The Brenda Diaries (5 page)

So yes, I’ll go see his band because that’s what friends do. What friends don’t do is each other (no matter how well it turned out for Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman in that dreary humping movie). He’s just a friend (who I’m keeping secret from my best friend and my boyfriend).

Friday, April 29:

With everyone (fine, mostly women…okay, only women) going nuts over the royal wedding, I’ve snagged the coveted file room assignment. They have a comfy chair in there and, with little supervision, I can listen to my iPod while waiting for the infrequent request to pull documents. I might not have married a real prince, but this is a pretty damn good Friday for this temp.

Saturday, April 30:

We’re eating at the Studio City Jerry’s Famous Deli even though I think the food is overpriced and more than mediocre.

“This place is classic.” Jared looks around. “Some great deals have been made in here. It’d be a great place to just sit and write.”

I nod with a bored smile—a look I perfected when I was 14. It’s obnoxious, but not so much that I can get called out for being a turd. On the way here, Jared told me he’s thinking of writing a movie, which means he’s already three drafts into a screenplay.  I majored in creative writing, and I guess, he assumes this is a bond we can nurture between us. Since I’m trying to be an above mediocre girlfriend, I hold my nose and string together an encouraging sentence.

“Maybe if they turned the air-conditioning down?” I look around trying to find something positive. “There’s a Starbucks up the block. They have Wi-Fi.”

“My parents are coming to town next month.”

Oh, crap. “Oh, really.” I try to keep the apprehension out of my voice, but his eyes flicker and I know I’ve failed. “That’s really nice. Nice!”

“We can do dinner.” Jared goes from happy to unsure in the space of a few seconds. “If you’re free?”

I’m just glad he didn’t ask if I wanted to go. “I’d be lying if I said I was busy, especially since I don’t know what day that’s going to be.”

“They’re excited about meeting you,” Jared says and my insides bunch up. He’s been talking about me to them and who knows who else. “I told my mom you were a writer.”

“I’m a temp.” While I wouldn’t sport this fact on a T-shirt, I’m not in the business of denying it either. “And a tutor.”

“Well, yeah, for now.”

Jared went to Harvard and sometimes it colors his perception of just what most people have waiting for them on Monday mornings. For instance, he’s working at a family friend’s production company (mostly reality TV, some pop culture documentaries and the occasional travel series) while taking digital media classes at Otis, and now he wants to write screenplays for which he’ll take more classes and cut back on his work hours to pursue. To point out that most people can’t and don’t have a life like his would be a waste of time. But I have a whole hour for lunch so I might as well.

“When you put it that way, I should get cracking on a cure for cancer and figuring out how to bring peace to the Middle East—or at least Detroit. Then again, it might be more realistic to just focus on that graphic novel I’ve been screwing around with for the last year.”

His eyes crinkle up and his mouth turns down slightly—his sad panda look. I doubt Harvard can take credit for Jared’s slightly higher than average emotional I.Q. I blame his parents who gave him the gift of many years of preventative therapy and who I’m meeting sometime next month.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “Are you mad at me?”

“Nope.” Hell, yeah, I am.

Jared smiles at me, relieved. Harvard or no Harvard, and even as therapized as he is, Jared is still a guy. As far as he’s concerned, my “nope” is all he needs to hear.

Sunday, May 1:

 The yappy dog next door has been barking for the last half hour. I’ll give it another 15 minutes before I bang on the wall and still another 15 after that before I put a note on the door of the bitch who is deaf to the barking of her own damn dog.

Not Your Average Romantic Comedy

May 2 to May 29

Monday, May 2:

Woke up this morning with nowhere to go. I’ve been harassing Summer to find me an assignment, but there’s nothing that fits my skill set except for a couple of temp-to-perm jobs we both know I wouldn’t do well at. I’m okay with money, even after paying rent, student loan and credit card bills, but that doesn’t mean I want to sit around at home instead of sitting around at work where I’m getting paid to do it.

I’ll give Summer another call in a couple of hours. If she’s still shooting blanks, I might have to resort to trolling craigslist. Shudder.

Tuesday, May 3:

When I told Summer I’d take anything, she took me at my word. I’m working a two-dayer at a construction site in downtown Los Angeles, way outside my usual zone. The actual job is regular office work (answering phones, taking messages, keeping track of deliveries), but I’m working out of a big trailer in the middle of a deep pit surrounded by heavy machinery and sweaty men.

It might be Maya’s sex fantasy come true, but not mine. And I definitely didn’t wear the right shoes. Do you have any idea how much dirt can get into a peep toe heel? 

Wednesday, May 4:

Wore my very first hardhat today purely for safety reasons. It used to belong to some guy named Ralph. The construction manager made me put it on before I could dash outside and deliver a message to the foreman.

Now everyone is calling me “Ralph” and I don’t mind. I’m kind of bummed that this was only a two-dayer. I’d totally come back if they asked.

