by James Frey
She was on a date when she got the call, a date with a lawyer she had been seeing, and who she thought she might love. Her mother was on the phone. Her father was sick. He had stomach cancer, potentially treatable, but usually terminal. She broke down at the table. The lawyer took her home and helped her make travel arrangements. He stayed with her that night, and he held her as she wept, and he helped her pack in the morning, and he drove her to the airport that afternoon. When she kissed him goodbye, she knew she loved him, but she also knew that he would have to wait a little longer. Her father had cancer. It was potentially treatable, but usually terminal.
When she got off the plane she went straight to the hospital. Her father was in bed, wires, tubes and machines everywhere, a stapled incision across the front of his stomach. He was asleep, and her mother was sitting by his side, her eyes were red and swollen. Samantha immediately started crying. She didn’t stop for a week. Her father tried to be positive about the situation, and reassure Samantha and her mother, but they all knew it was bad, worse than bad, they knew how it was going to end. There was blood seeping out of the incision, and they knew how it was going to end.
She went back to Los Angeles. Her father started chemo and radiation.
His insurance covered most of the treatment, but the bills started piling up. There was a hospital bed in their bedroom, a wheelchair, there were home nurses, additional medicines, it all cost money, extraordinary amounts of money. Samantha chipped in what she could, which wasn’t much, and tortured herself over the millions she could have made and didn’t, the millions that would take care of her father now, the millions she convinced herself could save his life, if only, if only.
She was sitting in a coffee shop when approached. A young woman asked where she got the skirt she was wearing they started chatting and shared a cup of tea together. The woman was tall and blond and beautiful, she said she was an actress as well, though lately had been focusing on other things, they got along and exchanged numbers when they left. They met again two days later, again two days after that. Samantha told her about her father about the mounting bills. The woman said she might know how to help, if Samantha was interested. Samantha said she was, the woman asked what experience Samantha had with men. Samantha told her she was a virgin. The woman smiled and said your father will be just fine.
Samantha sold her virginity a week later. She was paid $50,000 for it. The buyer was an Arab prince who lived in Bel-Air and would only have sex with virgins. She cried before, during and after. The prince told her that most of the girls cried, and that the ones who didn’t weren’t satisfying for him. When she left his house, she thought about driving her car into a tree, or off the side of an overpass. When she got home, she got in the shower and stayed there for the rest of the day. When the lawyer called that night, she broke up with him, told him to never call her back. When he asked why she said she didn’t want to talk about it. When he pressed her, she started crying again and hung up the phone.
That was three years ago. Her father is gone, but he went in comfort and in peace. When her parents asked her how she was earning the money that she gave to them, she told them she had started modeling again.
When they asked to see the work, she told them she was doing most of it in Japan, where older American models could still make money. She slept with one or two men a week. She was paid between $2,000 and $10,000 a session, depending on what they wanted her to do, or what they wanted to do to her. She stopped dating, or dating in any conventional way, and didn’t go out with men unless they were prepared to pay her fee. She stopped acting, though she had heard of, and knew of, a couple of other women who had worked in her profession and had eventually achieved some form of success in the acting world, including one who had won an Academy Award, and another who had her own TV show. She hoped at some point she might meet a director or a producer, someone who would pay for her services but see her as something more than what she was, and that they would give her a break or help her get her career back on track.
If she didn’t, she hoped, simply, to meet someone with enough money to take care of her. She knew they would have to be a client, because if they weren’t, and they found out what she did, or what she was, they would either leave her or cut ties with her.
At night, when she was in her apartment, in bed, alone, she thought about that first audition, years ago, for the shampoo commercial, and the thrill she felt delivering it. She thought about all of the work she did to prepare herself to come to Los Angeles, she thought about her mother and what she would think if she knew, she thought about the lawyer. In a way she was still acting, though that didn’t bring her any comfort or satisfaction.
In a way, what she did was acting that was more difficult than anything on a stage or a screen. She thought about the prince. She thought about the men, all of the men, and the way they looked at her just before they started in on her. She thought about her father. At least he died in peace.
It is estimated that 100,000 people a year move to Los Angeles to pursue careers in the entertainment industry. They come from all over America, all over the world. They were stars at home, they were smart or funny or talented or beautiful. When they arrive, they join the 100,000 that came the year before they did, and they await the 100,000 that will arrive the year after, the year after, the year after, the year after.
David. Actor. Bartender. Arrived at 23, he is now 40.
Ellen. Singer. Waitress. Arrived at 18, she is now 21.
Jamie. Actress. Wears a mouse costume. Moved at 28, she is now 38.
John. Guitarist. Busboy. Arrived at 22, he is now 26.
Sarah.
Tom.
Stephanie.
Lindsay.
Jarrod.
Danika.
Jose.
Bianca.
Eric.
Karen.
Edie.
Sam.
Matt.
Terry.
Rupert.
Brady.
Alexandra.
Meredith.
Connie.
Lynne.
Laura.
Jimmy.
