Mackenna on the Edge

by Djuna Shellam

  A sad, wry smile softened her strained face as she thought of her West Hollywood Deco building, her home for almost twenty years and gone forever. Nothing left but memories—and she wasn’t alone. All of her neighbors, except for those lost to the AIDS crisis in recent years, were long-time residents, buying their apartments when the building had converted to condominiums more than fifteen years earlier. It was a building of a lifetime—no one wanted to leave, and no one ever did voluntarily. People who lived there felt like members of a large and loving family; but now, Eve and her “family” were homeless, and their beloved building was gone forever.

  What a startling development in her life, she mused. Forty years old, completely independent of another soul on earth, and in less than a minute, she was on the street with little more than a car filled with an eclectic array of belongs. It was like being punched in the stomach by a stranger, and for no apparent reason. She’d felt that punch before and it was terrible.

  Eve struggled with a Los Angeles County folding map that seemed to have a will of its own, fluttering wildly in the mild, but annoying gusting breeze.

  “What the hell is with this stupid map? Shit!” she exclaimed as she finally flattened the map and followed the wiggly lines with her finger. “Sheesh! Ah, okay, here it is… I didn’t miss it at all. Hmpf. It should be coming right up, so…” She quickly surveyed the area but saw nothing that added up. “Where is it?”

  Eve crumpled the map between the two bucket seats and continued to drive. She followed the directions she wrote in hurried script on a past date in her thick and worn organizer, fearing one wrong turn would lose her forever in the maze of winding streets she was carefully negotiating.

  “Dammit… Okay, where the hell is this place, Em?” She continued to talk aloud and to herself as she wound her way up and past bigger and more beautifully lavish homes, most hidden behind imposing gates or walls, up to the top of Bel Air where the disaster of the Southland seemed strangely absent. Her curiosity was growing by the minute about where the journey would finally take her.

  Once the eviction was a stark reality, Eve was faced with the prospect of moving back home with her loving, yet overbearing mother, or being homeless. Given the options, Eve realized she needed to start networking fast. She could stay in a hotel, but she was in-between projects and hated to drain her nest-egg on something so frivolous, especially when she knew her mother was waiting for her with open arms. Wide open arms! No, she decided, it would be best to stay with a friend with whom she could commiserate and maybe even have a little fun.

  For hours she had hopelessly dialed numbers listed in her organizer, but to no avail. One by one, she went through her friends’ numbers, praying she would hit pay dirt—and soon. Perhaps Sal could accommodate her. Nope—newly homeless relatives had moved in with him already. Deb? No—too much structural damage. Rachel? No answer. Steven? No—his house was filled with friends from Northridge. Linda. No answer. Ryan? Too freaked for company? Well, really! Michelle. Out of town. Ricky? No answer. Gail? Full house. Kelly? Full house. Doreen. Full house. Mitchell. Full house. Susie? Damage. Down the list she went, one by one, each unable for whatever reason to give her shelter.

  Before she reached the M’s and Em, Eve had called or attempted to call at least fifty-seven phone numbers over the course of six hours. Until Em’s number, Eve didn’t hesitate at all asking her friends and associates for lodging. But Em’s number—that was a different story. Their past history together always made her hesitate before calling. She literally had to talk herself into dialing the number after initially skipping Em and exhausting her entire phone book. After much mental debate, and pacing the hot sidewalk, Eve finally punched the seven numbers into the pay phone and waited. Chewing on the side of her thumb as a case of nerves crept in, she anticipated Em’s voice and hoping for a positive answer to her request. Instead, she got a referral number which she quickly scrawled into her organizer.

  “Hmpf. Must’ve moved,” she murmured to herself. “Looks like a Westside number, though. I’ll give it a try.” Eve punched in the number, “Please God, I hope it works,” and then waited anxiously as the phone on the other end of the line rang nearly nine times before a strange woman’s weary voice finally answered.

  “Yes, hello.”

  “Hi, uh…” Eve stammered, then asked meekly, “who’s this?”