Thursday, May 5:

Maya is despondent. She’s fallen in love, but the object of her obsession isn’t cooperating. She’s face down on my bed even though it’s past 11 and I want to go to sleep. With no job to get to and not wanting to stay at home, I spent the day wandering around the mall. Tomorrow looks to be more of the same. 

“Why hasn’t he called?” her voice is muffled by my pillow. I’m sure she’s getting spit on it. “It’s not like I can call him.”

“No you can’t call him. Again.” I pull on my sleep shorts and favorite Elmo T-shirt, hoping she gets the hint.

Maya doesn’t move. I’m too tired to play nice. I’ll be blunt and hope it chases her away from my bed. “Maybe he’s busy hanging out with his,
like
, wife.”

“They’re separated,” she looks up at me (and, yes, I can see there’s a wet spot on my pillow). “He’s going to divorce her just as soon as he gets his business affairs in order.”

I don’t trust this guy, especially since he’s super charming. He took us out to dinner the other night and I got the distinct feeling that he was sizing me up. Not sexually, but to see if I would be a problem for him or not.

“Anyway, I thought you were done with being the other woman.”

“I’m not, I’m the only one. He told me.” Maya does another face plant onto my pillow. “Why do I attract the same kind of guy? Why can’t I be satisfied with boring and nice? Like Jared. He’d never leave you waiting for a phone call.”

“Well, it sort of helps that Jared isn’t married.” I pull fresh sheets out of the closet and start changing them around Maya. “It happens to be one of my main criteria for choosing who I hump.”

“If only life were so simple,” Maya sighs, finally rolling off my bed.

“It kind of is, you know,” I tell her, but she’s not listening.

Friday, May 6:

At the mall again, but I’ve started to scan storefront windows for help wanted signs. I’m like an addict looking to score some smack. But the good news is that Summer has come through with a fix. She’s booked me for two weeks at the top of my pay rate with scary event planner and wicked witch of the Westside, Constance.

And my parents were worried my gift bag stuffing talent would never come in handy. I’ve showed them!

Saturday, May 7:

Happy day! It’s dreary and overcast outside. Not only do I get to wear my new super comfy sweater from Anthropologie, I have the perfect excuse to stay home and enjoy my day from the comfort of my bed and couch. 

Jared and Maya aren’t happy about this so I’ve sent them to Trader Joe’s with a list of stuff to buy, which I will turn into lunch for them. After that they have to leave me alone.

Sunday, May 8:

When I was growing up the one thing I always liked was how quiet our house was. My parents aren’t the kind of people who talk for the sake of talking. I grew up believing that there’s always an end point to a conversation and as soon as that point is reached, the conversation is over.

Now I not only have a boyfriend who likes to talk, but also a roommate who never seems to shut up.

“Oh, puhleez,” Maya groans thoroughly and loudly disgusted by what she just heard. “What a frickin’ cliché!”

“It’s not a cliché.” Jared’s mouth turns down. He’s gotten his feelings hurt. “It’s an archetype. I mean, she’s an archetype.”

“A hooker with a heart of gold? When haven’t I seen that in a cop movie?” Maya jabs her finger at Jared’s laptop. “People that nice don’t become hookers they—”

“Temp,” I say. I’ve been trying to tune them out for the last half hour and focus on making my third, and last, slice of pizza last as long as possible. “Temps are like hookers—in and out at a negotiated rate, no strings attached.”

“No, you’re not. You’re nothing like a hooker, Brenda.” Jared looks wounded, which (to be fair) is his default look. “This character is the moral center of the movie, but she’s compromised.”

“Aren’t we all,” I say as I nibble around a pepperoni.

“Why not make her a hot lawyer or, I don’t know, a slutty kindergarten teacher.” These two suggestions of Maya’s are based on Halloween costumes she’s worn in the past.

I roll my eyes, but keep my mouth shut. They don’t need me to keep going. Yesterday they talked about mustards—brown, spicy, yellow, Dijon—for a whole hour while I tidied up my sock drawer.

“It’s about symbolism,” Jared insists, his face going slightly pink with frustration. He’s not used to having his creative genius questioned. “The hero is selling himself out in secret, but the heroine is brave enough to do it out in the open.”

“Oh, puhleez,” Maya groans again. “Women are either whores or mothers. That’s the way it always is in cop movies.”

“Just like temping,” I say, but they’re not paying attention to me.

Monday, May 9:

When I first started temping, I had a guy scream in my face that I was a stupid bitch because I buzzed in the person who served him with divorce papers. That my job was to buzz people in didn’t excuse me from being a stupid bitch. Mostly people are cool, but I’ve learned to never stay anywhere long enough to get sucked into office politics or get too chummy with anyone I work with.

My only exceptions are Glenn and Sherri. I’ve even been to their house a few times and we send each other Christmas cards. That’s as close as I want to get with anyone who I don’t have to let into my little bubble. I like my bubble. But right now Constance, event planner to the stars and other jerks, is not only in my bubble, she’s also right up in my face.

“Who are you?” she asks.

