Dying For His Dream

My TV actor friend was in his prime when life and drugs usurped him and suddenly, this shit didn’t just happen to strangers anymore.

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I received this call nearly 17 years ago from my wife. I was teaching back then, and had not yet left my classroom. It was just after 3 in the afternoon, and I was compelled to check my voicemail. This is verbatim (I kept the recording), though I am withholding the real name of my friend due to sensitivity issues as it regards his two sons.

“Joel, it’s me. Um … I don’t know how to tell you this. I was just listening to the radio. I caught it in the middle, and the report said they found an actor dead at his home, and the actor … Joel, it was Buddy.”

My stomach dropped. I sat back in my chair as the voicemail continued. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know if I should leave this on your voicemail or speak to you when you got home. I’m sorry … Please call me when you get this.”

I didn’t call my wife back, electing to just speak to her when I saw her. By the time I pulled into the driveway, I was all out of tears.

“Buddy”

This article is going to be a high-wire act for me. I will hew completely to the facts, but will also leave out some information for the reason expressed above.

I had written a movie, one of my first. My director friend and I were going to shoot this project on a very low-budget, financed by an old boss. The cast was supposed to consist of high school students. An actor my director wanted me to consider was in his mid-30s. He had seen him on television, and said he had spoken to his manager.

“It’s an opportunity for us and he’ll blow you away,” my director said.

I was angry, and told him he was wasting our time as we had a set shoot date, I reminded him, beginning in two weeks.

We argued. I lost. I agreed to meet the actor so I could move on.

To set the scene, I was between teaching gigs, and my director and I were telemarketing for medical billing training courses. Our boss took to our dynamic, said he heard we were filmmakers, and offered to look at any scripts we had “laying around.” I happened to have one I was particularly fond of, dealing with a subculture that was popular at the time. (Again, there will be periods in this piece that will not contain specifics.) To show his sincerity, our boss allowed us to use an empty room as a “production office.”

It was clear he was serious about investing in our project.

We set up the office, and a couple of months later the actor met us there. He had been a regular on a popular network show, and his role had just ended as his character was written off.

I was stunned. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, the actor was not only brilliant but you couldn’t take your eyes off him. He was that charismatic. Tall, good-looking, in shape … with a thick Aussie accent.

The film focused on a group of high school students in Beverly Hills enagaged in some dangerous behavior.

However, we had him read for the role. Once again, he surprised me. His passion and professionalism were off the charts.

I went home that night resigned. I knew we had to hire this guy, but for two things: 1) I loathed to admit my director was right, and 2) I was going to have to rewrite the script — and recast — at this late stage.

He forced my hand; he was that good.

Production

Our little film had substantially changed. The high school-aged students had become college students; the character played by Buddy, who was supposed to have been a student, now became an outside force.

We hit upon an unanticipated burst of publicity mid-shoot. Buddy had passed out at the sight of fake blood. Or that’s what a major newsstand periodical said a week later, anyway. I was not on the set that day but according to my director, Buddy’s manager was called following 911. The shoot was paused, and the press got a hold of the incident.

It all seemed very suspicious to me. Apparently, Buddy regained consciousness in a couple of minutes. He wanted to resume. My director called, and we decided to shut the shoot down for a week. Buddy was in no condition to continue and we were in the middle of shooting his scenes. He refused to go to the doctor.

A production assistant gave him a ride home.

The following day, Buddy called me. He blamed the incident on low blood sugar, and could not stop apologizing. I appreciated that he was so conscientious. As the week went on, he would call me every night. He was going through some personal issues, he told me, and asked if he could speak openly with me.

From there, for whatever reason, we hit it off.

Life After

Buddy and I stayed close following the film’s journey to an ill-fated straight-to-video release. The project did not come out as I had hoped; aside from this article, I’ve actually long since disowned it.

He was supportive, though, recognizing the film as a “first effort” and “our next film together will be even better.”

Regardless, Buddy was now a friend. We got together for lunch one day, and I suggested our wives join us the next time. The suggestion pierced him; it did not go over well and once again he opened up. This time, he told me he was going through some marriage difficulties that he was trying to work out because of his two boys. Buddy was fond of my wife, and he broached the rejection carefully.

“It’s just not the time,” he said. He went on in response to my questioning what he wanted to do next. “We’ll work on some more projects together, and I’ll see what else I can get. I’d kill to finally get a studio movie role.” He then asked me if my wife and I were still looking for a house.

“We are,” I told him.

He offered for me and my wife to visit one afternoon when his wife wasn’t home. “We’re selling,” he said.

I took the chance. “Are you separating?”

“Not yet … We’re spending some time apart but nothing formal. It’s all about my boys …”

I let it go. Ultimately, my wife and I found a house elsewhere. As we settled in, Buddy’s difficulties seemed to spiral out of control.

