Reality Jane (4 page)

“
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
.”

“No!”

“
Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
.”

“You’re going to just keep buzzing every three minutes or so, aren’t ya?” I said, lifting my head.

I dragged my listless body from the bed to the dresser, picking up the phone.

“Three missed calls,” the small screen read. I hit the “1” key for messages.

“Please enter your pass-code,” the electronic lady insisted.

“Crap,” I said to the invisible lady.

She asked again.

“Double crap.”

“Please enter your pass-code,” she insisted for the last time, oblivious to my frustration—they always shut down after three tries.

“I don’t know the piece-of-crap pass-code.” I shook the phone violently.

It was shocking. I didn’t actually know the pass-code and I’d been using the phone since Tuesday. No one gave it to me and I hadn’t needed it, given I was putting in ten-hour days surrounded by anyone who could have possibly needed to reach me. Meanwhile, my Canadian cell phone was dead weight—roaming at a buck-fifty per minute and seventy-five cents a text.

I dialed Toni knowing she would have the code. Toni didn’t pick up. So I tried Rose. No answer. Then Corinne. Her phone was off. I was reluctant to call Lucy—she would have blasted me for wasting her precious time, especially knowing she had just begun her “period.” So I tried Toni again. No luck. It occurred to me that Hollywood types might not be as completely addicted to their phones as the world assumed. Seemed all my girls had shut theirs off.

Because I’m a sleuthy journalist type, I figured my next step was to collect home numbers from “reverse look up” and catch everybody settling down for the night. Natch, I tried Rose first. She was supposed to be plugging away at left-over shepherd’s pie and logging some Tivo time with “Dance Your Ass Off.” Couldn’t reach her. Then Toni, then Corinne, and then even Lucy. All the calls proved fruitless.

No longer in the mood to sleep, I was bleary-eyed, grumpy, and wide awake. After splashing the entire Colorado basin on my face, I stripped out of my pajamas into a pair of old-school Sevens, slipped on a pair of Aldo slouch boots with a sensible
heel for walking, and a tulip-sleeved t-shirt I’d picked up during my location scout with Toni—she insisted they were all the rage—and made my way up to the promenade, where I’d begun my day. Now I was in search of a fresh LA fusion salad—yes, “salad, extra dressing please!”—and a fresh outlook.

Never mind that I owed about six grand on my Visa, a mere five hundred shy of maxing out, and had over 30 G’s in outstanding student loans. I rightly declared that tonight would be my night. Whatever I wanted. Thirty-dollar salad nicoise? Go for it. Eighteen dollar mango cheesecake from the Viceroy? All mine. A bottle of Duckhorn Vineyard’s 2006 Merlot to smuggle back into my room? Charge it. I suddenly felt carefree.

“Ouch.” I pinched my side. “That hurts.”

As thrilled as I was about my food prospects and my exciting first week in Los Angeles, something wasn’t sitting right. None of the girls answering their phone was the first bit of strangeness, but I tried not to think about that. There was also the fact that the company would only cover my hotel expenses until Sunday, giving me a mere two days, over the weekend, to find and lease an apartment. Never mind that I’d become fully accustomed to the hotel’s crisp linens, the spectacular view, and having a world class Belgian chocolate waiting for me on my pillow every night—amazing how quickly one settles into luxury.

“Hey, Canada!”

I looked around for the voice.
Who the hell else is calling me Canada?
He sounded vaguely familiar.

“How was your first shoot?”

“Well hello,” I said, picking out my homeless buddy on a park bench beachside of Ocean Avenue, sitting gleefully across from a strip of glam hotels and restaurants.

“It was
interesting
,” I replied.

“Interesting good or interesting bad?” He adjusted the volume on his ghetto blaster, circa 1982.

“Always good,” I laughed. Something about this guy made me smile.

“Rock on,” he said, smiling warmly. “And hey, watch out for those Hollywood vultures—they eat nice folk for breakfast!”

“I’m tougher than I look,” I said, forcing some bravado. “See?” I flexed my bicep á la Arnold.

“Go, girl!” He winked as he cranked up the volume on his radio, blasting Steppenwolf. “See you around.”

