“Maybe not for you!”
“It shouldn’t be that hard for you either. I know you’re not stupid, so stop looking at me with that blank expression like you just fell off the short bus and landed on the lawn at the retard Olympics.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You’re welcome. I’m on to you, Lindsey. But fortunately for you, I don’t have time to deal with this, because I have a newsletter to get out. I’m wasting my time here.”
She gets up and starts shoving her notebooks and magazines back into her bag. “I’m going to leave all my questionnaires here for you to tabulate. Calculate everything in percentages and break it down by gender, age, and whether or not they’re employed or in school.”
She heads for the door. “You’ve got another week to pull this together. We’ll meet up in New York next Sunday and do the write-up. I’m going to call you with more interview topics in a couple of days.”
She turns to go. “And while you’re at it, try to come up with a few new ideas.” She smiles fake-sweet. “At least one. Try for one.”
After she’s gone, I sit down to ponder the exchange. She’s definitely annoyed with me, but not as full-on furious as I’d have expected. Maybe she understands how hard this is for a newbie. Or maybe she realizes that because she was my official trainer (albeit for one day), my incompetence will make her look just as bad to Liz as it’ll make me look. In any case, it seems that I have another week. And without Victor around to distract me, I have nothing to do but concentrate on work.
And because we all know that concentration is best achieved poolside, I slip on my bikini and go out to soak up some sun while I ponder my next steps.
The sunshine is so sharp and clean here, not like New York, where it feels like the UV rays are burning a layer of grime into your skin. After a week in Manhattan, it’s strange to hear birds chirping above my head instead of car horns blaring from every direction. The energy in New York is like a jolt of electricity, whereas here it’s more like a soft, steady breeze. I heard once that people can be put into two categories: In the depths of your heart, you’re either a New York person or a California person. As if three thousand miles of in-between material for constructing a personality don’t exist. But now I understand what it means. It’s about the environment that feeds your lifeblood, which kind of energy makes you feel alive and which kind makes you feel sedated.
I saw an Oprah episode once that featured a teary-eyed group of compulsive adult bed-wetters. I’m not sure what the connection was, but I remember Oprah wrapping it all up by imparting the following wisdom: “In life,” she prophesied, “the most important achievement is to know yourself, understand who you really are, and connect with the true person inside of you.”
Shit, I remember thinking. I’d better get on that.
But here I am, confronting the two defining natures head-on, having been given the perfect opportunity to categorize and know myself, at least a little. And honestly, I like both of these places. God knows I love New York. But I’m kind of digging the way I feel here too. So who is the true person inside of me? Will I ever find her? Will I ever know her? Will I ever –
“Hey, do you mind if use a squirt of your sunscreen?”
I squint up into the sun to see a girl my age standing by the nearest pool chair.
“Oh, sure.” I hand her the bottle. “Use as much as you want.”
I watch as she slathers the lotion onto her body. She’s got a very pretty face and luscious long brown hair, but she’s overweight, probably by a good fifty pounds. I normally wouldn’t point that out, but I was genuinely wondering if they even carry clothes above a size four here in L.A. Much to my relief, apparently they do.
“I’m Carmen,” she says. “Are you new in the building?”
“Well, yes, sort of. I live here part-time, every other week.”
“Ahhh… so you’re the other half of the bicoastal team.” She smiles knowingly.
“I take it you’ve met Jen.”
“Uh-huh. Once or twice, in passing. She’s… really nice.”
“Don’t lie,” I say flatly.
Carmen laughs. “Okay, so she’s a little… well… I don’t know. Let’s just say you can tell she’s not from around here.”
I take the sunscreen back from her and add a little to my arms.
“Are you from around here?” I ask.
“Born and bred. My dad produces films. My mom is a costume designer. Just about everyone you meet here is in the entertainment industry, one way or another.”
“Including you?”
“No, actually. I own an art gallery down on Melrose.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Wow.”
“Wow what?”
“That’s so young to have it all figured out.”
“Young? That’s ancient in Hollywood. At least by industry standards.”
“Sunny days. That makes me a fucking cadaver.”
My curse word startles me, and I immediately apologize. But Carmen laughs and pulls out a Virginia Slims 100.
“Do you mind if I smoke? I’ll wave it the other way.”
“Ohh! I don’t mind. Can I have one too?”
We light our cigs and clink them together in a gleeful toast. “To the only two people in California who still indulge in the occasional ciggie treat,” Carmen says. “I had to drive across the border to get these, you know.”
“Well, smoking is totally un-PC. Not to mention terrible for our health.”
“I heard that somewhere.”
“We should quit.”
“You wanna? We could be each other’s sponsors.”
“Yes. Let’s quit.”
“Fine. Done. That ship has sailed.”
“Bon voyage.”
“Bon voyage!”
I bite my lip. “After this one, right?”
“Of course.”
