Why You Crying? by George Lopez

Author:George Lopez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2004-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

It was a movie directed by a Brit named Ken Loach. It centered around a janitors’ strike—thus, the garbage—in Los Angeles. Without Ann, I would have turned down the audition for a union-busting manager at a downtown office building, just like I’d turned down countless others, figuring, what the fuck, what chance have I got? In this case I cared even less, having just returned from one more grueling weekend on the road.

It was late Sunday night when I walked in the house and she told me about the movie and the audition the next day.

“I ain’t going,” I said.

“Yes, you are,” she said.

“I’m fucking tired, Ann,” I said. “I just got home from San Francisco. Forget it.”

But I’m up against the persuasive powers of Mrs. Lopez, so I end up going. Naturally there’s no script, and Mr. Loach, when I finally get to meet him, makes Clint Eastwood look positively chatty.

“Where you from?” he finally says.

“From the Valley,” I say. “And I know unions because I’ve worked in a factory or two (or three), and my grandfather worked hard, busted his ass for thirty years.”

“Splendid,” says Mr. Loach.

In due time another actor arrives, a talented guy named Greg Montgomery, and we proceed to run this scene: I’m the boss and he’s the driver and he’s given me some bad information. When we finished I thought Greg had nailed it, but Loach must have seen a moment or two from me he liked. So I got the nod. Greg got a “thank you.”

“Now, whatever they tell you, you don’t believe it,” says Loach. I head into round two, a scene I’m supposed to improvise with two actresses. Loach tells me, “She’s been late a number of times and you’re tired of it.”

So the woman walks in and I start right in.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“We’re running a fuckin’ business here—where the fuck have you been?”

“My kid is sick.”

“Your kid is sick. Listen, I got a lot of fuckin’ sick kids myself, and I’m here. Your job is to work, not to fuck around.”

So she starts crying, I’ve really hurt her, but I don’t care. Something quite personal is at work here.

“Okay, okay, okay,” says Loach.

Now the other actress walks in. I’ve turned my back to her.

“Sit down,” I snarl.

When I finally spin around, she’s down, and I tear into her like more than a few of my bosses have torn into me. Next thing I know, she’s in tears.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Loach says.

“Want me to do it again?” I offer.

“No, no, that’s plenty,” Loach says before uttering four more words, absolute lifelines to a dying man.

“We’ll be seeing you.”

I couldn’t get to the car and phone home fast enough. “I think I’ve got this part,” I told Ann. And sure enough, by the time I got home, I had it.

That movie, Bread & Roses, would open to critical acclaim at the Cannes Film Festival. Imagine that: This abused, neglected kid, who hated the color of his skin, who found quiet comfort in television, was headed to Cannes.

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