  “Camille Barton. Who’s speaking, please?”

  “Uh, oh, my name is Eve Magnusson and I’m, uh, trying to contact Em, uh, I mean… Mary-Mackenna… Martín? I was given this number when I tried to call her old number, but I guess I must’ve miss-dialed or the referral is old or something. Unless you’re… I mean, unless you and Em are…” Eve sighed, frustrated and slightly embarrassed.

  “I’m Mackenna’s literary agent,” said the voice that was all business. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Oh. Well, no, it’s not business. Actually, it’s kind of personal.”

  “I see. Do you mind if I ask why you’re calling?”

  “Uh, no, actually. Not at all. I’m trying to contact Em… I mean, Mackenna because… we, uh… the thing is, I…” Eve stopped for a moment to collect her thoughts. This Camille person—with her stern demeanor—was a bit off-putting and Eve needed to quickly re-group. “Look,” she began again, “to tell you the truth, my place got nailed pretty bad by the earthquake and I’m trying to find a place to stay. That’s all. Em’s an old friend, and I thought I might be able to, um, you know —”

  “Aw, I’m sorry to hear about your home. There’s probably nothing worse than losing your home. I mean, I’m sure there are worse things, but right now I can’t even imagine it; but, well, you know I can’t just give you Mackenna’s phone number, right? I really don’t know you from Adam or, heh, Eve, and besides, Mackenna would probably fire my ass if I did.”

  “I can guarantee… that wouldn’t happen.”

  “Sure, that’s easy for you to say—I’m the one with my ass on the line if I give you that phone number.”

  “You can trust me. I mean, I’ve known her since —”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t know you to trust you, my dear,” Camille interrupted. “You’re a strange voice on my phone and that’s all. It’s a modern, crazy world, right? I’m sorry.”

  “Okay, okay. Maybe you know my work. I’ve done several national commercials, the latest and probably most popular is the beer commercial that rips off the British coffee commercial idea? It’s kind of like a serial?”

  “Oh, yeah. Cute. That’s you?”

  “Yeah, I’m embarrassed to say, but it pays the rent.”

  Camille sighed, “Well, I really do hate to sound so cynical; but, on the phone anyone can say they’ve done a commercial, or that they’re someone they’re not. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Yeah,” Eve admitted grudgingly. “Okay, okay… I also directed two plays last year. You might have heard of them—Days Gone By and The Roamin’ Soldier. I also wrote them.”

  “And?”

  “Well, both of them got picked up by Warner Bros. for screen production, one of which has a green light. I’ve been signed to direct late next year.”

  “Actually I’ve seen both of them… I truly enjoyed them, especially Days Gone By. Very touching… my aunt died from breast cancer, so it —”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, thanks…” Camille waved off a sudden memory rush with her hand as if swatting at a fly. “That was years ago. Anyway, I also thought the direction was very well done. Very empathetic.”

  “Thank you, I appreciate —”

  “But of course, all of that information was in Variety, which of course you know. Even the Warner Bros. deal. So just because you say you are Eve Magnusson the actor-slash-director doesn’t mean you —”

  “Fine,” Eve interrupted, exasperated by the conversation. “Okay. You’re right. I get your point.”

  “I’m afraid I’m really not in a position to help you out
—at least not right this minute.” Camille began digging through her belongings searching for a pen and paper. “If you’d like to give me your phone numb—oh, I’m sorry. I forgot about your house. If you could give me a number where you can be reached in the next day or so I’ll pass it on to Mackenna, and if, I mean if…”

  “That won’t really work out for me,” Eve sighed softly.

  “Well, under the circumstances, that’s really the best I can do,” Camille conceded, though she was beginning to feel guilty for doing her job.

  “There’s nothing I can do or say to get you to change your mind?” There was desperation in Eve’s voice.

  “No,” Camille admitted, then chuckled softly, “nothing short of a secret password, no.”

  “Okay, then let me ask you something.”

  “Sure,” Camille replied hesitantly. “I can’t guarantee I’ll have an answer…”

  “How long have you known Em—um… Mackenna? Exactly.”