• • •
And five hours later, as I sip a mango martini at Eight Ball, Hollywood’s latest theme bar, it appears that I have actually made a new friend. Carmen and I have hit it off like we’ve known each other forever. She’s told me all about her art gallery, her boyfriend, Tommy (who’s a promoter at Elektra Records), and her new pole-dancing class – which is apparently a tried-and-true exercise trend among celebrities. And I’ve told her all about my job (not quite mentioning how I’ve managed to melt a golden goat into a puddle of piss in less than two short weeks). And of course, I’ve told her about Victor, my tall, charming, handsome heartthrob who lives and breathes everything Manhattan.
“Wow – he sounds great. Tell him to come out here and visit.”
“He’d be a fish out of water, that’s for sure.”
“Who cares? Get him on a plane. Sounds like he can afford it.”
“Yeah, well, first he has to call me.”
“You haven’t heard from him yet?”
I signal the waiter for more drinks, not really wanting to answer that question. Then I pick up the black Magic 8-Ball, one of which sits in the center of every table in the bar. I close my eyes and shake the ball, concentrating fiercely.
“Will I marry Victor Ragsdale?” I push the eight ball toward Carmen, so she can read my answer through the tiny window on the ball.
She bites her lip.
“What is it?” I demand.
“My reply is no,” she reads.
Noticing my frown, she holds it out. “Try it again.”
I snatch it back, close my eyes, and shake again, this time harder.
“Will Victor Ragsdale and I get married to each other?”
I push the ball back to her.
“Cannot predict now,” she reads.
“Okay, one more.” I shake it one more time, trying to form a mental and spiritual connection with whatever life force speaks to us through random gadgets such as these.
“Is it within my destiny to end up betrothed to Victor Ragsdale?” I push the ball toward Carmen
.
“It is decidedly so!”
I throw my arms up in triumph and put the ball back, just as the waiter arrives with our drinks.
“So seriously, Lindsey. You should just call him.”
“I already did. He didn’t answer, so I hung up.”
“There’s something called Caller ID, you know.”
“I didn’t think of that. And anyway, he didn’t call me back.”
“But you didn’t leave a message.”
“So?”
“So when you’re out of town, it’s your job to call the person who’s waiting home for you. You’re on a business trip – he doesn’t want to interrupt you. If the roles were reversed, it would be his job to call you.”
I’m skeptical. While all that may be true, he’s also the man. And while I consider myself to be a fully evolved woman of the new millennium, there’s still a part of me that obeys The Rules.
Carmen picks up my cell phone, which has been waiting patiently (and quietly) on the table since we got here. “Here – call him right now.”
“Now? It’s a terrible time to call him!”
“It’s the perfect time,” she argues. “You’re really busy, so you can only chat for a minute, but you wanted to check in and ask if he found the… calculator that you left in his apartment.”
“Calculator?”
“Okay, your watch. You lost your watch. The silver one with the rose trim.”
“I don’t have a silver watch with rose trim.”
“But he doesn’t know that!”
“I’m not sure about this.”
“Nonsense. If you wait, you’ll lose the courage.”
“What courage?”
She shoves the phone at me sternly. “Call.”
Maybe it is a good time to call. I’m out and about, surrounded by fun, cool people, having the time of my life. Clearly not sitting home, pining for him, waiting for him to call or anything of the sort.
I tap his name to dial the number. My heart is beating a mile a minute. Carmen is smiling, giving me the thumbs-up sign. It’s ringing.
And ringing. And ringing. Then, his voicemail.
Voicemail I mouth to Carmen. She nods, encouraging me forward.
Leave a message! she mouths back.
Then just as Victor’s voice mail beeps and I take a breath to start talking, someone sideswipes me from behind, knocking the phone out of my hands. The phone smashes down and slides across the floor.
“Shit!” Carmen jumps up and dives after the phone, but it’s too late. The flip part is cracked, and the face has gone black.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she says. “If you take it in, they can probably fix it.”
I sigh. “Fantastic. I’ve got a broken phone, and now there are two caller ID hang-ups from me on Victor’s line.”
“Call him from mine.” Carmen reaches into her bag and pulls out a smart-phone with red sequins and silver glitter on the case. So cute.
“Explain what happened, that’s all. Just tell him the truth and stop being so wigged out by every little thing you do.”
“This is a sign. I knew I shouldn’t have called.”
“It’s not a sign.” She wraps my hand around her phone. “Call him back. Be aggressive. You want him; take him. Now move it!”
I dial Victor’s number (which I know by heart), mentally replaying what I’m going to say on his voicemail, but suddenly he answers!
“This is Victor.”
I hang up quickly and toss the phone back at Carmen.
“What happened?”
“He answered.”
“So why didn’t you talk to him?”
“Don’t you see? He’s answering when he doesn’t recognize the name on the caller ID—because it’s your name. But he’s not answering when he sees that it’s me!”
“I’m sure that’s not it. He was probably in the bathroom or something.”
“Oh, come on. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk to me, and he’s going to know it was me, calling from a different phone. It’s still a California area code.”
“You’re not making any sense. You just said he answered because he didn’t know it was you.”
“Oh, my God. He’s going to think I’m a complete lunatic and he’s never going to call me back now. Ever. Dumped Woman Walking. That’s me on the way back to New York.”