We were last introduced for the third time in as many hours, but I’ve failed to register. Constance, who is as skinny as a flagpole and just as tall, doesn’t have that problem. Her bright red hair, cut into a severe angled bob, also makes her extra memorable and more than a little bit scary.

“Hello, my name is Brenda. I’m from the temp agency.” I don’t hold out my hand for her to shake. Instead I use it to hold the clipboard in front of me for whatever protection it can offer. At this point I’ve been working for 11 hours straight and I don’t like rude people. So, yeah, I’m a little cranky. “Remember?”

“Why should I?” Constance is wearing head-to-toe black, which makes her pasty-white skin look extra bloodless next to her equally black hair. “And who told you that it was okay to stand here? Wearing that?”

I’m smart enough to keep my smart mouth shut and not answer. She gives my outfit of a cream colored sweater, gray tweed skirt and my most comfortable raspberry colored peep toe heels a withering glare. This one is worse than the one I got when she first saw me earlier tonight.

Because my outfit didn’t match the color palette for this event, I’d been relegated to keeping an eye on the hors d'oeuvres in a hallway that was being used as a makeshift kitchen.  I’d been taking my task very seriously until Keelin, Constance’s senior assistant, asked me to mind the front door for her while she dealt with a passed out guest in the men’s room.

I have no good answer for Constance so I just shrug.

She snatches the clipboard out of my hand. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I fire you.”

I stroll back to the hallway/kitchen at a leisurely pace. On my way there, I grab a drink off a tray. I’ll need something to wash those hors d'oeuvres down.

Tuesday, May 10:

Short of begging, I have to somehow convince Keelin to keep me on gift bag stuffing duty. Rumor has it that I’m supposed to help out at some lunch party and there won’t be the usual two or three assistants between me and Constance. Not that I’m afraid of her; I just want her to forget I exist for the rest of my assignment. 

Wednesday, May 11:

Wyatt is doing more texting than reading and I’m way too frazzled from another day of trying to avoid Constance’s hair-trigger wrath to keep him on task.

I’ve been staring at the same paragraph of
Don Quixote
, the next book on Wyatt’s English class list, for the last 10 minutes. Instead of reading, I was trying to figure out what Constance’s evil rat brain will come up with tomorrow.

He looks up from his iPhone, startled. “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That shaking? See! There!” The table shakes slightly, causing water in the glass in front of me to ripple slightly. “Earthquake!”

“No. It’s not. It’s me. When I get stressed or nervous, I jiggle my knee. When I’m stressed
and
nervous, I jiggle both. I’ll try to stop…. See? No more earthquakes.”

“What’s wrong?” Wyatt sets aside his phone and tries to focus his sleepy eyes on me. “Are you worried you’re pregnant?”

“Where the hell do you get ideas like that, Wyatt?” It’s actually kind of funny, but I’m in no mood to laugh. “Just some issues with this job I’m temping at.”

“Are you being sexually harassed?” he asks.

“No. The person I’m working for is a tad high maintenance, but I can handle it.”

Wyatt looks at me closely. “You don’t look like you can. No offense.”

“I totally can,” I lie. My stomach is already in knots thinking about going into work.

“Whatever,” he says and goes back to his phone.

If only I could “whatever” the rest of this assignment away. Maybe I can. Wyatt smells like pot. I might ask him for some.

Thursday, May 12:

With everything that’s going on, you’d think some people would be more considerate and at least try not to shove their happiness down other people’s throats. But no, I happen to hang out with two people who can’t seem to keep their feelings to themselves.

Jared, who has a real issue with PDA, is hounding me to be more affectionate; and Maya is accusing me of having, as she puts it, “intimacy issues.” I’m going to have to hide her next issue of
Cosmo
before she diagnoses me with an eating disorder because I refuse to consider leftovers as a meal option.

Is it my fault I grew up in a family that wasn’t touchy feely? No, and I’m not blaming my parents for my reluctance to tongue Jared in public. My parents have been married forever and not kissing and hugging in public hasn’t made their relationship any worse. In fact, I think it’s probably the reason why they’re still together—they save the private stuff for when they are in PRIVATE. Either way, I’m not going to let Jared make me feel (There’s that word!) like a weirdo because we don’t kiss at the end of a pier at sunset. I will hold his hand, though. I’m not that cold.

You know who could use some restraint in the intimacy department? Yeah, Maya. She has found yet another winner to pledge her body and soul to. This guy is her typical daddy substitute. They both drive the same kind of car, which Maya pointed out because it’s totally normal to be dating a man who drives the same car as your dad. Gross. But Maya claims she’s in love and she doesn’t care who knows about it—as long as it’s not his wife, who this guy is (supposedly) separated from. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.

Of course, we went out together and it was weird. But not as weird as watching a man pay for everything in cash. I assumed he paid in cash because he didn’t want his wife finding out he’s hanging out with people who could be his kids (if he’d had us at 16). Nope. Maya says Armie pays for EVERYTHING in cash, which makes me wonder where he gets his bags of money. But not too hard. I don’t really want to know and neither does Maya, who refuses to acknowledge how weird everything about her and Armie looks to me.