Authors: Rosie Perez
The songs chosen were kind of good. But there were constant delays. The girls were not in agreement with their contract and would stall in the recording studio as a bargaining tactic. I didn’t know this at the time and thought they were taking this opportunity for granted. When I would report back to Keenen, he’d be pissed, telling me to fix it. Ugh! I felt so much pressure!
One day in the studio, after hours of bullshitting, I said something that I still regret to this day:
“Come on, girls! You’ve gotta try harder. If this record fails, what are you going to do? Keenen will fire your ass, and you’ll be known as the girl who used to be a Fly Girl.”
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Jennifer, to my surprise, was the first to fire back.
“No. That’s not true. I’m more than this,” she said all snooty and shit.
A few others followed. Embarrassed, I backpedaled and offered a wimpy apology, trying to smooth things over. Jennifer changed a bit with me after that, attitude up the butt, but let it go after a while. Whew! In the end, Keenen was so fed up with them that he canceled the whole thing. Even though I was so relieved, I felt bad too. But I had gotten a role in Jim Jarmusch’s
Night on Earth
, and I had to set my focus elsewhere. I left Arthur to deal with the fallout until I got back.
Night on Earth
was crazy fun. Working with Jim Jarmusch was something I had really wanted to do since I began acting. It was beyond low budget but I didn’t care. All of the actors had to share a tiny hotel room in place of a trailer and also for hair, makeup, and wardrobe. Mad fun. But it did get to me when I went to lie down in my “dressing room” on location, which was in the basement of a piece-of-shit tenement building in Brooklyn. I looked up and saw a dead rat stuck on a pipe that ran across the ceiling. When I got up to run out, a live rat ran across my foot. Still, the whole experience was great!
After that film, I fought like hell to be seen for
White Men Can’t Jump
. They wanted an Italian American or Irish American girl. It was tough, even for CAA, to get me an audition, but they pulled it off!
I was the only girl of color in the waiting room. Four A-list actresses sat there, artificially confident. I, on the other hand, was so nervous that my hair started to sweat and frizz! Holy crapola! I rushed to the ladies’ room and splashed water on my face. Then I looked down and noticed that I had gotten my period all over my jeans! I took them off and washed and dried them with the hand dryer quick before it was my turn to go in.
“Rosie? You’re next.”
I walked into the casting office. A middle-aged man, who I assumed was the casting director, walked in and sat behind the desk.
“How are ya today?”
“Not too good. Nervous. Just got my period, and.… God, why did I say that? I’m sorry. Embarrassing.”
He laughed. I nervously laughed back. Then a woman walked in and introduced herself as the casting director and introduced the man sitting behind the desk, Ron Shelton, as the director of the damn film!
“Oh my goodness! I thought you were … I didn’t mean to tell you.… Well, I’ll just leave now.”
“What? I loved it! Sit down. Let’s start reading.”
We did so. He stopped me midway and turned to the casting director.
“Hey, call in Woody, would ya? Do you know Woody Harrelson from
Cheers
?”
Woody walked in just as cool as a cucumber and cute as hell.
“Oh my goodness! You’re so cute. You look better in person,” I shrieked gleefully.
“Why, thank you, darling. I think? (
laughs
) And you’re not too shabby yourself, if I may say so myself … which I just did.”
We both laughed.
“Okay, you two, we haven’t started filming yet. Let’s read.”
We did so. And when it came to the part of the kiss, we—well, I should say, Woody—went for it, tongue and all. And yes, I didn’t resist, but when the kiss went on too long, I got embarrassed and pushed him off of me, giggling and blushing.
I went through several more callbacks. The studio, as I was told, had a problem that I was Puerto Rican; they were worried about the interracial aspect. Here we go. Woody and Ron fought for me, as did the producers. And I finally got the part! I am so grateful that they put themselves out there like that. That’s the only way things change—when everyone joins the fight and you’re not the only one rushing up the hill.
One of the first scenes we shot for
White Men Can’t Jump
was inside the freakin’ Jungle! Woody couldn’t believe I had actually lived
there. He told me that Wesley Snipes cracked up when he heard. I got pissed. Wesley, I thought he was cocky and arrogant, and I told Woody how I felt, and he fucking told Wes! Wesley comes over to me.