  “Oh, um…” Camille furrowed her brow as she considered the question. “About five years. Actually, exactly five years. Why?”

  “Oh. I just thought Em might’ve told you… about me… that is, you might know about me from…”

  “Like I said, I don’t know you from Ada —”

  “Or Eve, yeah. All right. Okay. Then here’s the password…” Eve took a quick breath and said slowly, “Alice’s sister. If you know it, you know it. If you don’t, I’m screwed.”

  “What did you say… the password?”

  “Alice’s sister. I’m, um…” Eve stammered, “uh… I’m…” she swallowed hard and then said softly, “Alice’s sister.”

  “Oh.” Camille suddenly understood.

  “That information wouldn’t be in Variety.”

  “I see.” Camille could hear the pain in Eve’s voice.

  “I wasn’t sure if you’d know—if… y’know… if she ever said anything… about Alice.”

  “Yes… I do know.” As soon as Eve mentioned Alice’s name, Camille knew instinctively Eve was who she said she was—that and the fact that Eve called Mackenna Em, a nickname only Camille and friends from Mackenna’s younger years knew. And yet, based on what she’d heard about Alice, Camille still felt compelled to continue her efforts to stonewall Eve—for Mackenna’s sake.

  “But just because you say you’re Alice’s sister… I mean, you have different last names, and like I said, I don’t know you —”

  “Ugh. I know, you still don’t know me from Adam.”

  “Or Eve.” Camille smiled.

  “Right. Jeezus.” Eve sighed in frustration. “My maiden name is Hollywell, same as Alice’s. I got married for a minute when I was too, too young to a guy I convinced myself I was in love with because he was so in love with me. Clearly it didn’t work out. I liked his last name so I kept it.”

  “I hear you, sister. Been there, done that. Look, Eve, I’m sorry. Really I am. My hands are tied… handcuffed, really… with golden handcuffs, I might add. I like my job and I love my client like a sister.”

  Eve was frustrated. She had played her trump card, albeit unwillingly, and still, Camille wouldn’t budge. She had to admit, Camille’s dogged protection of her client was admirable. She could use an agent as tough and protective—hers was a wuss. “Isn’t there some way… something you can do…”

  Camille was torn. She knew she had no business making personal decisions for Mackenna, whether they were in her best interests or not. Still, she had to try. “Well…”

  “Yes?” Eve’s voice was filled with hope.

  “I’ll tell you what… let me put you on hold and I’ll try and give Mackenna a call. I’m not sure I can even get through, but if I can and it’s okay with Mackenna, well, obviously, it’s all right with me.”

  “Oh, that would be so great!”

  “Okay… hang on.”

  As she listened to the silence on the other end of the phone, Eve looked out into the intersection and marveled at the midday traffic—extraordinarily light for a weekday. Unbelievable. And so was the weather. And why not? Her whole existence right now was unbelievable—everything was absolutely upside down. Summer temperatures in the middle of winter, midnight traffic in the middle of the day and she, a homeowner with no home. She should just give up the fight and move on to the S’s—or to Mom’s. Eve shuddered.

  What the hell, right? Then again, there was something in her head, a distant voice, that wouldn’t let go—wouldn’t let her give up without a fight. Was it Em, or just a strong desire to win? Or maybe she was just feeling hot, tired and desperate. Whatever the reason, somehow Eve knew she was going to have to resort to begging this Camille Barton person, a veritable stranger, for access to Em. She loathed begging. It just wasn’t in her nature. But if push came to shove, well, begging she would do.

  The unanswered ring tone from the other end of the phone seemed interminable to Camille as she fought her own inner battle over the ethical rightness of dispensing Mackenna’s phone number to a virtual stranger—at least a stranger to her. Would it be unethical to release Mackenna’s phone number to someone who was merely searching for a friend who’s moved, she wondered. In a time of need? C’mon Mackenna, pick up the damn phone! For chrissakes, don’t make me decide! No answer. Fuck.