Johnny.
Carl.
In 1913, the completed Los Angeles Aqueduct opens and is able to provide the city with five times as much water as it needs. Unincorporated areas of Los Angeles County, including almost all of the San Fernando Valley, and several smaller cities, such as San Pedro, Watts, Hollywood, Venice and Eagle Rock, none of which have an independent water supply, are annexed into the city. Over the next decade, its boundaries continue to expand until it encompasses almost 500 square miles.
Mrs. Campbell extends her trip. Doug and Esperanza have coffee together for three straight mornings. They talk and laugh. Doug would make the coffee and clean up when they were finished. A typical conversation between them. Esperanza speaks.
How was your day yesterday?
It was good. Nice and quiet. I sat in front of a computer all day. At the end of the day, my eyeballs hurt, but I never mind that.
What were you doing?
Staring at numbers and equations and pretending that they made some kind of sense to me. How was your day?
Fantastic. I did the guest rooms and the upstairs bathrooms. I tried out a new tile cleaner, but I didn’t like it.
Why not?
Not enough sheen when I wiped it away.
Is sheen important?
All-important. Tile without sheen is like a tire without rubber.
It just isn’t right.
Exactly.
Have you ever thought about marketing your own brand of tile cleaner?
I have not.
Maybe you should.
It’s an interesting idea. Maybe I could specifically target the illegal-immigrant-maid demographic.
Why limit yourself? You should think big. You should think HUGE! Into the white suburban homemaker market?
It would probably be a moneymaker.
Lord knows there’s
a dearth of quality product out there.
You could call it—Esperanza’s Sheen.
That’s actually a good name.
Good? GOOD? It’s a fucking great name.
She laughs.
It is, it’s a great name. It’s so great you could probably just fill up bottles with colored water and stick that name on it and within a few months you’d be so rich that my mom would be cleaning your sinks.
She laughs again.
You might be right.
Might be right, my ass. I am right, Esperanza, I am right.
And on and on it would go between them, until one of them decided they needed to go to work. Once that happened, and Doug was gone, Esperanza spent the rest of the day thinking about him, thinking about what he might be doing, thinking about whatever it was they had talked about that morning, thinking about what might happen between them if they had met somewhere else. Once or twice a day she would go to his room, open the door, stand beneath the doorframe and stare. The room was always a mess: clothes strewn about, books lying in small piles, a stack of video game cartridges, posters of spaceships and planets and astronauts on the walls. Esperanza is tempted to go inside the room. Not to snoop, but because she wants to feel what it’s like to be in his space, to be amongst his belongings, to touch things that he touches. Despite their morning conversations, and their close proximity to each other, she has never actually touched him. Every time she has wanted to touch him, or could have touched him, she’s gotten scared, scared of what he’ll feel like, or what he’ll make her feel, scared that maybe they won’t feel the same way, scared that whatever she feels might eventually hurt her. If she touches his belongings, she can control the outcome. His belongings will never laugh at her or leave her, never look away from her, never judge her.
She stands at the doorframe they’re a few feet away. She stares at them.
On the morning after Mrs. Campbell’s return, Esperanza wakes up dreading the upcoming day, and already missing her morning coffee with Doug. As she gets ready she thinks about quitting, about walking into the house and telling Mrs. Campbell to fuck off (over the course of her entire life, Esperanza has never told anyone to fuck off, but would be willing to end that streak for Mrs. Campbell). After she told Mrs. Campbell to fuck off, she would kiss Doug, kiss him right on his delicious little lips (and she might go after his tongue too!) for as long as he would allow her to do so. When finished, she would turn and walk out, leaving them both stunned and dizzy.
During the ride into Pasadena, and the walk to the house, she loses her nerve. Telling Mrs. Campbell to fuck off, while fun and immensely satisfying, would go against everything her parents had taught her, and would embarrass her more than Mrs. Campbell. Kissing Doug would be the bravest and boldest act of her life, but she possesses neither the nerve nor the bravery to actually do it. Each step closer to the basement is harder, more depressing, each step feels like another step closer to misery.
As she walks through the gates she sees Doug in the kitchen fixing coffee and she hopes that maybe Mrs. Campbell hasn’t come home and they will continue as they had for the last few days. Then she hears her voice, that wicked cackle. She says damnit Doug, making the coffee is Esperanza’s job, not yours, please dump that pot out so she can make one when she gets here, if she gets here at a reasonable time. Doug says no Mom this is fine I like doing it myself. Mrs. Campbell says Doug, right now, dump it right now, or I will do it myself. Esperanza shakes her head. Oh how sweet it would be. Fuck off you mean old lady. Oh how sweet it would be.
