Hello, Sunshine

by Leila Howland

  “Congrats!” Raj says. “Where?”

  “Rocky’s in Los Feliz.”

  “I bet you can make a lot of money there,” he says as we turn down Franklin Avenue, which is blissfully shady. “Los Feliz is a cool neighborhood.”

  It is cool. There’s a little movie theater, a taco stand, a bunch of restaurants and coffee shops. There are vintage clothing boutiques, an art supply store, and a supercool, bright bookstore with a tree growing in the middle of it. There’s a library, a post office, and a yoga studio. And it’s only a mile and a half from the Chateau Bronson. Almost walking distance, but not quite.

  Rocky’s is right in the middle of it all. It has a 1950s diner feel to it with miniature jukeboxes on each table. On my third day of looking for a job, a tired-looking manager named Gloria agreed to give me a shot without even glancing at my fake résumé.

  “We need someone for brunch,” she’d said, as a strong girl wiped tables at the back of the restaurant. “The first shift is on Sunday. It’s a double. Can you handle it?”

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation.

  “We’ll see how you do,” Gloria said. “You’ll start training Wednesday. If it works, we’ll give you more shifts, but I’m not guaranteeing anything. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking I’m not guaranteeing anything either, then I rushed home and jumped for joy after checking number eight off my list.

  “When do you start?” Raj asks. At the crosswalk, he uses the side of his fist to tap the button that activates the walk signal. We’re back in the sun, and I can feel sweat beading on my forehead.

  “I’m training tomorrow,” I say. The traffic is paused, and I’m about to dart across the street when Raj reaches for my hand and pulls me back to the curb.

  “Careful,” he says, his hand wrapped around my wrist. “People drive like psychos on this street.”

  “Thanks.”

  He smiles shyly. When he lets go of my wrist, it tingles.

  “Now I just need to get headshots,” I say as the walk signal lights up and we cross the wide avenue.

  “I can take them for you,” he says, “I mean, if you want.”

  “Really?” His strides are quick and purposeful, and I skip-jog to catch up.

  “Sure,” he says when we reach the other side. “I am a director, you know. I can take pretty good pictures.”

  “That would be so great, because there’s no way I can afford professional ones.”

  “We can go to Griffith Park,” Raj says.

  “Where’s that again?” I ask.

  His face breaks into a warm smile. “It’s right here.” He gestures up the hill. “Remember we drove by it on our way to Ikea?”

  “Oh, yeah.” I hope I start to understand this geography soon.

  “We’ll get a really natural look there.”

  “That’d be awesome,” I say. The sidewalk is on an incline. We’re both sweating by the time we reach the gate of California Film School. “When can we do it?”

  “How about Monday?” Raj asks. “I think you’re getting a sunburn.” He takes off his fedora and puts it on my head.

  “Thanks,” I say, surprised. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine,” he says. “I’ll be inside all day.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  “See ya,” Raj says. I watch him open a gate and walk onto campus.

  He has a place where he belongs, I think—an actual gate to walk through and close behind him. For a moment, I want to follow him inside—just to be enclosed somewhere instead of so exposed. College is like training wheels for adulthood. You live away from your parents, make decisions about your own life, but in a place that keeps you safe if you change your mind or lose your footing. As I turn back down Franklin Avenue, I feel thrust out in the world too soon. I’ve been knocked off of my tricycle and been handed a bike, but there are no training wheels for me. I’ve just got to hop on and learn how to ride.

  I might not have a school to attend, but I do have a mission, I tell myself as I, the lone pedestrian, walk along the cracked sidewalk, past a gas station. I’m here to be an actress. Even though my path is not mapped out with a curriculum or guided by professors, I know where I want to go. The traffic is getting thicker and the sun is getting hotter, but for the first time since I arrived, I’m relieved the whole day is in front of me. There’s something great about knowing I’ve got a job and not having actually started yet. I decide that I’m going to finally stop in Word of Mouth, the used bookstore/record store near the Mayfair.