Carmen sighs. “Are you finished?”
I pout, then nod slowly.
“Good. Because we’re going to the Beauty Bar now. It’s a hair salon by day, cocktail lounge by night. Very hip. And no more talking about this. There are other things in life besides worrying about when a guy’s gonna call.”
She’s right. I can tell already Carmen is going to be a good influence on me. She doesn’t initially look like someone who’s part of the L.A. scene (I hate to say it, but particularly with all the extra weight), but she carries herself like the most confident, attractive person in the world. I like her. And for some strange, unexplained reason, she seems to like me too.
Chapter 13
The next day I take my phone into the Verizon store.
“Why don’t you just get a new phone?” croaks the zitty teenager behind the counter. “This thing’s ancient.”
“It’s a year and a half old,” I tell him. “And I know you can fix it.”
He admits that yes, he can fix it, and I can pick it up in a day or two.
“Which is it?” I ask. “A day, or two?”
“Come in tomorrow.”
Luckily I can still check my messages from a landline, or I’d never know if Victor was trying to call me. Or to be precise, I’d never know that Victor isn’t trying to call me.
Back at the apartment, Jen calls with a new list of topics to interview on.
“Game night among couple friends. Heavy-metal bowling. The tropical-fruit diet. Cowboy chic. Organ donation.”
“Organ donation?”
“Yeah, ever since Drew Barrymore got out of a speeding ticket because she had a donor sticker on her license, people are lining up in droves at the DMV.”
“Hey, I have one we should throw in.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Have you heard of pole-dancing classes?”
“In big cities they’ve been around forever. But I doubt they’d be popular in Middle America.”
“I was talking to this girl who takes the class.”
“Who?”
“Her name is Carmen. She lives in the building.”
“That fat chick who’s always out by the pool? She takes stripping?”
“Look, just because she’s a few pounds overweight doesn’t mean—”
“Fine, Lindsey. If Chubs can shake her ass in a G-string, maybe there’s hope for the rest of the world. Go check it out.”
“You mean, go take the class?”
“Yeah, what the hell. It’ll be a fallback in case you ever quit your day job.” She laughs evilly. “Now hop down to Melrose. We’re crunched for time, so see if you can get me fifty interviews by tomorrow night.”
I spend the rest of the day typing up questionnaires, watching Gossip Girl reruns, and stretching a six-inch sub from Subway into a five-hour meal. I need some ideas. I need to come up with a big brainstorm for how to uncover new cultural trends in ways and places that no one ever thought of. The only problem is, every time I close my eyes and try to concentrate on how, I end up falling asleep. It’s now five twenty-three, and I’ve taken four naps since I woke up this morning. The Subway sitting in my stomach is not getting along with the cup of chili and barbecue chips that accompanied it on the way in. My hair is greasy and I’m still hung over from one too many cocktails last night with Carmen.
This day is shot. Best to just give in, go to bed, and start over tomorrow.
• • •
After picking up my repaired phone the next morning, I decide to get an early start on the interviewing. Walking toward Melrose Avenue, I can’t help but wonder if Melrose Place is anywher
e near here. That’s the kind of question a really cheesy Middle American tourist would wonder about, but I can’t help it. Was Melrose Place a real street? Or was it just the name of the apartment building that Heather Locklear owned? Or was it an “area” of Los Angeles that they lived in? I want to know right now. But who would I ask? These people look way too young and hip to remember Melrose Place. Asking the question would scream, “She’s not from here.” And I swear, if I hear that one more time, I’m going to drown myself in the ocean. Actually, the pool. In the pool, my dangling body parts won’t get eaten by mysterious, hostile sea creatures. But I digress.
The real Melrose Avenue reminds me more of New York than L.A., in that it feels more urban cutting-edge than sunny delight. But people here are laid-back and much more willing to talk to me than they were in Manhattan. Popping into the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and buying fifty certificates, each good for one small iced latte, probably helped. All I know is, after five hours, I’ve already gotten thirty-seven interviews done. And Jen was right: People really are into this organ-donor thing. It’s the do-good revolution of the year. As far as I’m concerned, they can be selling their own livers for the newest trend in gourmet pate, because finally, finally, finally, I am having a productive day. I’ve got blisters on my feet the size of meteors. And I told Carmen I’d meet her at the studio for her pole dancing class. But I don’t care. I am getting something productive done, for the first time since I began this job.
I decide to take a break and use one of the Coffee Bean coupons for myself. As I watch the passsers-by, I wonder what pole dancing class will be like. I’m a little nervous, being the new girl and all. But Carmen assured me that the underwear and bra stay on at all times, and that it’s easier than it sounds, and that I’ll love it.
It looks like a regular exercise studio, but with ten or so stripper poles right in the middle of the floor. Carmen’s not there yet, and the other girls are all stretching and warming up. Every single one of them is small, thin, blond, and cute. Then the instructor walks in, also small and thin, but with flaming red hair and freckles.
“Are you Lindsey? I’m Jaden. Carmen said you were coming. She’s going to be a little late.”
Bicoastal Babe Page 10
