believed…. She deserved ten encores….”
But while the opening and headlining acts hung out with each other, I sat alone in the dressing room, sipping virgin peach daiquiris, no one talking to me. I teetered between two disparate worlds—high school and the L.A. nightclub scene—and I belonged to neither.
For the next seven months I continued my gig at the Ash Grove, until one windy October night its name proved prophetic, and the club burned to the ground.
I was distraught. Since I’d experienced the luxury of performing onstage, I couldn’t bear to return to the streets. But what other club would hire an underaged schoolgirl to juggle between acts? I was soon to find out— none . I pondered my future, only then realizing that making a living from juggling was going to be a challenge.
And then one winter afternoon, providence came to me over chili-cheese fries at an Orange Julius. That’s where I found a brochure for a Learning Annex type of program called Heliotrope. Through this Open University people taught all kinds of classes out of their homes: “Advanced Macramé”; “Creative Casseroles.” Why not juggling?
I was sure the description I wrote for the catalog—including the enticing phrase, “Let me help you fulfill your fondest fantasies”—would surely seal the deal for those trying to decide between my class and “How to Make Giant Tissue Paper Flowers.” In fact since I knew “Learn to Juggle” would be in such high demand, and I’d fulfill my maximum of ten students, I xeroxed ten copies of a handout I had created, complete with hand-drawn diagrams of juggling patterns.
When I received the call from Heliotrope informing me that only one person had signed up, I was totally bummed. But since I was holding the juggling class in my tiny bedroom and hadn’t really considered how more than two people would fit, I figured it was just as well.
On the first night of class I asked my parents to make themselves scarce. “Who’s coming over?” my dad asked.
“Heliotrope only told me his name is Bob.”
“Well, I’m sticking around to check him out,” Dad said.
“All right,” I agreed, “but Mom, please make sure Monkey’s locked in your bedroom.” I couldn’t deal with the possibility that my mom’s poodle would be humping the furry slipper when my student arrived.
My father was an ex-artist whose insatiable interior design hobby caused him to redecorate the house every few months. He had recently painted our entire downstairs a dramatic black, so when I heard the doorbell ring, I raced around turning on every light. Then I ran to the door and opened it to find my pupil standing there: a stocky older man with a gray goatee.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Bob.”
“I’m Hillary. Come in.”
He stepped into the foyer, and my dad walked in from the kitchen.
“Hi Bob, I’m Bob Carlip.” He extended his arm, and the two men shook hands.
I looked at my dad with a See? He’s fine. My dad pulled me aside for just a second and whispered, “Leave your door open.”
Bob seemed older than both my parents, but since I was the teacher, I said in my most authoritative tone, “All right, Bob. Let’s get goin’.”
He followed me up the stairs. After months of living with his therapist, Howard had just moved back home, so I pretended not to notice the smoke seeping from beneath his door, forming a pot-scented cloud in the hallway. Once in my bedroom, I picked up three balls that sat on the Guatemalan-made ballerina quilt on my twin bed, and began the first lesson of our four-week class. Step by step, ball by ball, I showed Bob the basic juggling pattern, leading him in proper arcing, tossing, and catching. I was reassured when two hours later, at the end of our first class, Bob smiled and said, “That was great. See you next week.”
When he returned for the following lesson, Bob told me he was a television writer. Learning to juggle, he explained, was research for his
But while the opening and headlining acts hung out with each other, I sat alone in the dressing room, sipping virgin peach daiquiris, no one talking to me. I teetered between two disparate worlds—high school and the L.A. nightclub scene—and I belonged to neither.
For the next seven months I continued my gig at the Ash Grove, until one windy October night its name proved prophetic, and the club burned to the ground.
I was distraught. Since I’d experienced the luxury of performing onstage, I couldn’t bear to return to the streets. But what other club would hire an underaged schoolgirl to juggle between acts? I was soon to find out— none . I pondered my future, only then realizing that making a living from juggling was going to be a challenge.
And then one winter afternoon, providence came to me over chili-cheese fries at an Orange Julius. That’s where I found a brochure for a Learning Annex type of program called Heliotrope. Through this Open University people taught all kinds of classes out of their homes: “Advanced Macramé”; “Creative Casseroles.” Why not juggling?
I was sure the description I wrote for the catalog—including the enticing phrase, “Let me help you fulfill your fondest fantasies”—would surely seal the deal for those trying to decide between my class and “How to Make Giant Tissue Paper Flowers.” In fact since I knew “Learn to Juggle” would be in such high demand, and I’d fulfill my maximum of ten students, I xeroxed ten copies of a handout I had created, complete with hand-drawn diagrams of juggling patterns.
When I received the call from Heliotrope informing me that only one person had signed up, I was totally bummed. But since I was holding the juggling class in my tiny bedroom and hadn’t really considered how more than two people would fit, I figured it was just as well.
On the first night of class I asked my parents to make themselves scarce. “Who’s coming over?” my dad asked.
“Heliotrope only told me his name is Bob.”
“Well, I’m sticking around to check him out,” Dad said.
“All right,” I agreed, “but Mom, please make sure Monkey’s locked in your bedroom.” I couldn’t deal with the possibility that my mom’s poodle would be humping the furry slipper when my student arrived.
My father was an ex-artist whose insatiable interior design hobby caused him to redecorate the house every few months. He had recently painted our entire downstairs a dramatic black, so when I heard the doorbell ring, I raced around turning on every light. Then I ran to the door and opened it to find my pupil standing there: a stocky older man with a gray goatee.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Bob.”
“I’m Hillary. Come in.”
He stepped into the foyer, and my dad walked in from the kitchen.
“Hi Bob, I’m Bob Carlip.” He extended his arm, and the two men shook hands.
I looked at my dad with a See? He’s fine. My dad pulled me aside for just a second and whispered, “Leave your door open.”
Bob seemed older than both my parents, but since I was the teacher, I said in my most authoritative tone, “All right, Bob. Let’s get goin’.”
He followed me up the stairs. After months of living with his therapist, Howard had just moved back home, so I pretended not to notice the smoke seeping from beneath his door, forming a pot-scented cloud in the hallway. Once in my bedroom, I picked up three balls that sat on the Guatemalan-made ballerina quilt on my twin bed, and began the first lesson of our four-week class. Step by step, ball by ball, I showed Bob the basic juggling pattern, leading him in proper arcing, tossing, and catching. I was reassured when two hours later, at the end of our first class, Bob smiled and said, “That was great. See you next week.”
When he returned for the following lesson, Bob told me he was a television writer. Learning to juggle, he explained, was research for his
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