I waved happily and crossed the street. At least I had one good friend in the city.

My next sighting was of beautiful people, by the dozens, who popped in and out of Mercedes sedans and BMW convertibles driven away by valets. I thought I could be one of them, flashing the keys for some fancy German car.
Jeez, if both Toni and Rose could own such cars on assistant salaries, why not me?
It was finally stamped on my brain: not only did I live in the mecca of all things TV, but I was an actual TV producer with a staff (albeit a small one) and a regular paycheck. For real!

I checked my phone to see if I’d missed a return call or still had it on vibrate.
Nope, no calls
. Needing to check my phone every minute or so was further proof I was an industry mogul, or so I told myself.

The sky was turning a brilliant psychedelic pink, making the sidewalks glow orange. Faces, each blessed with their very own heaven-made spotlight, took on a golden hue. The street reminded me of a scene from
Some Like it Hot
, with the retro hotels sitting sweetly on the boulevard and the ocean twinkling out to the horizon. Palm trees shuffled their fronds as the scent of salt air swept me away into full surreal mode. I imagined meeting my very own Mr. Hollywood.

“Hey, babe!” the Clark Gable type would call. “You, me, dinner, and candlelight.”

“Fiddle dee dee, naturally,” I would reply with eyelashes fluttering.

Then I would co-star in his next movie, we would turn up at the Oscars, with me in Valentino and he in Prada, and I would enjoy a cushy ride to the top—driver, personal assistant, et al. Stranger things have happened.

These thoughts, miles away from my day, made me giggle and I nearly began to skip when I noticed a sign jutting out from the corner of a building. Its sharp metal edges caught the slivers of light from the street lamp and made it glisten.
It read: Rebecca’s.

I stopped. The street went silent. I thought about the lounge Lucy had mentioned earlier in the evening.
Could it have been Rebecca’s?
What were the odds of that? Smack dab in front of me, beckoning for a peek, Santa Monica’s chillest chill lounge,
the
place to see and be seen in the city, and only the hippest city in the world at that. . .

Then it hit me. “They didn’t,” I whispered. “They wouldn’t.”

My stomach was in my throat. The only thing between me and the answer was a wall of thirty-foot timber bamboo.

I heard the buzz of animated discourse wafting up from the patio. I imagined beautiful, chiseled women swilling mojitos while equally beautiful men lit their cigarettes and downed dry martinis.

“This is crazy,” I said under my breath. “Keep walking.”

I shook my head and turned away. But the pang became a wallop. I stopped again. I had to know. I had to find out if that sick feeling my body felt was there for a valid reason. Would these women who I so admired, who had befriended me, who were to be my new colleagues, bully me out of their evening?
Not possible
.

I crept up to the bamboo with my fingers shaking and my breath shallow. I didn’t notice the line-up behind me, or the bouncer giving me the once-over. It was as if time had stopped. I reluctantly pushed the bamboo apart and peered into the patio: a wall of people, with so many heads and bodies that, in the dim light, I couldn’t make out the faces. I let out a deep sigh.
Not there. You’re being ridiculous.

Just as I released the bamboo, I noticed a familiar shape. Triangular. It was a bob—a shimmery, copper bob. A cold shiver ran through my body. I looked closer. There, legs crossed, arms flinging in pulsating conversation, and outfitted head-to-toe in Lucy’s garb, was Corinne. Then I saw boobs—big, fake melons tugging away at a red- and gold-striped bustier. Lucy. Then chomping away on crunchy, gourmet deep-fry. Rose.
Leftovers my ass.
Then long, bony fingers taking a big fat draw on a cigarette. Toni. Finally, I saw the make-up girl and Lucy’s clothing stylist. Everyone from today’s shoot was sitting
comfortably, drinking, laughing, enjoying—everyone but me.

I felt an overwhelming urge to throw up. My body became feverish; my face turned fire-engine red. It was complete and utter disgrace.

This isn’t happening. This isn’t real
. I wondered how to reverse the day, undo whatever I’d done.
What could I pull off to make them like me, to make them take it all back, to make it all better?

