by Babe Walker
Cheryl ended her rant by handing me a huge stack of files and telling me to get to work. I put them on my desk and took a much needed thirty-minute bathroom break. I met a little intern girl in the bathroom who was supercute in a J.Crew kind of way. She had this really eager look about her, so I felt comfortable asking her to tackle some of my duties.
“Hi, Jane, (I didn’t know her name, but trust me, she was a Jane) is there any way you could help me file and coagulate a stack of documents for Cheryl? I’m due in court in ten. Cute tie!”
“My name’s not Ja—”
“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” There’s no “I” in team, so why should “I” be forced to do any of this work by myself?
Now I was freed up to spend a couple hours doing what I should have been doing as a lawyer: getting to know my clients. I chatted with a glamorous lesbian couple (the DeGeneres/de Rossis) in my dad’s office, about the necessity of owning a property in Sardinia as well as a property in Dubrovnik. In case you don’t already know, Dubrovnik is the tits right now—previously war-torn but now it’s EVERYTHING (Google it).
Lawyers love power lunches, and I had planned on meeting my personal shopper at La Scala to split a chopped salad—that is, until Cheryl The Demon practically assaulted me on my way out the door and commanded me to stay at my desk and answer phones while everyone else in the office went to lunch. Even though I usually welcome a chance to skip a meal, this was downright rude. Had Cheryl forgotten about all those Hanukkah and birthday gifts from my father that I had picked out for her over the years? It’s not easy to find something chic for a dowdy secretary with small teeth/big gum disease. Where was her loyalty? How quickly they turn.
I decided that with everyone being out of the office for lunch, this would actually be a great time to meditate. Lawyers need to clear their minds every once in a while. I popped in my headphones and listened to the soothing sounds of monks chanting. I must have retreated to a deep space within myself, because when I opened my eyes, Cheryl was standing over me looking bloated and angry.
“What are you doing?”
“Namaste, Cheryl. I was meditating. You should try it sometime. It’s really good for people with low self-esteem.”
“Go home, Babe.”
“What?”
“You have done absolutely nothing all day. Go home.”
“That is so not true.” I said, taking my headphones off. “I’ve been swamped. I got the coffees, and I entertained clients. You canceled my lunch, so I couldn’t do that, which was really stressful because Melania is really sensitive about me canceling plans at the last minute and—”
“Who is Melania?”
“My personal shopper at Barneys! Lest you forget, I also had to cancel with my interior design team, which is so unprofessional. Cheryl, I have been busting my ass all day at this firm being a lawyer, and I don’t think I need to explain myself to you any further.”
“Babe, you’re fired.”
“You can’t fire me. You’re my dad’s secretary. And I’m a partner, so you’re fired.”
“No! YOU ARE NOT A LAWYER! And yes, I am your dad’s secretary, but I’m also the head of HR, so you’re fired. Please leave the premises.”
I stared at her for twenty seconds, until she turned to walk away.
“No, Cheryl. Actually, I’m the CEO of HR, so you’re fired. I think you should leave.”
But she didn’t budge. How could she do this?! What the hell is HR? Obviously she was so jealous of me that she couldn’t stand for us to coexist in the same environment. I gathered my Birkin and my office supplies (headphones, iPad, BlackBerry, iPhone, white iPhone, and Montblanc fountain pen) and made my way out of the building.
I had tried so hard to be a lawyer, but the universe simply didn’t want my law career to take flight. The gods were against me. Nature was against me. Jane was against me. How could this be when I had been so convinced of my calling? Then I thought back to something that Ellen and Portia had said to me when we were talking in my dad’s office. They’d explained how they didn’t choose to fall in love with Dubrovnik. Dubrovnik had chosen them. It was the one place where they truly felt at home. There needs to be that special connection. Well, I had chosen to be a lawyer, and clearly, the law had rejected me. It was simply not in the stars. I don’t do “fired,” so tomorrow I would tell Cheryl that I quit.
After driving around listening to the entire Born This Way album, thinking things through, and stopping at Barneys to pick up a pair of Lanvin flats because my feet were killing me, I was back home getting a massage and trying to rid my psyche of the day’s horrors.
