by Zoey Dean
noticed that I was wearing not just two different socks but two different shoes. I kicked the
shoes off--what did I need footwear for? I was never going to get off this couch.
"We could go get a drink somewhere," Magnolia offered. "I could buy you a bloody bishop or
something."
I laughed mirthlessly. "I hate those things," I said. "But thanks. And really, I'm sorry if I was a
bitch before. I know I'm a drag now. I wish things had gone differently. That's all. Now that
my whole life has gone up in flames."
Magnolia put Cabbage on the floor and grabbed my hand. "Hey, stop with the violins. Things
aren't that bad."
"No, they are," I said. "What happened at work is all over town, there's no way it's not. So I
can forget about another job. My boss thinks I'm the scum of the earth. Even my gay boyfriend
dumped me." It was true--I hadn't heard from Brett since I'd bailed on our Sonoma weekend
with so little explanation. Apparently, hell hath no fury like a gay boyfriend scorned. "Oh and I
almost forgot," I continued, holding up my fingers to finish ticking off my imaginary list. "The
guy that I was dating--or starting to date--the guy I actually really liked... thinks I'm terrible." I
was too depressed to cry.
"Hey. Things will work out for you. I know it. You're good, Taylor, and good things will
happen to you. You just have to think positively."
I waved my hand in the air dismissively. "Empty assurances," I said. "They give better advice
on Days of Our Lives."
Magnolia giggled. "See?" she said. "You can still be funny. That's something." She stood and
scooped up Cabbage again. Then she called for Woodstock and Lucius, who came scrambling
out from who knows where in a cloud of flying hair and meaty breath. God, those animals
were disgusting. Then again, I was no picture myself.
"We're going for a walk," Magnolia said. "You need anything?"
I rolled over and put the uneaten half of my Hot Pocket on the plate. "No thanks, sweetie," I
said. "See you later."
With Magnolia gone, I could settle back into my schmaltzy Frank Capra movie. With a sigh of
satisfaction, I hit Play.
Nothing happened. Jimmy Stewart remained frozen in mid-step. I pressed play again, and
suddenly he was inside his house, surrounded by people, and I could hear the ending music
swelling.
"Shit," I said. Had I watched the DVD so much I'd destroyed it? It was possible.
Like an arthritic, half-crippled old man, I eased myself off the couch and went in search of
another DVD (amazing how quickly coordination and muscle tone can go). Magnolia had only
dog movies, so I went to my trusty stack of five. And there it was, Journal Girl. My favorite.
I didn't pick it up though. Instead I went to my bookshelf, where I picked up a copy of Dana's
script. It was the only paper around, and at this point, I had no use for it anymore.
I pulled out the brads from the script and turned the pages backwards. Grabbing a pen from
beside my bed, I started to write.
Dear Michael,
I'm so sorry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Okay, is this for the Blue Balls or the Crack Is Wack?"
The man on the other line gulped nervously. "Did you say Blue Balls?" he asked in a wavering
voice.
"Oh, it's just the name," I said brightly. "Don't be scared. And just so you know, we've got a
special on the Woolly Mammoth this week. So if you're going to do the butt, you may as well
do the back." These were words I really never thought I'd say to a stranger, but as the new
receptionist at Joylie, such blunt enticements were part of my job.
"All right, I'll take it all," the man said in a hushed voice. He was probably at work. And really,
who would want their coworkers to hear them scheduling an appointment to have all their
private hairs ripped out by the roots? I marked the appointment in the oversized ledger, grabbed
another handful of Tootsie Rolls from the dish on my desk, and tried to tune out Wham!'s "Last
Christmas," which the radio seemed to have on an endless loop. The holiday was only a week
away.
At least I had a job. Magnolia had been nice enough to offer me the position after Kitty, the old
receptionist, ran off to Vegas to marry one of Joylie's hirsute clients. (It had been quite the
proposal. The man--a Ducati-riding banker Magnolia called the Hairy Carpet Man--had asked
Magnolia to wax his chest hair into the shape of a heart, after which he walked into the
reception area with a diamond ring taped to one of his nipples and got down on his knee in
front of Kitty. "And she said yes," Magnolia had screamed, clearly scandalized at Kitty's bad
judgment.)
So here I was, in a pink lab coat, answering phones just like I'd done at Metronome, but for
half the pay and none of the glory. I hadn't been able to tell my parents about my miserable
failures--I wanted to postpone disappointing them until after Christmas. I hadn't called any of
my friends from college--not that I spoke to them much these days anyway. I hadn't even
signed onto IM recently, because I was afraid Brandon would IM me again, and I'd be forced
to tell him what had happened. I couldn't afford to have Brandon know; I'd be able to hear the
gleeful "I told you so" all the way across the country.
I looked at the cars driving past the plate-glass window and sank my head into my hands.
Outside, a guy in out-of-season linen pants and a wrinkled Oxford shirt paced on the sidewalk,
obviously pleading into his cell phone. He had the look you see in the hallways and waiting
rooms of casting calls--that smiling, eager desperation. Like a dog that's been kicked, Magnolia
would say, but that keeps hoping that someone will eventually pet it.
