Life As I Blow It (14 page)

“Because you have hardly any friends there and sometimes when I talk to you you sound like you have a really bad cold, but I know that you are one of those freaks who rarely get sick,” he responded.

“The air is different here. And I can't hang out with her since she hurt you.”

“I'm over it, she and I get along fi—”

“What's her phone number? Does she have plans tonight?”

Yes, I had some friends at work but the pool was small and karaoke with my dad was getting old. I was way too excited for
General Hospital
every day. It was no longer tuning in for the paternity tests and the comas. I was tuning in to see familiar faces. I needed more of a life.

My addiction to
GH
—that's what the fans call it—was also costing me too much money. I had developed an affinity for something called “Soap Talk.” It's a phone line that reels you in by telling you that you can call, choose option 5, and get some good spoilers. Then you learn that if you press 9 you can leave a message with your own thoughts on the latest storylines. You can be heard. I used to lie in bed at night and think maybe, just maybe, if I leave a convincing enough message they will hear my rational voice and finally let Sonny and Brenda get back together for good. I would drunkenly call the 900 number and leave messages for some poor intern who had to filter through voice mails from seventy-five-year-old divorcées and me. The first time Shirley confronted me with my $450 phone bill my legs went numb. She was worried I was calling some sort of sex chat line. She didn't seem relieved when I explained to her I was simply calling a daytime soap opera hotline. It probably would have been easier to learn that her new stepdaughter was a sex addict as opposed to a loser. I needed to get out more.

Sarah Tilley and I got in touch and planned to meet at a bar. I was kind of nervous. I started worrying about what it would be like if I still didn't like her—or, even worse, she didn't like me. I said a quick prayer that she and I would get
along, certain that God had time in his busy schedule to make sure that I landed a drinking buddy.

Within minutes of polishing off our first drink, Sarah and I became friends. We both admitted we were nervous about hanging out, then both clarified that we were not lesbians, and went on with the night.

We met a handful of guys at the bar that night and introduced ourselves by last name in order to avoid confusion. I was really impressed with Tilley's ability to get guys' attention. She seemed to have no inhibitions about approaching them, which was really good for me. My hair still hadn't grown out.

One of the nights that she and I were out, we met this guy that she liked and he wanted to take us to an “after-hours” bar. I didn't know what that meant, but I liked the sound of it.

In my head it would be the kind of party I used to go to in college. I assumed that it stayed open later than it was supposed to and discreetly served alcohol in big red cups. It wasn't. It was a weird house on a dark street and in order to get in we needed a code word. The guy we followed there shouted “Banana cream pie!” into the speaker at the door and we were quickly buzzed into the secret club. Immediately I regretted agreeing to go to that party. There was a little bar set up and the house was barely lit. There were folding chairs, tiny tables, and a filthy couch. Someone offered me a seat on it, but I opted to stand since I was fairly certain sitting on it would get me pregnant. Tilley was a little less freaked out than I was, but she was still on high alert. A woman walked by with a small tray and stopped in front of us.

“Line?” she asked.

“Oh, I'm sorry, we didn't realize. We just walked right in,” I replied.

“No, do you want a line?” She nodded toward her tray.

I looked down at what she was carrying and saw that on her cute little tray were big fat lines of blow. I'd never seen cocaine in person, but I was pretty sure she wasn't offering us a baby powder sample. She pulled two small straws out of her cleavage and offered them to us.

“I'm good. I don't want to end up Regina'd,” I told her.

She looked at me like I was dumb, then to Tilley, who shook her head and waved the girl off.

“Oh my God, I'm so glad you're not a cokehead,” I sighed in relief.

“What the hell does ‘Regina'd' mean?” she asked.

Hadn't anybody else read
Sweet Valley High
? “Never mind, but can we get out of here? I'm really uncomfortable and I think I just felt a cockroach go up my pants.”