Tuesday
I showed up to the office to hand-deliver my letter of resignation to Cheryl, but she wasn’t at her desk. It was 9:15. Jane walked by with a pen and paper in hand. She was experimenting with a sweater-set-and-skirt-combo moment.
“Jane, are you doing today’s coffee run?”
“Um—”
“Great. Cheryl will have a venti, peppermint mocha Frappucino with three extra shots of sweetener, whole milk, whipped cream, sprinkles, chocolate syrup, and white chocolate shavings.” (Estimated calorie count: 400,000.) I left my letter on Cheryl’s desk and got the fuck out of that hellhole.
Dear Cheryl,
After careful consideration, I have reviewed the pros and cons of practicing law, and have woefully decided the cons outweigh the pros. Please accept this as my letter of resignation.
Best,
Babe Walker
P.S. I realize now that as a lawyer, it was my obligation to be under oath at all times. So yesterday when I told you that I thought your boots were cute, I perjured myself. Best of luck!!!!
I’m never drinking again, except for the occasional glass of white wine, vodka sodas, on holidays, or my birthday month.
Crowds are never a good look. Crowds are hell. I’m a very body-conscious person, so when my personal space is invaded, I feel threatened and sometimes act out. Therefore, it’s important for me to position myself at a corner table when I’m at clubs in Hollywood. If I end up stuck in a crowd, I need to find the quickest way out possible. Sometimes I pretend to cry and scream “MOM!!!” until people move out of my way. I have a rule that clubs on weekends are off-limits. It’s too much scene, and not the good kind. But I do break this rule for one person: Roman. If he wants me to show up for a night that he’s promoting, and I’m not on my period, I’ll go. I’ll be on more drugs than Burning Man himself, but I’ll go.
I was with Roman and his new boyfriend, Uri, and Gen and her new boyfriend, whoever, at a club called Lash, for a party called Lush (which was all about models, trannies, and trannies who are painters, connecting with each other over delish, high-priced cocktails). We were celebrating my voluntary departure from my career as a lawyer by getting shitfaced and playing Shoot, Marry, Fuck at a corner table. We weren’t actually communicating though—too loud, too much work. When I’m at a club, especially a Hollywood club, I only hear about 5 percent of what’s actually being said to me. The rest of the time I just nod my head, laugh, and make meaningful eye contact to let someone know I “got it” and they can stop talking.
So there we were at our chic little VIP corner table. I was feeling safe, we were sipping shots of tequila, dancing, and discussing the difference between sleeping with someone and fucking someone, and Roman was trying to find guys for me to make out with.
“Babesicles,” Roman slurred, drunk and trying to dance like Beyoncé, “Okay, okay, I have a good one—shoot, marry, fuck: me, Uri, and um . . . ,” he pointed to a cluster of Italian/Spanish/Whatever male models, “those models over there in an orgy.”
“Well, let me think. You’re a dick who likes dick, Roman, so I could never marry you, and we have fucked, remember? So I guess I’d fuck you again, marry Uri, and shoot those chaunchy models over there trying not to look like they didn’t just blow ten lines of bad coke in the bathroom. Gen, what would you do?”
“Ugh I don’t know. You’re al
l too young for me.” She motioned to her boyfriend. “Butch and I have to go. There’s this show on the History Channel tonight about World War II planes that he’s obsessed with. We’ll see you guys later.” They both got up to leave.
“Bye, Gen. Bye, Gramps. Try not to get too wild tonight.”
As I hugged Gen good-bye, I caught a glimpse of the DJ. The dim lighting was accentuating his sinewy neck muscles and his hair was amazing and I was in love. I’d never seen a guy move with such graceful body awareness. It was an energy thing—he was playing good music and looked so happy to be making other people happy.
“Roman, what is that?” I said, pointing to the DJ booth. He and Uri had their tongues down each other’s throats and were clearly having a blast not paying attention to me. I tugged at Roman’s collar.
“What, Babe? What!?” Roman screamed.
“What is that thing over there? In the DJ booth. I’m kind of dying for him.”
“What?? I can’t hear you! It’s so fucking loud in here.”
“I said HELP ME FUCK THE DJ!” I screamed directly into his brain through his ear.
