When she got the rejection on my behalf, Jenna was both savvy enough to ask her manager why he didn’t want to meet, and thoughtful enough to ask me if I wanted to hear the truth. Of course I did. Whatever it was that her manager didn’t like, I wanted to know. Whatever it was I did wrong in those student film clips, I would immediately work to change so that I could earn an agent or manager just like so many of my classmates already had.
“First of all,” Jenna said, “he told me that he watched your tape and thinks you’re a really good actor. He’s always brutally honest. He wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t mean it completely.”
“Well, that’s good!”
“He also said,” she continued, with considerable hesitation, “that somebody who looks like you is never going to work in Hollywood. There just aren’t enough roles written for Indian actors. He felt like you might play a cabdriver once or twice, but it wouldn’t be worth his time and effort to represent someone who isn’t going to work regularly.”
Wow. I was very surprised that this manager was comfortable enough to straight-up acknowledge this intersection of business and bigotry. He could have made up any excuse he wanted about why he didn’t want to meet with me （“He’s too tall!” “He’s too short!” “He’s a bad actor!”）， but he didn’t. In a weird way, racism-truth felt so much better than being lied to. I was thankful for Jenna’s true friendship and the accompanying willingness to tell me something so uncomfortable. Hearing it was both a slap in the face and a very welcome assessment of where I stood.
The quality of my performance in those student film clips wasn’t the underlying issue.
* * *
A few months later, I had saved up enough money to get a new set of headshots. “The photographer is supposed to be really good,” I remember telling the homies during one of our late-night food runs at Fatburger in Westwood. “I hope this time it’ll lead to getting an agent.”
My friend Marc Milstein spoke up: “You know what else might lead to an agent? A stage name. Did you know that Whoopi Goldberg’s real name is Caryn Johnson? Imagine if she went by that? No way would she be as memorable.”
The idea of altering my name was something I had casually thought about since Jenna’s manager said an Indian guy would never find steady work in Hollywood, but it’s not something I seriously discussed with anyone.
“Chevy Chase’s real name is Cornelius, man. Cornelius Chase. How tite is that?” said DLC. “You should come up with a stage name. I bet it would help.”
My real name is Kalpen Modi. Kalpen is what most of my friends and family call me. In high school, kids sometimes shortened Kalpen to Kal as a nickname, the same way that Joseph becomes Joe, Rodrigo becomes Rod, and Pushpa becomes Pussy.
Between bites of warm fat fries, the wheels started turning. If coming up with a stage name helped those actors establish themselves, it was a no-brainer—I would do it too.
So, what should my catchy stage name be? Should it be similar to Kalpen or totally different? Would a whiter-sounding name have persuaded Jenna’s manager to meet with me? （Should I go by Chad?） Anyway, what’s in a name? Wouldn’t a brown person by any other name still play a stereotypical cabdriver and be called a sellout by his peers? Maybe not! Maybe coming up with a name that sounded a bit more like the names that casting directors were used to seeing would make me a little more viable in their eyes. This was a serious consideration. My friends’ suggestions? Not so serious.
“What about Kal… Pacino?”
“How’s Kal Ripken Junior Junior?”
The puns went on and on. That gave me an idea. “I could just split my first name in half and add an extra n.”8 My nickname is already Kal, and “Kal Penn” seems less dramatic than Cornelius becoming Chevy. The suggestion was met with resounding approval. It was now two forty in the morning, but our homework procrastination over munchies had yielded magnificent results.
That weekend I printed up my new headshots and replaced Kalpen Modi with Kal Penn. Let’s see what happens, I thought, sending out the first of many more Wednesday batches to agents.
* * *
I was sitting at the desk in my dorm room a couple of months later when my blue McDonald’s phone finally rang. “Hello, is this Kal Penn?” the lady’s voice said. “Yeswho’sthis?” I said quickly.9 “My name is Laura. I’m calling from Barbara Cameron and Associates. We received the headshot and résumé you sent in. We’d like you to audition for us, if you’re still looking for an agent?”
I played it cool, but inside I was screaming, YES OF COURSE I AM STILL LOOKING FOR AN AGENT!! Maybe I even did say it out loud, I can’t remember. FINALLY. It had been years of Wednesday-morning walks to the newsstand, three years of money spent printing at Kinko’s and mailing packets at the post office, so many random audition inquiries sent, and finally, an agent might be interested in me! I scrambled to find a pen and wrote down the agent’s address.
What motivated her to call, why now? Was it those new headshots I had saved up for? Was it my new catchy screen name? Was it because the new catchy screen name was less ethnic-sounding and was attached to those new headshots I had saved up for? I didn’t know, I didn’t ask, and I didn’t care.10 It was time to focus!
I prepared for the audition by rehearsing two of my favorite Shakespeare monologues, putting all my energy into making sure I impressed this agent, whatever her reason for calling me. Three days later I grabbed my Panoch bag and drove out to her office in West Hills, at the far end of the San Fernando Valley. The whole way there I was running through my monologues: “Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back. And tell thy king I do not seek him now…” I pep-talked myself, I am Henry the Fifth!
The address for Barbara Cameron & Associates turned out to be a small guesthouse-turned-office behind a suburban home in a completely residential neighborhood. My excitement switched to anxiety. Isn’t this how people get tricked into doing porn? I buzzed the gate and stepped inside. The walls of the guesthouse office were adorned with promotional posters for Growing Pains and Full House. Just above the couch, a poster of my grade-school crush Candace Cameron and her brother, Kirk. I glanced down at the piece of paper on which I’d scribbled the name and address. Barbara Cameron. Holy moly, could it be? Yes, agent Barbara Cameron, mom of Kirk and Candace Cameron!
On the one hand: Whew, this was probably not porn. On the other: What are the chances?! First Jaleel White in my history class and now an audition for my childhood crush’s mom? My entire childhood flashed before my eyes. Was the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air around somewhere?
The audition itself was quick: I was asked to read a short script for a soda commercial and was out of there within fifteen minutes. （Turns out nobody will ever ask you to perform a Shakespearean monologue in Hollywood.） That afternoon, the blue McDonald’s phone rang again. “Hi Kal, it’s Barbara Cameron. You were fantastic in the audition and we’d love to have you aboard!” Was it professional to sound excited, or was I just supposed to calmly say thank you, play it cool, and hang up? While my brain was busy figuring out the right response, my mouth got ahead of itself and started woo-hooing ecstatically over the phone. I finally had an agent! “Can I call you right back from my landline?” I asked her. “This McDonald’s cell phone is expensive.”