Gregory Lay grew up in Paramus, New Jersey. He attended Boston University Film School and the Neighborhood Playhouse School of Theater in New York City. In the past, he’s had various roles in both TV (Law & Order: SVU) and film (The Adjustment Bureau) and acted written and produced dozens of his own short projects and features. He currently is premiering the fourth season of his streaming episodic series Greg in LA, which he created with his collaborator, director Sean D. Cunningham. Their feature film Hudson is available anywhere you can stream.
“Do I still have my cocaine? Where am I? Why am I on the toilet?”
The thought was simple and immediate; in fact, I struggle to even call it a thought. At this point, it was well beyond thought, it was pure instinct: If every cell of every moment of every day has a nectar, my job is to extract that nectar for my own enjoyment. This is what life was, after all, a leap-frogging from one moment of pleasure to the next, until I died. The acting roles would simply keep rolling in as I would be a raw nerve, cutting through audition rooms all over the city! I had heard at school that some important acting teacher said it takes 20 years to truly become an actor. Nonsense – no time, baby! I would have beautiful romantic partners and love in my life constantly, and in between there would be holidays and family and paperwork of one kind or another, but that was just autopilot stuff. It would feel to live my life the way these hundreds and hundreds of epic movies felt to watch. It would be a dream!
I don’t know how I could have been left sleeping on that East Village bar toilet. How could an entire staff close a bar down – lift the gate, barred windows and all – without checking the bathroom for a drunk on the toilet (pants on)? The moment I walked out of that bathroom, none of it seemed real. It was dark except for an eerie, dim red light coming from an unknown source and some fluorescent chest freezer lights in the corner by what I thought was the door. It was actually a gate, and it was locked. From the outside. And I had a brunch shift in an hour. Better just sit down and think … Crack one of these beers …
I had already found the job that wasn’t a “job” for me, that gave me the same nectar I had come to imbibe daily: I was an actor in pursuit of important work and I had plenty of role models that had masterfully married substance abuse with creativity, both on the screen and in their tumultuous personal lives. It had surely enhanced their access to emotion and gravitas and was just the medicine I needed to remain open, vulnerable and confident. Because I had a deep interest in the connection between personal development and creative expression, perhaps the more I experienced both dark and light and the more I truly knew myself and my limitations as a human being, the richer my performances would become. I had absolutely no idea who I was, but I had done a great job of keeping sturdy while the pieces rattled into place. It turns out, most of my “beliefs” were little more than mimicry, showmanship or projection, rooted in someone else’s feelings or perceived experiences. Perhaps this is the curse of being a young creative? Being able to sense a deeper level of expression somewhere inside of you whilst knowing you haven’t built even a splinter of infrastructure to express it cogently …?
Human beings have this thing that’s always fascinated me – and when I say “human beings,” I mean specifically younger me and numerous other people of all ages. They have a thing where they rarely see other people and events outside of their orbit in three dimensions. They ask for understanding from others when they themselves are troubled or do wrong, but rarely extend the same thought or courtesy to others when the situation is reversed. I think that’s called a lack of … empathy? This is exactly how I processed characters in movies and how I would fashion my experience of living. All the greatest hits, with none of the boring human filler.
In the spirit of this above-described and self-imposed black-and-white reality, I looked up with childlike and romantic awe to the Hollywood-framed hustle and bustle, danger and unpredictability of the two-dimensional lives and created worlds of the actors I admired. Throw in the experience of seeing hundreds of enthralling performances on the screen, memorizing every word, every emotion, every tic of expression, and I was well on my way to creating an excitable spirit for the devouring of life in all forms – along with all the pills, powders and fermented beverages I could get my hands on. It was all part of the same movie I was creating, and every single frame had dopamine. I would be a formidable “Sean Penn in the ’80s” character, taken seriously because of his brooding nature and artistic sensitivity. I would shield myself from pain and maybe eventually even evolve into some sort of dry-witted stoic. All emotions and experiences would be elevated and every moment would have stakes. I would drink hard, play hard and let the wind decide where I ended up; that was none of my business. There was nectar to collect and I had no time for planning.
As I sat there on that barstool, drinking beer in the darkness, I couldn’t help but think about all my life choices and how I’d ended up where I was. Also, on top of those deeper existential concerns, I had to figure out how I was gonna get out of this bar and get to my brunch shift at Fig and Olive, my 23rd restaurant job since I started my mission to live inside of a movie. My phone was dead and it was summer. I felt like a warm beer … but the sun was coming up. Through the slits in the gate, I could see people walking by. I began to talk gibberish until someone heard me and then I slowly and calmly described my predicament to them. Could I be arrested for this? Wait, did I still have that cocaine in my pocket? ’Cause that’s illegal … Wait, will the cops even need to be involved, bar owner…?
“Hold on, I can get you out of there …” I heard a voice say.
To me, living in the moment had meant worrying about the consequences of my actions only after I had fulfilled my deepest and most immediate wishes. However, deep inside of me, I was now starting to feel another version of myself wanting to emerge, stripped of all the bandages and salves I had applied to my heart over the years, the person I was before that first dose of true heartbreak. I had been numbing myself from that pain for years and years, so I’d never have to feel it ever again, but now I recognized there was a way back to being that innocent, optimistic kid who saw the best in everyone and everything (until he didn’t). I knew the purest form of creative expression lived there. I didn’t need any substance to help me get there, in fact, I would be strengthened by the sacrifice of these habits. My journey had now become accepting, understanding and inevitably burning away and destroying an entire identity, one piece at a time. It would take almost 20 years.
This is what ran through my head as the gate opened and a young Latino man appeared, holding a pair of bolt cutters. I was seeing my future on the other side of something, but I couldn’t tell if it was water or fog, or what might help me get there. But somehow, I knew it was still real, and it was what I truly wanted.
“I would just go, man. I have to tell the owner, but no reason to get involved,” the man said, bolt cutters at his side.
“Wow, thanks,” I replied. Nice guy. Nice start to the day.
As I walked on that sidewalk, full of new purpose and thoughts of change, I had one lingering feeling, which would recur constantly for years to come: I’m not there yet – it’s gonna take time. I could almost see the next 15 years, as if they had already happened: the spiritual regression, self-inflicted pain and struggle I kept swearing I was done with, that I believed I had evolved past. The decisions that did nothing but burn time, energy and money and get in the way of what I’ve always truly wanted. But one day, I would want to change, truly want to. And then, I would finally be free and, in time, I would have something valuable to share.
