Goldsmith - Stay interesting: I Dont Always Tell Stories About My Life, but When I Do Theyre True and Amazing

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street

New York, New York 10014

Copyright 2017 by Jonathan Goldsmith

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

DUTTON is a registered trademark and the D colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

All photographs courtesy of the author.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-I N-PUBLICATION DATA

has been applied for.

ISBN 9781101986233

Ebook ISBN 9781101986257

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.

In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;

however, the story, the experiences, and the words

are the authors alone.

Version_3

To my father, Milton, who taught me how to live
To my wife, Barbara, who taught me how to love
And to my children, for the ongoing inspiration

A CT I

I woke up in the back of my truck and looked around the campground. It was empty. It was late fall and the backpackers and tourists who pass through Sycamore Canyon, which overlooks parts of Malibu on the California coast, were all gone. Even the folks who ran the campground had disappeared. I put on my sandals and walked over to the changing station to take a shower. Inside the drafty bathroom, which resembled the mens room at Mule Creek State Prison, I made my way to the showers, turned the lever, and waited on the cold cement floor in bare feet for the hot water to kick in. It never came.

Shit, I thought. What luck. A big audition today, my first in months, and I couldnt even take a hot shower. I was tired, having not slept well the night before, and doubts nagged me. Had I lost the ability to make people laugh in my ten years away from acting? Did I still have the charm, if I ever had it at all? So many years, so many almosts. Could I hide the bitterness? Could I stand another rejection? A whole lifetime of disappointments. I didnt want to go, but I didnt want to run away either.

From the back of my truck, I was reminded of how far I had fallen. The colony across the highway was buzzing. The moguls left their beautiful homes and beautiful wives and beautiful children and drove their beautiful sports cars to the studios. They had everything I wanted. In the distance, I could see the glow in the sky from the incredible houses overlooking the surf in the hills of Malibu. I could hear the sound of the ocean waves crashing as I imagined the lives of the people in those houses. Accomplished people. I felt totally isolated and ineffectual. I was living a nightmare that I used to have as a child, where somebodys fighting me and I cant move my shoulders or arms. Nothing works. Im defenseless.

Id been feeling that way a lot, given my downward trajectory. What had happened to me? How had I reached this low point? What had I done? Only a short time ago I had been a prosperous entrepreneur. I had started a company out of the back of the very same pickup truck I was now changing in, and the project had become so successful that my partner and I had more than a hundred employees working in a building that we owned, along with some land, and were netting more than 150 million dollars a year in profits. I had been the president, the leader, and I had passed through most airports in the world to create what was becoming our own little empire. But, as one learns through lifes chapters, the mistakes we make and traps we set for ourselves tend to follow us like shadows. For me, the same old issues never faded away. In this case, I had committed a familiar sin: I had trusted too much. The company sank and split apart.

The legal morass was crippling, and not only emotionally. I had no income, and the billsattorneys, mortgage, and so onhad piled up on me so fast I was worried about bankruptcy. What was I going to do for work? Where was I going to live? After a lifetime, I had finally built my own house in the High Sierra. It was constructed of wood milled from sixty thousand feet of timber sprawling over 120 acres, all of which I had been forced to sell to cover my growing expenses. Also on the chopping block was Celebration, my sixty-foot sailboat, which I and my captain (well, former captain; I had to let him go too) had returned to our winter berth in Miami, following the most fabulous passage through the Caribbean from Trinidad. I was never desirous of owning fancy cars: my 65 Ford pickup could go anywhere. The diesel behemoth would do, but with my dwindling finances I must confess the feelings of panic, anxiety, and dread were overbearing. How was I going to survive? Could I go back to show business after such a long absence?

I remembered those presentations in hotels, boardrooms, and church basements when I imagined myself to be onstage, trying to perfect my performance. Someday, I thought, I might get another chance. Now I had it: Once again, I had to start over.

At least that was something I had a lot of experience with.

But I wasnt eighteen or twenty-three anymore. I wasnt thirty-five or forty-five. I was in my late sixties, past the age of retirement, and looking to start fresh in a world and economy that was far faster than I was, and hyperdigital as well. Too many buttons to push. Too few people left to speak with. I had become an alien.

I was in survival mode, conserving every dollar. Instead of enjoying the comforts of a hotel room before an audition, ensuring that I got a good rest, I had crashed in the back of my pickup and was living like a hobo. Maybe I had become a hobo, I thought, now getting dressed outside my truck for the audition. I had a sport jacket that I wore on special occasions, folded in the back with a camping stove and other gear. Sitting on the open tailgate, I put on my pants, socks, and loafers and was reminded of my first days in Hollywood, hauling industrial waste around the city to earn a few extra dollars and changing into my suit in my garbage truck, which I used to get to auditions. More than forty years had passed! Had anything changed? Christ, I couldnt even play a lobster on ice skates in one stupid commercial.