“Oh! THE DJ?! THAT’S CAMERON. SO FUCKING HOT, RIGHT?! MY FAVORITE IN TOWN FOR SURE. LIKE TOTALLY THE BEST UNDERSTANDING OF WHAT YOUNG PEOPLE ACTUALLY WANT TO LISTEN TO. I JUST LOVE CAM SO MUCH. IS THAT WHAT YOU WERE ASKING ABOUT? YOU LOOK SO GORGEOUS, BABE. I MISS YOU.”
I didn’t hear 90 percent of what Roman said, but I did take a mental note of the DJ’s name. Cameron. I could work with that. I was on enough (insert any club drug here) and was so super-drunk from bottle service that I thought it would be a good idea to walk right up to my new obsession and let him know that I was ready to go home with him whenever he wanted. I pushed my way past three men with tight up-do buns, six shitty at-home blowouts, and a pair of faux-snakeskin Nine West pumps. I climbed into the DJ booth and sauntered up to “Cameron.” He smelled amazing.
“I want this song inside of me,” I think I said.
“Yeah, right? Shit like this is solid gold.”
He was even more beautiful up close, but in this, like, androgynous way. His eyes were a shimmering light blue, and his dark roots were singing a melodious tune with his bleached shaggy locks. And those full lips? So my type. So New York circa April 1998. I wanted to jump his bone structure.
“I’m Babe. Roman’s friend. I mean, Zeppelin mashed up with Kanye mashed up with Rammstein mashed up with 2 Live Crew mashed up with Salt-N-Pepa mashed up with Pavarotti? It’s like you’re playing the soundtrack of my life.”
Cameron winked at me, and gestured to his turntables. I’d clearly caught him at a bad time, because he was kind of busy DJ-ing and wasn’t really paying attention to me. I took this to mean I should talk louder. I tugged a little at Cameron’s belt loop and winked back at him. I leaned in close to his ear and yelled, “OKAY, YOU’RE OBVI BUSY, SO COME SAY HI WHEN YOU’RE DONE WITH YOUR JOB, OR WHATEVER.” Then I pointed to the corner table where Roman and Uri were now dry humping, and stumbled back to the VIP area.
It must have been a while before Cameron came over to us, or I should say me, because Roman and Uri had gone home and left me asleep in the booth. Those assholes. This always happens when I go out with those two. Cameron woke me with his gentle touch and his sweet angelic voice.
“Let’s get you home, Babe,” he said as he lifted me up and onto my feet.
He may have looked like a heroin addict, but I could tell Cameron was a good guy. He was not your typical sleazeface Hollywood DJ. He was a gentleman. A real, old-fashioned kind of guy. He even helped me find my bag (a major royal blue Celine zipper clutch), which was in my hand, and my jacket (a really fucking major vintage giraffe-print DVF cropped smock), which was in the men’s bathroom for some odd reason.
He got me in his car, which was a pleasing 1973 Porsche 911S Coupe with a matte black finish, and I was all over him. I could tell he liked it but didn’t really know what to do with my immense passion for life, and my fingers in his mouth. I told him to drive us to his place, but he said I was too fucked up. Oh, please.
The next thing I knew, it was Saturday morning and I was in the special corner of my closet where blackout Babe likes to sleep, naked and gripping a bottle of open champagne. Typical. What was not so typical, however, was Cameron sleeping next to me, fully clothed. He was snoozing like a little angel muffin. This was a big deal for me. I had never shared my blackout den with anyone. I guess I had asked him to stay with me? All I can say is I was pleasantly surprised to find him there in his perfectly baggy T-shirt, loose A.P.C. raw denim jeans, and a Rolex. He was so skinny.
I snuck into my bathroom, making no sound at all, to brush my teeth and hair. I slipped into a cute pair of black La Perla boy shorts and my fave vintage Rolling Stones tee and wedged myself right back next to Cameron. Then I set my alarm for 11:05. It was 11:02. When my alarm went off and woke Cameron up, I rolled over to face him, yawning.
“Hey, Cameron. Sorry about that alarm. I always wake up and do yoga on Saturday mornings.”
“Morning, Babe.”
“Thanks for getting me home last night. I never get that wasted.”
“Dude, I know what you mean. It’s cool. One time I was so wasted that I made out with Lindsay Lohan and she totally stalked me for like two weeks.”
