First Stop, New York

by Jordan Cooke

  “What did I just say about questions?”

  “Sorry.”

  Max took Corliss by the shoulders. “Do you know what quality I like most in assistants?”

  “Um, clear skin and fresh breath? That’s a joke—sorry! I’m trying to ease the interpersonal dynamic with a little humor.”

  “I find myself less than interested, Corliss. What I am interested in is an assistant who says, ‘Yes, Max’ to everything I ask.”

  “Yes, Max.”

  “All day long.”

  “All day long,” Corliss repeated.

  “Exactly. So please keep an eye on Tanya and Trent. We’re going to want to harness their flirtation until The ’Bu is on the air. At that point I will permit their relationship to flower.”

  Corliss seemed to comprehend.

  “This is your most important function. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, Max,” said Corliss.

  “Good. You are dismissed for the day.”

  As Corliss walked off, Petey, who had witnessed the entire scene in silence, said, “Who’s that, Max?”

  “Nobody,” said Max. “My new assistant. Why?”

  “Because,” Petey said, his raccoon eyes suddenly twinkling with life, “I think she just gave me a brilliant idea for the rewrite.”

  Somewhere in the Bowels of the UBC Network—3:40 P.M.

  : The

  ’Bu-Hoo

  Malibu Barbie here. Or maybe it’s Malibu Ken? Call me MBK [get it? M(alibu)B(arbie or) K(en)!] ’cause I’m not saying…

  But I will be saying other stuff. And ALL OF IT’s about The ’Bu. That’s the UBC network’s new teen jiggle fest. The show that promises boatloads of bodacious bikinis and busloads of booty-rific board shorts.

  SEE KEYWORDS: frisky hot, seminude, sandy cracks

  So welcome to The ‘Bu-Hoo, kiddies. That’s what I’m calling this here blog you’re reading, ’cause it’s gonna deliver so much inside scoop it’ll make you weep for more! And who can blame ya? Who doesn’t want to hear about filthy rich teen stars behaving badly? I tell ya, this stuff is bananas! Those crazy ’Bu-sters are already racking up awards no one wants to win…

  AWARDS Already Won

  Best Talent-Impaired Latina Model

  Greatest Female Train Wreck in a Leading Role

  Video Director Most Willing to Sell His Soul to Make Friends with Cool People

  And we’re off to the races! Hidden sources involved in THE HIGHEST LEVELS OF PRODUCTION are already reporting to MBK how full of attitude Anushka “Champagne Breath” Peters is, and how truly dumb as a garage full of surfboards Trent Owen Michaels is…

  And don’t get me started on Max Marx—hereinafter referred to as M2. This big fakity-fake spent the first read-through pretending to know how to direct. The only problem is—he di’int! And network executives are already grumbling…

  SEE LINK FOR “car crash about to happen!”

  And Rocco DiTullio? He might look like one of those divine naked dudes at the top of the Sistine Chapel, but he’s on a secret mission that violates at least two of the commandments.

  THIS JUST IN…

  M2’s assistants plot to murder innocent Indiana transplant Calamity Corliss. Jeepers, and we is just getting started! So lock your doors and hold on to your keyboards, Blogosphere. MBK is here to deliver the dope, straight up. Sure, I could get caught, but, I gots to tell you, I am in way too deep, and my cover is Ziploc-tight. So fear not! I will bring it.

  HOLD FOR MORE INCOMING DIRT…

  Recently fired ’Bu writers sue M2 for beaucoup dinero: They seek his house in the hills and Spike Jonze’s private number…

  Stay tuned, ’Bu-sters!

  Yours ’Bu-ly,

  MBK

  Three

  Uncle Ross’s House—5:15 P.M.

  Corliss was sniffling, engulfed in one of Uncle Ross’s enormous outdoor canvas chairs. “I feel like a complete loser!”

  “It’s okay,” said her uncle, deep into his second martini. “Tell Uncle Ross your troubles. Does it have anything to do with your hair?”

  “Um…not exactly,” Corliss said, patting down her frizzy locks. “I didn’t have a chance to condition it today. But that’s the least of it.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  Corliss wiped the fog from her glasses so she could see her handsome uncle. His silver hair was cut just so, and his mint-colored silk lounge pants were the picture of sophistication. He was like something out of an old movie—and as gay as Disney On Ice.