Tilley agreed to getting out of there and we made our way toward the exit. When we got to the street we heard someone yelling after us. It was the guy we had followed there. I'd forgotten about him.

“Hey! Wait up! Where are you guys going?” he asked.

“Um, not really our scene. We kind of want to go dancing,” Tilley responded. Even though I hated dance clubs, I nodded in agreement with her.

“Oh, I know a sweet place to dance. Also—look, I have this …” He reached into his pocket and I stepped back, ready for him to pull out a gun or perhaps some heroin. Instead he waved a yellow flyer in our faces.

“Two for one. I can get two of us in for the price of one cover charge. You girls have cash? I don't have any on me.”

“You have a
coupon
?” Tilley asked, disgusted. “You have a coupon and you don't even have the cash to cover
your half
of the
coupon
?” I burst out laughing. My Southern accent was already fading, but hers was going strong, which made her coupon statement that much better.

The guy stared blankly at us. We left.

Just when I was at the end of my rope—I was still living with my dad and driving an hour back and forth to Los Angeles to take a crappy acting class—Tilley called me to see if I wanted to move in with her. She had a one-bedroom that she'd been sharing with a girl who was moving back to Arkansas. I wished it was a two-bedroom but I evaluated my living situation and determined that I didn't have a ton of room to be picky. I quickly announced to Dad and Shirley that I was moving up to Los Angeles. They pretended to be sad but I could see them immediately calculating what they'd be saving on booze and the phone bill alone.

Since we only had the one bedroom, my dad gave Tilley and me a trundle bed, which is basically a fucked-up bunk bed. One bed fits right under the other to save space, then at night when you pull it out,
voilà
—you have two beds. It's pretty embarrassing for anyone over the age of six to be sleeping on, but I didn't care. I was so happy to be finally living in L.A. and to start building a real life for myself. Outside of noticing right away that Tilley liked to open drawers and closets and not close them, living with her felt manageable.

There was a bar right down the street called Bird's. They served strong drinks and chicken and it was within walking distance of our new place, although I preferred to take a cab.

One night we'd been out late at Bird's and both fell
asleep in the living room. I woke up to the sound of Tilley gasping. I assumed she was just developing lung cancer since at the time we both smoked like we were getting paid for it. I saw her headed for the front door in a panic and I realized something bad was happening. I mean if she had lung cancer it would have been bad, but this seemed like it was bad for
me
.

I saw a guy coming through the door. When she went toward him, he backed out and she slammed the door shut. She screamed for me to call 911. I quickly dialed emergency and explained to the operator that a man had attempted to enter our apartment.

“Did he break in?” the operator inquired.

“I guess. We were asleep, so we definitely didn't invite him.”

“Where is the man now?”

“Where is he now?” I asked Tilley.

She looked out the window, then jumped back about four feet.

“He's across the street!” she cried.

“He's across the street!” I yelled into the phone.

“Okay, stay calm. Can you see what he's doing?”

“Well, what's he doing?” I asked Tilley. “This woman is grilling me.”

“He's just kind of standing there, staring,” she answered.

“Does he have a weapon?” I threw that question out there myself. I was doing a better job than the 911 operator.

“Wait. Oh my God, he's jacking off!” Tilley shrilled.

“Oh my God, he's jacking off!” I cried into the phone.

“The police are on their way.”

While we waited for the cops to show up, I decided to keep an eye out for the masturbator. I cracked open the door,
chain lock solidly in place. I spotted him and made eye contact with him.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Sorry, I was just jacking off.”

After that incident I had trouble getting a good night's sleep. Tilley started staying at her boyfriend's house more often, which was great for her but shitty for me. I spent several nights lying wide awake wondering if that would have happened to me in Arkansas. I didn't want to think about it. If I allowed myself to get nostalgic for “back home” every time something questionable happened in California, I wouldn't have lasted long. I also decided not to tell any of my parents about the masturbator. I didn't want them to worry.

