top it off, a few days later I got another email from my agents. In the gentlest way possible, they told me that now that I wasn’t working, I wasn’t making them enough money and they had to fire me. They added a friendly notice that I could pick up my things in the front lobby with the security guard. They weren’t the greatest ever.
I picked up my headshots from the security guard and walked home, so bummed. I won’t lie and say this didn’t sting—it did, A LOT—but I was immediately desperate to find more work. Nothing was going to stop me from acting. So when I met a very loud, frumpy manager at the Disaster Date wrap party, I quickly agreed to let him manage me.
“Please, PLEASE, let me manage you, Laura. I can get you some jobs! I swear to God I can!”
Um . . . If I didn’t have doubts before, I did after that pitch. But what did I have to lose? He was as desperate for clients as I was for work. And . . . he actually saw something in me. At least he would be less likely to fire me like Progressive Artists did. I quickly signed with him. His name was David Rosenberg, he lived in a studio apartment with his mother, and what he had going on was this: NOT MUCH.
He would call me and offer me auditions for the worst roles ever. “Laura, I need you to go to this audition. I know it’s a small role, but there’s no such thing as a small role! Only small actors! And you’re very tall!”
“David. You’re losing me.”
“If you don’t book this part there’s a chance I will starve to death and it will be partially your fault.”
Jesus, David.
Coming off Disaster Date, where I was given so much creative freedom and respect, it was strange to go back to completely scripted characters, especially ones who had almost no lines. Also, my ego had inflated a bit. Sorry, but come on! I was leading those episodes of Disaster Date! And now I was supposed to beg casting directors to let me be a glorified extra? No thank you.
But then David begged. “PLEASE, LAURA, I GOTTA PAY MY RENT. SO IF YOU COULD BOOK IT, IT WOULD BE GREAT. My mother and I thank you!”
Oh my God, fine.
David sent me on an audition for a co-star role on a TV sitcom called ’Til Death on FOX. It was for the role of the daughter’s stoner best friend. Co-star was a bit of an exaggeration—it was three lines. But you know what? I was going to make the most of it. I could nail a stoner girl character. More of my life’s training was becoming useful! I went in for the audition and killed it. With my three lines I had all the producers there laughing out loud. David later informed me that I’d booked the role:
“YAY I CAN EAT! THANKS, LAURA!”
“No problem, David.”
’Til Death starred Brad Garrett, JB Smoove, and Joely Fisher. It had a great cast with amazing comedians and great writers. But . . . for some reason, this sitcom put the “shit” in shitshow. It also put the “show” in shitshow. It was just a . . . shitshow. It was no one’s fault, really. Sometimes the magic just isn’t there. The producers were always in a state of emergency trying to revive the show with new actors, new writers, new everything. I came on in the second season, where the actress who previously played the daughter was being replaced, and her best friend was being randomly added in. They were hoping these changes would help ratings.
When I stepped on set for rehearsal for the first time, my bruised ego over being a glorified extra quickly faded away. I was on a real-life network sitcom! I was on a real set! There was a live audience! We were shooting in three days! This. Was. Incredible! We had our first table read with the entire cast, and I loved it. Again, I made everyone laugh with my three lines. Brad Garrett laughed! It was incredible. How the fuck was this my life?
While I was there I wanted to soak up every bit of information that I possibly could. I watched the actress playing the daughter rehearse the dining room scene on set with Brad Garrett and Joely Fisher. I watched what she did, how she took her mark and went for