  I’m the first customer of the day, arriving just as a clerk with dreadlocks and a hippie skirt unlocks the door, a mug of coffee in her hand. She nods hello and puts on a jazz record while I search the section labeled drama. There are tons of old books about acting, some of them dating back to the early 2000s or even earlier, but the one that catches my eye is a newer-looking book simply called Making It in Hollywood! The cover is an illustration of a girl who could be me, holding a suitcase and gazing up at the Hollywood sign.

  On the back is a picture of the author, Suzi Simpson. She grins up at me from her headshot. She has red hair and a genuine smile. She reminds me of one of my favorite teachers, Ms. Bishop, and I feel just by looking at her that she’s my ally. Like on a tough day she’d make me cookies and be straight with me. I flip to the table of contents and every chapter heading excites me, especially the first several.

  “Welcome to Hollywood”

  “Great Expectations”

  “The Dreaded Day Job”

  “Your Body Is Your Instrument—Taking Care of You”

  “Help! I Need Headshots”

  “Getting an Agent (Or How to Deal Until You Do)”

  Perfect. I check the copyright. The book is six years old, but I buy it anyway.

  After I leave the bookstore, I stop at the Mayfair for groceries. Now that I have a job, I don’t have to be quite so frugal, and, as Suzi Simpson says, I need to take care of my body, so I buy sliced turkey, apples, grapes, Cheerios, organic milk, English muffins, and a package of mint Milano cookies. It’s gotten hotter as the morning has gone on, and by the time I get back to the Chateau, I’m sweating through my shirt. I’m unlocking the front door with my groceries balanced on my hip, when I hear someone humming to himself behind me. I turn and see a guy who looks about forty on his way up the steps. He must live here, too.

  “You’re new,” he says, taking a quick step up so that he can hold the door for me.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I’m Becca.”

  “Let me carry that for you, Becca,” he says, taking my groceries. “I’m Nathan. You can’t be from here. You’re too sweet.”

  “I’m not. I’m from Boston,” I say. He gestures for me to go up the stairs ahead of him. “Where are you from?”

  “The rotten apple!”

  “New York?”

  “You got it. Now, I can’t help but notice that you have a very nice rear end,” he says as I stop in front of my apartment. I laugh nervously. “Hey, would you like to nibble on some raw fish with me this Friday?”

  “I have a boyfriend,” I say, as I grab my groceries. “And I hate sushi. But thanks!”

  He’s openly staring at my butt now. I put my groceries down, fumble with my lock until at last I get the door open. I walk briskly into my apartment, covering my “rear end” with my hands. As the door shuts behind me I hear him say, “Oh fucky, fucky, fucky!”

  Fucky? What? Who says fucky?

  Should I have not talked to him at all? Should I have just flipped him the bird when he held the door open for me, and then sprinted up the stairs? I lock my door and sit on my bed, trying to decide if that was funny or scary or both.

  I’m about to open my new book when I get a text from Mom.

  Mom: Hi, honey. How’s it going?

  I debate telling her about Oh Fucky, but it will only scare her.

  Me: It’s great. I have my bed now. And my apartment is looking cute.

  Mom: Wh
en do you start at the diner?

  Me: On Sunday.

  Mom: So proud of you for getting a job, sweetie. Look, I know it’s only September, but it’s not too early to think about those applications! Just a friendly reminder!

  Me: The deadlines aren’t until January 1.

  Mom: Not if you want to apply early.

  Me: Okay, Mom.

  Mom: Love you to the sky.

  Me: And back.

  “GO GET THEM!” says Gloria in a harsh whisper.

  “What? No! I can’t.”

  The two customers left at Rocky’s don’t notice this tense exchange next to the elaborately old-school cash register. I wish they would. I wish they’d stand up for me, but they’re not paying attention. They’re busy enjoying their own conversations. My apron’s stiff with ketchup and maple syrup, and my knees are tingling with fatigue. It’s almost the end of my first real day of waitressing, and I’m afraid I might pass out from exhaustion.