I went on the hunt for a job in L.A. After looking for a couple of weeks, I got hired at a place named Smokin' Johnnie's and right under the sign it read
BOOZE, BLUES, AND BBQS!
It was a shithole just over the hill on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City. It had a dirty bathroom, plastic tables, and a sticky floor. The clientele was exactly what you'd expect from that description. But the ribs were pretty amazing.

I was not thrilled with coming home every night smelling like pulled pork, but I was happy to have a job. I was making money; I just needed to stay positive. I certainly wasn't going to get discovered by an agent or meet any guys at this crappy place, but at least I could afford to keep my side of the trundle bed warm. One afternoon—because I still didn't get scheduled for the night shifts—I worked a big party of about thirty people. The manager, who was pretty repulsive, was foaming at the mouth at the amount of money these people were spending. It wasn't a lot, but since the average lunch table spent seventeen dollars—for two—he was
pumped. Nothing there was organized, the cooks were laughably slow, and the layout was stupid, so I ran around like an asshole all day. I constantly refilled iced teas and picked up wads and wads of dirty, BBQ-stained napkins.
These people are animals
, I thought.

I was so happy when they left and my shift ended. The only thing that got me through that day was knowing I had made some pretty good money for once. With the “automatic gratuity on parties of six or more” rule, this might be my best shift ever. I walked over to my manager to get my payout. He slapped a twenty in my hand and winked at me.

“Good work, kiddo!” he beamed.

I looked down at the twenty dollars. “Oh, thanks!” I said. I thought it was nice he was giving me a little extra for my hard work. “Can I get the tip from the party? I want to go home.”

“You have it right there!” He smiled.

I stared at him, confused. “But that's twenty dollars. Their bill was at least four hundred. We added fifteen percent gratuity. That's sixty dollars.” I wondered if he was impressed with my quick math.

“We split it up. I booked the party and I helped you. That's your cut.”

“My cut? It's my table. You're a
manager
. You aren't supposed to get a tip. And splitting it would be thirty dollars.”

“Slow down … I booked the party …” He started to defend himself.

“You answered a fucking phone call, which is what a manager does. You didn't
book
anything. Give me the rest of my money. It isn't yours.”

“This is how it works here,” he said flatly and walked away.

There wasn't really anything I could do so I walked over to the reservation book and looked over my shift the next day. I was the only waitress scheduled and there was a party of twenty and another party of fifteen coming in.
I don't know why it's busy tomorrow, but I like it
, I thought. I flipped to the back of the book where all of the other waitresses' phone numbers were and ripped out the page. I figured this was fair; at least the next day he'd earn the tip he'd stolen from me today. He wasn't smart enough to have a backup contact list, but I was smart enough to make sure he'd be screwed.

My legs shook as I drove, crying, back to the apartment. I couldn't believe I'd just quit a job. I had no money saved and there was no way I was going to ask my parents for any. I've always had this
Don't worry, I'm fine
attitude, regardless of whether I'm actually fine. I don't want to depend on someone else. I think it comes from watching my mother struggle to regain her own identity once she and my father were divorced. Somewhere along the line she had to find her footing again. If I never lost my footing, I'd never have to find it.

I got home and started to feel panicked so I went over to the bar where Tilley worked to tell her about my day. When I filled her in, she grabbed her crazy Greek boss and told me to tell him the story.

“That's disgusting!” he yelled when I told him about the manager that had stolen my tips. “Don't worry, we have a job for you here. You start tomorrow.”

“What?” I said, shocked.

“What?” Tilley asked.

“Yeah baby, don't worry,” he said in his Greek accent. “Tomorrow. See you then.”

He walked away.

“You didn't tell me you guys were hiring!” I said excitedly to Tilley.

“We aren't.”

“Really? Then what's he talking about?”

We both looked over and noticed George yelling at one of the other waitresses. She argued with him for a second, then threw down her apron and left.