“Yo, I don’t care if you like me or not, and you don’t do it for me either, so we good. All we gotta do is our job.”
“Woody!!”
“What? He’s my boy, and I want you two to get along.”
I apologized to Wesley, and we shook on it after I punched Woody in the arm. Being on team sports and having more male friends than female friends, I had that male understanding that a handshake carries a lot of weight—it was dropped and we were cool. Actually, we were so cool that the three of us instantly acted as if we had known each other for years.
As we jumped into the car and began shooting a wide shot of us driving off out of the Jungle, Wesley turned to the both of us and said, “You know this shit’s going to be big, right? Gonna blow the numbers off the fucking charts!”
The first sex scene was up. Ron Shelton assured me that everything would be done tastefully, and if I wasn’t comfortable with anything, he would stop and change whatever to my liking. Yay!
It was a completely different experience from
Do the Right Thing
, yet I was still nervous. Naked, in just a towel, I couldn’t come out of the fake bathroom on set. I was wasting time, but Ron and Woody and the crew waited respectfully. After an hour—not kidding—Woody asked me if I wanted to smoke a joint to calm down.
“No, fool!”
Then Stephanie Cozart Burton, makeup—who also was makeup at
In Living Color
—knocked and handed me a shot of whiskey. I never drank hard liquor, only wine. I guzzled that bitch fast—and I still couldn’t come out.
Then Woody knocked. “Rose? Darling? Can I come in?”
“No!”
“Why?”
“I don’t want you to see me naked.”
I know, but I was shy and I kind of had a crush on him.
“Rose, you’re beautiful, and there is nothing shameful about the human body. And it’s not about your body. It’s about this scene and the love our characters have for each other. Come out, please. Everyone respects you here, especially me, and everything will be done respectfully. Hey, I’ll tell everyone to go away, and it’ll just be me and you.”
“… Okay.”
I took a deep breath and opened the door. My towel slipped a bit, revealing my breasts.
“Oh my God! Your tits are huge,” screamed Woody with glee!
“You pig!”
I slammed the door in his face. All I could hear was Woody cracking up and Ron cursing him out. I couldn’t help it and started laughing too. I opened the door. Woody was still laughing, now on his knees trying to apologize.
“All right, all right, let’s just get this over with!”
Boy, did we have fun. And chemistry. I had a blast on set. To date, this was the most fun I’ve ever had filming. To date, these two, Woody and Wesley, are among the few actors I have a real friendship with too. And yes, I had a crush on Woody—a big one. But I knew his personal assistant, Laura, was madly in love with him, so I fell back. I liked and had instant respect for Laura, thought Woody couldn’t move two steps without her, and realized that he didn’t know how much he was in love with her either. Thank goodness he finally figured it out and married the woman!
White Men Can’t Jump
was a huge success, just like Wesley predicted. Doors were opening and the roles were less stereotypical! Yay for me! And the money increased as well, which was badly
needed. No, I never got over a million—they weren’t handing out big checks like that for us Ricans back then—but I came close to it, partly because I started demanding more. Well, I got just a bit more, to be honest, with
Untamed Heart
. And the money from
In Living Color
was still coming in. Keenen had doubled my salary by now too.
I went to Tia and told her I wanted to make a down payment on a house for her. She refused! I insisted and got the house anyway, brought her over, and she still refused. I let the house go.
I couldn’t go anywhere without being stopped after
White Men Can’t Jump
. I loved the fans. At times, I’d be brought to tears when they told me how much I made their day brighter by my work. But some of the fans frightened me. Ninety-five percent of the fan mail I received through CAA, my management, and at
In Living Color
was positive. The remaining 5 percent were sickos, writing how they hated me because I was Puerto Rican, how they wanted to rape me, stick their penis in my ass till I bled. One guy wrote me over and over in his blood, praying for my death, telling me he wanted to strip my brown ass naked, rape me, and then paint me red and nail me to a telephone pole until I slowly died!