Fight or cry? Fight or cry? Fight or cry?
Adrenalin pumped through my body as I teetered: knock their faces in or bawl my eyes out? Tears welled up in my eye sockets, curtailing any conscious decision. I felt crushed, defeated, pummeled, all before the end of the first inning.

Then it came to me:
Nobody messes with a prairie girl!

My legs moved me forward. The decision was made. No turning back now.

“Excuse me,” I said to the bouncer, my heart pounding.

“Sorry, Blondie, we’re full.” He moved into the doorway.

Why the hell is everyone here suddenly calling me Blondie?

I smiled a sadistic smile. “I have a reservation on the balcony with Lucy Lane of
The Purrfect Life
. You might have heard of it.” I almost sounded sweet, but for the eerie screech of claws bursting from my cuticles.

“All right, they’re on the balcony.” He waved me through.

“I know,” I said, practically bull-dozing his ape-like body.

The music pounded. Legs, torsos, and arms attached to sticky drinks flew across my path as if providing a shield to the enemy. But my mind was still. Only one thought consumed me.
Confront.

Suddenly, I was before them, stone-faced at the end of their table.

“Oh. . . s. . . h. . . i. . . t,” Rose, the first to spot me, said in slow motion.

Everyone froze. I trembled, folding my arms across my chest to mask my weakness. My lungs tightened as I gasped for breath. “Why?”

Nothing
. Toni dropped her head in embarrassment, unable to look at me.

“Why would you do this?” My eyes went to Corinne and Rose. My lips wavered.

Silence. Nobody moved.

“Well?” If I said one more word, I’d cry.

Corinne spoke first.

“It’s my night!” she spat. “I’m the one leaving. I wanted a night out alone with my friends.”

I fully expected red horns to sprout from her skull.

“
What?!
” This was total horror.

Where could I go with that? I expected an apology, sympathy, an appeal for forgiveness, not
Mean Girls
the movie. I mean, that was a movie, wasn’t it? People didn’t act like this in real life! Did they?

“But we work together. This is the crew, the team. You guys planned this night in front of me, with me included. I mean—I don’t get it. I wouldn’t do this to a sworn enemy!”

“Sit down,” Corinne hissed. “You’re making a scene.”

“No. I’m not sitting with you—you. . . phonies.”
Oh, that’s good—“phonies.” Harsh, real harsh. That’s telling ‘em, Blondie!

Corinne grabbed my arm and pulled me into the empty chair beside her—it must have been Lucy’s, because she was conveniently missing. I looked up at Toni and Rose and shook my head.

“You two, you’re my new assistants. I need to trust you.” I felt lost.

Maybe my sudden promotion was too good to be true. Maybe I didn’t deserve any of this: the job, LA, the supposed uber-cool friends. It was the universe getting back at me for playing out of my league—the cement boots’ equivalent of emotional payback.

“Look, just have a drink. It’s no big deal,” Corinne said sternly as she motioned for a waiter. “And whatever you do,” she leaned into me, “don’t tell Naomi.”

Lucy pranced to the table, all boobs and booty, with a hearty martini buzz. She nearly hit the ceiling at the sight of me.

“Hi, Jane. Awesome you made it,” she said about an octave higher than her normal range. “I was wondering where you were.”

Before I could answer, she turned around to return to some drunken richy-rich manager/agent type at the bar.

“I can’t do this.” I got up to leave.

“Naomi doesn’t need to know,” Corinne whispered sternly.

I shook my head in disgust. “You guys are—never mind, not worth it.”

“Jane, stay!” Corinne said, forcing civility into her voice. “Your drink is here.”

I turned to walk away.

The earlier pink sky now was a smoggy gray, with dots of burnt orange. The street lamps hummed painfully, as if even they wanted to hide. I smelled garbage and exhaust. The wind poked and spit at me. Strangers seemed to sneer. Even the bums lost their hobo charm.

I knelt beside a back alley dumpster and cried.

I
had met my new boss, Naomi, almost a year earlier, at a surf camp in Sayulita, Mexico. About halfway through our respective vacations, she gave up on catching waves and opted for mid-morning Yogalates on the beach, with a post-stretch margarita.