  I trained on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, shadowing a waiter named Manuel. I was scheduled to train for two days, but Manuel suggested I extend my studies to include a third. He’s a true gentleman, introducing me to the rest of the staff as though I were a dignitary. “Peanut,” he said to a rough-looking cook. “This is our newest server, Becca.” Peanut just grunted in return. Manuel is also the embodiment of patience and calm. With him by my side, talking me through every order, my training days were easy and kind of fun. I was okay even when he treated me like a toddler.

  “Good girl!” he said when I successfully punched an order into the computer in less than ten minutes. “Way to go!” he said when I finally managed to carry two plates of cheeseburgers at a time. (The other waiters can all carry four.) I didn’t mind. I needed the extra encouragement. I wouldn’t have minded if he coached me through the rest of my day, saying things like, “You can do it!” when I opened a bank account or, “Keep trying!” when I got lost looking for a CVS.

  But I’m a mess without Manuel. I can’t keep the orders straight or deliver the food fast enough. I keep forgetting to ask how people want their burgers cooked or if they want fries or a salad, which means I have to go back to the table and apologize and ask them to clarify. Of course, the salad answer begs the dressing question. And there’s the appetizer thing. You need to punch a special button on the computer if someone orders appetizers. If you don’t hit that button, all the food comes at once. People hate that. People hate it so much that they yell. I had no idea how sensitive people can be about their fucking appetizers. Also, I only trained for two to three hours at a time, but today I got here at 7:00 a.m. and now it’s almost 10:00 p.m. I sat down only once to scarf a turkey burger.

  And now…this disaster.

  Gloria looks at me sternly. Her haircut reminds me of my strict fourth-grade teacher. “You heard me. Don’t just stand there, go get them!” She points at the street, to the four guys who walked out on their check.

  “But they’re huge.” The unpaid check for eighty-three dollars is trembling in my hand.

  “If they don’t pay for it, you will.”

  Gloria makes a harsh gesture toward the door. I cannot pay eighty-three bucks for random strangers’ food, so I open it. The wind could just blow me away, and I want it to when I see the guys sauntering down Vermont toward Sunset. They are pale, too pale, like they live in a basement. They have skateboards under their arms. They are skinny but also look weirdly strong. I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think that I can confront these guys and ask them for the money they owe me. But then I wonder if I’m being judgmental. They could be playwrights or producers for all I know. I jog toward them, my heart flapping. When I’m a half a block away, I downshift to a speed walk.

  “Excuse me! Excuse me but you forgot to pay your bill.” They keep walking. I know they can hear me. “You forgot to pay your bill,” I say. The smallest one turns around to face me. He smiles in a way I don’t understand. “It’s eighty-three dollars. Here.” I hand him the check with a shaking hand. He bends down so that he’s looking me right in the eye.

  “Caw! Caw!” he says, flapping his arms like a prehistoric bird of prey.

  I scream, pivot, and race up Vermont Avenue. I can hear him laughing. Where are the police? Where are the helpful people of the world? I turn my head around to make sure that they’re not following me, and sprint across the street. I open the heavy glass door of the restaurant and run inside. The last remaining customers have left, and Chantal, my fellow waitress, is laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

  “You’re going to get all the tables next Sunday, now that I know how fast you can move,” she says, wiping her eyes.

  Gloria is straight-faced and jowly as she counts her money, expertly flipping the bills so that they all face the same way. “Because I’m in a good mood we’ll let it go this time. But don’t let it happen again. Polish the dessert station, tip out the bus-boys, and you can go.”

  You. Can. Go. The words fall on my ears like not guilty from a jury.

  Chantal and I wipe down the dessert display, take off our aprons, tip out the bussers, and get our purses from behind the bar. Gloria locks the restaurant behind us as we leave. Chantal takes a cigarette from her purse and walks to her new-looking truck, toting a plastic bag full of food. I’m debating whether I should walk or take the bus, when I see Chantal waving me toward her, away from the glass door. Is she going to offer me a ride?

