Treehouse: He Survived Hollywood by Any Means Necessary and He’s Still Standing
This Is What It Really Takes to Make It in Hollywood
You want to know how it starts?
How you go from dreaming about your name on a call sheet to stealing leftover catering like it’s a heist?
Let me tell you.
I signed up to do extra work. Background. Atmosphere. Human wallpaper. And I was desperate for it. You stand there for twelve, fourteen hours, they tell you where to walk, when to laugh, when to pretend you’re having the time of your life at a fake party with fake champagne. And you do it. Because it’s a set. Because you’re on set. Because maybe—maybe—someone will notice you.
But here’s what they don’t tell you in acting class: you’re hungry. Not metaphorically. Actually, physically hungry. So after we’d wrap, I’d watch. I’d wait. I’d see the craft service attendants pack up, head into their trailer office to do whatever paperwork they had to do, and that’s when I’d move. I had a big disposable-sized grocery store bag—you know, the kind they give you at Food 4 Less or Vons—and I would boost craft services. I’m talking full-on heist mode. Pasta. Chicken. Those little brownie bites. Fruit if I was lucky. Sandwiches wrapped in plastic. I’d fill that bag until it was heavy, until it was straining at the handles, and I’d walk off that lot like I was just another crew member heading home with leftovers they were allowed to take.
Enough food for an entire week. Sometimes more.
And I felt nothing. No shame. Because shame is a luxury, and I couldn’t afford luxuries.
Then I booked a commercial. Finally. Twelve to twenty thousand dollars. You hear that number and you think you’ve made it. You think, “This is it. This is the break.” So what did I do? I put a down payment on an apartment. A nice apartment. The kind of place where you can have people over and not be embarrassed. The kind of place that says, “I’m doing okay. I’m making it work.”
Except I wasn’t making it work. I knew—I knew—I couldn’t afford it. But I signed the lease anyway because I needed to believe in something. I needed to believe I was going to book the next thing, and the next thing, and the thing after that.
And then my ex-girlfriend got pregnant.
(pause, voice breaking slightly)
Yeah. That happened. In that apartment I couldn’t afford, with a future I couldn’t see, we made a life. Or we tried to make a life. And it didn’t work out. Obviously. Because how could it? I was barely keeping myself afloat, and now there was going to be a child?
But there isn’t. There isn’t a child. I’m still not a father. And I don’t know if that’s a relief or the saddest thing I’ve ever said out loud.
She left. Or I left. Or we both just… disintegrated. And I was stuck in this apartment, this monument to my own delusion, and the rent was due. Again. And again. And I wasn’t booking anything. Not a single callback. Not even extra work. It’s like the universe knew I’d gotten cocky and decided to humble me real fast.
So I started renting out the apartment. To the unhoused. People who needed a place to sleep, to shower, to exist for a few hours without being told to move along. I charged them almost nothing—whatever they could spare—and it kept the lights on. Barely. It kept me from being evicted. Barely. And yeah, maybe it was illegal. Maybe it was dangerous. But what was I supposed to do? Let myself end up on the street too?
(voice intensifying)
And you know what else I did? I drove. Six-hour shifts picking up strangers. Uber. Lyft. Whatever app was surging. Because in this town, you are what you drive. People see your car before they see your face. They judge you by your wheels before they judge you by your talent. So I don’t mind driving six-hour shifts, picking up drunk people at 2 AM, listening to them complain about their lives, their jobs, their relationships—all so I can make the lease payment on that apartment I should have never signed for in the first place.
You smile. You nod. You five-star them even when they’re rude, even when they’re handsy, even when they throw up in your backseat. Because you need that rating. You need that money. You need to keep the car running because the car is your lifeline, your identity, your proof that you’re still somebody in a city that wants to forget you exist.
I wrote a movie. First draft. Finished it in three weeks, holed up in that apartment with people coming and going, sleeping on my couch, my floor, wherever. And you know what it’s about? It’s about her. My ex. It’s a thinly veiled, barely disguised attempt at shading her, at making her the villain, at rewriting history so I come out looking like the victim. And it’s good. It’s raw and it’s angry and it’s probably the most honest thing I’ve ever written.
But I haven’t sold it. And I won’t sell it. Because selling it would mean people would read it. And if people read it, they’d know. They’d know how much I’m still bleeding over something that ended years ago. They’d know I haven’t moved on. They’d know I’m still that guy in the too-expensive apartment, pretending he has his life together.
(pause, quieter but unflinching)
And now? Now I do what I have to do. I won’t say I’ve turned to prostitution—I won’t use that word because it feels too heavy, too final—but let’s just say… girls can get at me. For a small fee. If the light bill is coming up. If rent is due. If I need to eat something other than boosted craft services.
You think I’m joking? I’m not joking. This is the industry. This is what we do. We sell ourselves in a thousand different ways—our faces, our bodies, our dignity, our souls—and we call it “paying dues.” We call it “hustling.” We call it “doing whatever it takes.”
And I am shameless. I have to be shameless. Because shame will kill you faster than hunger, faster than eviction, faster than realizing you’re thirty-something years old and you still haven’t made it, and maybe you never will.
(voice cracking, emotional)
But I’m still here. I’m still showing up. I’m still auditioning, still writing, still believing that one day—one day—it’s going to click. That all of this—the stealing, the bad decisions, the apartment full of strangers, the six-hour driving shifts, the things I’ve done for money that I can’t take back—that it’s all going to mean something. That it’s all going to be worth it.
Because it has to be. It has to be.
Because if it’s not… then what the hell have I been doing?
(long pause, staring out)