  “You know what? I’d rather talk about your life, Uncle Ross—it’s so much more interesting.”

  “Well, that’s true,” he said, crossing his legs. “Jurgen—that Swede I’ve been dating?”

  “The guy with the big ears we met when you took me to Will Rogers beach?”

  “Corliss, please. The gays call it Ginger Rogers beach, and yes, he’s the one. A wildly successful lawyer, but he’s given it all up—and for what? A dog-walking business.” Uncle Ross shuddered.

  Corliss laughed, momentarily forgetting her troubles.

  “He likes walking and he likes dogs, so his big brain-storm was putting the two together. He calls this business ‘Get Your Bark On.’”

  Corliss was rocking back and forth now, laughing and steaming up her glasses again.

  “You’re hilarious, Uncle Ross.”

  “Of course I am. Do you want a martini?”

  “Uncle Ross, you know I’m not old enough.”

  “There you go, announcing your limitations again. With an attitude like that, Corliss, you won’t go far in this town.”

  Corliss knew he was trying to make her laugh, but she was too upset. “I just don’t think I can go back. I had to babysit Max Marx’s stepbrother! That was today’s assignment, can you believe it? Taking care of that snotty little brat. And I mean that both booger-wise and attitude-wise.”

  “Oh dear,” said Uncle Ross, shuddering. “Child care! Corliss, that is awful.”

  “It is! And I think the kid is secretly evil. Like the bad seed with a lisp.”

  “Speech impediments?” Uncle Ross said, clutching the piping of his loungewear. “Is there no end to what you must endure! Corliss, had I known what this internship would entail, I never—”

  “But that’s not the worst of it,” she said, cutting him off.

  “There’s more? Wait, I’ll have to make myself another martini…”

  “Uncle Ross, Max wanted me to…” Corliss felt a bad taste rise in her mouth. “Spy on people.”

  “Really?” he asked as he stirred his gin. “Tell, tell.”

  “I can’t. It’s top secret.”

  “Corliss,” he said, clearly disappointed, “I have so much to teach you.”

  Corliss sighed. She knew there was nothing she could keep from Uncle Ross. “It’s a couple of actors in the cast. Max says if they start dating while we’re in production, then disaster lies ahead! Or something.”

  “Aha,” said Uncle Ross, digging deep into his new martini. “So you’re his little secret agent. Are you getting combat pay?”

  “I don’t think I’m getting any pay.”

  “That was a joke, dear.”

  “God, I’m such a dolt sometimes. What should I do, Uncle Ross?”

  “Quit, of course.”

  Corliss sat bolt upright in her lounge chair. The idea filled her with terror.

  “If you’re so miserable, why not? I can find you another job faster than Lindsay Lohan can leave rehab.”

  “But—but—”

  “No buts, Corliss. Be a big girl, gather your courage, call Max, and quit.”

  “But I don’t have any courage!”

  Uncle Ross ignored this. “You have his number, right?”

  “Private line and everything, yeah.”

  “So then it’s simple. Call the man.”

  The idea paralyzed Corliss with fear. She couldn’t just quit on Max the first day—she wouldn’t be able to live with
herself. No, I finished up my credits early because I persevere. I’ll just take the internship one day at a time and do a thorough evaluation of my feelings and goals every evening. If at the end of every day I’m a basket case—according to the American Psychiatric Association’s criteria—then eventually I’ll have to quit. She sighed and smiled, proud of herself for sorting through her fear in a flash.

  Just then her phone rang. She looked at the caller ID and her fear returned.

  “Oh, God…”

  “What is it, Corliss?”

  “It’s him.”

  “Jurgen? But why would he be calling you?”

  “Not Jurgen, Uncle Ross…Max Marx!”

  “Sorry—I’ve got Jurgen on the brain. Well, this is excellent timing. Answer the call and tender your resignation. Tomorrow I can get you an internship on Grey’s Anatomy.”

  Corliss froze. Uncle Ross snatched the phone from her and connected the call.

  “Don’t—!”

