonna put another ten pounds on my ass. And oh my God, it’s all high definition these days, so everyone watching can see every pore and wrinkle.”
It had been eight years since I had played Lana Hawkins on Strong Medicine, the hit Lifetime television drama. My memory had gotten worse, and I was going to have to learn lines, lines, lines. Not to mention my knees now had names—Arthur and Ritis Jackson. Shit. I needed at least six months to get ready.
Look, was I excited to get back to steady work? Yes. Was I appreciative? Yes. But I was really scared at the same time. Come on, Jenny, time to slay.
When I arrived home, I kissed and played with my bichon frise, Butters (named for the character on South Park), and collapsed from jet lag. Lying on my bed, my mind was racing. You got two weeks, Missy! I got out of bed, flew downstairs to my gym, and mounted the elliptical. I did forty-five minutes of cardio. Then it was on to the weights and sixty squats. Come on, Jenny! The next morning I rode my bike seven miles, thinking about the time I had joined Weight Watchers. I went once, sang all them big mamas a blues song (after all, they were a captive audience), and never went back. I had to get serious; I needed a regimen. I made an arrangement for my niece Michiko to start training me every day. I wanted to look like I had twenty years earlier on The Fresh Prince, when I was beautiful from every camera angle.
But, like I said, I had not lost one fucking pound by the time, two weeks later, when I drove my big black S5 Mercedes through the gates of one of the most beautiful and historic movie lots in the world—the Walt Disney Studios.
The security guard at the gate shouted, “Hey, Flo! Hey, Mama Odie!” Disney is a home away from home for me. I am more famous here than at any other studio. And most Disney employees, from security guards to the chefs in the commissary, are huge fans of Disney animations; they know every movie, actor, and voice.
I smiled at the security guard as I fantasized that I was the great Gloria Swanson playing Norma Desmond in the movie Sunset Boulevard when she returns to Paramount, the studio she had made famous. In my fantasy, I wanted the guard not to recognize me so that, like Norma Desmond, I could say to him, “Open the gate and watch your manners, because without me, there would be no Disney studio.”
I pulled into the parking space marked “Jenifer Lewis” in front of Stage Four, thinking, Wow, you’ve come a long way, baby! Still in my Norma Desmond fantasy, I thought, Oh my God, will anyone remember me?
The answer, thank goodness, was yes, yes, and yes. They came and they came and they came. I was encircled by the cast and crew welcoming me, smiling and gushing. After all my years in show business, I had worked with damn near every one of them in some capacity or another: wardrobe, makeup, set designers, the drivers, the assistant directors. Even the dialogue coach was my dear friend Iona Morris, a talented actress and director. I knew and loved them all.
And on they came—embracing, reminiscing: “Hey, Jenifer, remember when Tupac had all them girls in his trailer on the set of Poetic Justice? Remember me? I was the stunt coordinator when you clocked Jim Carrey with that rubber skillet on In Living Color. We’re so excited you’re here. We’ve been waiting.” It wasn’t only about show business. One crew member said, “Hey, Jenifer, my brother loves you. When he saw you on Oprah talking about having bipolar, he went and took care of himself.”
Even the executives from the front offices came down to the black-ish set to welcome me. I was lit up.
I had of course worked with the oh-so-very-talented Tracee Ellis Ross on Girlfriends and Five, a wonderful Lifetime movie that Alicia Keys had directed. I knew Anthony Anderson’s brilliant and funny work in everything from Law & Order to Hustle & Flow to Barbershop. Of course, there was Laurence Fishburne, who had not only played Ike Turner, the son-in-law to my Tina Turner’s mama in What’s Love Got to Do with It, but whose body of work was beyond impressive, including some of the most important films of our time, from Apocalypse Now to Boyz n the Hood and all of the Matrix films. I was thrilled to reconnect with Kenya Barris, the creator of black-ish, who was just a young writer when we’d first met on Girlfriends. I dub him “Genius.”
Following the warm welcome, it was time for the usual television routine: two hours in the makeup and hair trailer. And, of course, the last-minute rushing. There’s always so much hurry up and wait. I sat in my dressing room, miked for sound, zipped into Ruby’s clothes—only to wait.
All the waiting gave me way too much time to fret. Would I fit in? The rest of the cast was already a family. I was only a guest star at that point. I would have to gauge and get in sync with their rhythm. Could I do it? Finally a knock at the door. “They’re ready for you now, Miss Lewis.”
I entered the soundstage trying to look cool. After a few preliminaries, including my last-minute pause to look at my script, shooting began. Now fully confident in my lines I stepped onto my blue tape-mark, opposite Laurence. The set was “put on a bell,” signaling all cast and crew to fall silent.
The first AD shouted, “Rolling!” I inhaled, shoulders back and spine straight. I felt the entire company lean in, smiling expectantly as all eyes fell on me, the mother of black Hollywood, the veteran of nearly three hundred productions, the woman they hired without auditioning.
The director shouted, “Action!”
I exhaled, thinking of that kiss I’d blown to the full moon over the Adriatic.
I go inside. I become Ruby Johnson. I deliver my first line. Within seconds, I hear the sound I’d been listening for all my life—the rising, swelling lion’s roar as dozens of people collapse in laughter and applause.
And the bitch is back.
TWO