“Ew. Um . . . did we fuck? It’s totally cool if we did, I just need to know.”
Cameron looked a little taken aback by this, and he laughed at me. He had the best laugh. And great teeth.
“Nope, we didn’t fuck. We drank a lot of champagne, smoked a joint, and then you told me about your charity work with deaf cats. All in all, a tame night. I dig charitable girls. Come here.”
We made out on my closet floor for twenty minutes. I was crushing so hard on this rando! What had come over me? I never go for DJs. I just don’t. Do not. I swear. DJs always have a zillion girls texting them, they go to work at a club (which I believe I’ve made clear is not my happy place), and they rarely have good taste in music. But Cam was different—he was no bullshit. When it’s on, it’s just on.
“Should we get brunch?” he asked, running his fingers up my arm.
I normally expect people to gather from my image that I’m not really a brunch-food kind of girl, but I forgave him because his offer clearly just meant that he wanted to spend the morning with me. And so began a perfect day with my new boyfriend, Cameron.
I threw my hair up in a messy, half-up/half-down style, added a little body with a curling iron and some hairspray, and then messed it up again to make it look really natural, put on a pair of distressed J Brand jean shorts, and strapped my feet into a fabulous pair of vintage Salvatore Ferragamo platforms that I’d been saving for a special day-date situation. We hopped in his Porsche and took off on Sunset Boulevard heading toward the beach. Cam suggested we opt for coffee and cigarettes instead of brunch (sigh!). Traffic was slow as hell, but Cameron was a pro and got us there solely on side streets. Not an easy thing to do, trust. There is nothing sexier than a man who takes charge on the road. Am I wrong?
We spent the afternoon cutting our way up the coast. We talked about our families, we exchanged opinions on the Lost finale, and we made out, a lot. He had the perfect answer to every question and he really listened to me. It was bliss. Simple and sexy. I deserved it. Our day ended with a delicious meal back at my place. God, we were becoming such homebodies! I had Jean-Raphael put together an all-macrobiotic plate of leafy greens and protein alternatives that we could share. It’s always kind of awkward when your chef/ex-BF has to meet your new BF, but whatever. To drink: 100 percent Blue Agave Organic Tequila, splash of lime.
“Thanks for today,” I said, taking a sip of Cam’s drink.
“No prob, Babe. I had a lot of fun. I feel like we were, like, connecting and shit.”
“Totally connecting. It was amazing, and our hair looked so good. Your car is the perfect height off the ground for the wind’s trajectory to create a healthy and natural blowout. I feel so lucky to ha
ve you in my life. Is that psycho?”
“No way. Not as psycho as what I’m about to ask you.”
“Yes. This is my real nose.”
He laughed. “Do you want to move in with me? I mean, I know it’s way fast, but we’re vibing so hard. I think we should just go for it.”
It took me a second to comprehend his question. Did he actually want me to move in, or was this code for “I don’t want you to see anybody else”? Because I’ve used this trick on people before. With some guys, the second they know you’re dead serious about them, they feel like they owe you some huge gesture. And they do. But Cameron wasn’t that type of guy. I could tell he meant what he was asking me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “That’s a big question and I have this, like, connection to my bathroom and my closet and my chef.” I winked at JR. “I’d have to make huge sacrifices with my diet. Do you have, or would you be willing to hire, a live-in maid who is easy to train? My folding restrictions and regulations are not easy, even for Mabinty.”
“Babe, Babe, it’s okay. You don’t need to answer me right now. I just wanted to put it on the table. I’m so into you.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it. I’m super into you too. You’re a freak. I love it.”
That night I went with Cameron to his gig at a club called Loser, a new hot spot in Silverlake where hipster met hippie in a collision of psychedelics and old school hip-hop. We ate mushroom chocolates—well, Cam ate the mushroom chocolates, and I ate the mushrooms and discarded the chocolate, naturally. I hung out behind the DJ booth all night, featuring shoulder dances and closed eyes. Lots of arm waving and fancy finger pointing at Cameron. Just getting really into the beats and loving myself. If you saw me that night, you would have seen a girl in love with life. By the time Cameron carried me out of the club, I was tripping my ass off.