  “Corliss Meyers’s line. Whom may I say is calling? Thank you, Mr. Marx. Please hold.” Uncle Ross winked at Corliss and made a boop sound before extending the phone to her. Corliss felt her forehead break out in red polka dots. She took the phone and put it to her ear, praying for the bravery she’d need.

  “Hello, Max.” She listened, nodded, and then listened some more.

  “What’s he saying?” whispered Uncle Ross.

  She shook her head at her uncle and then said, “Okay, Max. Bye.” She disconnected and hung her head.

  “Couldn’t bring yourself to do it? Poor dear. You’re too sensitive. How on earth can we be related?”

  “It gets worse. Those two actors I’m supposed to spy on? Max says they’re at a restaurant on the beach.”

  “How romantic!”

  “One of his other assistants overheard them discussing their dinner plans and mentioned it to Max!”

  “Intrigue!”

  “Max wants me to go there and break it up. He says he e-mailed me the rewrite for tomorrow, and he wants me to print it out and hand-deliver it to them and tell them to go home—separately—to study it. He also said in the future he hopes I can do this kind of scheming myself!”

  “I like his mind.”

  “This is like junior year all over again! People talking behind your back, lies on top of more lies—how far have I sunk in one day? Can I use your office printer?”

  “Of course you may. Buck up, Corliss. You can always try quitting tomorrow.” Uncle Ross kissed her head and sauntered inside. “If you want dinner, I’m having the staff whip up lamb kabobs with a chutney demi-glace.”

  “No, thanks,” Corliss said, with a heavy heart. “I better print out those rewrites and head to the beach…”

  Musso & Frank Grill, Hollywood—6:27 P.M.

  Rocco was tearing mercilessly into an eighteen-ounce sirloin. The hunk of meat was slathered in butter and soaking in a puddle of bloodred juices. JB, sitting across from him, stared at the carnivorous attack and felt queasy.

  “Why didn’t you mention you were a vegetarian?” asked Rocco.

  “Why make waves?”

  “Does this bother you?” Rocco said, holding up his fork. Speared on the end of it was a hunk of meat so rare, it looked almost alive.

  “Nope,” said JB, holding his stomach. “No, siree. You eat that big piece of dead cow and I’ll just start in with my lovely starch dish.”

  JB looked down at his plate. On it sat an enormous baked potato, stuffed with sour cream and sprinkled with chives.

  “Thank you,” said Rocco, stuffing the beef in his mouth. “I require a lot of lean protein to maintain my muscle mass. It’s extremely important to me, JB. To be sound in mind, one must also be sound in body.”

  JB took note of Rocco’s arms, which somehow managed to bulge even when they weren’t moving. “Ya look pretty sound to me, Hulk. It’s like both my arms could fit into one of your arms. Both my arms folded over. Twice. Which makes me wonder why you want to hang out.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Well, don’t you only run with other protein-pumped muscle dudes? I mean, you’re like a giant sequoia! I’m more like one of those potted plants you buy at Trader Joe’s.”

  Rocco laughed. “Frankly, I find a lot of body-conscious guys to be completely brainless. You, on the other hand, have a vibrant perspective. You say whatever is on your mind—however wack it is.”

  “Er, thanks.”

  “That’s rare in this business. But there’s also something else about you I noticed that intrigues me.”

  “My eczema?”

  Rocco laughed again. “No. It’s something we do have in common. You’ve got a mysterious side.”

  “Me? Mysterious? I’m about as mysterious as the six o’clock news!”

  “Then where were you during those fifteen minutes you kept us waiting after break today? You told Max you were checking your e-mail, but you had a strange look on your face…”

  JB blushed and hung his head. He felt completely revealed. “Wow, you’re good.”

  “So what is it?” said Rocco, leaning over the table.

  JB sighed and knew he had to come up with an explanation. “Okay—I’m addicted to YouTube! Which I’m officially renaming YouTouchYourselfTube.” JB giggled sheepishly. “But I’ve got it under control, Scout’s honor.”

  “Aha,” said Rocco. “YouTube, huh…great way to keep your finger on the cultural pulse. I knew there was something else going on under that geeky exterior.”

  “Geeky?” said JB, pretending to be offended. “What a strange word to describe me.”