PTSD hit an all-time high—paranoia to its fullest. I was scared to be alone with anyone on an elevator. I was scared to walk to my car at night, even though it was on the Fox Studio lot. I double-locked my doors at home, hoping no one had followed me. My representatives and coworkers at the show told me this was par for the course—easy for them to say. They didn’t understand the depths of a real threat.
I couldn’t shake the fear for a very long time. I started to subconsciously turn down really smart and good offers. My subconscious knew that the bigger I got, the bigger the threats would be.
Then
Fearless
came along.
• • •
Fearless
was a long shot too, especially since they wanted an Italian American for the role even though the real-life person the character was based on was Asian American, a survivor who lost her baby in a major plane crash they both were on. I loved this script. CAA agents Jane Berliner, Carol Bodie, and especially Kevin Huvane fought like hell to get me seen. I was number eighty-something, sitting in the hotel lobby among a handful of ladies, all white. I have never been great at auditions—seriously. My nerves get the best of me. This time, the sweat started, the frizz began, and I thought I was going to pass out. I ordered an espresso, and then another one. By the time I was called, my stomach was fizzing and my head was boiling hot.
I walked into the hotel room, pasty and sweaty. Peter Weir, the film director, and Howard Feuer, the casting director, greeted me warmly. I asked to use the restroom. Montezuma’s revenge hit hard. I was so embarrassed, sure that they heard everything since the bathroom was fifteen feet away! I was so freaked that I splashed cold water on my face to calm down. Oh no! My hair! Oh no! My mascara! I took a washcloth and patted the black streaks off my face. I tried my best to dry my hair, but it wasn’t working.
“Rosie,” asked Howard as he knocked. “You okay in there?”
I came out looking even pastier. They both paused, and then Peter smiled and softly asked me to begin. We read some scenes, and in the middle of one Peter asked me to pray.
“Pray? Like I’m at Mass or like at home or in the booth?”
“Excuse me? What booth?”
“The confessional.”
“Oh, right. Just pray like you’re home praying.”
I did. He nodded. Then he asked me to lie down on the couch in a catatonic state, a state where I was in the depths of depression, beyond tears. Well, hell, that was easy as pie for me! I did so.
“Thank you, Rosie. Where are you from, what background are you?”
Oh shit, here we go. I told him I was from Brooklyn, spent some years in upstate New York in a Group Home—I couldn’t believe that slipped out! Then I said, “I’m Puerto Rican.”
“Ahh. I see. Well, thank you for coming in. You did very well.”
I didn’t believe him. I mean, I did think I read well, but I didn’t believe that he liked me, because he asked about my nationality and background.
A few days passed.
In Living Color
was on hiatus, and I was back in Brooklyn, living down the block from Rhonda Cowan in a duplex apartment. My half-sister Kathy had been living with me for the past three years with her four-year-old son. She wasn’t working and had gotten pregnant again by her new boyfriend. I helped her out by letting her stay in the apartment until she got back on her feet, and she helped out by apartment-sitting while I was gone.
The waiting was driving me nuts. I couldn’t keep my mind off of the film. In the grip of a severe panic attack, I went on a shopping spree and spent $2,000 on clothes. I know that doesn’t seem like a lot of money to most actors, but I did mention that I was frugal … okay, cheap. I came home with shopping bags galore. Kathy asked what I had bought her. I told her I didn’t get anything for her, sorry. She was upset, told me that I was selfish. Say what? She’s been living rent-free for the past three years and I’m selfish? Okay. I didn’t want to deal, told her I was going over to Rhonda’s to hang. She asked me to bring her back some food. Sure.
Several hours passed. I stopped by the corner bodega and got Kathy tons of Hostess treats. She went off because I didn’t get her a real meal. We got into an ugly fight. Well, she fought with me mostly. I didn’t want to hit back because of her pregnancy but finally had to because she was kicking my ass! And, I fell down the staircase trying to get away from her, banging my head against the banister.
I had to get my ass out of there quick fast. I ran to Rhonda’s. My feet were bleeding, and so was my head. It was swelling up
like a grapefruit. We rushed to the hospital. I had stitches in my foot from broken glass and was treated for a hairline fracture on my skull.
I planned on going home the next day to collect my things. My dear friend Wendel Haskins, who was my boyfriend at the time, came over to Rhonda’s.