Excerpt: Don’t Pay Attention to What It Says in the Script

Comedian Rachel Dratch spent seven seasons on Saturday Night Live, where she starred in classic sketches with everyone from Will Ferrel to Maya Rudolph to Jimmy Fallon, and created everyone's favorite wet blanket, Debbie Downer. Since then, she's appeared in TV series (30 Rock, Ugly Betty) and movies (including the criminally overlooked direct-to-video feature Spring Breakdown), but has largely been absent from the spotlight. In her comic memoir, Girl Walks Into a Bar...: Comedy Calamities, Dating Disasters, and a Midlife Miracle, just out from Gotham on March 29, Dratch gives her fans what they've been craving since her last SNL season: more Rachel! In this excerpt, she provides a brief answer to her favorite FAQ: "What happened to you?"

Prologue

“Hey, I know you!”said the stranger. I was on Third Ave in New York, emerging from the Starbucks. “Hi,” I said.

The stranger turned to his friend and nudged him. “You know who that is? SNL! SNL, man!”

The friend gave a vague, fake nod of recognition. The stranger tried to convince his friend to be more excited.

“She’s funny!” He turned back to me. “What’s your name again?”

“Rachel.” “Yeahhhh! Rachel! Man! SNL! SNL!” The friend looked down the street, wanting to move on. “Awwww! I miss seeing you on TV! I never see you in movies or anything anymore!” said the stranger. “Yeah, well . . .” “What happened to you?!”

…

How to answer this question: What happened to me? Where have I been since you last saw me on TV? I know where I’ve been. My friends know where I’ve been. They see me all the time. But, to the comedy-viewing public—Where have I been? Sometimes people think I’m still working, because they see me on reruns of Saturday Night Live or King of Queens. People think if they see you on reruns, that means you’re working. No. You are sitting in your apartment watching Judge Mathis. That’s what you are doing.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m still a vibrant part of the showbiz community. My agent still calls with offers for work. It goes like this:

RRRIIIINNG! RRRIIIINNG! “Yay!” I think to myself. “It’s my agent!” “Hi, Rachel. Is this a bad time?” “No, not at all!” I hit TiVo to pause Judge Mathis. He is about to deliver a verdict to the girl being sued by her mother for wrecking her car.

“We’ve got an offer for you.”

“An offer. Great!” An offer means you don’t have to go in and audition—the part is yours if you want it. It’s my lucky day.

“It’s to play the part of Cammy.” “That sounds awesome!” “It shoots in November for two days.” “Great!” “Cammy is the lesbian friend of the two leads.” “OK!”

“Now, in the script it says she’s three hundred pounds, but just ignore that.”

“Uh-huh.” “You have three lines.” “Hmm. Um. Can I think about it?” “Sure. Give it some thought. I’ll circle back.” “OK. Bye.” An hour goes by. I finish up my courtroom duties for the moment and move on to my other career: amateur psychologist with Dr. Phil. I kind of detest him, but I get a secret thrill at how pompous he is. I also love how his wife, Robin, sits in the audience smiling every episode and that’s her job. Right now, he’s speaking to a mom who is addicted to Oxycontin. “Now, I’m not gonna tell you that what you’re doing is even a little bit OK? ’Cause it’s not?”

RRRIIIINNG! RRRIIIINNG! No way. It’s my agent again! “Hello?” “Hey, Rachel. I got another part here.” “Yeah?”

“They want you to come in and read for the part of Ginge.” “OK. That sounds funny; now we’re getting somewhere.” “So don’t get put off by the character description. Keep an open mind.” “Hit me.”

“Ginge is the chief of police.” “OK!” “It says in the script she’s a fifty-five-year-old bull dyke. Obese. But they want you to put your spin on it.”

“Okaaay. Wow. Fifty-five years old . . . and obese?”

“Well, they say that, but they don’t really know what they’re looking for.”

“You know I’m trying to get away from these kinds of parts, right?”

“Think on it. You might want to just go in and read for it. I’ll send you the sides.”

“OK. Bye.”

Wow. Well. I...do...not know about this. I return to the television. After Dr. Phil, I may as well head back to the courtroom for Judge Judy. I think of my college classmates from Dartmouth who are performing neurosurgery at this moment, or being senators (Kirsten Gillibrand [D] NY). Coming up on Judge Judy: “‘YOU’RE A MORON, SIR!’ ‘Listen, she told me I could keep her dog.’ ‘I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT! I’M SMARTER THAN YOU, SIR! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?’ ‘Um . . .’ ‘UM IS NOT AN ANSWER!’”

RRRIIIINNG! RRRIIIINNG! What the huh? It’s my agent again. “Rachel, I have another part for you.” “Three parts in one day? This is unheard of. It almost seems like it’s being used as a comedic device.” “Character is named LaLa.” “OK.” “Now, don’t pay attention to what it says in the script. It’s a great part and the movie’s gonna be huge. Paul Rudd is the lead. You just have one scene, but it’s a killer.”

“OK.” 

“LaLa is a mousy secretary.”

“OK. That’s my specialty. What’s the scene?”

“LaLa walks into the room. She’s sixty years old. She is the ugliest woman in the world.”

“Sorry, wait, I thought you just said she’s the ugliest woman in the world.”

“Well, that’s what it says in the script, but you know, they just write that . . .”

“Oh, man.”

“. . . and in the movie there’s a contest to see how much money each man would pay to not have sex with LaLa. But that doesn’t mean they think that about you. They want your spin on it. It’s one day. Pays scale. You have to fly yourself to LA.”

“Um, let me call you back.”

These are pretty much the only parts I’m offered since I’ve been off SNL. Lesbians. Secretaries. Sometimes secretaries who are lesbians. Usually much older than I am in real life. Usually about 100–200 pounds more than I am in real life.

I am offered solely the parts that I like to refer to as The Unfuckables.

In reality, if you saw me walking down the street, you wouldn’t point at me and recoil and throw up and hide behind a shrub. But by Hollywood standards, I’m a troll, ogre, woodland creature, or manly lesbian. I must emphasize that of course in the real world, lesbians come in all shapes, sizes, and varieties of hotness. I’m not talking about the real world—I’m talking about Hollywood and Hollywood comedies, where lesbians come in two varieties—the hot, unattainable, “What? You’re a lesbian? No way! Not after you get with me!” variety, and the mullet-sporters. Needless to say, I was being called in for the latter. It’s like how black and Latino actors get frustrated because they’re called in only to play drug dealers, or Arab actors get calls to play cab drivers and terrorists. In the narrow lens of Hollywood, which wants to give the instant stereotype viewers can zone into, I belong in the lesbian parts. Trolls, ogres, and woodland creatures can be done with CGI, so that leaves yours truly to play the bull dykes.

That’s the very quick answer to the question “What happened to me?” But read on—I’ll tell you some more.