  Rocco thought JB was a riot. A waiter approached the table, bearing aloft a silver platter. On it was a thick yellow envelope. “Gentlemen, this package arrived via messenger.” He lowered the plate to the table.

  “Mail at dinner! Who knew?”

  “Thank you,” said Rocco, slipping the waiter a twenty. He opened the envelope to find two scripts. On the cover page it said: THE ’BU PILOT REWRITE. “Guess the new script has arrived.”

  “Wow,” said JB. “Abracadabra.”

  JB tore into his script. Rocco let his copy sit on the table.

  “Aren’t you interested in the changes?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Why not?”

  “The process doesn’t engage me.”

  “But Rocs, this show could be our big ticket! Fame, fortune—naked Twister with Scarlett Johansson.”

  “I’m not interested in fame and fortune.”

  “But I got you on the naked Twister, right?”

  Rocco shrugged. “I have fairly lofty goals, JB.”

  JB was now completely confused. “Explain-ay-voo see voo play. That’s French for talk to me.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m interested in learning about the process—but not from an actor’s point of view.”

  “Then from whose?”

  Rocco leaned in. “From the director’s.” Rocco leaned in even closer. “See, I want to direct movies.”

  “Wowzer! Really?”

  “Really. Of course, with the family I come from, full of illustrious directors, I have to go about it in a kind of covert way—otherwise I’d be accused of nepotism.”

  “Dictionary.com, please.”

  “It means riding on my family’s coattails.”

  “Wait, halt, cease—who’s your illustrious family? I live under a very large rock.”

  “I’d rather not talk about my family.”

  “The mysteries continue!”

  “Don’t mean to be mysterious, JB. It’s very simple—but keep it just between you and me—I auditioned for The ’Bu so I could secretly watch Max Marx. Everything he touches turns to gold. The ’Bu should be a huge success. I’m going to pose as a vaguely distracted actor while I actually take copious notes and learn.”

  “Well,” said JB, trying to make sense of Rocco’s reasons, “the world is just full of crazy logic, ain’t it? But if The ’Bu is going to
be a hit, I’m ordering another glass of milk so we can celebrate!”

  “To The ’Bu,” toasted Rocco. “A show that might just give us both the means to pursue our dreams. For me, that’s directing.”

  JB raised his glass of milk and toasted. “For me, that’s celebrity orgies.”

  “JB, you are certifiably nuts.”

  JB wiggled his eyebrows and drank down the last of his milk in one gulp.

  Sunset Tower Hotel, the Pool—7:18 P.M.

  Anushka blinked, but it was all darkness. Her eyes were open—wide open, in fact—and yet she could see nothing. “Ahh!!!” she screamed, terrified that it was the end. That she’d finally screwed up big-time this time and there was no returning.

  “Ms. Peters?” inquired a voice with an indistinguishable European accent.

  “Yeah,” replied Anushka fearfully.

  “Once again, you’ve fallen asleep with a towel wrapped around your head.”

  The man with the accent unwrapped Anushka’s pretty little head. She blinked, focused, and looked around the poolside area of Sunset Tower, the posh Hollywood high-rise hotel.

  “Phew…I’m still here. Hey, Lorenzo—you saved my life again.”

  Lorenzo was an impeccably tailored concierge with slicked-back hair. He had a sneaky voice and a sneaky way of doing things. “It is my duty, as well as my pleasure, Ms. Peters, to save your life as often as possible.”

  As Lorenzo slithered off, Anushka called after him. “I don’t suppose you can come back with one of your killer martinis? Please-oh-please?”

  Lorenzo turned only to wag his finger and smile.

  “Luv ya, weirdo!” she called.

  Anushka shook off her sleep and gave herself the once-over. She was sporting the Cameo bikini she’d picked up at Fred Segal, where she’d also received a flawless bikini wax—on the house. She’d also recently had herself tanned at Le Soleil and mani-pedied at Burke Williams. She clenched her abs and smiled appreciatively as they rippled back at her.

  What a shame the sun was setting and it was getting a little too chilly to stay out and appreciate her body any longer. She arched her back to give the few remaining people around the pool a chance to take in her perfection. She knew all eyes were on her—they always were. People around the pool smiled in approval. Anushka smiled back.