She opens the basement door walks down the stairs Mrs. Campbell is still cackling above her something about the sugar being too lumpy. At the bottom of the stairs she takes a deep breath and walks towards the area designated as hers a small cot her uniforms hanging on a rack a small table. There is a flower on the table, a single red rose in a simple glass vase. There is a note beneath the vase she picks up the vase, picks up the note, there are no words on it just a big smiley-face drawn in red pen. She stares at it for a moment, smiles, sets it down. She stares at the rose, smiles, takes it from the vase and smells it. Upstairs Mrs. Campbell is still cackling, saying Doug, we have her to do these things for us. Esperanza puts the rose back into the vase and starts changing into her uniform. Doug is upstairs. The fuck off is out, she’s reconsidering the kiss.
The Panama Canal opens in 1914. The Port of Los Angeles is the closest major American port, and becomes the primary destination for cargo ships traveling west to the United States. By 1920, it is the largest port on the west coast, surpassing Seattle and San Francisco, and is the second-largest in the country after New York.
Joe wakes up he feels sand beneath him his eyes are closed his head is pounding. He hears voices they’re voices he knows Ugly Tom, Al from Denver, and Hoot. Al is an alcoholic panhandler in his fifties who sleeps under the Venice Pier, and Hoot is an alcoholic in his thirties who sleeps on the beach during the day and sits on top of a jungle gym at night drinking Ripple and making owl sounds. Ugly Tom speaks.
Should we get the cops?
Al from Denver speaks.
No fucking way.
Why not?
Because they’ll arrest us.
We ain’t done nothing.
That don’t matter.
We gotta do something to get arrested.
No we don’t.
So what do we do?
Wait for him to wake up.
When’s that gonna happen?
How should I know.
It could be a while.
Yeah, it could.
You got anything to drink?
No.
You got any money?
No.
How about you, Hoot, you got anything to drink?
Hoot nods.
What do you got?
Hoot reaches into his pocket, pulls out a half-pint of cheap whiskey.
Can I have some?
Hoot nods, passes it to Al, who takes a slug.
Wow. That’s awful.
Hoot nods. Al passes the bottle to Ugly Tom, who takes a slug. He smiles after he swallows.
Awful my ass. That’s wonderful.
He passes the bottle to Hoot, who takes a slug and doesn’t say anything. Al looks at Tom, speaks.
You got bad taste, Tom. That shit is awful.
Fuck off.
No need to get nasty.
I like what I like. And if it’s got alcohol in it, I like it. If it don’t got no alcohol, I don’t like it. That’s just me.
That’s probably not a healthy policy.
I don’t care.
I’ll revise my statement then: you don’t have bad taste, you have unhealthy taste.
Fuck off.
No need to get nasty, Tom.
Fuck off.
When he can’t take it anymore, Old Man Joe opens his eyes, speaks.
Please stop.
Ugly Tom speaks.
Holy shit, he’s awake.
Al from Denver speaks.
Now we don’t have to call the cops.
Joe sits up.
What happened?
Ugly Tom speaks.
I didn’t see it.
Al from Denver speaks.
Me neither.
Ugly Tom speaks.
But Hoot did.
Al from Denver speaks.
He came and got us after it happened.
Ugly Tom speaks.
He was sitting on his jungle gym.
Al from Denver.
Just like he always is when he ain’t sleeping off being drunk.
Old Man Joe looks at Hoot, speaks.
What happened?
Hoot takes another sip from the half-pint, speaks. He has a soft voice, a child’s voice, and he rarely speaks. When he does, he is careful with his words and difficult to hear. Old Man Joe, Ugly Tom and Al from Denver all lean towards him.
You was the same as you is every day, except the girl was with you and she was making circles in the san
d. Three of them in black hoodies come right up on you and when you sit up one of ’em kicks you in the head.
What’d they do with the girl?
They hit her in the face and took her away and one of ’em was walking behind her and he’d smack her in the back of the head if she slowed down and she was crying and asking them to leave her alone.
You ever seen these guys before?
I seen ’em around. Sometimes they prowling on the boardwalk late at night, robbing people and hitting people.
They live on the boardwalk?
Somewhere up that way.
He points north.
You remember anything else?
Hoot takes another slug.
I was scared. I was scared real bad. I wanted to get off the gym and come help but I was too scared.
It’s okay, Hoot.
I’m sorry.
Don’t be sorry, you did great getting these guys to come help when it was over. That was what you should have done. You did great. I owe you one.
Hoot nods.
Is it okay if I go sleep now?
Joe smiles.
Yeah. Go sleep.
Hoot smiles and stands and leaves. When he’s gone, Ugly Tom speaks.
What do you think?
Joe speaks.
My head hurts.
Al speaks.
My head hurts every damn morning. Once you start drinking that’ll go away.
Joe speaks.
This ain’t ’cause of hangover.
Al speaks.
I know, but the principle’s the same: head hurts, get drunk, head don’t hurt no more.
Joe speaks.
Maybe in a little while. Now we gotta figure out what we’re gonna do about Beatrice.
Al speaks.
Who the fuck is Beatrice?
Joe speaks.
The girl.
Tom speaks.
That girl’s trouble, man. You should just let that go away.
Joe speaks.
She’s a kid.
Al speaks.