  “Here,” she says, taking out a plastic container with a slice of banana cream pie in it. “I was going to eat it, but I’m giving it to you instead. The first night at a new place always sucks.”

  “Thanks, that’s super sweet of you!”

  “Don’t get too excited,” she says, stepping backward. “I’m not always this nice. See ya tomorrow.”

  I speed walk back to the apartment in the half-dark of the light-polluted evening, gripping the container of pie. The late September winds they call Santa Anas are blowing strong and warm. The smell of fire is in the distance. The palm trees brush above me like brooms sweeping the sky. I’m hoping that Marisol or Raj will want to share the pie with me, and I can tell them about the guys I chased. But when I knock on their doors no one answers.

  As soon as I get into my room, I pull off my jeans and Rocky’s Café T-shirt. I put on an old sweatshirt that I haven’t worn yet, so it still smells like home. The money I earned today, two hundred and fifteen dollars, goes in my desk drawer, and I head up to the roof with the slice of pie. One faint star hangs above. I take a bite and wait to stop shaking.

  “I can’t believe I’m in a city,” I say to Raj when we’ve made our way to the top of Mount Hollywood in Griffith Park for my photo shoot. My legs are throbbing from yesterday’s double shift, but I try not to think about it as I take in the scenery around me. The pine, sycamore, and oak trees; the dry scraggly brush; the bright September sky; the smell of eucalyptus and sunbaked dirt; the feel of sunlight filtered through branches; and the back-and-forth song of birds. It’s hard to believe that this park, which has to be at least one hundred times bigger than Boston’s Public Garden, is right in the middle of LA and that we live so close that we can walk to it. “This is practically the wilderness, right?”

  “That might be an exaggeration,” Raj says as he looks through the photos he’s taken so far. I watch his expression to see how he feels about the pictures, but I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

  “Excuse me, but we saw signs warning us about rattlesnakes and mountain lions. To me that means wilderness,” I say.

  “Maybe ‘urban wilderness,’” Raj says as a traffic helicopter hammers above us.

  “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

  I was glad we didn’t see any snakes or mountain lions. Squirrels and birds were our only wildlife sightings. We passed a few other people on our way up Mount Hollywood—hikers, a woman walking two giant German shepherds, a group of high school kids hanging out by a picnic table, and a couple on horseback (horseback!)—but mostly i
t seemed like we had the park to ourselves.

  The wide, dusty trail curved along ridges, offering views of a mountain range that Raj said was the San Gabriel Mountains. He also pointed out downtown and Santa Monica. After a half hour or so and several steep inclines, we arrived at a large, round building that Raj said is an incredible observatory. He shot a bunch of pics around the exterior and then continued on to the top, which took us another twenty-five minutes. By the time we reached the peak of Mount Hollywood, my heart was pounding in my chest and I could feel the color in my cheeks. Marisol had insisted I bring makeup, but I read in Suzi Simpson’s book that the most important thing about headshots is that they look like you, and I never wear makeup. Besides, Raj kept telling me that I looked great in the natural light.

  I wonder if he was just saying that to help me relax, because there were some seriously awkward moments. Even though I knew this was what I was signing up for, it was just plain weird to have someone taking my picture constantly as I hiked up a mountain. Raj kept saying, “Just pretend I’m not here,” but that’s actually a really tall order. How can I not be aware of the guy following me with a camera? I realize that this is the essence of film acting, but it’s got to be less weird if it’s not your neighbor behind the camera.

  During a break, Raj leans against a big rock, grimacing as he scrolls through the pictures.

  “Any good ones?” I ask.

  “Well, you’re really cute,” Raj says. “There’s no doubt about that.” He smiles as he looks at one picture, and I feel myself blush. “But something’s missing.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, joining him by the rock to look over his shoulder at the viewfinder.