  Camille clicked back to the line on hold. “Eve… are you still there?”

  “Sure, yeah.” Eve answered hesitantly, her heart pounding in anticipation.

  Camille steeled herself for the answer she was about to give Eve. “I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t get through. Either Mackenna’s not picking up or the line’s out.”

  “Oh.” Eve’s disappointment was obvious.

  “Gee, I wish there was som—”

  “Listen, uh…” Eve interrupted Camille as she didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “Uh… it’s Camille, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  Eve sucked in a deep breath and decided to beg. She knew it was her last chance. She had nothing left to lose.

  “Listen, Camille, I’m in kind of a bind here since I can’t really be called back, you know? My car phone isn’t working so I’m at a pay phone down here on Doheny and Melrose…” she stopped for a moment to catch her breath and then continued at breakneck speed, hoping to somehow sway Camille. “I’ve been here all day and I’m running out of people to call. It seems as though everyone A through R is booked up… for one reason or another.

  “Sadly, my S’s through Z’s are not terribly populated, not nearly as populated as my A’s through R’s. As soon as the crisis passes I’m going to have to work on that, but for the time being, things are looking very, very slim. Every other call I get that stupid recording about line usage being restricted, which pisses me off, really, because we’re supposed to be getting total access now.

  “Anyway, it’s hotter ’n Hades out here, I stink, I’m starving, and everything I own is piled in my car, which happens to be a convertible with a top that doesn’t exactly work very well right now… I can’t get the damn thing back up. It’s stuck or something. So frustrating… Anyway, I had an appointment to take it in on Monday, but as you can probably guess, I wasn’t exactly able to make it. And now they’re saying we’re going to be getting a shit-load of rain any minute now.

  “Everything I have left in the world is in my forty-five thousand dollar car with a damned top that won’t close and… shit… it’s all going to be destroyed if I don’t do something with it and soon. I’m just a little nervous driving around with everything exposed like this, you know? We’re talking L.A. here… the riots should start any minute now. Okay, I’m just kidding… kinda.

  “Anyway, the thing is—the worst thing is—without getting too personal, I just don’t know how much more creative I can get about going to the bathroom around here. Public restrooms certainly have their place in society, but I’ll tell you this right now… if I never have to use one again, well, it won’t be too soon. Scum!

  “And it never fails
, does it. As soon as you know you might not have access to a bathroom whenever you want it, it seems like you have to go every five minutes. And I’m not talking about little tinkles and wee-wees, I’m talking about big jobs. Big urgent jobs. Seems like every five minutes you’ve gotta go, and I mean, now. At least that’s what happens to me. I know it’s a psychological thing… probably nerves, but it’s pitiful and my excuses are running out. You know what I mean?”

  “Uh…”

  “So how about this—what if I brought you some proof of who I am, or…”

  “Gee, I don’t —”

  “Look, Camille, here’s the deal. I’m desperate… I’m down on my knees here! I don’t want to have to stay with my mom. I love her to pieces, but I haven’t lived in the same house with her for twenty-three years… I’d almost rather die! I’d like to come out of this whole awful episode with my sanity intact… you know what I mean? And staying with my mother practically guarantees I will not. I can stay in a hotel no problem… I have enough money put aside for… you know, dead time between projects, so it’s not for lack of money. I’d just rather stay with someone… you know… that I know. The earthquake and all… Besides, if the really Big One hits, I’m not sure I want to die alone in a hotel room… with a bunch of strangers. You know what I’m saying, Camille? Time’s running out. Not to mention the fact that I look like shit and probably smell like it too after three days of sleeping in my clothes and limited access to bathing facilities.

  “Ever tried to take a bath in a dirty gas station bathroom with nothing but cold water that comes out of those taps that you have to press down with one hand and get just a squirt of water? And dry off with hard, brown paper towels… if you’re lucky? And no soap, or worse yet, that grimy pink shit you know every cootie’s been nesting in for the last century? It’s so gross! ” Eve paused, stifling a sob.