I felt like failure was contagious and that an epidemic of it was raging in West Hollywood. All
around me were the actors, writers, filmmakers, and everyone else who, like me, had fallen out
of favor with the Hollywood gods. They became visible the minute you fell through the
cracks--they were there in the coffee shops, on the treadmills at the gym, on the hiking trails in
Runyon Canyon. Ground zero was the Whole Foods on Santa Monica and Fairfax, where they
seemed to linger all day, eating their takeout salads with a copy of L.A. Weekly in front of them.
It was starting to dawn on me that people could live their entire lives in this city waiting-waiting for work, waiting for love, waiting for that proverbial big break that had a snowball's
chance in hell of coming. It was enough to keep you from getting out of bed in the morning, if
you thought about it too hard.
"How're we doing?" Magnolia asked, coming out from her waxing suite to look at the book.
She leaned over my shoulder. "Oh no. Not this guy. He doesn't bathe."
I smiled wanly. "I could call him back and tell him that showers are a prerequisite for service."
I took a sip of coffee-- free coffee from the Joylie break room. No more five-dollar
mochaccinos for me. "Hey, do you think George Michael has somehow bribed America's
deejays? I mean, this song. Over and over and over. Why? Is it like this every year?"
"Last year it was 'Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.' For some reason all the dudes on
KIIS FM seemed to think it was hilarious." Magnolia glanced at her watch. "You can take
lunch if you want. Half an hour."
I stood up and grabbed my pur
se. I hadn't realized I was starving. "Thanks. You want
something?"
"Besides a nose plug? Nah, I'm good."
She took my seat, and I stretched a tight hamstring. "Another week with no Buddha Ball and
I'm going to fall to pieces completely."
Magnolia put a pencil in her mouth and looked at me thoughtfully. "You're doing a really good
job here, you know. They taught you well at the prison camp." She grinned. "Have you ever
thought about getting your aesthetician's license? I'd be happy to train you. You can watch me
anytime."
I gulped and smiled my best fake smile. It was very sweet of Mags to offer, but no way was I
going to apply hot wax to Hollywood's genitalia. "Let me think about that. I'll be back in
twenty."
Things had not gotten that desperate yet, thankfully. I had a bit of money in my checking
account and a closet full of designer duds that I could, if things got really bad, sell on eBay or
something. Quinn may have turned on me, but she was never going to ask for her clothes back.
It was sunny and crisp outside, a lovely, anomalous winter day. I zipped up my corduroy jacket
against the wind. Whoever said L.A. never gets cold was a liar: these days I was usually
freezing. Then again, it might have been less about the weather than the fact that I'd dropped ten
pounds in the past three weeks. My initial post-Metronome diet of Hot Pockets and ice cream
had turned me off of food completely for a while, and now I could fit into the skinniest of
skinny jeans. At least being miserable had its perks.
I headed down the block toward the Afghan Kebab house. The falafel platter lunch special for
five-fifty was the best deal in town. Afterward, I'd browse through the beauty supply at the
corner drugstore, as if I had a reason to wear makeup anymore. No career. No boy. What was
the point?
I thought of Luke and felt a tightness in my chest. Every time a white Jeep Wrangler drove
down the street, every time I looked at my darling tennis dress in my closet, every time I passed
a freaking sushi restaurant, the sadness came in like some kind of terrible tide. I'd found the
perfect guy, and just like that, I'd lost him. There was nothing I could do to convince him that I
wasn't a horrible phony, though I had tried. I called, I e-mailed, I texted, but never did I get a
response. I'd stopped short of stalking him at work, but believe me, I'd considered it.
When a little more time had passed, I'd write him a letter to explain myself and drop it off at his
house. That way he'd know my side of the story, and he'd also know how sorry I was. I would
also call Iris. Not just because of my career, but because she had been the best, fairest boss I'd
probably ever have in my life, and I owed her that much.
I picked at my falafel as I walked down the street. The one person I'd managed to pour my
heart out to was Michael Deming, though I assumed he never got that missive either. ( I was an
ass-hole, I'd written. I wanted so badly to tell you what your films mean to me. But I was too
embarrassed....) I shook my head at my incredible stupidity and said, "Idiot, idiot, idiot" to
myself. A homeless guy in a red vest and dirty purple hat looked at me sympathetically,
probably thinking I was crazy, and asked me if I was famous. For this minor and insincere
compliment, I gave him a dollar.
And then of course, there was Dana McCafferty, the innocent bystander in all of this. After a
hesitant, stop-and-start conversation on the phone, I'd finally gotten Dana to meet me at Urth
Caffe three days ago. She showed up sans backpack, but the fifth-grade-boy look was pretty
much the same. The meeting was, naturally, awkward. This time Dana did little except stare at
the ground and nod, and I certainly couldn't blame her. She had been on the verge of signing
with Ingenuity when the deal had fallen through. Now she couldn't get anyone to return her
calls.
I felt so awful, I was unable to drink the green chai latte in front of me. "I never meant to screw
up your life this badly," I'd told her.
