I like to daydream about having a different kind of life. Ive wanted to open a stationery store because I was obsessed with fine writing paper, boxed note cards with images of fine art from museums, and exquisite pens. That was on Monday. Or a store that sold antique clocks. Specifically, alarm clocks or mantel clocks. I had a fetish for antique travel alarm clocks, where the clock folded itself, turtle-like, into a pretty case from Herms or Jaeger-LeCoultre. That was on Tuesday. On Wednesday, Id be the warden of a prison because I thought that was a powerful way to reach some of the most forgotten people. Id help those who had done wrong and were actually caught and put away by those of us who, by Gods grace, were neither caught nor punished. Come Thursday, I was sure it was an art gallery in Chelsea, one of those places in the West 20s. Id live in London Terrace and walk to work every day. Id travel to Europe, buying and selling acclaimed art. But on Friday, I wanted to be a teacher. Id hide away behind ivy walls and teach literature or film studies. Or Id become a lawyer and prosecute those who abuse power, making the bad guys tremble at the sound of my name. Then Saturday forced me to admit that I wanted to relax and have fun, so Id open a nightclub. Like Rick Blaine, Id surround myself with a cast of lovably quirky characters. All men would envy me. Women, against their better judgment, would throw themselves at me nightly. But I would demur. I would wait for Ilsa to show up and prove to me that love is real.
I spent Sunday looking over this list, and I realized, after a while, that none of these occupations involved being famous. People who do these jobs may touch many lives, but they are not sports figures or movie stars or potentates. They go about their business and are immune, presumably, to the whims of the publics praise and the scorn of the media.
I didnt end up choosing any of those careers and fell into a completely different line of work. I fell into a rabbit hole, which is defined as a bizarre, confusing, or nonsensical situation or environment, typically one from which it is difficult to extricate oneself.
I never imagined I would do what Ive done for a living or see what Ive seen. Acting can satisfy some of the desires and curiosities found in those imagined careers. Over time, I realized that, through acting, I could touch every station of the cross, as I perceived them (humility, service, loyalty), that might earn my late fathers approval. I never wanted to be an actor because it seemed so trite. But as I moved along the game board and thought I might be invited to play a bit longer, much of that cynicism fell away. Opportunities arrived to appreciate lifes beauty, mysteries, truths, and heartbreak, to understand life on a higher plane. All of this while you play like a child again. And try to become immortal, like Marilyn Monroe or Elvis. This is what most people in the entertainment business want, I believe. Just as much as they want money and power and adulation, they want a certain kind of immortality.
My own relationship to the entertainment business was much simpler. Acting was a way to ease, though never eliminate, the financial anxieties of the boy from South Shore Long Island who remains inside me today. Im not actually writing this book to discuss my work, my opinions, or my life. Im not writing it to explain some of the painful situations Ive either landed in or thrown myself into. Im writing it because I was paid to write it. And as we go along, youll know that the mercenary force is strong in this one. You might want to stop there and put the book down, knowing that its theme is that I did a lot of things for money. Anything truly worthwhile that emerged was just a bit of luck or wonderful alchemy. I once read that Richard Burton made some choices in his film career so he could buy Elizabeth Taylor a diamond ring or whatnot. Thats my excuse, too. Except there was no Liz and there were no diamonds.
However, just as the challenges and charms of performing in public for many years won me over, writing this book also became its own reward. To look at ones life, to stare at all of those joys and mistakes, all of those moments and emotionsyoud be dead, in some sense, if it didnt change you. As was so often the case during my career as an actor, money prompted this memoir until the moment something else took over. Now, I want you to know that my name is Xander Baldwin. (The x sounds like a z.) Im from 25 Greatwater Avenue in Massapequa, New York, and my siblings, including Beth, Daniel, Billy, Jane, and Stephen, didnt turn out all bad, and that is due to my parents: my mother, who lived to grow and change in remarkable ways, and my father, who sacrificed his life caring for and giving to his children and others.
Im also writing this book to share the truth, as well as my remorse, about some of the incautious choices Ive made and subsequent difficult times Ive lived through in public. The worst mistakes Ive made in this life live forever on the Internet. Online, people remind me of them every day. Ive endured and invited a level of scrutiny that has pushed me to the brink of self-destruction or simply a self-imposed anonymity. I cannot lie to you on that point. The media gauntlet we are either contracted or compelled to run can be soul-crushing. But the boy who first wanted to run for president in the fourth grade still lives in me. I dreamed of doing some kind of work that would make a difference in the lives of the people I cared about. I love my country. My way of loving it meant urging it toward being better. I believe we make it better when we are fully informed and engaged. Informing people, engaging them, thats what I wanted to do. I ended up in the rabbit hole, however, where sometimes we play silly games, and other times we examine life as deeply as novelists, doctors, and judges. And the one difference is that our job is not only to play all the parts and to understand everyone onstage, but also to become them. When were done, we reacquaint ourselves with who we really are, perhaps the most difficult part of all.
Every day, Im filled with doubt about my choices. Every day. Writing this book presented a thousand such choices and, thus, has been both painful and therapeutic. Nevertheless, I am grateful to those who will read it and allow me to share some of what Ive seen, what Ive learned, and who I believe I truly am.
The woman lying next to me was a large woman. I will always remember her that way. Only five feet seven, she seemed taller. Her forearms were like blades, broad and flat, and packed with rippling tendons from endlessly carrying around children and groceries and whatnot. She was strong and had fast hands, gunfighter fast. When she struck you, her right arm sprang toward you... snap!... like Navratilovas backhand.
Even in sleep, she seemed frightened or wracked, her face slightly contorted, sweat beading around her neck. Her dyed hair, thin and damaged, was matted around her forehead and temples, a brownish tint on a cotton candy fineness of texture. If I turned slightly in any direction, the arm whipped. Lie still, she ordered, as if she was at sleeps portal until my slightest movement had intervened. I froze. What was I there for? Was it to ease her mind? Was it to protect me from whatever danger she envisioned Id face if I went out and joined the other children I could hear playing outside in the afternoon? Was I there to keep her company?
The room was as still as the moon. On a bureau against one wall was a television. Along another wall was another bureau, on top of which sat cheap plastic baskets of clothing, some tangled, some already folded. The arrangement of these baskets tumbled down onto the floor, where baskets were piled on top of baskets. One might think that the residents of this house were operating a laundry business. There was laundry, in baskets, everywhere: clothes from previous seasons; clothes passed along from friends as hand-me-downs; clothes purchased, still tagged and new, that were lost under the mountain and never worn. All of it was piled in a multicolored tangle of cotton and synthetics. Years later, it might have been a hit at some contemporary art gallery. Then, it was just a mess.