Birmingham Sunset
It was my first SAG movie role since the iconic Lunch Lady in Run Hide Fight in 2020. Career-defining work, indeed; however, you may want to pass on that riveting performance unless you have a strong stomach. In Night at the Oasis, I play Diner Lady. Notice a theme? Well, thankfully I evolved into a named character when I landed on set this time. I became Sandy in the final rewrite. That’s the biz. Acting is a tough side-gig, especially when you are supporting two energetic sons and yourself—by yourself. The rejection is relentless, but the work is thrilling. There was a time I tolerated, even thrived on, the industry’s kinetic uncertainty. I’m different now. It’s still a conundrum, but as I enter my “third act,” creative writing and expression are more precious to me than ever. And lately, I have been prioritizing the precious things. I have an amazing agent, Jill Lord, with Broad Talent. She has believed in me since my last agent of 13 years jettisoned me, along with about a third of her roster, with no warning or mercy, soon after Elliot died. Another loss. That’s the biz—brutal because it can be. I’m not sure what I expected in Birmingham, Alabama—showing up in a strange city with little guidance or information. It was a little like Dorothy on the road to Oz, but my destination was a neighborhood BBQ joint. It was a “local-hire” union job, meaning you pay your own way and make your own arrangements. I hoped to break even. After an easy hour-long flight, I arrived three hours early at the Hampton Inn, nestled in a lush, green grove just off the highway. I had twenty minutes to find a place to shoot a live virtual callback on my phone. When it rains, it pours. Cassandra welcomed me, presiding over the front desk with poise and panache. Her hospitality was like a warm blanket. “You are a breath of fresh air,” I told her. “People should be friendly; it’s so not hard,” she said with a bright, wide smile. “I just want you to feel appreciated here.” I missed energy like hers in my Dallas life. The Zoom callback was pretty herky-jerky, shot in the bathroom with a portable tripod. I made it work, and then I was hungry. Manuel “lyfted” me downtown to an eclectic café I found in a search on my phone. “Find something to be grateful for when you wake up every day,” he advised as the ginger fireball sank beneath the verdant hills. “I am grateful for every person in my car. They all have a lesson, and I am ready to receive it.” “Wow, what a wonderful attitude,” I said. Manuel looked barely thirty, the same age as Ian. “Do not fight being alive,” he said. “It’s time to befriend your life.” Befriend my life, huh? I woke earlier than planned the next morning. So, I went downstairs for a dose of coffee and a bite of “complimentary” breakfast before the shoot. Chef James met me there, wearing a large oval nametag with his name and title written in gold script. Six feet tall, in a perfectly pressed, immaculate apron, he graciously pointed out the contents of the buffet like the general manager at the Ritz-Carlton. “I just made the oatmeal, ma’am. It’s good, but the chafing dish does not heat it enough.” He pointed out an array of cereals in mini boxes I hadn't seen in years, the waffle griddles that swiveled around, and bowls of shiny apples and ripe bananas. “Thank you so much for the lovely tour, “ I said. I was the only one in the cavernous lobby/dining area. “I hope you will sit for a while. People are always in such a hurry.” “Yes, coffee first, then a waffle.” The Hampton Inn waffles reminded me of weekend breakfasts with my growing boys so many years ago. He told me he had cooked in hotels and restaurants around the world—from Birmingham to Tokyo. He was a U.S. Navy veteran, and I thanked him for his service. As he spoke, I noticed strands of gray hair escaping from under his loden uniform cap—and hints of his melancholy. He was grieving disconnection and misunderstandings with his adult children. “Check on your parents,” he said. “Check on your parents.” I agreed and felt safe enough to mention both Ian’s distance and Elliot’s loss. “I know your heart will never completely heal,” he said, then asked if he could give me a hug. I said yes. We stood holding each other in silence. But it was showtime. Aiya was arriving to shuttle me to “basecamp,” the actor holding area. “Wow! Are you a celebrity?” The car came to an abrupt stop at the side of the road, and she whipped around to look at me. “Oh, no, I’m not a celebrity.” I laughed, transported back to 1987, when shoppers recognized me at Tom Thumb. Hosting those live call-in pledge breaks was part of my job at the local PBS station. “You’d tell me if you were, wouldn’t you,” she said, flinging her long black braids back around the car’s headrest. “I never know who is getting in my car.” I reached for my compact to check my face. They had not given me any instructions about makeup. Usually, it’s “clean face,” but I had applied multiple layers of magnolia sunrise concealer on my puffy eyes—just in case. I realized I was getting nervous. Fortunately, my nerves turned to adrenaline when I walked in the door—even though they handed me rewritten sides for my scene. That’s the biz, but I was ready. Eli, a handsome young actor playing Toby, walked in with me. After a quick lunch with the crew and time in the makeup chair, a production van whisked us to the set, the BBQ restaurant, where we filmed all day while it operated as usual. Despite the lunch rush and the chaos, Eli and I compared notes and acting stories while we waited. 
Golden Rule BBQ
At my starting position behind the counter, real customers tried to order from me multiple times, and I embraced the “method” opportunity between camera setups. I played a rough-around-the-edges, no-nonsense manager who broke up a fight. So when Eli (Toby) appeared to injure his arm in one of the many combative takes, it was difficult to contain my maternal instinct. “I am fine,” he said. “The only thing I care about is that it looks good.” At about 6 p.m., Kim, the warm, articulate director, wrapped our hectic BBQ action, and the actors scattered like dandelion seeds in a sudden gust. We checked out at basecamp, and I took another Lyft back to the Hampton Inn. My driver, Alex, was wearing a blue Yankees hat. “NYC was a good sign,” I said. He explained he wasn’t really a fan. “I just like the merch,” he said with a wink. When I told him about my day on the set, he said, “Oh, wow, that’s so cool. Can I have a selfie?” “I am not really famous, but thank you for asking,” I chuckled. “Aw, don’t sell yourself short,” he said. “You never know. Everyone’s timing is different in this life. You might just blow up on this one.” I smirked, but he couldn’t see. “Hang in there and keep going,” he said. “And you do the same, Alex.” Wiped out and wired, I ordered a sandwich. The Uber Eats driver, Kathleen, arrived earlier than scheduled, working with her teenage son in tow. That took me back to my days of making ends meet as a single mom. I often worked two or three jobs and had to piece together babysitting on the fly. Seemed like another life. Alegi drove me to the airport the next day. When I asked her how she liked Birmingham, she responded: “I love it, absolutely adore it. Been here 20 years.” She praised what she called “Birmingham’s gentleness.” 
She said that she and her husband helped their only son with his trucking logistics company. She drove Lyft during the day and worked dispatch for her son’s business at night. “I am committed to my son and will do anything I can to support him,” Alegi said. The love in her voice brought me to gentle tears. Birmingham was more like Oz than I ever expected, but like Dorothy, I couldn’t stay. We had arrived. “Thank you, thank you,” I said. “And best to you and your family.” The Birmingham airport was nearly deserted. “And give your son a hug.” You're currently a free subscriber to Grief Matters. For the full experience, upgrade your subscription.
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