Dana had only nodded and played with a pink Sweet 'N Low packet. "At least I got close," she
said in her small voice.
"You'll get an agent, I promise." The words had sounded hollow, even though I meant them.
Because really, what did I know?
The only bright spot had been patching things up with Brett. Inspired by my Deming and Dana
confessionals, I'd called him in tears, apologizing breathlessly for ditching him, being such a
bad person, the whole nine yards. "Snap out of it, drama queen!" he'd cried. "Yeah, you flaked,
but apology accepted. Consider us kissed and made up." He'd even invited me out to El Guapo
a few nights ago, but I couldn't handle the possibility of running into people from Metronome.
I gladly took a rain check, though. Brett Duncan was the only friend I'd made in L.A., and I
intended to keep him.
I walked on down the avenue, chewing the lunch I barely tasted. I should have given the
homeless guy my lunch too, because thinking about my mess of a life had taken away my
appetite.
"Taylor?"
I turned around and almost dropped my falafel on the sidewalk.
Iris Whitaker took off her Chanel sunglasses--I was pretty sure they were the same pair Quinn
was wearing when we met at the Malibu Country Mart--and gazed at me. In her eyes was not
the scorn I was expecting but a kind of thoughtful bemusement. I wiped chickpea crumbs off
my chin and smiled a very hesitant smile.
"Where are you off to?" she asked kindly. Kindly. What was going on?
I thought about offering an answer that didn't involve hair removal: I was just going to the
drugstore, I could say. Or, I have a friend in the neighborhood. And in a way the latter excuse
was true--that homeless guy really liked me once I gave him some money. But something about
Iris's expression--quizzical, friendly--made me decide to be honest. That, and I'd learned what
lying could do to a girl. "I was just getting a little lunch." I gestured to my falafel, and then
pointed down the street to Joylie. "I work over there."
Iris gazed at the storefront. "I was just on my way in."
"You were?" Nervously I slipped my falafel into a nearby garbage can. No way could I stuff
my face in front of the seventh most powerful player in Hollywood. "I can get you a discount."
I cringed even as I said it. Iris could certainly afford a bikini wax, or whatever it was she was
after.
Iris chuckled. "I wasn't going for an appointment. I wanted to see you." She pulled her beige
sweater coat closer around her.
I looked at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. "You did?"
"I got a phone call from Michael Deming's agent this morning. The one you met with--Arnie?"
"Arnie Brotman." I winced, remembering how pushy I'd been with him, how stupidly sure of
myself. I wondered what he thought of me now. Not that it mattered.
"Odd fellow," Iris noted, smiling a little. "Anyway, it turns out that Deming has reconsidered.
He wants to do the project."
"Pardon?" I leaned toward her like someone hard of hearing. She couldn't have said what I
thought she said.
Iris laughed. "He wants to do the project," she repeated.
"He does?" The shock made my knees weak, and I looked around for a bench to sink down on.
There was not
hing, so I steadied myself against the sticky side of the trash can. Gross--but I
really didn't care.
"Yes, he does. Apparently something made him change his mind." Iris gazed at me closely, as
if she suspected that I had done something to redeem myself, as hard as that might be to
imagine. "Do you have any idea what that might have been?"
I shook my head. It was all beyond my comprehension, really. "No. I don't." I thought about
Deming's weird cabin, his tuna sandwiches, his habit of filming squirrels and foxes. God
knows I would never understand the guy. "He is supposed to be kind of unpredictable," I
offered.
"Yes," Iris said, nodding. "Well, I put in a call to Bob Glazer to tell him the good news, and"--she paused dramatically--"Holden is still in."
The homeless man I'd given money to shuffled by, grinning--whether at me or the voices in his
head, it was impossible to say. "You're kidding!"
Iris smiled warmly. "His schedule is still free, thank God."
I could have cried with joy--I could have jumped into Iris's arms--I could have kissed the
homeless dude on the lips. The heavy cloak of guilt that had been resting on my shoulders ever
since I'd screwed Iris, Metronome, and pretty much everyone involved seemed to lift instantly.
Everything had worked out. I hadn't done any lasting damage. I was free. "Iris, that's
incredible!" I held out my arms as if I could hug all of West Hollywood. "I'm so happy for
you!"
Iris held up one manicured hand. "There's a catch." Her eyes seemed to bore right through me,
and the wind blew tendrils of wavy auburn hair across her cheeks.
"A catch?"
"Deming will only do it if you're working on it too."
This was another thing I wasn't sure I heard correctly. "Me?" I said stupidly.
Iris fiddled with her sunglasses and smiled. "He told Arnie he wants the girl who's been
writing to him all these years... and I assume that's you?"
Surprise, surprise--the U.S. Postal Service had come through for me. I could hardly believe it. I
nodded. "That was me all right."
"So you two have been pen pals?" Iris asked with an arched brow.
I felt myself blushing. Seven years of postcards. How gushy and bubbly the early ones had
been--how silly and naïve. I felt sorry for the old Taylor; I wished I could go back in time and