The Dream Attained

“Do you know what it’s like when everybody tells you you should be the next Mel Gibson — friends, studio executives — but you fall just short when it comes to big movies?” Buddy asked me. “It’s wearying.”

He did it, though. Buddy was cast in a strong supporting role in one of the following summer’s most buzzed-about tentpoles. He was ecstatic.

Two weeks into filming, however, he called me from a remote location out of the country.

“Can you hear me okay?” he asked. He didn’t sound like himself. He sounded broken.

“I can hear you fine,” I said. “You okay?”

“No, I’m not. I knew this was going to happen. She threatened to take the kids from me. I need a good attorney.”

He was frenetic, scared. The rest of the conversation followed that course. He mentioned he had finally met his lifelong dream of working in a big Hollywood movie, and then tentatively asked me if I saw what’s been reported in the press. I had no idea what he was talking about. He told me, reluctantly, that an article was “planted” saying he was an abuser to his kids.

He was getting emotional, and abruptly ended the call.

Several days later, he had received permission to return to the States for a week, before having to return two weeks thereafter to wrap his role. My wife and I had lunch with Buddy and a friend. He looked terrible. Thin, wiry. The mohawk now adorning his head, for his character, gave him the appearance of an overaged punk.

He told me the studio had him “working out.” He was still the same gregarious guy, the guy everyone loved to speak to and who spoke to everyone. But there was now an edge there that was uncomfortable to witness.

“I can’t even enjoy the moment,” he admitted. “I got this movie, I think I’m doing a good job and I can’t enjoy it.”

Two weeks later, he returned overseas.

Home

When filming was over and Buddy returned home for good, he was different. We had made plans one night to meet up with some friends at a Hollywood bar. He ribbed me as I don’t drink, and chose the bar to ruffle me. I didn’t care. I just wanted to see how he was doing.

At the last-minute, I had to cancel due to a late personal obligation. We spoke the next morning; he was angry, which was unlike him when it came to friends, but I explained my situation and all was well. We agreed to meet. “Call me tomorrow,” he said. “We’ll figure something out.”

I called him, and I could barely understand him. He was slurry, mush-mouthed.

“Buddy? You okay?”

He said he “wasn’t feeling well,” and asked me to call back in the morning.

The next morning I left him a message, before heading to work at my new job teaching at-risk kids at a local high school. The day went on, I was about to leave …

And I checked my voicemail.

Buddy was dead.

A Tide Turned

The early news said Buddy committed suicide. An investigation and autopsy report determined the death was “accidental.”

“Acute drug intoxication,” they said. In his system was a lethal mix of heroin, cocaine, temazepam and vicodin.

Neither me, nor other of his close friends had any real clue as to his drug use. He hid it all too well, though towards the end I had suspicions. I was surprised at how thin he looked for his big film shoot, and then certainly on the phone call when he could barely speak. Buddy spoke to everyone, and outwardly was nothing but smiles.

I knew better, but none of us knew it all.

There were two memorials planned for Buddy. One held by a friend … the other his wife.

I delivered a eulogy at the former ceremony, at her request. When I attended the next day’s memorial … I was stunned. It was as if Buddy and his wife had the model marriage. That they were the model family.

No one present appeared to think or know anything to the contrary.

Maybe it was for the best. Maybe everyone had forgotten about that damaging press article by then.

I found out something else. Buddy was not from Australia. The accent was a put-on, to make it in “the business.”

That son of a bitch, I thought.

A Personal Note

Since his passing, I’ve wanted to tell Buddy’s story in a book. I’ve wanted to use his real name, and tell the real, cautionary story.

My interest in his sons’ continued welfare precludes me doing so, though I do want to fill in some gaps here.

I called my friend “Buddy” for this article, as that was his nickname for me. He never called me “Joel.”

My interest in writing this story is two-fold: For those Medium readers who know me, they will know who I’m referring to here. I want my friend to be remembered as a good, hardworking man who loved his sons, and also as a man who had a dream to succeed in the entertainment field at all costs. I may not have agreed with his methods, but that’s not important.

There is subtext to my friend’s journey that is worth attention: Sometimes attaining the dream is not enough. Life needs to be taken care of as well and though he tried, Buddy became just another statistic in the end. He fell into drugs because he couldn’t cope.

He left behind two sons he loved dearly. Though his marriage was ending, he had been unable to reverse course and be a better man to his wife. She had her reasons; my friend will not be lionized here. And he had his reasons too. And yet, when they separated, he was the best he could possibly be to a new woman in his life.

He left her behind as well.

If Buddy’s life and passing can be given meaning here, I’ll suggest that anyone going through such overwhelming difficulties should seek professional help.

As for me, I’ll always remember Buddy with fondness. He was a blast to be around. Intelligent, well-read, funny … tragic, and something of a con.

But he knew he had a friend in me.

Thank you for reading.

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