Hope Floats

I live with my family in a house 90 feet from the ocean. I know the distance because my 14-year-old son measured it with his whopping size-13 feet.

My morning beach walk is the very best way I can think of to start the day. I clear my head with deep breaths of salty air and burn a few calories. Since the tsunamis late last year, the ocean has looked especially dramatic and powerful, as if to say to anyone listening, “Make no mistake, I am in charge.”

Yesterday on my walk, I discovered that I am not the only one having a conversation with the ocean.

On the rocks just past Washington Pier, I spotted a long stick with something attached to it. Looking closer, I discovered a handwritten note, carefully wound and taped. Also taped to the stick was a small silver box. Someone meant for me to find this stick. At least that’s what I told myself as I pulled it out of the water.

What could it be? I walked the mile home with the stick tucked under my arm, my mind racing. Was it from a jilted lover, casting her engagement ring--and a page of neatly typed broken promises along with it--out to sea? Was it a suicide note? Had someone given up, written his or her farewell and floated it off into the Pacific?

Back in my kitchen, I carefully cut the tape and smoothed out the soggy notes. One was wrapped around a tightly spooled 8-by-10-inch head shot and resume. There was no ring inside the silver box; just another note, folded into a tiny square. Brushing the sand aside, I scanned the photo of a pretty, dark-haired girl, let’s call her “Carla,” who had confidently scrawled “Leading Lady” in waterproof marker above her theatrically posed head. The first note contained many confident proclamations, including “Every day I discover something new, true and wonderful about me!”

The note in the silver box was something else again--more of a rambling thank you for all the success and triumphs she hadn’t yet experienced. Think of it as the wet, rough draft of a future Oscar acceptance speech. She thanked a powerful, well-known Hollywood producer who “believes in me as a star and conspires to open up opportunities for me as the new leading lady.” She credited a major matinee idol for “being my star mentor who helps me and leads me to the roles that have made me a leading lady.”

Reading her resume printed on the back of her head shot, I saw a beginner’s smattering of credits: a few independent films, one industrial and two local plays. I learned that Carla is fluent in Spanish and lists Valley Girl among her three dialects.

Unlikely as it seems, part of me identified with Carla. I’ve been there. Twenty-five years ago, when I was asked to join the Second City improvisation troupe in Chicago, everything seemed possible. Nothing mattered more than a spot on “Saturday Night Live.” Meanwhile, I’d perfect my art at whatever stand-up comedy venue would book me. But I never got to “SNL.” Real life, as they say, got in the way.

I was married at 20 and was expecting my first child at 30. After a decade with Second City and working as a comic, my taste for the road turned bittersweet. How would you like to be on a nightclub stage, eight months pregnant, having your stomach rubbed for luck by drunken accountants?

I loved doing comedy, but not enough to give up the chance to raise a family. Instead I worked as a warm-up comic for sitcoms. I hopped from one soundstage to another each night and sat at the breakfast table with my kids each morning.

Of all my accomplishments, I’m most proud of being a mom. My kids love that I am a comedian. Their friends think I have a cool job, and I do too. I’ve designed my career to be flexible enough to be present for all the important events in the kids’ lives. I have it all. My life makes total sense.

At least that’s what I told myself later that day as I climbed into my station wagon and drove to a cavernous casting office where auditions were being held simultaneously for at least a dozen commercials. Commercial work may not net you an Oscar nod, but hey, it sure puts a dent in private school tuition bills.

I was auditioning for the part of Assembly Line Worker No. 3 in a commercial for toilet paper. I was ushered into a windowless room with two other actors and a video camera. We formed an improvised assembly line. Assembly Line Worker No. 1 spoke first: “It’s so soft!” he said passionately. Assembly Line Worker No. 2, emoting with only his eyes and body, threw me a knowing been-there-done-that look. My line as written: “Must be the new guy,” I said with a smirk, bringing this little slice of unreal life to a close.

Back in the wagon, I thought again about Carla. Having crossed paths, I decided to give her a little advice about the ups and downs of our nutty business. After all, I have my priorities in order. Why couldn’t she?

I got home and dialed the number on the back of her head shot. She picked up on the second ring. A young, enthusiastic woman. Not suicidal. Whew.

I introduced myself, then described what I had found and what I had read.

“Oh!” she said, perking right along. “That’s my Calling Stick.”

She explained that a Calling Stick is used to “call out one’s future plans.” Once a year she bound up all her show business hopes and prayers and cast them into the ocean. I was the first to respond. Then she stopped talking.

Now, I thought, it’s my turn. Here’s where I tell her that once I was just like her, star-struck and naively optimistic, but that I had learned to channel my energy and ambition in the right direction. The time would come, she’d see, when she’d be glad she had heard my sage advice.

As I formed my thoughts, a familiar voice--call it my Inner Heckler--distracted me: “So, big shot, how’d you do today? Did the casting guy like you? Who’ll be your competition? Will you get a callback? Did your body language betray an insufficiently genuine affection for Scott Tissue?”

“Are you there?” Carla asked.

“Oh, yes,” I said, shrinking from Plan A and wildly searching for a conversational Plan B. Must. Keep. Talking.

“Er, do you like being an actress?”

“It’s great!” she exclaimed.

“Well, that’s good. I’m happy for you,” I lied.

“Thank you.”

I wished her luck. Another awkward pause. Finally, Carla said: “Um, could you do me a favor?”

Here it comes, I thought. She’s recognized my name, knows I’m in the business, wants to tap into my professional network. No way.

“Sure!” I said, wishing for the first time in my life that my kids would interrupt me while I was on the phone.

“Oh, thanks! My Calling Stick. You’re near the beach. Could you throw it back into the ocean?”